Breaking a decorative wing was a clumsy mistake. Breaking a statue of a dragon, the very symbol of Bumania’s supposed martial conquest, in front of the Archmage who had actually done the conquering? That was an omen.
“The Prince is… overexcited,” the Bumania representative stammered. “A surge of youthful power! A testament to Bumania vigor!”
Lusha leaned down toward Hania. “Vigor,” she whispered. “Is that what they’re calling a temper tantrum and a tripping hazard these days? I must update my dictionary.”
Hania didn’t answer. She was too busy watching her father, who was still holding a small, torn piece of cream bread, his eyes fixed on the wreckage of the marble dragon.
“It moved!” Jareth shrieked again, his voice cracking. He pointed a trembling finger at the statue, then at Hania. “She did it! The monster baby did it!”
The ballroom went ice-cold. Dravin turned his head. He didn’t look at the Prince; he looked at the Emperor’s representative. “My daughter is one year old,” Dravin said. “If you are suggesting,” Dravin continued, his tone dropping an octave, “that my infant daughter has better mana control than the Crown Prince… then perhaps the rumors of your bloodline’s decline have been understated.”
A collective gasp rippled through the nobility.
“Archmage,” the Queen intervened. She stepped forward, placing a hand on the Prince’s shoulder, though Jareth flinched away. “The prince is shaken. A regrettable accident. The palace stonemasons will see to it.”
“I’m sure they will,” Dravin said. He finally looked at Jareth the way one might look at a bug and wonder if it was worth the effort of lifting a boot. Jareth, for all his bravado, went pale and retreated behind his father’s official.
When the tension in the ballroom was at its highest, a boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, with hair the color of a fresh forest fire, stepped out from behind a heavy velvet curtain as if he’d been there the whole time. He looked nowhere but straight at Hania, his amber eyes dancing with mischief.
“Honestly,” he whispered, leaning toward Hania’s ear while Dravin was still locked in a cold stare-down with the Emperor’s officials, “the drama in this room is so poorly written. I have something you’ll find much more interesting, baby.”
Before Hania could even process the word “baby,” the boy moved. He was a blur of motion, scooping Hania out of her chair like a cat burglar.
“Hey!” Lusha started to shout, but her voice stretched into a long, distorted echo.
Pop.
They reappeared in a place that made the palace gardens look like a backyard patch of weeds. Giant, translucent lilies glowed with soft bioluminescence, and vines of silver-blue jasmine climbed up marble trellises, shedding glowing petals that floated in the air like slow-motion fireflies.
The boy set Hania down gently on a patch of moss. He grinned, hands on his knees, looking remarkably cheerful for someone who had just kidnapped the daughter of the world’s most dangerous man.
“Don’t be scared, baby!” he chirped, waving his hands dismissively. “I’m not a bad guy, I swear. Believe me. I’ve just been dying to meet you since the Great Disaster of the Pond.”
Hania sat on the moss, clutching her stolen rabbit, her brain doing rapid-fire calculations. Who is this? How did he bypass my father’s senses? And why does he look like he’s about to tell me a campfire story?
“I learned about you through my great-grandfather,” the boy explained, sitting cross-legged in front of her. “He’s a bit of a legend—or thinks he is. A few months back, he was heading out for a secret summit to meet the Archmage’s new heir. I wanted in! So I swiped one of my father’s high-tier teleportation scrolls and followed him.”
He sighed. “I ended up in the middle of a forest. I was so thirsty after walking for hours toward that scary black tower. I found a nice, quiet pond to get a drink… and then, suddenly—whoosh! My great-grandfather literally fell out of the sky and landed in the water like someone had shot him out of a cannon. I’ve never seen a man look so offended by gravity.”
Hania blinked. What the hell is this boy talking about?
