The dining hall in the Roscaire capital estate was, under normal circumstances, a place of quiet, restrained elegance, a vast room of dark paneling, tall arched windows, and standard aristocratic restraint. Tonight, however, the massive table looked less like a setting for a quiet evening meal and more like the supply depot for a marching army.
When Xavion stepped through the doors, he stopped just short of the threshold, his eye sweeping over the absurd, steam-rising spectacle laid out before him.
Platters of roasted meats glistened under the warm light of the crystal chandelier. Heavy silver bowls overflowed with spiced root vegetables, buttery pastries, thick gravies, baked fish resting on beds of herbs, stewed fruits, and at least four distinct variations of bread that ranged from crusty dark rye to soft, golden rolls. It was loud. Visually loud. The sheer volume of food was almost aggressive.
"Your Highness! You’re right on time!" Lioren called out cheerfully from the head of the table. He was already leaning forward, gesturing with a rather enthusiastic wave of his hand toward the high-backed chair set immediately to his right. "Come, come, sit down before everything gets cold."
Across from the vacant seat, Evelia was already settled into her chair, looking impeccably composed with a wine glass held lightly between her slender fingers. She gave Xavion a nod, though her eyes flicked toward her brother with a look that suggested she was actively praying for strength.
Lioren, meanwhile, was practically vibrating in his seat, a look of profound, self-satisfied pride plastered across his face.
Internally, he was congratulating himself on a brilliant tactical execution.
To be fair, the estate’s kitchen staff had nearly mutinied three hours earlier. Lioren had descended upon the lower floor like a whirlwind of frantic hospitality, cornering the head chef and demanding a comprehensive breakdown of the evening menu. When the bewildered chef asked what the Prince of Ostharia preferred to eat, Lioren had realized with a sudden, sinking dread that he hadn’t the faintest idea. Did he like heavy, rich sauces? Light salads? Did he despise onions? Was he allergic to shellfish?
Nobody knew. The diplomatic briefs had covered political alliances and troop movements, not culinary preferences.
With absolutely no idea what Xavion liked to eat, Lioren had arrived at the only reasonable solution a desperate Grand Duke could think of: cook everything.
If you throw thirty different dishes at a man, at least five of them are bound to hit the target. It was simple math. More importantly, Lioren held a deeply rooted, fundamental belief about human psychology: the absolute shortest route to a person’s good graces was through their stomach
Feed a man until he can barely move, and his brain naturally floods with warm, foggy contentment. A full stomach makes a person happy. A happy person feels warm inside. Therefore, a table stacked high enough to collapse its own legs meant a warm heart.
Absolute, airtight, bulletproof logic.
"Please, sit," Lioren insisted again, tapping the wood beside his elbow as Xavion approached. "Eat as much as you possibly can. We weren’t entirely sure what kind of food you favored, whether you preferred northern roasts or southern spices, so I instructed the kitchen to err on the side of... generous variety."
Xavion pulled out the chair and took his seat with that effortless grace that seemed entirely second nature to him He surveyed the mountain of food, then turned his gaze back to Lioren.
"I am quite certain I will find something to my taste, Grand Duke," Xavion said, his tone even and soft. "This is... an extraordinarily generous spread."
"Oh, it’s nothing! Really, just a standard dinner," Lioren lied blatantly, ignoring the sharp, audible snort that came from Evelia’s side of the table. He leaned in just a fraction, his tone dropping into a slightly more cautious, inquisitive pitch. "Before you dive in, though... are there any allergies we should be aware of? Any specific ingredients that make you break out in hives or, I don’t know, violently ill?"
Xavion paused, looking mildly surprised by the question, before shaking his head. "None. I eat almost anything."
Lioren’s face lit up instantly, bright as a sunbeam hitting a mirror.
"Really? Almost anything?" Lioren gasped, his eyes wide with genuine admiration. He clasped his hands together, looking at Xavion as if the prince had just demonstrated the ability to fly. "That is fantastic! No picking out onions? No tedious picking around parsley? God, I love that. A man who isn’t finicky about his plate is a rare gift to society, truly."
Evelia slowly lowered her goblet, staring at her brother with an expression of profound, quiet concern. Her eyebrows were drawn tight, her gaze shifting between Lioren’s beaming face and Xavion, who looked remarkably calm.
Her expression practically screamed the thought. He’s praising a prince for being able to eat food. He has officially lost his mind.
Lioren completely ignored her. He was far too busy feeling victorious. Not a picky eater. Magnificent. Yet another point in the ’Xavion is a reasonable housemate’ column.
Servants stepped forward to pour the wine and begin carving the meats, the clatter of silver against porcelain breaking the brief stillness.
As dinner went on, the conversation gradually quieted, leaving only the occasional clink of cutlery and the gentle sounds of everyone eating, and Lioren’s occasional, relentless food recommendations, Lioren rested his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hand as he looked at Xavion.
