row

You hadn't even heard Caleb come in. But suddenly the entire room filled with his presence. Especially with the words he'd just delivered to his son, speaking in a tone so low that it was more threatening than if he had yelled.

"Now apologize to her immediately and never, ever speak to her like that again. You hear me?"

You want to tell him to stop. That you know your son was going through a rough patch and all teenagers behaved this way but you were too busy trying to hold the tears in to interrupt. Next to you, your son looks visibly pale. Sure, he admired and respected his Dad and almost never suffered any dire consequences for any mistakes he made but to see his father so visibly vibrating with the effort it took to suppress his anger, he was terrified.

When he fails to respond, Caleb's voice claps into the room like a lightning strike "Speak up, did you hear me?"

"Yes, sir" Your son is also on the verge of tears as he turns to you "I'm sorry, Mom"

You're about to respond but Caleb cuts in "Good. You're grounded for two weeks and will hand in your phone every night before bed. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir"

"Go to your room and tidy up. I'll be with you in a minute, we're going to address this little behavior properly" Your son has never faced his father's wrath this way and is desperate to make amends as he grabs your arm so you could shield him away like you always did.

Caleb's eyes drop to his trembling arms and he pulls you back against him, making him let go of you "No. You don't get to speak to her like that and use her as your defense too. She'll forgive you when she wants to"

You almost want to comfort your son when you see the kicked puppy look in his eyes as he sniffles, moving past you both to go upstairs and await further scolding.

For a long moment after he leaves, neither you nor Caleb move. He's still got his arm wrapped around your shoulder and after a tense moment, you lean into him "When did you get home?"

"Just in time to hear enough. We didn't raise him to be ungrateful like that. I almost threw him out of the house"

"Caleb-"

"No, Pips. He needs to learn that just because his Mother pampers him, he can't get away with talking to you like that" Turning you in his arms, Caleb bends to your eyelevel "And you need to stop letting him"

"He's just a little boy. Our little boy. You know he's had trouble adjusting since we moved last year. He's right, maybe we should cut him some slack"

"We can do that without excusing the disrespect" Kissing your shoulder, Caleb straightens "Let me talk to him, alright?"

He's about to walk away when you grab his arm "No matter what conclusion you come to, my son is not sleeping outside as punishment"

Smiling, Caleb presses a quick kiss into your hair "I'll try" When you give him a stern look, he laughs "I promise I'll try to be more...lenient"

You hear his footfalls on the staircase, a quick knock followed by the quiet thump of the door closing. As you start prepping for dinner, you relax more. Caleb pampered his son just as much, if not more. You trusted him enough to know he'd handle the situation with care.

You're putting the lid on the pot and clearing out the space when you feel arms around your waist, hugging you tightly from behind as your son sniffles against your back "I'm really sorry, Mom. I'll do better from here on out"

Smiling, you turn to hug him back "I'm really glad to hear that and-" You pull back till he's looking at you, nose red and eyes slightly puffy that indicated that he really did feel awful "-I forgive you, okay? Don't beat yourself up over it anymore" You squeeze him tightly once again and ruffle his hair before kissing his head "Now go freshen up before dinner"

He's exiting the kitchen, nodding at Caleb who was leaning against the doorway watching the entire exchange. Once he's gone, Caleb takes his place and wraps his arms around you, sighing deeply into your hair and making you laugh.

"How'd it go? I'm guessing good?"

"Hardest thing I've had to do in my life" Caleb admits as you run your fingers through his hair, patting his back while he tightened his arms around you "Thank God we didn't raise a troublemaker though I did promise we'll revisit the discussion for summer camp"

"You handled it well" You praise as Caleb pulls back to look at you, your fingers mussing up his hair into that cute, dorky look you'd first fallen in love with "Really well" At your conspicuous grin, your husband's eyebrows nearly touch his hairline when your fingers start twisting in his shirt "No one gets away with disrespecting your wife, huh?"

Caleb's fingers reach under your shirt, drawing patterns on your skin as he pulls you closer "You're my wife before you're his mother. He needs to learn that" Kissing your jaw, he nips at the skin as he whispers "So yes, nobody talks to my wife like that without facing consequences"

"Nobody?" You grin up at him.

Lowering his mouth against yours, Caleb's also grinning "Some of us have special privileges-" You jump when you hear your son's bedroom door shut again, trying to pull out of your husband's grip but he's insistent "Relax, babe. He knows how he was made and that the stock story isn't true"

Swatting his arm, you chastise "Caleb!" You're trying to escape his hold but it's hard to remember why you want to when he's got his hands on you like this and is kissing that secret spot under your ear like that "He could come downstairs at any time and- and...and dinner- oh"

Caleb's smirk is marred into your skin as he's bending your back over the counter "If we can make a baby when I'm D-12 minutes away from being wheels up, then this should be a piece of cake, right?"

instead you find a man who looks exhausted, who has ink on his fingers and a ledger tucked under his arm, who stands with the rigid posture of someone holding himself together through sheer will. there is still road dust on his coat, like he came straight from a meeting in the city without stopping to change.

after the short introduction you exchange, he immediately tells you of your charge and warns you that his sister has gone through seven governesses in two years.

mei xia is twelve years old and has not smiled in so long her brother can’t remember what it looks like. lord caleb tells you he doesn't know what he is doing wrong but everything is clearly wrong and he is failing her.

he says this last part quietly, shame coloring his features.

your predecessors all left. some in tears, some in fury, one simply vanished in the middle of the night, giving up her wages to escape.

no one wants to teach a child the county whispers about. she is disturbed, they say, unmanageable and possibly dangerous.

but you need this position desperately.

your father died eight months ago. 

the illness took him slowly, ate through what little money you had left on physicians who could do nothing. his friends, the ones who dined at your table when he was wealthy, vanished when the money did.

some of their sons appeared afterward, not even waiting for you to grieve properly, and made offers that had nothing to do with marriage. you chose being a governess in a household with a supposedly mad child over every one of those offers.

lord caleb does not send for a servant, he leads you to the schoolroom himself. he tells you a bit about the household and you notice the way his jaw tightens when he mentions his sister's name.

he loves her, that much is clear.

he is also terrified he is losing her.

mei is waiting in the schoolroom with her arms crossed and murder in her eyes.

she is small for a child of twelve and beautiful like her brother. her dress is expensive silk but wrinkled, like she dressed herself and no one dared correct her. her hair is pulled back severely. everything about her screams control except her eyes.

they are purple like her brother's, and where caleb's eyes hold despair and exhaustion, mei's are wild with grief and rage, and what you think is fear.

she doesn't acknowledge you nor does she look at her brother.

caleb introduces you anyway, his voice gentle. he tells mei he hopes she'll give you a chance. he knows things have been difficult but he needs her to try.

mei stares out the window as if he hasn't spoken at all.

you see the moment it breaks him, the way his shoulders curve inward just slightly, how he reaches toward her and then stops himself, hand falling uselessly to his side. he has done this before and he knows she won't accept his touch.

"i have to return to linkon tomorrow," he says quietly. "i'll write to you like always."

mei's jaw tightens but she says nothing.

caleb looks at you then, and you see the silent plea in his violet eyes.

save her, please, i don't know how but please try.

then he is gone.

you are left standing in the silent schoolroom with a child who won't look at you and a task that feels impossible.

your life as mei xia's governess begins.

she ignores you for five days straight.

she doesn't touch the books you set out, respond to your questions, nor eat the meals brought to the schoolroom unless you leave the room entirely.

you don't force her. 

you just show up every morning, sit at the desk. read aloud from whatever book you brought. talk to her even when she pretends you don't exist.

on the sixth day, you find her trying to pick the lock on the schoolroom door that leads towards the gardens with a hairpin.

you don't scold her, instead you sit on the floor beside the door and pull out a hairpin of your own.

"the trick is to feel for the mechanism," you say quietly, demonstrating. "there, like that."

mei stares at you for the first time since you arrived, her brows furrowed.

you hand her a different pin and show her the angle. she tries again and the lock clicks open.

"why would you teach me that?" her voice is hoarse from disuse.

"because sometimes we need to know we can leave," you say. "even if we choose to stay."

she doesn't speak again for the rest of the day but the next morning she is sitting at the desk when you arrive. waiting.

you don't mention it and simply open the first book and begin to read aloud.

she still doesn't participate, but she listens.

it is a start.

the breakthrough comes three weeks later.

it is the anniversary of the accident, the day caleb and mei's parents died three years ago. 

you find mei in the garden at dawn, standing in front of two stone markers. she is still in her nightgown, barefoot in the frost-covered grass. she is not crying. she is just standing there, frozen, like if she doesn't move then time won't move either and she won't have to face another year without them.

you don't ask what she is doing, you simply walk up beside her and stand in the silence.

minutes pass and the sun rises higher, you can see your breath in the cold air.

"he promised he'd be here," mei says finally, her voice is small and broken. "caleb. he promised he'd come home for today, but there was a meeting in linkon he couldn't miss. he sent a letter instead."

she pulls a crumpled paper from her nightgown pocket.

"he's always somewhere else," mei continues, and now there is anger threading through the grief. "always at some warehouse or trading house or on some road between here and linkon. always writing letters instead of being here. mother and father died and he left me, he just left."

"he had to return to his business," you say gently.

"he didn't have to, he chose to." mei's hands are fists at her sides. "he could've stayed here for today, but he didn't want to. he didn't want to stay with me."

"that isn't true."

"then why does he keep leaving?" her voice breaks,"everyone leaves. mother and father died. caleb goes away for weeks and months. the governesses all run away. everyone leaves and i'm always alone."

your hear breaks at the devastation in her voice.

"i'm not going anywhere," you tell her.

"you will," mei says flatly, and she sounds so much older than twelve. "everyone does."

"i have nowhere else to go," you say, and it is honest enough that mei turns to look at you fully. "i have no family, no home, and no prospects. this position is all i have so no, i'm not leaving. you're stuck with me."

"you promise?" she asks, and you see the hope and fear in her eyes.

you know you should not make promises you cannot guarantee, but this child needs something to hold onto.

"i promise."

mei's face crumples. 

she throws herself into your arms and sobs. you sink to your knees in the frost-covered grass and hold her while she cries for her parents, for her absent brother, for the loneliness that has been eating her alive for three years.

when the sobs finally subside into hiccups, mei pulls back just enough to look at you.

"i miss them," she whispers. "i miss them so much and no one will let me talk about them. the servants get sad. caleb gets this look on his face like i'm hurting him. everyone wants me to stop being sad but i can't. i can't."

"then don't," you say simply. "be sad. be angry. feel whatever you need to feel. i'll sit with you through all of it."

mei stares at you like you have said something revolutionary.

"really?"

"really."

she hugs you again, tighter this time. and when you both finally go back inside, her small hand is clutching yours like a lifeline.

after that, everything changes.

mei talks to you now. 

about her parents and her lessons and the book she is reading and everything and nothing. she does her work, eats her meals, and laughs sometimes, a sound so unexpected that the first time you hear it you nearly drop the book you're holding.

the household staff notice.

mrs. jiang, the housekeeper, starts bringing tea to the schoolroom without being asked, the expensive kind from the earl's private stock, with small cakes she claims are "leftovers from the kitchen that would just go to waste."

liam, the butler, stops you in the corridor one morning.

"the young miss seems much improved," he tells you. "the staff are grateful, miss. it has been difficult, seeing her suffer so."

you don't know what to say to that so you tell him that you are just the governess and you are just doing your job.

but liam smiles, small and genuine. 

"you are good for her and for this household. we're glad you stayed."

annie, one of the younger maids, is more direct. she appears in the schoolroom one afternoon with fresh flowers for the desk.

"from the garden," she says cheerfully. "mrs. jiang said you might like them. we all think you're lovely, miss. the way you are with little miss mei. she adores you, anyone can see it."

you start to understand that you have been accepted here, absorbed into this household and the knowledge makes your chest feel warm and tight at the same time.

these people care about mei, and because you care about mei, they care about you.

it is the closest thing to family you have had since your father died.

caleb returns home six weeks later.

you are in the garden with mei, working on botany lessons, when you hear the commotion. servants rushing toward the front of the estate. mei's head snaps up.

"caleb," she breathes, and then she is running.

you follow more slowly, not wanting to intrude on their reunion, but when you round the corner to the front drive you stop.

caleb xia is stepping down from his carriage, still in his city clothes, tired from the road. and mei has launched herself at him with such force that he staggers backward, laughing as he catches her.

laughing.

you have never heard him laugh before. it transforms his entire face, makes him look younger, less burdened. he is swinging mei around like she weighs nothing, and she is giggling, and for a moment they are just a brother and a sister who have missed each other desperately.

when caleb sets mei down, his hands on her shoulders, you see him look at her. taking in the color in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, the fact that she is smiling at him.

"you look well," he says, and his voice is rough with emotion.

