If there was one thing Lioren truly appreciated about his new life, it was a quiet, warm morning with zero enemy archers hiding in the treeline.
He woke up stretched out across his massive mattress, sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows of his bedchamber, feeling like a million gold sovereigns. He literally kicked off the heavy wool quilt with a triumphant little huff, sat right up, and spent a solid thirty seconds just grinning at his own boots resting near the hearth.
Yesterday had been, without a shadow of a doubt, a masterpiece. A masterclass in tactical timeline-sabotage.
While the rest of the kingdom was currently nursing severe political hangovers and frantically whispering about the Grand Duke’s sudden madness, Lioren threw on a dark tunic, strapped on a leather belt, and trotted down the grand staircase whistling a cheerful, remarkably inaccurate version of a northern marching tune.
"Good morning, Martha! Smells fantastic!" he called out to a startled head maid who nearly dropped her duster as she bowed.
"G-Good morning, Your Grace," she stammered, bowing so low her nose nearly touched her apron.
All around the lower halls, the household staff were tiptoeing past him like he was a unexploded landmine. Footmen offered trembling bows; scullery maids scrambled out of the corridors with wide, panicked eyes. They’d spent the whole night processing the terrifying rumor that their lord, the fearsome Warlord of the North, had come home engaged to an enemy imperial prince. Most of them probably thought he’d been bewitched by dark Ostharian magic or had completely lost his mind from war fatigue.
Lioren didn’t care one bit. Let them think he was crazy.
He slid into his seat at the long mahogany dining table and dug into a plate of thick-cut smoked bacon, fried eggs, and warm buttered bread with absolute relish. Every bite tasted like victory. To the rest of the world, he’d made a reckless, scandalous, potentially disastrous political gamble. But Lioren knew the real script.
He knew that in the novel, yesterday was supposed to be the day Xavion Astervan was handed over to a vicious, abusive noble house that would eventually break his spirit, awaken his dark magic, and set off a chain reaction ending in global extinction.
Now? Xavion was safe in the palace guest wing, recovering under official protection, and set to move into this very estate by the end of the week, hopefully.
Step one complete, Lioren thought smugly, taking a long swig of hot tea.
Once he finished wiping his plate clean with a heel of bread, Lioren sauntered down the corridor to his private study to tackle the mundane, tedious reality of ruling a massive northern duchy.
Therin was already inside, sitting behind a mountain of parchment scrolls, leather-bound ledgers, and official missives. The poor advisor looked as though he’d aged five years overnight. Dark purple smudges sat beneath his eyes, and his hair, usually combed into pristine perfection, had a few stray strands sticking up near the crown.
"Morning, Therin! You look delightful," Lioren chirped cheerfully, dropping into his high-backed leather chair and propping his boots straight onto the edge of the mahogany desk.
Therin slowly lowered his quill. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw a ledger. He just stared at Lioren with the hollow, defeated gaze of a man who had stared into the abyss and realized the abyss was currently eating a dried plum.
"Your Grace," Therin said, his voice flat and deadpan. "The morning reports."
"Lay them on me," Lioren said, folding his hands behind his head. "What are the bored aristocrats complaining about today?"
"Well," Therin sighed, sliding a thick stack of sealed parchment across the desk, "the Marquis of Westshire demands to know if your sudden betrothal will affect the northern wool tariffs. The Archbishop sent a very stern, twelve-page letter inquiring about your spiritual well-being. And two separate border lords have asked if they should stop building siege engines."
"Tell the Marquis the wool is fine, tell the Archbishop I pray every night before bed, and tell the border lords to keep building engines because peace treaties are just heavy pieces of paper," Lioren replied effortlessly, tossing the letters back onto the desk without opening half of them. "Honestly, why do these nobles insist on writing five whole pages when two sentences would do? ’Dear Duke, are we safe? Sincerely, XXX.’ Boom. Done. Simple. And wow, news really does travel fast. Then again, everyone was there."
Therin pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, long-suffering exhale. He didn’t push the betrothal topic again. After last night’s dramatic confrontation, he had clearly reached the acceptance phase of grief. His lord was insane, the decision was made, and now he just had to manage the paperwork without dying of an ulcer.
For the next hour, the study settled into a surprisingly comfortable, familiar rhythm. The morning sun crept across the rug, the smell of old paper and ink filled the room, and Lioren actually managed to sign off on three separate supply requisitions for the northern garrison without making a single joke about parsnips. It felt nice.
Then, the door to the study swung open.
It didn’t crash open, but it moved with a strange, abrupt urgency that immediately shattered the peaceful mood.
Caldrin stepped inside.
Lioren stopped his quill mid-signature, his eyes instantly locking onto his second-in-command. Caldrin was a man built like a brick fortress. He had stood calmly through cavalry charges, dragon-lizard attacks, and four-hour victory banquets without so much as blinking.
But right now? Caldrin looked visibly shaken. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes were darting nervously, and he didn’t even bother to close the door behind him.
"Caldrin?" Lioren raised an eyebrow, setting his pen down. "What’s wrong? Did the northern border breach? Geez, do we have to leave now? I need to tell Prince Xavion first, or he’s going to think I abandoned him."
Caldrin hesitated at the threshold. He glanced sideways at Therin, then shifted his heavy weight, looking back at Lioren with a look of such deep dread that Lioren immediately became suspicious.
Lioren’s easy, relaxed posture slowly straightened. A prickle of suspicion danced along his spine. Caldrin only looked like that when something was fundamentally, terribly wrong.
"Hey," Lioren said, leaning forward over the desk, his tone dropping its usual playful edge. "Talk to me, man. You look like somebody just died on the front lawn. What happened?"
Caldrin swallowed hard, clearing his throat once, twice, before finally opening his mouth.
"Your Grace..." Caldrin began, his voice surprisingly raspy. "You have a visitor."
Lioren frowned, tilting his head. "A visitor? Already? Ostharian? Wow."
"Uuuummmm," Caldrin cut in, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. He took a slow breath, bracing himself as though the roof were about to collapse. "It isn’t the Ostharian delegation."
"Then who is it?" Lioren demanded, his eyes narrowing.
Caldrin took one last, reluctant pause, looked Lioren dead in the eye, and dropped three words that instantly turned the warm, cozy morning into a freezing icebox:
"Lady Evelia is here."