The grand ballroom stayed dead quiet for long enough that you could hear the melted tallow dripping off the high brass sconces. Nobody moved. Nobody even seemed to draw breath.
Therin looked as though his soul had packed its bags, vacated his body, and took the night coach out of the capital. His eyes were wide and glossy, fixed on nothing. A few paces behind him, Caldrin’s fingers twitched, and the small handful of salted almonds he’d been holding slipped right through his hand, bouncing off his leather boot and scattering across the floor with a series of tiny, awful clacks.
The nobles hovering in the second row looked like they’d collectively swallowed bad seafood. A duchess’s lace fan hovered mid-flutter. Elorius’s jaw hung low enough to reveal a gold-capped molar.
Lioren, meanwhile, stood dead on the center, his hands folded lightly behind his lower back, looking like a man who’d just politely offered to pass the bread basket.
It was the King who finally pulled himself together, though it took him three distinct attempts to clear his throat. He shifted his heavy weight on the throne, the gold chain of state clinking against his chest plate.
"Duke Roscaire," the King began. He rubbed a thick thumb against his temple, staring down at his most successful general as if waiting for him to yell ’Surprise!’ and burst out laughing. "Do you... do you actually grasp what it is you are asking of this crown?"
"Entirely, Your Majesty," Lioren replied smoothly, his tone conversational, almost light.
"He is the prince of a defeated kingdom," the King pressed, leaning forward, his bushy gray eyebrows knitting tight together. "His presence within our borders is not a personal trophy, Lioren. Every single clause regarding trade tariffs, border garrisons, and hostage oversight is linked directly to where he sleeps at night. A marriage of this caliber carries massive, unpredictable diplomatic weight."
"Which is precisely why I am standing here asking for him myself," Lioren countered without missing a beat. He gestured casually toward Xavion, though he was careful not to make the gesture look dismissive. "Think about it, Your Majesty. If you hand His Highness off to some secondary house with a meager guard and a leaky roof, you risk turning our greatest peace guarantee into a target for every disgruntled rebel or petty court conspirator in the province. Under my roof? At the northern border? The man is untouchable. His security is absolute."
The King squinted at him, still deeply skeptical. "And your motive in all this, Duke Roscaire? Since when have you taken an interest in state-sanctioned matchmaking?"
Lioren let out a quiet, huffing laugh, shaking his head slightly. "My motive is the exact same one that kept me sleeping in a mud-drenched tent for years, Sire. Peace. By whatever means necessary. If securing this kingdom requires me to ride north with twelve thousand cavalry, I do it. If it requires me to stand in front of a priest with a former enemy prince... well, I have a surprisingly flexible schedule."
He straightened his posture, letting his chin rest at a confident, almost arrogant tilt. "Surely Your Majesty does not doubt my devotion to Werestia? Besides, I’ve spent the better part of a decade managing bloody skirmishes, logistics breakdowns, and unruly vassal lords. I assure you, one prince is not going to overwhelm my household."
A few low murmurs rippled through the front ranks.
Elorius, who had been standing frozen beside Xavion, cleared his throat loudly. He smoothed down his silver velvet cloak, his sharp, bird-like eyes darting between Lioren’s untroubled expression and the King’s calculating face.
"If I may speak, Your Majesty," the Ostharian envoy chimed in, his tone stiff but carefully measured. "The imperial court back home... naturally expected His Highness to be assigned according to the preliminary drafts we discussed in committee." He paused, looking sideways at Lioren. "However... Ostharia cannot reasonably object to an arrangement that elevates Prince Xavion’s status rather than diminishing it. Joining the house of the Grand Duke of the North ensures his safety and prestige far better than a minor provincial court ever could. It serves as a... remarkably visible symbol that the war is truly behind us."
The envoy bowed his head slightly toward Lioren. "In principle, the delegation finds no insult in this proposal, provided the final contractual terms respect his royal bloodline."
"Now wait just a minute!"