"i'm well," mei replies,"i have been doing my lessons and reading and…" she stops, turns as though looking for someone until her eyes land on you, standing half-hidden by the garden hedge. "come here, miss."

you should not, this is a family moment, but mei is gesturing insistently and now caleb is looking at you too.

you walk forward on unsteady legs.

caleb's eyes find yours and you find yourself breathless at what's in them. he is looking at you like you have given him back something precious beyond measure.

"my lord," you say quietly, dropping into a curtsy. "welcome home."

"you did this," it isn't a question. "you brought her back."

"i did nothing, mei did the work herself."

"she did the work because you gave her a reason to." a pause. "i don't know how to thank you."

"you don't need to thank me. this is my position, my duty."

"it's more than that," he says quietly. "and we both know it."

you are acutely aware of mei watching you both with bright, curious eyes.

you step back to create a proper distance.

"i should return to the schoolroom, i need to prepare for tomorrow's lessons."

you flee before he can respond.

behind you, you hear mei's voice, excited and chattering, telling her brother everything she's learned in the past six weeks. and underneath it, barely audible, you hear caleb's response.

"tell me about her, what is she like?"

you keep walking, but you hear mei's answer anyway.

"she's wonderful and the best person in the whole world. i love her."

and caleb's soft reply. 

"i can see why."

caleb stays for four days before returning to linkon.

four days during which he finds reasons to visit the schoolroom that have nothing to do with checking on mei's progress.

the first time, he brings a book from his library. a natural history text with beautiful illustrations that he thought might be useful for lessons. he stays for an hour, sitting in the corner while you teach, watching with an intensity that makes your hands unsteady when you turn the pages.

the second time, he arrives during mei's drawing lesson. she is sketching the garden from the window. caleb stands behind her chair, offering gentle advice, his hand covering hers to show her how to angle the pencil for shading. then he moves to where you are sitting, correcting arithmetic problems from yesterday.

"may i?" he asks quietly, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.

you nod because you can't trust your voice.

he sits close enough that you can smell the soap he uses, close enough that when he leans over to look at mei's work, his shoulder brushes yours.

"she's improved remarkably," he murmurs. "in everything. her penmanship, her mathematics, even her watercolors. how did you do it?"

"i did nothing. i simply gave her time and patience."

"the others didn't."

"then they were foolish." you keep your eyes on the papers in front of you. "miss mei is brilliant, she just needed someone to see it."

"you see her," caleb says. "really see her. not the grief or the anger or the difficulty. just her."

you do look at him then, it is a mistake.

he is watching you with an expression that is far too open, far too warm. 

"someone needed to," you say quietly.

"i should have been the one to…" he stops. his jaw tightens. "i failed her. left her alone in this house with her grief and expected her to simply carry on."

"you did what you thought was right. you had duties and responsibilities."

"i had a sister who needed me more than any business in linkon did."

the pain in his voice makes you brave enough to do something reckless. you reach out and touch his hand where it rests on the table, just briefly, barely a touch at all.

"you're here now," you say. "that's what matters."

his hand turns under yours, catching your fingers for just a moment. his thumb brushes over your knuckles once—so gentle it might be accidental, except for the way his breath catches.

then mei calls out asking for help with her drawing and you both spring apart.

the third visit, he comes after dinner when mei is already asleep.

you are in the schoolroom, preparing lessons for the next week. you don't hear him approach until he speaks from the doorway.

"you work too hard."

you startle, nearly knocking over the inkwell. 

"my lord. i didn't hear you."

"caleb," he says, stepping into the room. "please. when it's just us, just caleb."

"that wouldn't be appropriate."

"nothing about this is appropriate." he gestures vaguely between you. "and yet."

you don't ask what he means by this, you're not certain you want to know.

"mei's asleep?" he asks.

"yes. she asked about you before bed. she wanted to know when you'd come home again."

guilt crosses his face.

"i return to linkon tomorrow and be gone for at least three weeks."

"she'll miss you."

"will she?" the question isn't rhetorical, he genuinely seems uncertain.

"desperately. she counts the days between your letters. she has every single one you've ever sent her in a box under her bed."

caleb's eyes close briefly. 

"i didn't know that."

"she loves you. she's just afraid you won't come back, like your parents didn't come back."

"i always come back."

"but she doesn't know that, every time you leave, she's terrified it's the last time."

caleb sinks into one of the chairs, suddenly looking exhausted. there is ink on his fingers from the correspondence he was writing in his study.

"tell me what to do," he says quietly. "how do i fix this?"

you set down your pen, move to sit in the chair across from him.

"write to her more, not just the formal letters about trade and your hopes that she is well. write about small things. what you ate for breakfast, the book you're reading. the terrible joke one of your clerks told, let her see that you're alive and real, not just words on a page."

"i can do that."

"and when you come home, spend time with her. do not just check that she's doing her lessons, play games with her, walk with her in the garden. let her see that you want to be here with her."

"i do want to be here." his eyes find yours. "more than you know."

there is weight in those words that has nothing to do with mei.

"you should tell her that," you say, though your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"i'm not good at this, at talking about feelings. our father was a reserved man. i was taught to be stoic and controlled. i don't know how to be anything else."

"mei doesn't need you to be perfect, she just needs you to be her brother."

"and what do you need?"

the question catches you off guard. 

"my lord..."

"caleb."

"i don't understand what you're asking."

"do you like it here? at xia estate? are you happy?"

happy. 

what a strange word. 

you have not thought about happiness in months since before your father died, since before the creditors came, and since before you had to choose between this position and the alternatives that made your skin crawl.

but here, in this schoolroom, with mei's laughter during lessons and the household staff's kindness and this man…

"yes," you admit, your voice small. "i'm happy here."

caleb’s expression softens. 

"good. that's…good."

silence falls, comfortable but charged with something neither of you will name.

"i should go," caleb says finally, though he doesn't move. "let you finish your work."

"yes. you should."

neither of you moves.

"she speaks about you constantly," caleb says quietly. "in her letters. every single one. miss did this, she said that, she's so clever and kind. i thought perhaps she was exaggerating because she's been through so many governesses and desperately wants one to stay."

"i can see that now." he stands slowly. "when i'm away, at my desk in linkon, worrying about her, it helps to know you're here and that she isn't alone."

"she'll never be alone. i promised her that."

"and do you keep your promises?"

always. 

"yes."

"good." caleb moves toward the door but stops. "thank you for being here, for caring about her. for…"

he stops, his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it.

"for everything," he finishes quietly.

then he is gone.

you sit in the empty schoolroom for a long time after, staring at the papers in front of you without seeing them.

you are in so much trouble.

caleb leaves the next morning.

mei cries when she says goodbye but not the violent, desperate sobs from before. these are quieter tears, sad but not hopeless.

"you will write?" she asks, clinging to his coat.

"every week, i promise." 

"and you'll come home for the harvest festival?"

"yes. in two months."

"that's forever."

"it will pass quickly."

mei pulls back. looks up at him with those too-knowing eyes that children sometimes have.

"do you like her?" she asks.

caleb goes very still. 

"of course i like her. she's an excellent governess."

"no. i mean do you like her. the way papa liked mama."

you are standing far enough away to give them privacy but close enough to hear every word, your face burns.

"mei…"

"because i think you do. you look at her the way papa used to look at mama, like she's the most important person in the room."

"that's not…i don't…" caleb seems at a loss and then he sighs. he kneels down so he is eye level with his sister. "even if i did, it wouldn't matter. she's your governess and i'm an earl. there are rules about these things."

"rules are stupid."

"perhaps, but they exist regardless."

mei considers this with the seriousness of a twelve-year-old who has decided adults are irrational.

"if there were no rules, would you marry her?"

you don't breathe and try to pretend that your attention is elsewhere, but you feel caleb’s gaze on you.

"yes," he says quietly. "i would."

then he stands, kisses mei's forehead, and walks to his carriage.

he doesn't look back as it pulls away.

but you feel the weight of that confession for days afterward.

⚜ a/n: this was originally a very convoluted mix of jane eyre x atonement but i decided to just remove most of the heavy angst and just stick with a simpler plot. i'm sorry if my writing is a bit off, i'm suffering from a really bad case of writer's block. i wish i would get over it soon because there's so so much stuff that i need to finish (warlord sylus, let the light in, spring song, not to mention the caleb fics i planned for june, and the rest of the arranged marriage fics😭). but i'm really grateful for all all the love, patience, and support from you guys.

➵ yes, there will be a final part to this, i plan to post it around the third week of june, hopefully.

⚜ taglist: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world, @kingraspberry12-blog, @tinuvieloflemuria (for permanent tags, please send an ask so i can keep track)

➵ likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. love you all and thank you so much for reading!💜

》 BACKGROUND

Political Climate of 650 CY

By 650 CY, the Empire faced existential pressure from the Federation's expansion into the Neutral Lanes. The Velytio system's newly stable warp signature offered a strategic corridor that could either secure Imperial supply lines or grant Federation fleets direct access to the Southward Rings. The Empress, then twenty-three standard years old and in her first year ruling, was under intense scrutiny to secure an alliance with the Lorne Galaxy's merchant houses, a negotiation that hinged on her consent to a politically advantageous marriage to House Velytio's heir—a prospect she had repeatedly deferred.

High Marshal Caleb Xia of the Glory Federation, the Empress's older brother, had returned to the capital only a year prior to witness his little sister's coronation. His military reforms had centralized power within the Glory Federation, effectively bypassing the traditional General Staff. This created tension with Grand General Zayne Li, the Empress's former tutor in military strategy, who commanded the loyalty of the old-guard officer corps and was rumoured to be drafting a contingency memo—known in later intelligence leaks as the "Nebulasia Protocol"—that would transfer executive authority to a military triumvirate should the Empress's perceived hesitation threaten Imperial stability.

Declassified correspondence from the period indicates that many within the High Command believed Zayne had already committed to initiating the protocol within the quarter.

Personal Histories and the Triangle of Power

The dynamic between the three figures was a subject of court speculation long before the incident. Caleb Xia, born in 605 CY, had been separated from his sister at age twelve; his time away remains—to this day—confidential. His return in 628 CY, bearing the rank of High Marshal and a personal retinue loyal only to him, was seen by many as a calculated move to secure dynastic control through familial ties.

Court diaries from Lady Tara, a lady-in-waiting, describe Caleb's "proprietary gaze" and his tendency to address the Empress in diminutives that "blur the line between fraternal affection and something far less proper."

Zayne Li's relationship was no less complicated. Recruited at forty-two (though service records suggest he may have been far older) from the Special Forces, he served first as the Empress's weapons instructor, then as her primary tutor, before becoming the Grand General. Oral histories from retired palace staff consistently describe his penchant for formality so absolute it bordered on ritual.

Yet several encrypted dispatches, later cracked by Imperial Intelligence, reveal that Zayne had repeatedly requested reassignment to frontier posts to "extinguish an untenable proximity." His requests were denied by the Empress personally, with margin notes reading: The Crown requires its sharpest blade at hand, not scattered across the void.

The Empress herself remains an enigmatic figure in the historical record. While regnal chronicles praise her "unwavering consolidation of authority" and "strategic neutrality," personal accounts paint a portrait of a young sovereign caught between two opposing gravitational forces. A fragmentary journal, attributed to her and discovered in a hidden compartment of the Celestial Throne in 812 CY, contains a single relevant entry:

They treat me as glass in the council room and fire in the sparring ring. I tire of being both fragile and untouchable. Tonight, I will be neither.

》 THE INCIDENT

The Dinner Invitation

On the eve prior to the Velytio Accords signing, the Empress sent handwritten invitations to both Caleb and Zayne for a "private strategic review" in her personal dining chamber. According to the Palace Steward's log, the request was unusual: dinner for three, no security detail beyond the door, and a specific menu featuring Nebulasia berries and a 610 vintage wine.

The steward noted that the Empress ordered her ceremonial armor removed, specifying "silk only" for the evening—a detail that later fuelled speculation about premeditation.

The chamber itself was a small, twelve-seat room adjacent to the Empress's private observatory, noted for its view of the Lorne Warp Point. Servants' testimony, collected decades later in the memoirs of an aged retainer long-retired, describe the setting as "overly intimate for state business; the sort of space one uses for confessions, not fleet deployments."

The Breach of Protocol

Accounts of the evening's progression rely heavily on three sources: the fragmented remains of a security audio recording (the recording crystal mysteriously shattered but had been partially reconstructed), physical evidence catalogued during a sealed investigation in 729 CY, and the warp point observatory's astronomical logs.

The audio, though corrupted, captures the first hour as a tense discussion of warp signatures and Federation codes before shifting to personal anecdotes. Caleb speaks of his seventh birthday; Zayne, in a rare moment of candour, mentions his first command in the Southern Rings. The Empress, according to voice-stress analysis, exhibits a marked decrease in formal speech patterns around the third hour.

The "breach," as it was later codified in internal reports, appears to have commenced shortly after the dessert course.

Physical evidence—analysed in the sealed report—includes:

Textile Analysis: The Empress's silk tunic, recovered from a private incinerator chute, showed biological matter consistent with two male donors and wine compounds. The fabric was torn, not cut.