“I spent a whole year begging to see you,” the boy continued, his eyes widening. “I made it my official birthday wish. Finally, two months ago, Great-Grandpa agreed. We reached the Mage Tower, but it was like a fortress of spite. There were barriers everywhere, specifically keyed to our family name. The gate literally grew a stone tongue and blew a raspberry at us.”
He started giggling. “Great-grandfather lost his temper. He started screaming at the walls, cursing the Archmage, calling him a reclusive old bat and a thief of starlight. It was great theater—until the Archmage actually came out.”
The boy leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your dad didn’t even use a staff. He just looked at my great-grandfather and said he’d been ‘experimenting with molecular restructuring’ while trying to find a better texture for baby food. Then he snapped his fingers. He put that magic right on Great-Grandpa’s right leg.”
The boy mimicked a wobbling motion with his arm.
“Hania, it turned into jelly. Deep-purple jelly. Like your eyes. Have you ever tried to see a dignified Duke walk with a leg made of preserves? He didn’t walk; he sloshed all the way home. He still wobbles when he gets angry.”
Hania stared at him, a piece of cream bread still stuck to her cheek. Father… you turned a Duke’s leg into jelly because he was too loud? She looked at the red-haired boy. And you think this is funny? He was clearly insane. But she like it.
Hania stared at the boy. Red hair, chaotic energy, a casual disregard for high-tier teleportation scrolls, and a great-grandfather who could curse at her father.
Wait, she thought, her eyes widening. Are you… Leonarth’s descendant? All that came out was, “Goo?” as she pointed a cream-smeared finger at his head.
The boy blinked, then slapped his forehead so hard it made a smack sound.
“Oh! Right! My father says I have the social grace of a runaway carriage,” he chirped, offering a mock bow from his seated position. “I’m Raylas Zyveris Emberlyn, heir to the Emberlyn Dukedom. And the man currently wobbling around our estate like a half-set flan is indeed the Great Southern Duke, Leonarth Xyvor Emberlyn.”
Hania slumped back onto the moss, clutching the stuffed rabbit. So you really are his descendant. No wonder he wasn’t at the party. It was hard to maintain an aura of ‘Menacing Southern Warlord’ when your right leg sounded like a wet sponge hitting the floor every time you took a step.
She looked at Raylas. He was grinning, seemingly thrilled to be sharing the family’s shame with a one-year-old.
I see, Hania mused. The Emperor is dying, the Crown Prince is a brat, the Princess has no mana, and Leonarth is currently being defeated by a staircase because my father was bored with baby food textures.
Raylas leaned in closer, poking the stuffed rabbit’s ear. “Anyway, Great-Grandpa says your dad is a ‘stuck-up frost-breathing lizard,’ but I think he’s hilarious. Turning a Duke into jelly? That’s high-level art, baby! That’s why I had to meet you. I wanted to see if you are like him. I really admire him, and one day I want to be like him.”
Shit! No! You chose the wrong idol, boy. This world couldn’t handle a second one. Well, survive him first.
He squinted at her. “You do. You look like you’re judging my entire life’s choices right now.”
I am, Hania thought. Starting with your choice to kidnap a Noctis heir. You do realize my father is probably currently turning the palace upside down, right? The ‘Jelly Incident’ was just a warning. For this, he might turn your entire family into a buffet.
Suddenly the temperature dropped forty degrees in a heartbeat. The soft bioluminescence of the lilies flickered and died. Raylas’s grin faltered. His ginger hair seemed to stand on end. “Uh oh,” he whispered. “That’s a very familiar ‘I’m about to be restructured’ feeling in the air.”
A voice, cold enough to freeze the blood in Raylas’s veins, drifted from the darkness behind them.
“Raylas Zyveris Emberlyn.”
Dravin stepped out from a portal, his coat billowing like a shroud. In his hand, he was holding a small silver spoon.
“I hope you like the taste of apricot,” Dravin said softly, his red eyes glowing. “Because your great-grandfather isn’t the only one who needs a change in consistency.”