"Their Highnesses, Prince Tristan and Prince Lucien, are entering!" the herald announced their arrival.
The doors swung open to reveal the imperial dining hall. A long marble table stood at the center, with an array of sumptuous dishes. The Emperor sat at its head, the Empress to his right. Servants stood silently along the walls.
Though the aroma of food hung invitingly in the air, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. Clearly, their relationship had yet to mend.
They halted before the table and bowed respectfully. Tristan stepped forward and said, "Your Majesties, thank you for having us."
The Emperor gave a slight nod. "Have a seat."
They complied, moving to their assigned seats. The maids and butlers hastily stepped in to assist.
"I heard you insisted on resuming your training tomorrow." Cyrus's crimson eyes lingered on Lucien. "What's with the rush? You can take another week to recover."
Lucien shook his head. "No, Your Majesty. I believe it's time to reacquaint myself with my responsibilities."
Despite all the red flags surrounding him, he was grateful to have transmigrated before the story started. At the very least, it gave him time to grow stronger.
The story began when Tristan returned to Solairé as a war hero after wiping out the last remnants of Zerounix. With Duke Godfrey currently stationed at the sea border, war was only a matter of time. Slacking off wasn't an option.
"Still, do not push yourself too hard. You've recently recovered. Your health is just as important as your responsibilities." Cyrus reminded.
On the surface, it seemed as though he truly cared for Lucien. Yet the lingering bitterness over how his assassination attempt had been dismissed as a mere bandit attack cast doubt on the sincerity of his words.
Suppressing his thoughts, Lucien nodded. "Thank you for your concern, Your Majesty. I'll be mindful."
The sharp sound of the doors swinging open diverted their attention to the entrance. One of the Emperor's escort knights strode in, his expression tense. He halted before the Emperor, bowed, and presented a letter.
"Your Majesty, a message from Duke Godfrey."
Cyrus took the letter and broke the seal. His expression darkened as he scanned its contents. Setting the letter down on the table, he turned toward Sanchez and ordered.
"Sanchez, we will return to the capital by tomorrow morning. Please prepare accordingly."
Sanchez bowed respectfully, "As you wish, Your Majesty."
"Has something happened at the border?" Tristan inquired, confusion etched on both his and Roseanne's faces.
Cyrus inclined his head. "Yes. Duke Godfrey reports that Zerounix has deployed their galleons along the sea border, though there's been no official declaration of war on their part."
"Could they be trying to provoke us into striking first?" Lucien chimed in.
The war… It's sooner than I expected.
Cyrus nodded, "It's possible. This show of aggression may be a calculated move to test our resolve or gauge our defenses."
Tristan added, "If that's their intention, we must tread carefully. A hasty response on our part could be seen as provocation, which gives them an excuse to escalate further."
Cyrus leaned back slightly, his demeanor turning grave. "Both of you make valid points. Restraint is crucial, but we cannot appear indecisive. We'll continue this discussion once we return to the Palace—"
"Ahem!" Roseanne cleared her throat, cutting the Emperor off.
All eyes turned to the Empress, who wore a delicate smile tinged with amusement. Cyrus hastily picked up his cutlery, panic flashing across his features as he straightened his posture.
"L-let us begin the luncheon," the Emperor announced with forced composure, gesturing toward the meal before them.
The tension lingered but was momentarily masked by the clinking of cutlery as everyone focused on their meal. Nevertheless, Lucien could hardly taste a thing; his thoughts swirled.
'Is there a way to stop the war from unfolding?'
In the novel, Tristan was sent to war. If that happened again, Lucien would likely be sent too. And the battlefield would be the perfect place for Duke Vazquez's men to kill him and blame the enemy.
Joining Tristan on the battlefield was out of the question. But refusing wasn't simple either. The Vazquez faction would seize the chance to mock him—or worse, turn it into another attack.
The clinking of glassware snapped him from his thoughts. He turned to see a maid placing a plate of thinly sliced beef beside his own.
She bowed respectfully. "Her Majesty sent this, Your Highness."
Lifting his gaze across the table, he met Roseanne's cerulean eyes. She offered him a gentle smile. "You'll need your strength if you're starting your training tomorrow."
Even though he spent so much time with her, the guilt in his chest never seemed to cease—if anything, it only grew stronger.
Forcing out a smile, he responded. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, my dear son," she replied, her smile unwavering.
"Her Majesty is right; you'll need your strength," Tristan joined in beside him.
Lucien glanced sideways and found him placing a prawn on his plate. Locking eyes with him, Tristan smiled and gently ruffled his hair. "Good luck with your training."
Before he could respond, Cyrus's voice pulled his attention. "I wish you good luck, my son." The man reached over and placed a slice of steak on his plate.
Lucien looked down at his plate, now laden with food. His grip on the cutlery tightened as guilt surged through him, clawing at his heart and strangling his throat.
Lifting his gaze to the smiling faces before him, he forced out the barely audible words: "Thank you."
Each time they showed him affection, it felt like a thousand sins were pressing down on him—it was suffocating. No matter how kind their gestures, no matter how sincere they were, they weren't his family.
He wasn't Lucien.
And that was why he didn't deserve their love or their warmth.