Tabletop Forensics: The obsidian dining table bore impact fractures matching human weight and movement, with residue traces of crystallized sugar, wine, and biological fluids. The report noted "patterns inconsistent with conventional dining."

Servant Eyewitness (subjective): The retainer describes hearing "prolonged vocalisations of distress and pleasure" and being ordered, via a locked door, to "clear the hall until dawn." Upon morning entry, she noted shattered crystal-ware, "displaced furniture suggesting struggle," and a persistent scent that she, in a coy phrase, called "the nebula after rain." The reconstructed audio captures the Empress issuing a command at 03:47 standard time: "Then show me what you've both been waiting decades to teach me." The recording terminates in static at 03:48.

The Warp Point Alignment Witness Account

The most controversial piece of evidence comes from the Celestial Observatory's logs. At 03:51, the Lorne Warp Point underwent an unscheduled fluctuation, its violet nebula flaring to record brightness for seventeen minutes before stabilizing.

Astronomer Third Class Thomas, on night watch, logged the event as "possible gravitational anomaly" but later, in a smuggled letter to a dissident journal, wrote: The nebula didn't just flare—it pulsed. As if the universe itself was watching something it couldn't look away from. The timing was… obscene.

This "Nebulasia Flare" became a cornerstone for both proponents and sceptics of the incident's significance. Some historians dismiss it as coincidence; others argue it was the warp point's exotic matter reacting to extreme emotional resonance within the palace's shielded core—a theory that, while scientifically disputed, persists in popular lore.

Aftermath and Cover-Up

The morning after saw the Empress sign the Velytio Accords with unusual swiftness, granting the Federation unlimited warp access in exchange for military non-aggression. Witnesses reported she sat rigidly, flanked by both Caleb and Zayne, and that her signature was "firmer than typical, as if pressed by an unseen weight." The treaty's success defused immediate war, but it also ended all discussion of her political marriage—House Velytio's heir withdrew his suit citing "irreconcilable differences in temperament," a diplomatic phrase widely interpreted as evidence that rumours had already spread.

An internal investigation was launched by the Palace Shadow Council but was sealed by the Empress's executive order within days. All physical evidence was classified or destroyed.

However, the "Crystal Shard Brief"—a forensic report on the shattered goblets—was leaked in 711 CY. It concluded that the crystal had been broken by "significant force applied at a low angle, consistent with a body being pressed against a tabletop." The brief also noted unusual chemical residues but redacted the specific compounds, citing "sovereign privacy protocols."

Servants who had been on duty that night were either promoted to positions requiring absolute loyalty or discreetly reassigned to frontier estates.

The retainer's memoirs, published posthumously in 690 CY, were the first public account, though they were immediately banned. She—allegedly—wrote: It wasn't rape, and it wasn't romance. It was coronation by another name. They crowned her with their teeth, and she wore the marks like a diadem better than she did with the crown-jewels themselves.

》 PRIMARY SOURCES AND EVIDENCE

Modern scholarship relies on a patchwork of classified documents, material evidence, and cultural artefacts:

The "Nebulasia Protocol" Memo (Partial): Declassified in 711 CY, this document confirms Zayne was indeed drafting a contingency for military takeover, with a target implementation date of 650 CY. A handwritten margin note reads: Parameters altered. New model viable. Await Phase Two. Historians debate whether "Phase Two" refers to the incident or its political aftermath.

Caleb Xia's Service Journal: Found in a private vault after his death in 670 CY, the journal contains no direct mention of the night but features a cryptic entry dated in the year 650: Treaty signed. Variables aligned. Little sister no longer negotiates from weakness.

The Empress's Hidden Journal: The fragment discovered in the throne mentions "two gates" and "a seal that bleeds." While ambiguous, palaeographic analysis dates the entry to within a week of the incident.

Material Culture: A single glove, identified as Zayne's by its monogrammed rank insignia, survived in a private collection. It bears stains that forensic testing in 720 CY confirmed were a mixture of Nebulasia berry juice, wine, and biological material from three distinct donors. The glove was reportedly recovered from the chamber's waste chute, wrapped in the Empress's torn tunic.

Oral Tradition: Among the descendants of palace staff, a whispered legend persists: "When the warp point flares violet, the three crowns still touch." This folk memory suggests the event, while officially erased, remained a touchstone for those who served.

》 POLITICAL EFFECTS AND CONSEQUENCES

The incident's immediate effect was the consolidation of what scholars call the "Triangular Sovereignty." Within a year, the Empress restructured the High Command, creating the Office of the Triumvirate—a formal body consisting of herself, Caleb, and Zayne, which held veto power over all military and foreign policy decisions. While presented as an efficiency measure, it effectively ended the General Staff's independence and merged dynastic authority with military loyalty.

The Glory Federation, perhaps sensing the internal shift, proved more accommodating in subsequent negotiations. Glory Federation Ambassador Viper's classified cables, declassified and released in the 780 CY, described the Imperial delegation as "unsettlingly unified, as if personal and political had fused into something we cannot exploit."

The political marriage negotiations were permanently shelved.

Domestically, the incident marked the end of the "Proxy Wars" between military and civil factions. Zayne's "Nebulasia Protocol" was never implemented; instead, he became the architect of the Imperial Defence Perimeter. Caleb's authority as High Marshal became absolute, his proximity to the throne stopped becoming considered as a threat.

The dynastic implications were messier. The Empress never married and bore no acknowledged heir, a fact that led to the Succession Crisis of 690 CY.

However, supporters of the Triangular Sovereignty argue that her decision was strategic: by refusing to dilute her line, she ensured that her successors would be chosen by merit, not blood, fundamentally altering Imperial governance.

》 CULTURAL DEPICTIONS

Due to censorship laws, direct artistic representation of the incident is forbidden. However, allegorical works abound:

The Violet Flare Opera (c. 720 CY) depicts three stars merging into a pulsing nebula, with a libretto referencing "three crowns, one seal."

The Skyhaven Tapestry (c. 749 CY), officially titled Triumph at Velytio, features three interwoven silver threads on a violet background, a motif scholars universally recognize.

Contemporary Memetic Verse: The anonymous poem Three Gates circulates on dark data-nets: One leaves, one stays, one commands the night / At Nebulasia's table, they forgot to fight / The warp point watched, the berries bled / And crowns were forged in a single bed.

》 SEE ALSO

Triangular Sovereignty (Political Theory)

Velytio Accords

Galactic Wars (660-675 CY)

Imperial Succession Crisis of 690 CY

Warp Point Phenomena and Emotional Resonance Theory (Pseudoscience)

Caleb reduces a sauce with one eye on the stirring spoon and the other on the Empress, who sits at the head of the table wearing nothing more formal than a silk tunic, her ceremonial armor abandoned at the door. "Only my little sister gets the real recipe," Caleb murmurs, plating with a flourish that betrays his Skyhaven training—every gesture efficient, almost military-precise, but the smile he casts her is made of pure nostalgia.

"The Federation officers get the replicated version."

Zayne stands at the wine vault, his scarred fingers selecting a bottle of wine. He is forty-two, perhaps forty-five, though nobody knows his real age—and none dare ask when his eyes visibly carry the weight of three lifetimes.

The label reads 617 Nebulasia Vintage, older than the Empress by exactly a decade.

"Your Majesty," he says, and the title hangs between them like a chaperone, overly formal for a chamber where the only witnesses are the nebula outside and Caleb's heavy gaze.

The first course passes in a strategic discussion about Velytio's warp signature, Federation access codes, Lorne Galaxy's price for neutrality. Caleb speaks with his mouth full, deliberately improper, watching the Empress's lips twitch; whereas, Zayne cuts his portions into precise squares, his fork never scraping the porcelain.

They are men of different disciplines: one taught by war, the other by anatomy.

"You're not eating," Caleb observes, pointing his fork at the Empress.

He spears a morsel from her plate—his own fork, no ceremony—and extends it across the table. The gesture is so casually possessive that Zayne's hand tightens around his wine glass subconsciously. The Empress accepts, her mouth closing over the tines, and Caleb's throat works as he swallows something that isn't food.

Zayne looks away, but his jaw is tight.

By the third course, the wine has softened the edges and blurred the sharp lines drawn in the sand.

Caleb tells the story of his seventh birthday, when he locked her in his chambers to protect her from the knights, then got distracted leading a counter-attack with a candelabra and too many curtains to count.

"I came back three hours later, you were asleep like a sack of flour. Looked like a little ghost."

The Empress laughs, a sound that makes Zayne's fingers pause on the bottle's neck. He hasn't heard that specific timbre directed at anyone but him in months of appointments and private lectures. He pours himself more wine—an uncharacteristic move for someone who measures the possibility of intoxication in micrograms.

"Your turn," Caleb says, gesturing with his glass. "Share something, General. Can't have you sitting there like an ice sculpture."

Zayne's gaze flicks between them. He is not a man who shares, but the Empress watches him with those eyes, and he finds himself speaking of his first shift, of leaving fruits on the window for spirits that never came. "There was a crash in the Southern Rings. We didn't rest." It's not a story, not really, but Caleb leans forward, intrigued by the glimpse of the man beneath the medals and valour.

"You believe in spirits?" Caleb asks.

"I believe in patterns," Zayne replies. "The patterns that lead to death. The patterns that can be broken."

The Empress reaches for a bowl of Nebulasia berries, her fingers brushing Zayne's as he moves to help. She holds his gaze—something she has never done in the council room, where he is merely her Grand General while she is the Crown itself—and selects a single berry.

Her thumb presses it to his lower lip. "Try," she says.

It is not a command; it is a test.

Zayne's mouth opens, his lips barely parting. The berry disappears, and his eyes never leave hers. Caleb watches this exchange, his own fork frozen mid-air. He sees the way Zayne's throat moves, the way his shoulders drop a fraction, the way his hand, scarred and steady, reaches for the edge of the table as if for balance despite sitting down.

Caleb's smile is slow, sharp. "So the ice does melt."

Zayne's expression doesn't change, but his knuckles whiten. "Certain temperatures are unavoidable."

The Empress leans back, her gaze moving between them. She is twenty-three—decades younger than either man at the table. Yet the power in the room is hers and hers alone, a gravity that has pulled these two opposites into her orbit.

Caleb, the brother who left and returned as conqueror.

Zayne, the teacher who would betray her to save her.

The dessert arrives: something frozen, meringue-thin, shattering at the touch of a spoon. Caleb feeds her again, but this time the Empress catches his wrist. "Your turn," she says, and he opens his mouth like a supplicant, letting her slide the spoon between his teeth.

His lips close over it, and his eyes—purple and endless—dare her to look away.

She doesn't.

Zayne watches the line of Caleb's throat as he swallows; he watches the way the her fingers linger on Caleb's wrist a moment too long. He should look away. Should make an excuse about dawn patrols or medical inventories. But his body betrays him, the same way it betrayed him when he first taught her to hold a weapon, her hands small and certain over his scarred ones.

"Another bottle," Caleb says, not asking.

Zayne uncorks it, but his gaze is on the curve of her mouth, on the way she licks crystallized sugar from her lower lip. He thinks of medical texts, of cardiovascular response to stimuli, of the way stress manifests in dilated pupils and increased respiration. His own breathing has gone shallow without his notice.

But Caleb notices, he notices everything.

"You're watching her like she's a diagnosis, General," Caleb says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the table.

"I'm watching her," Zayne replies, "like she's the only variable that matters."

She becomes still. Caleb's smile grows. The nebula outside pulses, casting violet shadows across Zayne's face, softening the hard lines of years of plotting and scheming. For a moment, he doesn't look like the Grand General who could order a planet's destruction. He looks like a man who has been alone in a tower for a century, watching jasmine flowers bloom and die while waiting for a memory to surface.

"Tell me," she says, her voice quiet enough that both men lean in, "when you planned your betrayal, did you account for this?" She gestures between the three of them, the triangle of power and desire that has garnered its own gravitational force.

Zayne's silence is answer enough.

Caleb laughs, a sound that is equal delight and warning. "Little sister, some things you can't plan for. You just survive them." He pours more wine, but his other hand finds her knee beneath the table, his palm warm and proprietary. She doesn't flinch. Instead, she reaches across with her other hand and places it on Zayne's forearm, where the scars are the worst.

Zayne looks down at her fingers on his skin. He has performed surgery in war zones, has held beating hearts in his hands and squeezed it dry without a blink.

None of them has ever felt as dangerous as this point of contact.

"The warp point," he says, trying to anchor them back to purpose. "Velytio's signature—"

"Can wait," she interrupts—less of an Empress and more of that petulant Princess that has been spoiled until she could no longer rot. "Can't it?"

Caleb's thumb strokes circles on her knee. "Everything can wait," he murmurs. "Except this."

They are three points of a constellation that should never have aligned. The brother who left, the teacher who stayed, the girl who became a monarch. And in the space between them, in the chamber where dynasty and doctrine dissolve into breath and wine, something is shifting.

Zayne covers her hand on his arm with his own. His skin is cold, always cold, but his touch is firm. "Your Majesty," he says, and for the first time, the title sounds like a prayer, a plea. "If you want to stop—"

"I don't," she says.

