Chapter 88: War in the Throne Room, Mischief in the Halls

Chapter 88: War in the Throne Room, Mischief in the Halls [Cassius’s POV] Irritating. Utterly, mind-numbingly irritating. My daughter had just returned, and I hadn’t even had a proper moment with her. I had cleared my schedule for the day. No audiences, no decrees, no damned nobles breathing near me. Just time with Lavinia. And yet, here I was—dragged into the throne room. I sat on my throne, eyes cold, expression colder. My gaze swept over the Thalein, and two other elves who followed him called themselves my daughter’s elder brothers. Ravick stood in front, posture rigid. I didn’t even bother to hide the disdain in my tone. "Speak." Ravick stepped forward, his silver hair catching the morning light. "Your Majesty... there has been a distress call from the outer villages of the Nivale Kingdom," he began, his voice measured. "Our scouts responded. After an investigation, they uncovered something... deeply unsettling." My brow twitched. "Unsettling?" I echoed dryly. Ravick’s jaw tightened. "Elven children," he said grimly. "Taken. Smuggled out of their homes and sold like livestock on the black market." The words echoed through the throne room like a death sentence. Theon and Regis were shocked. But I didn’t flinch. I felt no surprise—just a disgust so deep it simmered under my skin like venom. "Unforgivable," I said, my voice as cold as the northern peaks. Then I turned my gaze toward Thalein. "But what does this have to do with the Kingdom of Elorian?" I asked icily. "Your people have more knights and clerics than you have children. You—yourself—are a famed healer. What could you possibly want from us?" Before Thalein could speak, the green-haired one stepped forward. Soren. The green-haired man who claimed to be Lavinia’s elder brother. Soren stepped forward and unrolled a cloth in his hand. "Because we found this," he said. My eyes narrowed the moment the metal gleamed in the light. My vision sharpened. Focused. The crest. A rose, encircled by thorns, etched in fine silver—aged, stained, but unmistakable. It wasn’t the Imperial crest. It was worse. It was the crest of one of our noble houses. The House of Varellon. My fingers curled around the armrest, hard enough to leave dents in the gilded finish. "You’re telling me," I said slowly, dangerously, "that someone from my empire is behind this?" Soren nodded once, his jaw set. "Yes, Your Majesty. Not just involved—organizing. Funding. Profiting." Ravick added, "I’ve reviewed the investigation myself. There are ledgers with names. Seals. Contracts with our language. Our parchment. This was no accident." The throne creaked as I leaned forward, eyes cold as the void. "Then it’s treason." No one spoke. That was when Regis stepped forward from my right. He looked pale beneath his usual sternness. "This is no light matter, Cassius," he said grimly. "If this spreads... if it reaches the Nivale court..." I turned my head slightly toward him, the corners of my mouth twitching. "I’m aware. Which is why I’m thinking carefully... before I start removing heads." The Nivale Kingdom was proud and protective of their kin—especially the elves. If they believed the Empire was trafficking elven children, they wouldn’t wait for apologies. They would retaliate. And the first person caught in that storm wouldn’t be me. It would be Lavinia. Even if she only had a quarter elven blood, the world would see it. Smell it. Use it. The nobles would whisper. The people would question her right to stand by my side. And when fear turns to rage... even blood ties might not save her. I took a deep breath, then opened my eyes—razor-sharp now, no trace of weariness left. "This information," I said slowly, each word enunciated with lethal weight, "who else knows?" "No one outside this room," Soren replied instantly. "We didn’t even inform our king. We came straight to you." Good. Smart. I stood from my throne, the golden trim of my robe catching the light like fire. I descended the dais with slow, echoing steps. Each thud of my boots was a warning. "Regis. You will assemble a discreet investigation unit. Use my shadow hounds if needed. I want every name—every rat involved in this." He nodded. "Alright." "Soren." I turned to the green-haired elf. "You said she called you her brother." "She did," he said cautiously. "Then you know this as well as I do." I looked him dead in the eye. "If this explodes into war, Lavinia will bleed before any of us. So if you claim even