The next meeting in the war room happened two days later. Not the council meeting, where the negotiation plans were supposed to be finalized—but the war room. Maps were strewn across the long table, reports of troop movements marked on the paper like a direct challenge to Elliott's decision from the last meeting.

Elliott stood at the head of the table, the last traces of warmth—of which even a flicker had lingered during the previous meeting—now completely frozen over.

Aiden stood rigidly by the window, jaw set, his gaze fixed on the fading sunset. The Grand Admiral lingered by the door, his expression one of reluctant compliance. As much as he didn't want to be part of this, his loyalty still lay with the crown.

A messenger had just delivered the news. Aiden's forces—moved without Elliott's knowledge—were already at the border.

Finally, Elliott spoke. "You moved the troops."

Aiden didn't flinch. He didn't meet Elliott's gaze either. "Someone had to."

Elliott's thinly maintained composure cracked. "I gave an order."

Still, Aiden didn't meet his eyes. But his expression burned with a righteous fury, laced with helplessness. "I gave our people a shield. You can hate me for it later."

Elliott glared at him, but didn't reply. Instead, he turned to the Grand Admiral. "You. Did you know of it?"

The Grand Admiral stepped forward, bracing himself. He tried to explain. "Your Majesty, the enemy's scouts were already—"

"Did. You. Know. Of. It." Elliott repeated, enunciating each word. "Answer the question."

"...I had my suspicions."

"Which means you did," Elliott said with a hollow laugh. "Of course. It seems I was the only one unaware. Why should my opinion matter? I'm just the frail emperor. What do I know? I've never fought a war."

No one had a response.

Elliott's gaze returned to Aiden, who finally looked up to meet it. His voice was quiet. "...That's not it. You know that."

Elliott's composure snapped entirely. His voice rang with cold fury. "Kneel."

Silence fell. This wasn't Elliott speaking. This was the Emperor of Vellurian issuing a direct command.

Aiden stared at him, the words registering slowly, incomprehensibly.

he Grand Admiral paled.

Elliott repeated, louder. "You disobeyed a direct order. Kneel. Now. That is an order, Crown Prince."

Aiden's face twisted—hurt, betrayal, and guilt all flickering across it. He dropped to one knee, head bowed. His fingers dug into his thigh. He didn't seem to notice. But Elliott did. And he flinched—though the coldness on his face masked it.

Immediate regret flooded Elliott's heart. His throat tightened.

He couldn't do this. Not to Aiden. Never to Aiden.

But he had to. The admiral and generals were watching. He could already hear the whispers that would follow.

So he forced sternness into his tone.

"You disobeyed a direct order. That is treason. You are confined to your quarters, and the 5th and 7th regiments, previously under your autonomous control, will be recalled. Your command over them is suspended until further notice. If you defy me again—" He couldn't finish. His throat seized up.

Aiden looked up, eyes glimmering with worry—and defiance. "What, Father? You'll disinherit me? Banish me?"

Elliott flinched openly this time. Father. 

Aiden had never said it like that before. Not spat like a curse.

Elliott turned away. "...Get out."

Aiden stood up and left without another word. He didn't look back.

The Grand Admiral spoke up, hesitantly, as Elliott sank into a silken chair.

"Sire... he is loyal. To you. Just... not your peace. He's young. Impassioned."

Elliott covered his face with one hand, too exhausted to maintain even appearances. "He hates me."

Anyone present would have disagreed. But no one spoke.

The Grand Admiral's voice was quiet. "...No. He fears for you."

Whether Elliott heard him or not was unclear. If he did, he chose not to respond.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The air was heavy with the scent of roses and unresolved tension.

It was evening. The usual time for tea.

For three days following the troop dispute, neither of them had shown up.

Today, however, Elliott did. And—coincidentally, or perhaps not—so did Aiden.

Elliott had 'accidentally' mentioned during council that he'd be having evening tea today.

Aiden had been present. Coincidentally.

The glass table was set as per the emperor's orders, nestled beneath a cascading roof of blooming deep red roses, their petals drifting down like confetti. Twining rose vines curled around the legs of wrought iron chairs. Honey cakes were laid out on the table in gold-rimmed china—like bait set out for luring something wild. Or something sacred.

When Aiden walked in, he paused. 

He knew this was Elliott's doing—even if the man wasn't here yet.

He sat down anyway. Took a cake. Bit into it.

A figure stepped into the garden.

Clad in a muted sage-green linen undertunic—soft, much like his demeanor. The sleeves were slightly rumpled, a testament to Elliott's dislike for stiff formalwear. The collar hung loose, revealing a faint glimpse of collarbone—much to Aiden's distraction.

The over robe was velvet, an almost blue-black shade. Silver embroidery traced across it like constellations in the night sky. The sash was tied loosely but securely—keeping the outfit in place, yet allowing the Emperor space to breathe and move.

Aiden resisted the urge to get up and straighten it.

Elliott spoke, his tone deceptively casual. "I heard the cooks finally perfected the citrus glaze you like."

Aiden bit into the cake, deadpanning, "Almost. Needs more ginger."

A beat of silence.

Elliott exhaled in quiet relief. He's talking, at least. He replied, "I'll tell them."

Aiden nodded wordlessly, gaze

fixed on the tea. His reflection stared back at him in the dark brown surface.

It was clear—not all was well.