Caleb's grip tightens, just enough. "Then we don't."

The wine is gone. The food is forgotten. The warp point, the alliance, the empire—they are mere constructs that exist outside this room. In here, there is only the foundations of want, the central core of power in the entire Galaxy, and two men who have spent decades learning to control everything but this terrible, aching desire that has been festering in the bones of their ribs for as long as they can remember.

Zayne reaches for her face, his thumb brushing her jaw.

Caleb watches, his eyes dark with something that might be permission or challenge. The Grand General's touch is precise, mapping her features like a territory he's finally allowed to own. Meanwhile, the High Marshal's hand slides higher on her thigh, claiming what has always been his by a different right—the right of birth and blood.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Zayne whispers to her. "With dangerous men."

She smiles, a curve of lips that holds galaxies. "I am the game," she says. "And I am the prize. And I am a very willing player."

Caleb leans in, his mouth close to her ear but his gaze fixed on Zayne. "Then let's see how well you've learned the rules."

He kisses her neck, just below the jaw, where her pulse hammers against his lips. Zayne's eyes follow the movement with intensity that belies his usual frigid countenance. His hand on her face doesn't retreat. Instead, he leans in too, his forehead nearly touching hers, their breath mingling in the space Caleb has allowed them to create.

Three souls in a room built for twelve. Two decades between them and the woman they both serve and desire. One nebula watching, ancient and indifferent, as the warp point outside waits for permission to align.

She threads her fingers through Zayne's hair, pulling him closer; with her other hand, she tugs Caleb's face to hers—until all three of them are breathing the same air.

"Then show me," she commands. "What you've both been waiting decades to teach me."

Caleb’s mouth finds hers first; there is no hesitation, no ceremony, just the wet collision of wine-slick lips and the possessive slide of his tongue. Little sister, finally, fuck, finally. He groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against her teeth as he hauls her sideways onto his lap. Silk bunches up her thighs, and his belt buckle is a cold bite against her bare skin.

“Look at you,” he breathes, dragging his mouth to her ear, voice syrupy with decades of denied hunger out misplaced propriety and morality. “Sitting here all pretty, letting the Empire think you’re still theirs. But I know better, don’t I? I know what you want in the dark.”

His palms cup her tits through the thin tunic, thumbs flicking the already-pebbled peaks. The fabric snags, damp with wine and want. He circles the nipples slow, then cruel, pinching just hard enough to arch her spine. “These pretty babies missed me, hm? Swollen up nice and greedy. Bet you played with them at night thinking about your big brother’s mouth.” He nips her lobe, voice dropping to a rasp. “Tell me, little sister—how many times did you cum with my name on your tongue?”

Behind her, Zayne exhales—controlled, but the sound trembles at the end.

He abandons restraint in a single fluid motion; one knee settling on the chair beside Caleb’s, hand tilting her chin back so he can slot their mouths together. The kiss is sloppy—cool lips turning furnace-hot, tongue sliding in perfect counter-rhythm to Caleb’s rolling knead of her breasts.

She tastes like nebula-berries and empire-wine and every impossible choice I ever tried to protect her from. The thought cracks through him; he kisses her harder, swallowing her whimper until it finds a home inside his throat.

“Focus on me, Your Majesty,” Zayne murmurs when they part a fraction. His scarred fingers skate down her sternum, past Caleb’s busy hands, to slip beneath the hem pooling at her hips. Her garters are nothing but lace and suggestion, and he palms the warm plane of her lower belly, letting the heel of his hand grind just above her clit—close, but not close enough.

“You want lessons?” His hazel eyes blaze sea-storm green. “Here’s one: never let your generals guess the battlefield.” He presses down, fabric dragging slick across her folds. “Or else, they will map every inch, and take ownership of it.”

Caleb growls, jealous and possessive, and bucks upward so the iron ridge of his erection slides between her ass-cheeks. “She owns nothing tonight but me.” He yanks the tunic lower, freeing one breast fully—heavy, nipple already gleaming where his spit has cooled through the fabric when he was busy slobbering over her like a dog. He bends, laves a broad stripe, then seals his lips around it and sucks hard, cheeks hollowing.

The wet pop when he releases makes her jerk, and Zayne’s hand answers with a firmer rub, tracing the shape of her clit through soaked lace.

“Both of you,” she gasps, fingers grabbing a fistful of Caleb’s hair, the other hand clawing Zayne’s collar. “Stop … talking like I’m not here.”

Zayne answers by sliding two fingers under the lace panel, gathering evidence of her arousal in one slow glide—no penetration, just the glide of calloused skin along silken petals, spreading slick upward until her clit throbs against his pad. “You’re everywhere, sweetheart,” he whispers, reverent. “The birth of every star and dream starts and ends at you.” He circles once, twice, then retreats to paint her own essence across her lower lip before kissing it clean. Sharing her taste with her, open-mouthed and deliberate.

Caleb watches the exchange, pupils blown violet-dark. He abandons her breast with a last tongue-flick, rises enough to shove the table’s dessert plates aside—crystal goblets shatter, silver clatters on the ground. “I need more room for my little sister.” He lifts her, setting her ass on the cold gloss of the surface.

“Spread.”

And she does, knees falling open, tunic a useless puddle at her waist.

Candlelight licks across her exposed skin: nipples peaked, her cunt a slick swell under ruined lace. Caleb palms her inner thighs, pushing wider until the fabric tethers. His thumbs meet Zayne’s knuckles, and for a heartbeat, their hands overlap on her, sharing territory.

Enemies-by-alliance, allies-by-desire.

“Look how fucking wet,” Caleb croons, voice shaking. “Soaked straight through. Lace is useless, isn’t it? My little sister is dripping for her big brother and her traitor general.” He leans in, bites the tendon where thigh meets hip, sucks a bruise that will sit beneath tomorrow’s ceremonial belt. “You’re gonna wear this mark while you sign the treaty tomorrow. Think about that when you address the Federation envoys, hm?”

Zayne’s exhale fractures, and he slips his fingers lower, finally pressing two just inside her entrance, shallow enough to tease nerve-rich muscle but not breach.

“And when you sit on that throne,” he punctuates with a twist, “you’ll remember my hand prepared you. That every decree carries my fingerprints deep inside your cunt.” The words roughen, a confession torn from a man allergic to weakness.

She whimpers, tries to roll her hips onto his fingers, but Caleb cages her with an arm across her waist. “Uh-uh. Take what we give.” He slots their mouths again, messy and loud, tongue fucking her mouth the way he promises to fuck her later—slow, filthy, and utterly thorough. She tastes herself on him: salt-sweet, imperial-wine, Caleb, Zayne. When her moan climbs, he swallows it whole, then gifts it to Zayne by tipping her head sideways for the general to claim, a three-way kiss that leaves them all panting, strings of saliva glistening between breaks.

Zayne’s fingers never stop teasing, curling shallow, and retreating to paint circles on her clit, before dipping again. The rhythm is irregular, designed to keep her hovering. His thumb joins, pressing her lace-covered clit while his fingers pulse just inside—tight, wet, nowhere near enough.

“Shall I count heartbeats, sweet girl? One for every pulse in this sweet little pussy?” He taps her clit, and her answer is a sob.

Caleb chuckles dark into her ear. “Better idea. Let’s play Imperial Statues. You hold still while we wreck you with mouths and hands. Move before permission, and," he trails off so he can pinch her nipple hard, eliciting a yelp, “we stop.”

“Cruel,” she breathes.

Caleb grins, slides a hand up to squeeze both breasts together, thumbs flicking in alternating beats. “Crowns are forged in cruelty, little sister. Take it.”

Zayne adds a third finger, still maddeningly shallow, stretching just enough to make her clench around emptiness. “And remember,” he murmurs against her lips, “a true ruler never begs.”

Her thighs tremble; sweat beads between her breasts, gathering against Caleb’s fingers. The air smells of wine, crushed berries, and the thick cream of her arousal.

Every breath is a swallowed moan; every heartbeat is a plea that neither man answers.

The wet slap of lace tearing open sounds louder than the shattered crystal underfoot. Zayne’s gloved fingers hook beneath flimsy elastic and yank down, a controlled violence that makes her gasp like she’s been speared.

Fuck protocol, he thinks, and the lace falls in a useless puddle of thread and want. For a heartbeat he simply studies her: slick petals flushed dark rose, clit swollen and peeking from its hood, the tiny clench of her entrance fluttering around nothing. Anatomy I memorised in medical texts, living and pulsing and begging.

His mouth waters—an involuntary reflex he hasn’t felt since his first kill. He drags two fingers through the mess, gathers cream, and lifts it to his lips. Tastes. Salt, copper, nebulasia, empire. His eyes slam shut on a shudder.

Caleb watches, hips rocking reflexively against the table edge. “Share, General. She’s still my little sister first.” The words come out guttural, almost unrecognisable—politics burned away by raw want.

Zayne answers by leaning in, spreading her folds with trembling thumbs, and sliding one finger in—slow, knuckle by knuckle, watching her cunt bloom around him like petals unfurling. “Slow,” he warns. “She’ll take it slow until she forgets her own name.” A second finger joins, deliberate, curling upward to brush the velvet shelf of nerves that makes her most sensitive.

Her sob cracks the air; she bucks, but Caleb’s forearm across her hips pins her to obsidian.

“Stay still, little sister,” Caleb croons, mouth returning to her nipple, sucking in time with Zayne’s shallow thrusts—pull, curl, retreat; pull, curl, retreat. Every withdrawal leaves her walls fluttering on emptiness. Caleb’s free hand reaches, fingertips joining Zayne’s at her entrance, not pushing in, just circling, spreading slick upward to paint her clit in slow, sloppy figure-eights.

Their knuckles brush; electricity arcs up both men’s arms. Caleb’s pupils swallow violet irises until the colour can barely be seen.

Zayne meets his stare over the quivering plane of her belly.

A single nod—Imperial permission encoded in military economy. In a breath, they shift. Caleb grips behind her knee, jerks her ass to the very lip of the table; Zayne mirrors the other leg. Her thighs fall open obscenely wide, tendons stretched, cunt gaping and gleaming under the candlelight.

Both men sink to their knees at the same moment, shoulder-to-shoulder, cheek-to-cheek, the brother and the traitor sharing altar and offering.

“Look at that pretty hole,” Caleb groans, voice muffled as he dives first. Broad tongue swipes from perineum to clit, scooping cream, ending with a suctioned kiss to her swollen bud that makes her scream. He pulls back, strings of slick bridging lip to pussy, and grins sideways at Zayne. “Tastes like homecoming parades and dirty little secrets.”

Zayne doesn’t answer with words, he answers with his tongue tip circling her entrance, lapping the fluid that coats his own fingers still buried shallow. Each lap is slow, mapping rugae and fluttering muscle, memorising the taste of crown and galaxy.

When he slips his fingers free, Caleb’s mouth immediately replaces them, sucking her nectar from Zayne’s knuckles with obscene relish. Zayne growls, and plunges two fingers back in alongside Caleb’s tongue, stretching the rim until she sees stars.

“Fuck, your mouth is almost as greedy as hers,” Caleb pants, drawing back to watch Zayne’s tongue dip beside his own invasion. Their lips brush accidentally—in a smear of shared slick, wine, the taste of her cunt and sweat—and instead of recoiling they surge closer, kissing messily across her soaked folds, trading her arousal mouth-to-mouth while fingers work in tandem: Zayne scissoring slow, Caleb thrusting faster, a rhythm that leaves her sobbing syllables that aren’t words.

She tries to rock, but their combined forearms trap her. “Take it, darling,” Zayne rasps, lips shiny. “Take what we give.”

Caleb adds a third finger, stretching her until the burn borders on pain, then licking the stretched rim in soothing laps. “Both of us inside you, little sister. One cunt, two crowns. How does that feel?” He twists, knuckles grinding over spongy nerves; her answer is a high keen that ricochets off of the walls.

Zayne’s other hand cups her ass, tilts her pelvis higher, tongue fluttering against her clit like signal gone mad—fast, precise, relentless.

When he feels her walls begin to spasm, he stops, pulls back, breathes cool air across overheated flesh until the threatened orgasm ebbs. “Not yet,” he whispers, repeating the denial like a surgeon cauterising a bleed. “You come when we allow you to.”

Caleb laughs, wet and filthy, and licks a long stripe up Zayne’s jaw, gathering her essence there. “General’s got rules. I’ve got needs.” He thrusts harder, curling until her back arches off the table, breasts jouncing, nipples diamond-hard in the chilled air.

“Listen to her—music, isn’t it? Every wet little squelch is a fucking anthem.”

Their mouths meet again over her clit, kissing messily, tongues tangling around the swollen bud, sucking in turns until her cries devolve into breathless hiccups. Strings of saliva and syrupy arousal drip to the floor; the scent coats their lungs with every ragged inhale.

Zayne feels his own control fraying, he drags his mouth away, presses his drenched fingers to Caleb’s lips. “Taste what we’ve made of her.” Caleb sucks them clean, eyes rolling back, then returns the favour, feeding Zayne her nectar from his own tongue. They stay locked like that—two soldiers kissing before her cunt—while their remaining hands piston in merciless tandem, stretching her, filling her, denying her.