a shred of affection for her, you’ll help me crush this rot—quietly, thoroughly, and without mercy." Soren nodded—silent, grim, resolute. Then I took the crest from his hand. Cold metal. Etched lies. My fingers closed around it, slow and deliberate... until silver groaned beneath my grip and snapped. "Treason," I said again, my voice a low snarl—quiet enough to freeze the marrow. "Under my roof." I turned to Regis, my tone razor-sharp. "Throw every member of House Varellon into the dungeon. No warnings. No excuses. I’ll drag the truth out of their mouths myself." Regis gave a nod. "Yes, Your Majesty." Then Ravick spoke, his voice steady despite the storm thickening in the room. "Shall we mobilize a unit to search for the missing children, Your Majesty?" I didn’t hesitate. "Yes. Leave no trail unchecked, no den of filth unturned. I want every child found—alive. And as for the monsters who did this..." I looked up, gaze like a blade drawn. "Erase them. Every last one. Burn their names from the records. Make them ghosts before the sun sets." Ravick nodded once—then turned on his heel, swift as a blade drawn for war. Standing in the echoing throne room, fragments of the crushed crest in my palm, and a storm building in my chest. They dared to stain my reign with filth. They thought I wouldn’t see through their rot. Fools. They still haven’t learned what it means to defy me. *** [Lavinia’s Pov] Sigh... As I grow older, one thing has become painfully clear: Nanny and Marella take far too long picking my dresses. The debates over ribbon color alone could last through a siege. And now look at me—late. I stomped down the hallway with all the righteous fury of a wronged princess. "All that effort, and now I’m going to be late to see Papa," I grumbled to myself. "The dress isn’t even that different from the last one." I’m five years old, and I’ve already lived through a lifetime of stress. Behind me, Marshi toddled along like the faithful little Divine Beast he was. The throne room doors were just up ahead when— "Lavi!" I blinked and turned. And there he was. Osric. Standing in the hallway like he’d just stepped off the pages of a fairy tale. Tousled hair that probably defied combs. Freshly polished boots. He postured like he owned the very air around him. He raised a hand in a lazy wave, his lips curling into a warm, disarming grin. "Long time no see," he said, his voice smooth as honeyed tea. I stared at him. For a solid five seconds. Maybe six. "...Osric. It’s been two days." He shrugged, that grin deepening like he knew exactly what he was doing. "It still felt long." And bam—there it was. That smile. That gentle, devastating smile that looked like it could negotiate peace treaties or get him free cinnamon rolls from any bakery in the empire. Dangerous. Charming. Infuriating. Now that I was really looking at him... something terrifying clicked. Osric was growing handsome. I mean, suspiciously handsome-for-a-twelve-year-old kind of handsome. Just a couple of months ago, he had that squishy baby-face energy—the kind that made you want to poke his cheeks and hand him a cookie. But now? That chubby softness was retreating, replaced by faint shadows of cheekbones and a jawline that whispered, "I’m going to ruin lives someday, politely." His eyes carried that quiet, future grand duke confidence. His whole presence felt... heavier. Like he was leveling up in real time. He had a main character aura. I squinted. Wait a second... Is this because he’s the future male lead?! I knew it! Plot armor. Destiny. Puberty with extra sparkle. It was starting—the transformation into a walking, talking romantic novel cover. He was becoming that guy. The kind of guy who made empire ladies giggle behind fans. The kind who made uptight duchesses mutter, "He’s quite promising..." The kind who’d soon have noble families lining up daughters like appetizers at a royal banquet. "Excuse me, my lady tripped—please catch her~" "Oh, how coincidental—my daughter also enjoys fencing, sunsets, and having no personality!" I could already see it happening. The sparkle. The soft music. The camera angle. The trail of broken hearts. But not me, I thought grimly. I may be the villainess of this story, but I will not be another rose in his reverse harem bouquet. Osric tilted his head at me, still smiling like a cherub with perfect manners. "You okay?" I gave him my best regal nod. "Perfectly fine. Just... reevaluating my life choices." He blinked. "At five years old?" "You’d be surprised."