"So," Lioren began, switching gears with a lighter, more relaxed air. "Speaking of logistics... when would you prefer to depart for the north? I figured you might want to get out of the capital sooner rather than later, but the timeline is really up to you."
Xavion set his fork down, taking a slow sip of water before meeting Lioren’s eyes. "I am at your disposal, Grand Duke. Whenever you wish to set out, I will be ready."
Lioren let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head with a mild, fond sort of exasperation. "Ah, see, now that’s where you’re making a mistake. That’s not how this works around here."
Xavion tilted his head slightly, a subtle flicker of confusion passing over his features. "I beg your pardon?"
"You don’t just have to agree to whatever I say," Lioren explained, tapping his fingers gently against his glass. "I’m asking what you want. If you’re tired of this place and want to leave tomorrow morning, we leave tomorrow. If you want to rest, we rest. Don’t just nod along to prove you’re a good guest because I know that already."
Xavion looked at him for a long moment, his violet eye fixed on Lioren with an attention that made him strangely self-conscious. Whatever was going through the prince’s mind, Lioren couldn’t read it.
"I truly have no preference," Xavion said quietly, his voice devoid of any pretense or hidden complaint. "Whatever arrangement you deem best will suit me entirely."
Lioren nodded slowly, though his bright, energetic grin faltered just a fraction. He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful, slightly quieter expression stealing over his face. Xavion was being polite, immensely polite, in fact. He was smooth, quiet, and entirely cooperative. But there was a wall there, wasn’t there? A smooth, polished layer of ice built over years of surviving in places where expressing a personal preference was a dangerous luxury.
Before the silence could stretch into something heavy, Evelia cleared her throat, setting her fork down with a small, deliberate click.
"If I may offer an opinion," Evelia interjected, drawing both of their attention, "I believe it would be far more sensible for His Highness to remain in the capital for at least a few days."
Lioren blinked, turning to glare at his sister suspiciously. "Oh? And why is that?"
"Because he only just arrived?" she reasoned smoothly, gesturing with one hand. "Dragging him on another long journey up north immediately seems rather pointlessly grueling. Besides, he hasn’t had any real opportunity to see the capital properly. And..." She paused, smoothing a fold of her napkin over her lap, "...speaking entirely selfishly, I have only just arrived from the northern borders myself. It would be utterly ridiculous for me to turn right around and ride back out tomorrow."
"Riiiight," Lioren drawled, his voice thick with disbelief. "Of course there was something in it for you."
He shook his head, but as his eyes drifted back toward Xavion, his skeptical expression softened. Evelia was a scheming, shopping-obsessed menace, of course, but... she wasn’t actually wrong. Pushing a man into another long, uncomfortable journey when he’d barely had time to unpack his trunk felt a little ruthless.
"Well," Lioren sighed, turning to Xavion with a small, crooked smile. "As much as it pains me to admit that my sister has a valid point... she kind of does. What do you think, Your Highness? Would you mind staying in the capital for a few days? You could catch your breath, see the sights, maybe get a decent pair of boots made?"
Xavion looked between the two siblings, Lioren with his open, expectant expression, and Evelia with her composure.
"A few days in the capital sounds... very pleasant," Xavion acknowledged softly. "If it is no trouble for you."
"Then it’s settled!" Lioren declared, striking the table lightly with the palm of his hand, his bright energy instantly returning full-force. "We stay in the capital until at least the weekend. Plenty of time to relax, eat good food, and let Evelia drain the family accounts at the market."
"I am the very picture of financial responsibility," Evelia corrected smoothly, reaching for her wine glass.
Lioren chuckled, lifting his own glass high into the warm air of the dining hall. He caught Evelia’s eye, then looked over at Xavion, gesturing for them to join him. Evelia raised hers with a subtle, graceful tilt of her wrist, and after a brief, imperceptible pause, Xavion lifted his as well.
Clink
The three crystal glasses met over the center of the table, ringing out in a clear, delicate chime that echoed softly through the dining room.
Lioren took a satisfying sip of his wine, looking across the table through the soft amber light.
There he was. Xavion Astervan. Sitting right there, eating his pastries, sipping his wine, and casually agreeing to stay under his roof for the week. No dramatic betrayals, no dark brooding in corners, no grand schemes to overthrow the realm. Just a slightly tired, strangely polite young man with a remarkably solid forehead and a surprisingly non-picky appetite.
Lioren set his glass down, a quiet, deeply satisfying sense of accomplishment settling warm in his chest.
See? he thought to himself, grinning secretly into his napkin. Who needs dark prophecies and tragic fates? All it takes is a warm room, a soft bed, and thirty different courses of roasted meat.
For now, at least, the world destroyer was perfectly content eating dinner. And as far as Lioren was concerned, everything was going exactly according to plan.