She breaks first—tears mixing with sweat, words fragmenting: please, gods, brother, zayne, please—until the chamber rings with nothing but wet sounds and imperial sobs.

They separate like blades sliding from a shared scabbard—same motion, same breath, same intent. Caleb’s arms haul her up before the last tremor leaves her thighs; her skin sticks to obsidian with a wet peel, tunic becoming nothing but a rag around her waist.

Carry her like conquest, he thinks, palms splayed under her ass, fingers already denting soft flesh that will wear their bruises tomorrow. She wraps legs around his waist on instinct, slick cunt kissing the rigid line beneath his uniform trousers, heat searing through fabric. “Feel that?” he growls, voice gravel-thick. “That’s your big brother’s cock you’ve been teasing since you crowned yourself. Time to pay the levy, little sister.”

Behind them, Zayne strips methodically—jacket first, rank pins clinking on marble, then the slow rasp of his fly. Each tooth of the zipper is a military countdown. His cock springs free, flushed, the crown already beaded with strategist’s patience. He steps in close, chest to Caleb’s back, and reaches around to yank Caleb’s belt open with casual precision. “Protocol demands shared jurisdiction,” he murmurs, lips brushing Caleb’s ear before moving behind her. “You take the throne room entrance, I’ll secure the rear supply line to follow you.”

A dark laugh vibrates against Caleb’s spine as Zayne fists them both—his own length and Caleb’s freed cock—pressing hot heads together until precum slicks them in glossy treaty ink.

“One cunt. Two signatures. No amendments.”

Caleb’s knees nearly buckle at the contact, her cream already coating them both. He hoists her higher, arms trembling not from weight but from the vision inches below: twin crowns nudging her swollen folds, splitting slick petals like curtains before the final act.

“Look down, little sister,” he coos, voice shredded. “See what your Empire’s reduced to? Two traitors ready to carve their terms inside your cunt.”

Zayne angles their combined girth, dragging their undersides along her slit, bumping over her clit until she sobs. “No more alliances brokered in ballrooms,” he tells her, every word a slow thrust that never breaches. “This room is the new treaty table. Your womb is the seal.” He shifts enough to paint Caleb’s crown with her arousal, then his own, mixing them until neither man knows whose pulse beats harder.

“Every envoy who kneels tomorrow will smell us on you and remember who owns the ink.”

Caleb shifts his grip, forearms under her thighs, spreading her so wide the stretch burns deliciously. “Ready?” he asks—of Zayne, not her, when she has already divested herself of choice in this matter the moment she spread her legs open for them. Zayne answers by pressing forward, forcing both heads to kiss her entrance simultaneously, stretching the rim until it gleams white around them.

They pause there, trembling, a living sigil of the Federation and the Empire merged at her gates. “Breathe,” Zayne orders, steady even as sweat drips off his jaw onto her shoulder. “Exhale sovereignty, inhale submission.”

She gulps air, tears streaking into her chin. Caleb leans in, teeth grazing her earlobe. “This is your coronation, little sister. No velvet cape, no jewelled sceptre—just two bastards splitting you open until your brain leaks out of your ear.” He lowers her a fraction; the crown of his cock pops in, furnace-hot walls clamping instantly. Zayne follows on the same inch, stretching her rim around their combined girth until her gasps turn to wails. They stop, embedded just past the heads, pulse to pulse, heartbeat to heartbeat.

Zayne’s hand slides to her nape, fingers threading sweat-damp hair, angling her head down so she must watch. “Memorise this sight. Your cunt swallowing two betrayers at once.” He flexes, grinding against Caleb’s underside, creating a ripple that shudders through all three bodies.

“Every council meeting, every war map, your mind will flash back to this moment—us pulsing inside you, unmoving, owning the battlefield without thrusting once.”

Caleb’s laughter cracks, manic. “And when you’re forced to marry some galaxy duke for trade routes, you’ll remember how we vetoed with a single inch of cock.” He shifts, knees locking in place, thighs tensed beneath her.

“Because after tonight, your body writes policy in our scent alone.”

They hold, suspended—twin invaders throbbing in concentric rings of muscle, stretching her so wide the rim burns white-hot around them. Precum and her slick mingle, dripping off of Zayne’s balls onto marble already splattered with shattered crystal and forgotten dinner. No one moves forward, no one retreats; they simply pulse, a living blockade denying her the friction she craves.

“Please, ” she starts, but Caleb captures the word with his mouth, swallows it, feeds it to Zayne who bites it in half against her lip.

“No consorts,” Zayne promises. “No political spouse. No neutral beds. Only this—us—holding the line at your gates until the stars forget how to shine.”

Caleb finally inches her lower, accepting another cruel fraction of shared invasion. “And when you sit on that throne tomorrow, you’ll sit sore on our signatures, every shift reminding you who signed the real treaty first.”

They bottom out at the ring of muscle again, a stretch so fierce her nails draw blood on Caleb’s shoulders.

Zayne’s free hand maps the sweat-slick column of her throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to feel her carotid hammer against the pad of his finger. “Breathe through the burn. This is governance by cock—hard, slow, merciless. You wanted an empire, little girl?” He flexes again, dragging another sob. “You just got two.”

Gravity forgets its laws.

With a grunt that sounds like two flags ripping from their masts, they surge—no more ceremony, no more treaty language, just the raw physics of the empire itself imploding. Caleb drops his hips and pistons upward, burying half their welded girth in one thrust; Zayne meets him from behind, sliding the other half deeper, a two-stroke engine forged in her pussy.

The sound it makes is obscene—wet velvet splitting around steel, her cry is a siren that rattles chandelier crystal already cracked by earlier collisions.

Stars don’t fall; they fuck straight through the floor.

“Hold,” Zayne snarls, though the order is already obsolete. His hands clamp her waist, thumbs digging dimples that will bruise like rank insignia. Caleb’s forearms cage her ribs, lifting and slamming her down in cadence, impaling her on their combined thickness again and again. Marble chips beneath Caleb’s boots, grinding to dust as he jackhammers, thighs corded, purple eyes rolled back until only star-slits show.

She tries to speak—more, stop, never stop—but words shred on the next thrust, becoming a sharp keen that vibrates straight through Zayne’s sternum. He answers by snapping his hips forward, cock dragging along Caleb’s underside, the dual friction so fierce their crowns glaze with precum and her cream frothing white around the seal.

“Feel that?” he pants against her ear, voice stripped to bare the man underneath. “That’s your proposals dissolving. That’s every treaty clause melting inside you.”

Caleb laughs like a man falling through atmosphere. “And when we flood you, it’ll be a goddamn supernova.” He angles, dragging his length across her anterior wall until the head of his dick nudges the spongy swell of nerves; Zayne counters, grinding the opposite ridge against her cervix, a combination of pleasure-pain that has her clawing blood channels down both men’s arms.

Her cunt convulses, not quite orgasm—she's been denied for too long—just the reflex of a body trying to fracture around impossible fullness.

They pick up speed in synchronized violence: withdraw until only the flared crowns kiss her rim, slam home until their balls slap wet skin in synchronicity. Somewhere, a candle gutters out in its own wax, the scent of scorched wick mixing with ozone and cunt and cum. Sweat rains off Zayne’s jaw onto her neck, trails down to pool in the hollow of her throat; Caleb licks it away, salt on salt, then bites her skin hard enough to leave half-moon royalty marks.

“Close,” Zayne growls, the word dragged out through clenched molars.

His spine locks, balls drawing tight, the ice of his control finally flaring to super-heat. Caleb feels it—the throb against his own shaft, two hearts hammering through a single conduit—and snarls back, “together.”

They bottom out one last time, pressed so deep their crowns kiss her cervix in a twin kiss.

For a heartbeat, the chamber holds breathless vacuum—no candle, no cry, just pulse. Then the explosion: twin ropes of cum jet in overlapping surges, hot enough to scald, thick enough to flood every furrow, every ridge, every secret chamber she never showed the court. The first jet triggers her own orgasm, walls clamping down, milking them in violent contractions, but they keep pumping, spurt after spurt, until their combined spend overflows the seal and cascades in milky rivulets over ass and balls and marble.

They stay inside, twitching, hearts slamming against rib cages in the aftermath.

Sweat steams off them in a halo; the only light left is the warp-point outside, flaring violet through shattered stained glass, casting the room in the bruised light of a nebula. When their cocks finally soften enough to slip free—an obscene, wet pop echoing—mixed spend gushes down her thighs in slow, heavy tracks.

Caleb lowers her gently, knowing that her limbs have lost all of their strength, and catches her easily when her knees buckle.

Zayne, still panting, swipes two fingers through the mess dripping down her slit, lifts it to her lips. She licks, dazed, eyes star-blown. Then he repeats the gesture for Caleb, painting the other man’s lower lip before kissing it clean—surrender has never tasted this good.

SAINT'S NOTES ! i did say i'll write about them, but the dates i wrote in this one confused even myself—history was never my strongest power, not even if it's fictional. something about them being older than her is just so yum, ugh, throne of eros should have committed to the bit and made them DILFs. on another note, i still stand by what i said with threesomes not making any sense if the guys don't even kiss—and that's why there's a three-way makeout session and caleb and zayne had a pussy makeout with each other, heh.

over the following weeks, lingyue is everywhere. at dinners, at the boys' lessons, in the gardens. always with that mournful expression, always mentioning mei.

mei loved chrysanthemums.

mei always wore jade.

lord sylus smiled more before mei died.

it's like living with a ghost made flesh.

but worse are the moments when you catch her watching you with something cold behind her eyes, there and gone so quickly you think you have imagined it.

you also notice how she tries to position herself with luke and kieran. 

telling them stories about their mother, yes, but always with herself at the center.

your mother and i used to do this. your mother would want me to teach you that. when your mother was gone, who took care of you? who stayed?

the boys are polite but distant with her. they don't pull away when she touches them, but they don't lean into her either.

one day you overhear her speaking to them in the garden. her voice is sweet, cajoling. 

you know i love you as if you were my own sons, don't you? if anything ever happened, i would take care of you. i would be here. always.

there's something in her tone that makes your skin crawl. 

luke's response is cool. 

we know, aunt lingyue. but nothing will happen. father is strong and we have our new mother now.

you see something flash across lingyue's face.

rage.

luke and kieran, meanwhile, are slowly becoming yours.

it starts small. 

they ask you to judge their archery competitions. 

you are fair, you do notlet them cheat, and actually teach them proper form.

they are surprised, most adults either let them win or dismiss them entirely.

then they start seeking you out for other things. 

to help with their studies. 

someone to practice strategy games with who actually challenges them. 

kieran brings you a book about military tactics and asks your opinion. 

luke shows you a sketch he made and waits nervously for your response.

you tell them stories about your own brothers.

the eldest who used to sneak you sweets. the second who taught you calligraphy and how to wield a dagger in secret. the third who was always climbing things he shouldn't. 

the twins listen with hungry attention, they have never had anyone speak to them like this. not as the emperor’s heirs, but as children who have lost important people in their lives too.

one afternoon, you find kieran crying in the garden. 

the anniversary of mei's death is approaching. you sit with him. you do not tell him not to cry, you just stay present. when he finally speaks, he says you remind him of her. 

not in looks or manner, but in the way you make him feel safe.

luke overhears. 

says quietly that their mother used to listen like you do. used to take them seriously. 

aunt lingyue is always sad, always talking about how much the have lost, but you talk about what they still have.

you realize with a start that you love these boys, fiercely. 

they may not be your flesh and blood, but they are slowly becoming your sons.  

lingyue notices. 

you catch her watching when luke holds your hand in the garden.

when kieran falls asleep against your shoulder during evening readings. 

her expression is unreadable, it continues to make your skin crawl.

on the other hand, you and sylus continue your careful dance.

he brings you to every council meeting now. 

his generals have stopped looking surprised at your presence or when you speak. 

you have proven yourself competent and insightful. 

you understand both empires, your fallen kingdom and his rising one, and you build bridges between them.

one night, working late over maps and census reports, sylus’ hand brushes yours reaching for the same document. you both freeze and he apologizes, you tell him not to. but he catches your wrist gently. his thumb rests against your pulse point.

he says he should let you go but does not release your wrist. 

you agree but don't pull away.

for a moment, you think he might kiss you. his gaze drops to your lips, and your breath catches, and the air between you pulls taut—

then lingyue appears in the doorway with tea. 

her eyes widen. she apologizes for interrupting. 

sylus releases your wrist like it burned him. 

the moment shatters.

he tells you it's late, that you should rest. 

you flee before he can see the tears burning your eyes.

three months later, you discover you're pregnant.

it happened during one of the nights that duty demands you to partake in your marital bed, both of you trying not to think too hard about what you were doing. 

but now there's a child. 

his child. 

growing inside you.

you are happy. 

maybe this will be a bridge. 

maybe this will make him see you as more than a political necessity. 