The objection came from Marquis Vance, his dried-plum face turning a deep, angry shade of purple as he pushed his way past two baronial couples. "This is absurd! The Grand Duke has just returned from a long, exhausting campaign! Is it truly wise to load him down with an unnecessary, politically volatile responsibility the moment he steps off his horse? He is acting on an impulse!"
"An impulse?" Lioren turned his head, his blue eyes locking onto the Marquis with a lazy, amused coldness. "My lord Vance, when have I ever executed a military maneuver on mere impulse?"
"This isn’t a battlefield, Duke Roscaire!" Vance snapped, waving a plump hand. "This is a domestic arrangement involving a former enemy!"
Lioren let out a short, genuine chuckle, stepping half an inch closer to the blue-haired prince standing beside him. "I’ve spent the last years of my life fighting entire armies, Marquis. I assure you, one quiet prince isn’t going to frighten me half as much as your tax ledgers do."
A sudden, sharp snort of laughter escaped a young countess near the punch bowl, quickly muffled behind a lace handkerchief. A few junior officers in the back row grinned, the high tension in the hall easing just a fraction. Lioren’s casual, shameless stance made the whole scandalous affair seem less like a treasonous plot and more like an eccentric warlord making a practical, albeit bizarre, domestic upgrade.
Through it all, Xavion hadn’t said a single word.
He stood perfectly still, his single violet eye staring at the side of Lioren’s face with a look of profound, unreadable bewilderment. He looked like a man watching a giant golden retriever casually trot up to a royal tiger and drag it away by the tail. It made zero sense. Why would the most powerful, celebrated warrior in Werestia burn his priceless royal favor, a blank check from the Crown, on a half-blind hostage who possessed zero political backing?
The King leaned his elbows on his knees, staring down at Lioren for a long, heavy minute.
"Duke Roscaire," the King said, his voice dropping into that quiet, solemn register usually reserved for high trials and war declarations. "I will ask you one last time. Are you entirely certain you wish to use your promised favor on this specific request? Once granted, the Crown’s debt to you is settled."
Therin’s eyes snapped open, his hand twitching forward as if to grab Lioren’s cloak. Say no. Say you want a gold mine. Say you want three provinces. Your Grace, please...
Lioren didn’t even blink. He didn’t look at Therin, he didn’t look at the ministers, and he didn’t hesitate for a single second.
"I am entirely certain, Your Majesty," Lioren asnwered. "I claim the favor."
The King let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing his chin before slowly nodding his head. He raised his hand, gesturing toward the court scribes who were frantically scratching away on their parchment scrolls near the dais.
"Then let it be recorded," the King declared, his voice echoing through the silent hall. "By royal decree, the royal favor granted to Grand Duke Lioren Roscaire is hereby fulfilled. The betrothal alliance of Prince Xavion Astervan of Ostharia is formally assigned to House Roscaire, contingent upon the final signing of the diplomatic accords."
A collective, shuddering exhale swept through the ballroom.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Lioren said, bowing his head with immaculate, easy grace.
Underneath his calm, casual exterior, Lioren’s heart was going absolutely feral, hammering against his ribs like it had just won a war and wanted everyone to know about it.
I did it, he thought, a secret grin threatening to tear across his face.
In the novel, this was the exact turning point where Xavion was handed over to a cruel noble family, starting the long, brutal chain of abuse that eventually broke his sanity, awakened his dark magic, and ended the entire world.
But not anymore.
Lioren had just ripped the tragic villain right off his doomed tracks and dragged him squarely into his own orbit. The plot had been shattered into a thousand pieces before it could even begin.
Lioren turned sideways, looking down at the pale prince beside him. Xavion was still looking up at him, his mouth slightly parted, his single violet eye carrying a strange, fragile mix of shock and total confusion.
Lioren gave him a small, warm smile, not the arrogant smirk he used for the court, but something genuine, quiet, and surprisingly gentle.
Looks like you’re coming home with me, Xavion.