maybe he will finally see you as a real wife, not a hostage.

you confide in your maid, asking her to prepare special teas for pregnancy. 

you want to wait a bit longer before telling sylus, you want to be sure.

but then, everything begins to unravel.

it starts small.

mei's jewelry appears in your chambers. 

you do not know how it got there. 

you have never touched her things, but when sylus sees you with the jade bracelet, his face falls.

you try to explain that you found it on your dressing table, that you didn't take it, but lingyue appears with worried concern, suggesting perhaps you were curious, it's natural to want nice things after all.

sylus walks away before you can defend yourself further.

then there are the whispers. 

some servants mention seeing you in the west garden at odd hours. near mei's shrine. 

someone claims you were heard speaking ill of the late empress. 

it's all lies, but they pile up like stones, building a wall between you and any credibility.

lingyue begins visiting you more frequently during this time. 

always with that concerned expression, always bringing tea. 

special blends, she says. to help you stay calm during these difficult times, with all the stress of the growing tension with your former kingdom's loyalists.

you drink it, desperate for any comfort, any kindness in the isolation growing around you.

you don't notice how tired you become. 

how your body feels increasingly weak.

then documents start appearing with your seal. 

correspondence with remaining loyalists from your kingdom. letters suggesting rebellion, betrayal, plans to murder sylus and reclaim your throne. 

you have never seen them before. 

the handwriting looks like yours but it is not.

the seal must have been forged. 

but when the evidence is brought before the council, even you have to admit it looks damning.

sylus' voice is ice when he demands an explanation, his eyes harder than they were on the day he conquered your kingdom. 

you realize with dawning horror that he believes it. 

he actually believes you would betray him.

you insist you didn't write the letters, that someone is framing you. 

he demands to know who. 

who would have access to your seal? who could forge your hand so perfectly?

you don't have an answer. you don't know.

luke and kieran try to speak for you, but they are children. 

no one listens. 

one of the generals actually laughs, suggesting the princes are too young to understand politics, too attached to their new stepmother to see clearly.

worse, envoys from your former kingdom arrive. 

they have heard rumors that you have been living as sylus' whore. 

that you spread your legs for the conqueror to save yourself, not them. 

they are disgusted and ashamed. 

you lose all your hope and your own people won't speak in your defense.

you are confined to your chambers. guards posted outside the doors. 

you are cut off from everyone except lingyue, who visits with false concern, saying she tried to tell them you wouldn't do this, but the evidence seems so damning.

she brings you more tea. 

to help with the stress, she says. to keep your strength up.

you drink it. 

you are so alone, so desperate for any kindness, that you do not think hard about it.

you are alone. 

trapped. 

and pregnant with a child you can't tell anyone about because now it would look like a desperate ploy.

a month passes. 

a month of isolation, of morning sickness you hide, of watching your world crumble through the bars of your gilded cage.

there's a banquet but you are not invited, traitors do not attend court functions. but you hear about it later from whispered servant gossip. how lingyue appeared in stunning robes, how she sat near sylus, how she kept his wine cup filled.

three weeks later, lingyue announces she's pregnant.

you hear it from the servants first, the whisper spreading like wildfire through the palace. then sylus himself comes to your chambers, won't meet your eyes, tells you that needs to explain something.

he tells you about the banquet, he doesn't remember much of it. 

he tells you woke up the morning after and lingyue was there, on his bed, naked. 

it was wrong, dishonorable, but it happened, and now there are consequences.

she's pregnant.

she's claiming it’s nearly three weeks along, which would make the timing match the banquet, though you know enough about pregnancy to realize she should barely be showing symptoms yet.

but no one questions it. why would they? 

mei's beloved sister is carrying the emperor's child.

he's taking her as a concubine. he has to, the council demands it, her family demands it, the child deserves recognition. 

he is sorry.

but his apologies don’t fix anything. 

sorry doesn't change that he's giving her everything you desperately wanted, a child acknowledged and honored, while your own pregnancy, his legitimate child, conceived in your lawful marriage, withers as a secret and unspoken in your womb.

you can not tell him now.

it’s too late

he will think you are lying, that it's a ruse, so you stay silent and feel your heart turn to stone.

lingyue moves into honored quarters for concubines.

she's celebrated, fawned over, treated as the mother of sylus' child.

she continues to play the role of mei's devoted sister perfectly, sighing that mei would have wanted this, that she always said sylus deserved happiness. 

that it's poetic, really, mei's sister giving sylus another child, another heir that mei would have wanted him to have.

and then she begins her political maneuvering in earnest.

she influences the council with careful words and quiet suggestions. 

the empress' territories should be redistributed as punishment for her treason, shouldn't they?

her people cannot be trusted, they raised a woman who would betray her husband. perhaps a harsher hand is needed. perhaps steeper taxes. perhaps mandatory conscription to the army to prove their loyalty.

several council members agree. 

general zhao, who never trusted your kingdom's surrender.

minister feng, who lost his heir during the conquest of your kingdom, felled by one of your brothers. 

others who see opportunity in your downfall.

but there are also voices of caution. 

minister shen points out that the evidence, while damning, deserves thorough investigation. 

general wei notes that the you have proven yourself competent in ruling, would a woman plotting rebellion really work so diligently to improve the empire?

the council is divided.

some hedge their bets, waiting to see which way the wind blows.

but the loudest voices, zhao, feng, and their allies, begin calling for your formal divorce. 

not just confinement, complete dissolution of the marriage. 

you are a traitor, they argue. you have brought shame to the emperor. 

he should cast you aside and marry properly. 

someone worthy. someone like... 

well, if lingyue is already carrying his child...

the pressure builds. 

every council meeting, the same voices. 

divorce her. exile her. 

some even whisper, execute her.

sylus refuses. 

you are still his empress, he says sternly, still his wife. 

the evidence will be investigated fully before any permanent decisions are made.

but you can see the doubt in his eyes. the way he won't look at you during the few times he would visit your chambers and the way his jaw tightens when the council mentions divorce.

he's considering it.

your people face harsher treatment under the new policies. 

you watch your world crumble from your gilded cage, helpless to stop it.

the stress takes its toll. 

morning sickness you can't hide becomes weight loss you can't explain. 

you are exhausted, hollow, dying from the inside out.

lingyue's teas continue. 

she's so worried and so concerned. 

she brings them herself now that you are confined. 

special herbs to help you stay calm, to help you sleep, to ease your troubled mind.

you continue to drink them.

luke and kieran notice you are getting worse. 

they have been trying to visit you, but lingyue keeps them away.

it's not appropriate, she says sweetly, for the princes to visit a woman accused of treason.

but they are stubborn and clever. they sneak past guards, find the servant entrance to your chambers.

they appear one night, twin faces full of worry. 

they announce that you are sick, that they do not believe you betrayed their father, that those letters are lies.

kieran says he knows your handwriting. 

you have been teaching him calligraphy for months. 

those letters are not the same. the characters are similar but the brush pressure is different, the flow is wrong.

luke says he has overheard servants who had claimed to have seen you in the west garden at odd hours are the same servants who started receiving new jewelry around the same time. 

someone paid them. 

you break. 

finally, after months of holding yourself together, you allow yourself to break.

you tell them you are sick. 

that something feels wrong. 

you tell them about the whispers, the planted evidence, the too-perfect timing of everything.

you tell them you suspect someone is framing you, though you have no proof.

you don't mention the pregnancy. you haven't told anyone, not even your maid.

It's still too early, too precious, too terrifying to speak aloud when everything else is crumbling around you. when you still don’t know who is framing you.

but you tell them you are frightened. that you feel trapped. 

that you don't know who to trust anymore except them.

they listen with identical expressions of fury.

kieran says they will help. 

they will find proof.

luke's voice is cold, colder than you've ever heard from a ten-year-old, when he says they do not believe you are a traitor. they know you. 

they will prove your innocence.

they promise to find the truth. for you. for justice.

but the next morning, before they can begin investigating properly, you wake in a pool of blood.

the baby is gone.

you lose your child alone in the dark, with only a frightened maid to help you. 

the girl is loyal, at least. she doesn't run for the guards or the physicians. 

she brings you sheets, holds your hand, cries with you.

the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional devastation. 

you have truly lost everything.

your family, your kingdom, sylus's trust, and now your baby. 

the one thing that was purely yours and his, the one hope you had of a bridge between you.

gone.

you didn't even get to tell anyone. 

not even sylus. 

the baby is just gone.

you make the maid swear never to tell anyone. not the guards. not the physicians. not even the emperor.

no one can know. 

they will think you are lying, making it up for sympathy. or worse, they'll use it as added evidence that you are unfit to continue being the empress, that your womb is barren and weak.

the maid promises through her tears. 

she'll burn the bloodied sheets, she'll say nothing.

your secret will die with the child who never got to live.

when lingyue visits the next day, her expression of concern is obscene.

she mentions hearing about your unfortunate health troubles. 

how the servants noticed you were unwell last night. 

how she hopes you're recovering.

she brings you the same tea. 

says it will help with the pain, help you rest. 

you stare at the cup.

something feels wrong.

you can not explain it nor can you put it into words. 

but there's something about the way lingyue is looking at you. 

something about how insistent she's been these past weeks that you drink the tea she brings. 

how she always watches to make sure you finish it. 

how she always takes the cup away with her when she leaves.

you remember the taste. 

slightly bitter beneath the honey and herbs. 

how you have felt increasingly weak, increasingly tired after you started drinking it. 

after she started giving it to you.

you do not know anything for certain. 

you have no proof. 

but your instincts, the same instincts that helped you survive the fall of your kingdom, that helped you navigate sylus' court, are screaming at you.

don't drink it.

you tell her you are not thirsty. that your stomach can't handle anything right now.

lingyue's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers in her eyes. 

she sets the cup down beside you. you should try, she says gently. it will help you heal.

when you still don't reach for it, she sighs softly. 

as you wish. rest well.

she leaves, taking the cup with her.

you stare at the door long after she's gone, heart pounding.

you don't know what's in that tea. you don't know if your suspicions are real or if the stress and grief are making you paranoid.

but you're not drinking it again.

not ever.

two months pass.

two months of slow recovery. two months of continued isolation. 

two months of hearing lingyue grow more confident, more secure in her position as the emperor's favored concubine carrying his heir.

two months of luke and kieran sneaking to your chambers, bringing you small comforts, whispering that they are still investigating, that they are doing their best to prove your innocence.

two months of lingyue bringing you tea you never drink, her eyes growing colder each time you refuse.

then lingyue also loses her baby.

you hear the wailing from your chambers. 

servants rushing, physicians called. the whole palace in uproar.

she claims she lost the baby, and this time, she blames you.

she sobs to the court that you sent her poisoned sweets. 

that despite being confined, you somehow managed to smuggle poison to her chambers. that you were so consumed with jealousy and hatred that you murdered her innocent child.

you are brought to the council chambers immediately, confused about the accusations that lingyue has thrown.

general zhao demands your immediate execution. 

minister feng calls for torture to extract a confession. 

the voices from the faction that opposes your continued existence as the empress despite your supposed treason, grow louder and more vicious.

but sylus, for the first time since this nightmare began, hesitates.

he looks at you. 

truly looks at you. sees how thin you have become, how you have lost your color, how utterly broken. sees the guards posted at your door, the isolation, the complete lack of resources.

his voice cuts through the chaos. 

how? he asks. how could she have done this?

the council falls silent.

how could a woman confined to her chambers, with no visitors except lingyue herself and a handful of loyal servants, with no allies, no resources, no freedom, how could she possibly smuggle poison to the concubine's quarters?

general zhao sputters. 

she has loyalists, she must have—

sylus's gaze is ice. 

he asks him to name one. 

name a single person who has access to both the empress's chambers and the noble consort's quarters. 

name one servant who could have carried poison without being searched by the guards he personally stationed.

silence.

minister feng tries. perhaps youhad poison hidden from before—

sylus cuts him off. 

the empress has been confined for months. her chambers have been searched three times. every gift, every item, every scrap of fabric examined. where exactly would she hide poison? and how would she get it to lingyue without any contact?

the logic is inescapable.

minister shen speaks up from the cautious faction. 

he suggests investigating lingyue’s claims as thoroughly as they have investigated the empress's alleged treason.

murmurs of agreement from some council members. not all, zhao and feng's faction still push for your punishment, but it is enough to make sylus pause.

you watch something shift in sylus's expression. 

doubt. 

not doubt in your guilt for the original treason charges, the forged letters still seem real. 

but doubt that you could have done this. 

doubt that lingyue's convenient miscarriage is what it appears to be.

it's not exoneration. 

not yet. 

but it's the first crack in lingyue's perfect facade.

lingyue sees it too. 

you watch panic flash across her face before she buries it in tears, claiming the trauma has confused her, perhaps she was mistaken about the sweets, perhaps it was just the stress of being a concubine.

she's elevated to noble consort anyway, a compensation for her loss, protection from future harm. 

but sylus's eyes linger on her with something new.

suspicion.

the trap is still set. 

lingyue still has her rank, her position, the council's support, though not unanimous anymore. sylus is still bound to her politically. 

you are still the disgraced empress who allegedly committed treason.

but the seeds of doubt have been planted.

and luke and kieran are still investigating.

while you recover from the miscarriage, body healing even as your spirit remains shattered, luke and kieran work in the shadows.

they are ten years old and brilliant and determined and furious.

they whisper one night that they have found something. 

inconsistencies in lingyue's stories. 

dates that do not match. 

servants who remember her in places she claimed not to be.

she was in the kitchen months before their mother died. the head cook remembers because she was asking about herbs, specific herbs, wanting to know their properties. medicinal uses. toxic doses. 

the cook thought it strange but lingyue said she wanted to understand what the physicians were giving mei.

your blood runs cold. 

they think lingyue killed their mother. and now she's trying to take her place, and yours.

it's almost too horrible to believe. 

but it makes terrible sense. 

mei died suddenly of mysterious illness. 

lingyue insisting to continue staying after, a worried sister caring for her sister’s family, her children, her husband.

she's been here ever since, weaving herself into the fabric of sylus's household, waiting for her chance.

you tell them you need proof. real proof. their father and the council would not believe suspicions. 

they nod with grim determination, promising to find it.

the proof comes from an unexpected source.

one of the palace physicians, an old man who served under mei, comes forward. 

he's been troubled for years by mei's death. 

the symptoms didn't quite fit natural illness, but he had no proof. 

sudden deaths are not uncommon but these things happen.

until lingyue made a mistake.

she came to him, claiming pregnancy symptoms. morning sickness, fatigue, tender breasts. but her descriptions were wrong. slightly off. a woman who had never been pregnant, trying to fake the experience based on things she had heard or read.

when lingyue is elevated as a concubine, the physician lurks in the shadows, he observes, time had passed but her belly was still flat, her face had not changed, no other physical symptom that would prove the pregnancy's existence.

when he suggested an examination to ensure the baby's health, she became flustered, said it was too early, she would call for him if there is anything to report.

she never did. 

then the miscarriage happened and she confined herself to her chambers after the incident at court, she refused to see palace physicians and let them tend to her, to examine her.

this pushes him to investigate further, loyal to sylus’ house, the family who had sponsored his education, the family whom he served since his apprenticeship. 

he starts with quiet inquiries. old records.

he found the herbalist who had sold lingyue some herbs, the man had fled the capital years ago but the physician tracked him down, paid him for the truth.

he found the midwife lingyue bribed to provide evidence of pregnancy, who claim she'd examined lingyue and confirmed that she was with child.

he found the servants who'd been paid to plant evidence in your chambers, to spread rumors, to lie about seeing you in places you'd never been.

and then, going through the records of your confinement, he found something else.

servants noting you'd been unwell one night.

bloodied sheets that were quickly burned. 

a maid who'd been given extra coin, he'd assumed for silence about some minor embarrassment.

but when he questioned the maid privately, she'd broken down.

you had been pregnant, she says sobbing, you had lost the child, the emperor's heir, while being imprisoned in your chambers. you had made her swear never to tell anyone. 

the physician's hands shake as he compiles his final report.

the empress had been carrying the emperor's child. and she had lost it, almost certainly due to the stress of false accusations combine but there must be something else as well, he needs to know more.

but he brings his initial findings to luke and kieran first, knowing the princes have the emperor's ear even if you no longer don't. 

believing that a father might dismiss an old physician but would never dismiss his own sons.

the boys read the report about your miscarriage and go absolutely still.

their father had lost another child, their sibling, their little brother or sister. 

they lost another member of their family, this time someone they never had the chance to meet.

you had lost a baby alone in the dark, believing yourself disgraced, unable to even speak its existence aloud.

they bring everything to sylus.

you watch it unfold from your chambers. 

hear the shouting, the running footsteps. 

watch lingyue dragged from her rooms by guards, screaming about how she loved sylus, how she deserved to be his wife, how you were never good enough.

sylus' voice carries through the palace, cold with a rage you have never ever heard before. 

he is demanding answers. 

he is demanding the truth.

lingyue is brought before the full court with every noble, every general, every servant who spread her lies.

your maid, the same one who burned the sheets who kept your secret, helps you out of your chambers to witness what's happening.

sylus makes her confess. 

publicly and in excruciating detail.

the physician testifies first, his voice heavy with old guilt.

mei's death looked sudden.

one day she seemed well, the next she was burning with fever and convulsing. 

dead within two days.

but it wasn't sudden at all.

he'd been reviewing his old notes, records he kept of mei's health over the years. 

the fatigue mei complained about in her final months. the occasional fevers. the unexplained weakness. he'd attributed it to stress, sylus was planning major military campaigns, preparing to conquer new territories. the palace was tense, busy. of course the empress was tired.

he was wrong.

lingyue had been poisoning mei for at least six months before her death. small doses, carefully calculated. building up in her system. weakening her gradually.

the timing was deliberate.

sylus was planning his conquests. 

preparing to expand his empire. he would need an empress by his side, a strong one, a healthy one, one who could manage the palace while he was at war, who could bear more children to secure the succession.

lingyue saw her opportunity.

mei was tired from raising twins, managing a kingdom about to go to war. 

if she seemed weak, seemed unable to handle the pressure...

if she died at just the right moment... 

sylus would need to remarry, quickly. 

maybe someone close to the family.

he already has his heirs, he has freedom to choose his second wife.

 maybe someone who already knew the children, knew the household.

someone like his late wife's devoted sister.

the physician's hands shake. 

mei likely didn't even realize she was sick. just thought she was tired. overworked. getting older. 

the final dose, administered the night before mei's sudden illness, was massive. 

it triggered the acute symptoms everyone witnessed. the fever, the rapid decline.

it looked sudden because the final attack was sudden. 

but mei had been dying slowly for months.

he should have seen it. should have tested for toxins and poisons. 

but who would suspect anything? 

the court is silent, horrified.

sylus’ face is carved from stone, but you see his hands clench. 

he had thought mei died of natural illness. 

swift, tragic, but natural.

in truth, she was murdered. 

slowly. 

by someone she trusted, by someone she loved.

by her own sister.

but the physician continues. 

there's more, he says.

they found lingyue's private journals when they searched her chambers. 

plans. strategies. written in her own hand.

if luke and kieran could not be molded to love her as a mother, if they remained loyal to mei's memory, if they rejected her, she would arrange accidents. 

tragic accidents. 

children fall from horses. children eat poisoned sweets meant for someone else. 

children disappear during hunting trips.

then her own child, the one she planned to have with sylus, would become the sole heir.

the court erupts in horrified shouting.

luke and kieran sit frozen, faces pale. 

they are ten years old and just learned their aunt planned to murder them.

sylus' hands are shaking with barely controlled rage. 

not only did lingyue kill his wife, she also planned to kill his sons.

you feel sick. 

you had saved them without knowing. 

by becoming their stepmother, by winning their love, 

you had made them too visible, too beloved. 

lingyue could not touch them without suspicion falling on her.

so she had tried to destroy you instead.

the herbalist testifies next. 

tells how lingyue came to him years ago, asking about poisons. slow-acting ones that mimic natural illness. he had sold her what she wanted, he needed the money, did not ask questions. did not suspect anything.

the midwife admits she was paid to lie about examining lingyue, to confirm a pregnancy that never existed.

the servants confess to planting mei's jewelry in your chambers, to spreading rumors, to claiming they saw you near the shrine at odd hours. 

they beg for mercy, saying lingyue paid them, threatened them, they were afraid, they are only servants and easily disposable.

then the physician presents his final piece of evidence.

the report about your own miscarriage. 

the court goes utterly silent as he reads it aloud.

the empress had been pregnant. approximately two months along when the accusations began. she lost the babe during her confinement. the maid who attended her was sworn to secrecy, the empress believed no one would believe her. she was afraid.

every eye in the court turns to you.

you feel exposed. violated. your most private grief now public knowledge.

sylus doesn't look at you.

he can't look at you. 

his hands are white-knuckled on the armrests of his throne.

the physician's voice is heavy when he concludes. 

based on his investigation, the miscarriage was caused by a combination of extreme stress of the accusations, of the confinement, and the poison lingyue had been secretly administering through the teas she brought you.

the same poison she used on empress mei, but in smaller, more measured doses.

the court explodes into chaos.

lingyue is forced to confess the rest. 

everything.

she admits she forged the letters.

bribed the servants. 

planted mei's jewelry.

spread rumors through your former kingdom. 

she admits drugged sylus at the banquet, there was no child, could never be a child because sylus did not touch her, did not dishonor her, nothing happened between them that night and she faked it all.

and why did she cause your miscarriage instead of stealing your baby as she had originally planned?

the court goes silent, waiting.

lingyue's voice is bitter. 

because sylus would not exile you despite everything she did.

because he would not cast you aside even when most of the council is pressuring him to.

because he refuses to dissolve your marriage. 

you were still there, still visible, still technically empress. 

she could not steal a baby from a woman who was confined but not gone. 

there are too many potential witnesses, too many ears, too much risk.

so she made sure you lost it. 

the teas she brought you, gentle poisons, enough to weaken you, to make your body unable to sustain a pregnancy under the stress she was orchestrating.

she made sure your baby died.

and then she staged her own loss, blame it on you to gain more power, a higher position, protection. 

If she became noble consort, she would be untouchable, and sylus would be forced to share her bed as the laws dictate. 

her plan was perfect, with that rank and the council's support, sylus could never set her aside. and with you branded as a traitor and unfit mother, then he could never risk another child with you. 

the council would never allow it.

she had won or thought she had.

until luke and kieran brought proof of her crimes.

the court sits in stunned silence.

minister shen, emboldened by the confessions, demands to know. 

why? why would mei's own sister do such monstrous things?

lingyue's mask finally shatters completely.

she screams that she saw sylus first. 

she loved him first. 

she was fifteen and sylus was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen, strong, dangerous, beautiful. 

she attended a border negotiation with her father, and there he was.

she fell completely.

but when marriage discussions began two years later, sylus only had eyes for mei. 

mei, the legitimate daughter. 

mei with her grace and beauty and proper birth. 

mei who could be a real empress, not the bastard half-sister born to a concubine.

lingyue was never even considered. 

not for marriage. not for anything. 

just the illegitimate daughter, useful for nothing.

and mei knew, she claims.

mei knew lingyue loved sylus, and she took him anyway. 

flaunted her happiness. bore his children. became his empress. 

mei took everything while lingyue watched from the shadows, the eternal bastard sister.

so when sylus was preparing his conquests, when mei was tired and stressed and vulnerable, lingyue saw her chance. 

if mei couldn't handle being empress during wartime, if mei died when sylus needed someone strong...

the legitimate daughter had her turn. 

it was time for the bastard to take what should have been hers from the beginning.

the court is stunned into silence.

this wasn't about devotion to a dead sister. 

it was about jealousy, obsession, and a bastard's rage at being overlooked her entire life.

sylus looks like he's been struck. 

he never knew. 

never knew lingyue had been in love with him. 

never knew she harbored such hatred for her own sister.

you understand something in that moment. 

lingyue did not love sylus. she loved the idea of what he represented.

the legitimacy, power, being chosen over mei for once in her life. 

she wanted to take mei's place not out of love, but out of spite.

and she had been willing to murder everyone in her path to do it.

then lingyue's eyes find yours across the throne room.

her voice turns vicious, hysterical.

and you. 

you were just another obstacle. another woman who would get what lingyue was owed. 

it’s so much worse that you are a princess, the sole surviving royal blood from your kingdom that sylus had conquered.

it's so much worse that you are of marriageable age. 

so perfect, so noble, quickly winning over his sons, earning his respect in council.

 she had to destroy you before you became what mei was. 

beloved, secure, and untouchable.

she said that she should have just killed you outright. that she should have used stronger poison in that tea. that she should have slit your throat in your sleep instead of being patient, being careful.

and she should have killed mei’s precious sons too when she had the chance.

her eyes are wild, manic. she didn't expect this. didn't expect her downfall to come from children. 

ten-year-old boys who were supposed to love her, accept her, see her as their new mother.

instead they moved behind the shadows, they investigated. they found proof. they destroyed everything.

for you.

if she'd killed sylus's sons when they were smaller, easier targets, there would be no heirs left to challenge her own children. 

no one to question her story. no one clever enough to find the evidence. no one brave enough to do this for you.

her voice rises to a shriek. 

you ungrateful little beasts! i raised you! i cared for you after your mother died! after i killed her! and this is how you repay me?

guards have to restrain her as she lunges toward the boys.

luke's face is pale but his voice is steady. 

you killed our mother. you tried to kill our new mother. you planned to kill us. why would we ever love you?

kieran adds quietly. 

you were never our aunt. you were just a murderer wearing her face.

lingyue screams. 

a sound of pure rage and frustration and defeat.

she should have killed them, she continues to scream, should have killed all of you. should have burned the whole palace down rather than let sylus be happy with anyone but her.

the court continues to watch in horrified silence as she completely unravels.

this is a woman consumed by jealousy, entitlement, and obsessive rage. 

a woman who murdered her own sister, framed an innocent empress, planned to murder children, poisoned an unborn baby, and would have destroyed anyone who stood between her and what she believed she was owed.

sylus' face is stone. but his hands shake where they rest on his sons' shoulders protectively. 

you see the exact moment he understands the full truth of what almost happened. 

his wife, his real wife, his empress, nearly executed for crimes she didn't commit. 

his sons nearly murdered in their beds. his unborn child poisoned before it ever had a chance to live. 

his empire nearly handed to a madwoman who saw people as nothing but obstacles or tools.

all because he believed lies. 

because he trusted the wrong person. 

because he failed to see what was right in front of him.

sylus does not execute her quickly and does not grant her the mercy of a swift death.

first, he has her paraded through the capital in chains. 

every street, every market, every corner where she spread lies about you. 

heralds announce her crimes. treason. murder. fraud. attempted murder of the empress. conspiracy to murder the imperial heirs. poisoning the unborn heir.

the people throw garbage. rotting vegetables. stones. worse things.

lingyue screams the whole way. 

screams about how she deserved to be empress. how mei stole what was hers. 

how you are nothing but a conquered whore. 

how sylus' sons should have died with their mother.

by the time they drag her back to the palace, her voice is hoarse, her face bruised from thrown rocks, her fine robes filthy and torn.

then he strips her mother’s family of their titles. her aunts, uncles, and cousins who had helped in her schemes, who also wants her to be elevated, who also wants a fraction of power that she had wanted to gain.

he confiscates their lands. 

exiles them to the furthest borders of the empire, where they will live in disgrace for the rest of their lives.

for lingyue herself, he orders a public execution.

but first, the full trial. three days of evidence, testimony, witnesses. 

every detail laid bare.

on the third day, sentence is passed.

death by the same poison she used on mei and you.

not the slow accumulation mei suffered, lingyue doesn't deserve that much time. 

but the final dose. 

the killing dose. 

the one that burns and destroys in hours instead of months.

she's given it in wine, before the full court.

death takes six hours. 

fever first, climbing until she's delirious. then convulsions. difficulty breathing. her heart failing in stages.

the imperial physician monitors it all, documenting symptoms. 

this is medicine too, understanding how the poison killed, so it can never be used again. 

so physicians will recognize it if they ever see these symptoms again.

you attend the trial but leave before the execution begins. 

you have seen enough of her.

luke and kieran stay, not to watch her die, but to witness justice for their mother. 

they are old enough to understand. old enough to need this closure. 

sylus stays with them.

when it's over, lingyue's body is buried without honors in an unmarked ground outside the city walls. not in the family tombs. not anywhere sacred.

just dirt and shame.

her name is struck from all records except the criminal annals, where her crimes are preserved as warning.

you feel nothing but a hollow sense of finality.

mei can finally rest.

and maybe, finally, so can you.

⚜ LADs Masterlist | AO3

⚜ a/n: first of all, thank you so much for all the support for part one. i am so nervous about this. i think i mentioned in one of my fics that i am a huge game of thrones fan and i also enjoy historical dramas (there's a lot of got references i have added and lingyue and mei are also partially inspired by shin and lihua from the apothecary diaries). i love the schemes, court politics, and drama a lot that i may have went all out and added too much for this. i hope it is not too dark.

if i missed a tag for the cw, please please let me know!

Please let me know what you think and yes, there's going to be part three.

thank you once again for all your support and i hope you enjoyed reading. T_T

⚜ tag list: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world, @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @lazypostfandomer, @cutelilygarden, @inzanekillian, @kingraspberry12-blog, @txtworlddom, @aranarum, @mermaid-crystal69, @bloomingbirdiez, @wondermilka, @peachmartini, @suhsun4, @valiantchaosvalkyrie, @vellihor, @zop8zop, @emneedshelp, @haydeesgarden

tag list is open, please dm, comment, or send ask

atsushi looked at him blankly for a moment before saying, "well, I thought you liked them??" the boy waited eagerly for a response, staring at him, but dazai gave nothing. just a sigh as he turned his attention to his coffee.

"well, maybe you're just friends, and I'm making assumptions, but I don't think people talk about their friends the way you talk about them." atsushi spats, pouting and entirely done with dazai's bull shit.

this grabs dazai's attention. he grins and looks up at atsushi. "would you look at that. we might make a detective out of you yet."

atsushi smiles and lets out a sigh. he's not completely satisfied with the response, but he also has no patience left to push him further.

now that atsushi has given up, dazai decides he has no reason to defend his barely kept secrets. "let's say I did feel a lot for y/n. wouldn't something from me, on valentines day, just seem like a joke to them?" he's smiling at atsushi, but his tone is somber. he genuinely feels like he has no options, atsushi realizes.

when valentines day does roll around, dazai comes in to work fashionably late as he does every morning. he's lightly scolded by kunikida, just like every morning. kunikida starts telling dazai about a job the president wants them to take, but dazai isn't listening. since he strolled in, everything was a blur.

from the outside, dazai looked apathetic and unamused as always. but you saw his eyes change when he saw the envelope on his desk with his full name handwritten.

"Osamu Dazai"

everyone else had to wonder who it was from, but dazai was analytical, he knew your handwriting. he'd sat with you, distracting you from finishing paperwork at least a hundred times.

he takes a seat at his desk across from you, still calm and collected, ignoring kunikida. he opens the envelope and is immediately overcome by a wave of scent. your signature scent. just in case he hadn't caught your handwriting.

it's a handwritten letter, nothing special, just lined paper written on with a scratchy, cheap, ballpoint pen. the same kinds of pens you loved because they were, "reliable, professional but not too pretentious, and you wouldn't be upset if you lost them because they come in packs of 20."

kunikida had stopped his scolding by this point, and atsushi had noticed the handwritten letter, darting his eyes up at you, who seemed to be stealing glances at dazai.

atsushi, now thinking of himself as a wingman, suddenly stands up, grabbing you and kinukida's attention. "h-hey, mr. kunikida! do you think you could help me with the printer?!?" he practically blurts out. "smooth," dazai thinks.

"the printer?" kunikida starts, looking at atsushi confused. "i've already shown you multiple times, and you've done it on your own before, I think you can handle a printer atsu-"

"p-please help me, sir!" atsushi begs, stiffly. kunikida groans and stands up. pushing in his chair, he says, "fine, but this is the last time I'm doing this." atsushi follows kunikida to the printers, very proud of himself, and you try to hold in your chuckles.

pretending to go back to work, you remain aware of dazai as he scans your every stroke on the lined paper.

"Dazai,

I know you don't care much for holidays, so this probably seems silly to you. However, after much teasing from Ranpo and Yosano, I've decided there are a few things I want to tell you.

Simply put, I really enjoy spending time with you. You can be cryptic as hell, but it only makes it all the more satisfying when I put the pieces together.

You've made me look forward to the long nights in the office, finishing up paperwork. It's when you're tired, and you drop just enough of your façade for me to get a glimpse of who you are.

You are thoughtful and intelligent. I really like that about you."

you didn't sign the letter, he notes. not that you needed to, he would know who it's from.

dazai re-folds the paper and fans himself with it, enjoying the fragrance you left on it, wafting it towards his face. he looks directly at you, no side glances, just looks at you.

by this point, you've turned beat red, embarrassed and regretting every word you wrote. your head is turned down, staring intently at the piece of paper on your desk, as if it is going to help you get out of this situation you put yourself in. but dazai is a very impatient man.

"y/n?" he says with a smug tone as he shifts his gaze to the envelope and folds the paper back inside.

"dazai?" you respond nonchalantly. you keep staring at the paper, pretending to read it, but he sees right through you. it takes one look at you for him to conclude that you just wont budge.

"i think i'm simply too tired to work right now," he begins, putting the envelope in his coat jacket, which you don't miss. "care to join me for some morning coffee downstairs?"

you look up at him, still blushing, "actually, maybe you could use some tea? i hear it's good for calming your nerves." he adds with a wide smirk. you hear chuckles from being you, no doubt belonging to ranpo and yosano. was that kenji you heard as well?

"fine! fine!" you say, jolting out of your seat and pushing your chair in frantically. "but you're paying," you add, trying to hold onto any bit of dignity you can.

when you turn around to head to the door, you see practically the whole agency staring back at you with starry eyes and big smiles. all you can do is plant your face in your palms and walk towards the door. dazai swiftly strides in front of you to open the door, and you speed-walk through it, hearing them all burst out into a mix of "aww," "i knew it!" and "I told you so."

i get carried away with daz, what can i say (˃ᆺ˂✿)

masterlist

His brand of triumph happened to come with a tiny human being when it came to you. Genetically spliced from your and his template. which meant there was about an even chance she'd turn out like either of you. From the bottom of your heart and for the greater good, you hoped your daughter would take more after you.

Yet, the reality was seldom giving and merciful. It was sooner or later that both of you had to show up at the principal's office for something your daughter had done. All because she took too much after her father. You always hated these formal meetings. Long, drawn-out conversations which could’ve conceded with a text message.

All of it was pretentious and tedious down the core. The only thing you could take from these events was an occasion to dress up. And if there was anything you could say about Jonggun during these occasions, it was that he made everything look nice. Even while the two of you sat in front of the principal’s desk, awaiting for further development.

You sighed audibly, hoping it would transmit your displeasure to Jonggun. He didn't even dignify you with a glance of acknowledgement. The gall.

"I cannot believe she'd actually get us called to the principal office," you decided to voice your grievance out loud. "This is your fault for teaching her how to fight this young."

"She's eight, that's old enough," Jonggun shrugged, "I'm surprised we didn't get called earlier."

"Didn't mean you should egg her on to deal with everything using violence either," you sniped, "that's the problem with you men, you think every problem is a nail you can use a fist to hammer down."

In spite of the open airing of your grievance, he continued to remain nonchalant. "It can be if you're strong enough," Jonggun replied matter-of-factly.

You couldn't stand him. Not without great effort. "Listen here—"

"Mr and Mrs Park," the principal arrived in time to diffuse your rising anger. Immediately, your previous aggression vanished and got replaced with a pleasant smile, far too theatrical for your own good.

No need to antagonize the woman, but you didn't sit well with misinformation. "Not Mrs park," you corrected her demurely, "we're not married."

"Hmph, of course," the woman snorted, much to your aggravation. "that explained why your daughter behaved the way she did."

"Excuse me?" You were appalled by her apparent slight but kept your smile on, all the while shooting a glance back at Jonggun to confirm if he heard what she said.

He did.

"it's obvious that Ms Hwayoung's outlandish behaviour, committing violence against her classmate, talking back to her teacher, all stemmed from her parents' negligence." the principal droned on, uncaring for the brimming rage surfacing in your eyes. "If you had disciplined your daughter better instead of spoiling her with unnecessary material goods, she'd have learned better to behave in public instead of acting like she's above everyone."

Jonggun, on another hand, continued to hold his composure. In fact, he even went on ahead and pulled out his cigarette from inside his jacket and lit it the moment the principal finished talking, undeterred by her look of horror.

Finally, he breathed out a long, undiluted cloud of smoke. "She's eight," Jonggun said, "couldn't you at least figure out the context of her actions before wasting our time by calling us up here?"

The principal opened her mouth to talk again, insulted by his openly flippant attitude. Just then, you noticed. the strain of prominent vein on his neck. He was mad mad. It was for the best that you let him handle this unless you wanted another altercation.

"From what I heard from my daughter, the teacher had violated our family's privacy by talking disrespectfully about her mother in front of the whole class," Jonggun continued, "as for the fight, it stemmed from the bullying led by her classmates for the personal business of our family which was disclosed by the teacher."

Your eyes widened when you looked at him. Hwayoung had not told you anything about this. How did you not know? "She didn't tell me anything," you gaped, "why didn't she tell me?"

"Because they used very colourful terms to describe you," Jonggun inhaled another smoke, "she didn't want to upset you by letting you know about it."

That made you a little teary-eyed. in spite of the current circumstance, that was.

While you clutched your heart in admiration of how great your own parenting went, Jonggun fixed his attention back to the principal, his smile was insidious. "As we are speaking, my lawyers are already working on the case on the count of defamation," he said, "I'm only here today to talk about her pending transfer. Let's make this easy and painless unless you wanted our case to have even more evidence against you."

"Ah, I did so well with Hwayoung," you sniffed a little, wiping away an imaginary tear, "I will have to buy her that plush toy she wanted later."

"We'll do it after we're done here," Jonggun turned his eyes to you for once, "I surmised that the necessary paperwork won't take long?"

That was a question aimed at the principal. Newly recovered from her shock, she only managed to mutter a few unintelligible words before a full sentence was formed. "Y-Yes, let me retrieve her records."

"Go on then," Jonggun nodded towards her as the woman scurried out of the office again, whatever conversation that was meant to have got cut short. his eyes met with yours. "Still think it's my fault?"

"Meh, you get a pass this time." You waved him away, elated by the newfound information. "We should take her to Lotte World after this."

"Mhm."