By late afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving the garden washed clean and shining under a pale, cold sun. The manor was quiet again, Windstone’s idea of "quiet" involving a dozen people working silently so Lucas could, as the butler phrased it, "pretend to rest while inevitably overworking."
Lucas had indeed moved to his office, a sanctuary of polished oak, soft lamplight, and a faint scent of paper and ink. A blanket was draped over his shoulders, and an unreasonably large stack of folders sat open across the desk. The only sign that he was, at least technically, human was the half-empty tin of dry biscuits beside his hand.
He took another bite of one, grimacing. They were flavorless, dusty things, the sort that might’ve been baked before the invention of joy, but they were the only food the baby didn’t object to. Yet.
"This," he muttered to the room, "is my punishment for ambition."
Windstone appeared in the doorway, holding a fresh file. "For survival, Your Grace. Punishment implies choice."
Lucas arched an eyebrow. "You disapprove of my snack?"
"I disapprove of its texture," Windstone said, setting the folder down with steady care. "It’s offensively bland. Even the dog refuses them."
"We don’t have a dog."
Lucas smirked faintly, brushing a crumb off his lap. "What’s this?" Fınd the newest release on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✦𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖✦𝙣𝙚𝙩
"The final draft of the partnership contract for the Sahan trade expansion. His Majesty, King Dax, has signed. You only need to review the Fitzgeralt clause before I forward it to the treasury."
Lucas nodded, flipping through the first few pages. The words blurred faintly; he blinked a few times until they came back into focus. The baby apparently didn’t appreciate bureaucracy.
Windstone noticed, of course. "Shall I fetch tea?"
Lucas waved him off. "No. If I drink anything else warm, I’ll dissolve."
Windstone hesitated, his usual precision softening into something that might almost be concern. "Then I’ll fetch water. And a different brand of biscuits. There’s a bakery in the city that specializes in items with actual flavor."
Lucas smiled faintly. "You’re trying to save me."
Windstone inclined his head. "I’m trying to preserve morale, Your Grace."
He left the room just as Lucas’s phone buzzed against the desk. The screen lit up with a name that made him freeze mid-bite.
Lucas swallowed the dry biscuit as if it were poison and hit "accept."
"Your Majesty," he said smoothly, his voice all polished grace.
Caelan’s deep voice came through the line, amused and warm in that unnervingly regal way. "Lucas. I hope I’m not interrupting."
"Not at all," Lucas lied effortlessly. "Just reviewing trade contracts and eating food that tastes like regret."
That earned a soft laugh. "I see Trevor’s taking good care of you."
Lucas smiled despite himself. "He’s trying. He and Windstone have turned the manor into a fortress."
"I heard," Caelan said, still faintly amused. "And I’m calling to congratulate you both. The Council ratified Cressida’s decision this morning. Trevor’s officially Marquis Fitzgeralt now."
Lucas blinked. "Already? That was fast."
"Cressida doesn’t waste time," Caelan replied. "She made it quite clear you were both ready for the responsibility."
Lucas leaned back in his chair, smiling. "She probably wanted the paperwork off her desk."
"Probably," Caelan said dryly. Then, after a pause, "So, how does it feel? Grand Duchess and now married to a Marquis... it’s quite a climb in one lifetime."
Lucas glanced down at the stale biscuits, the scattered contracts, and the soft blanket sliding down one shoulder. "Honestly? A little dizzy."
Caelan chuckled. "Understandable."
"I mean," Lucas added, half without thinking, "I’m already throwing up enough without all the promotion anxiety."
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
Caelan’s voice dropped an octave, slow and measured. "You’re what?"
Lucas froze, eyes widening. "I... uh... metaphorically. You know. Paperwork nausea. Economic digestion."
Caelan didn’t buy it for a second. "Lucas."
Lucas winced, rubbing his temple. "It wasn’t a secret on purpose. We were just... waiting."
Another pause. Then, to his surprise, the Emperor’s voice softened. "Waiting until you were sure?"
Lucas nodded before realizing Caelan couldn’t see him. "Something like that."
Lucas hesitated, then sighed. "Two months. Maybe a little more. We only told Serathine, Cressida, and... well, Dax. Because he’d find out anyway."
Caelan made a small, startled sound, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Dax knew before I did?"
"He has frightening intuition," Lucas muttered. "Or spies. Possibly both."
There was another moment of quiet, the kind that wasn’t heavy but carried warmth across the line. When Caelan spoke again, his tone had changed, less ruler, more father. "I’m proud of you."
Lucas blinked, caught off guard. "For getting sick every morning?"
"For building a life," Caelan said simply. "You deserve it. Both of you."
The words settled over him like sunlight, unexpected, unneeded, but welcome all the same. Lucas leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly despite the nausea still coiled under his ribs. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
"Caelan," the Emperor corrected gently. "And Lucas?"
"Try to eat something that wasn’t baked before the revolution."
Lucas laughed softly. "I’ll try. No promises."
"Good enough," Caelan said. "And tell Trevor I expect him to visit soon, Marquis or not, he still owes me dinner."
"I’ll pass the message," Lucas said, his tone dry. "But I’m not guaranteeing compliance."
The call ended with a low chuckle from Caelan, and the phone fell silent again.
For a long moment, Lucas just sat there, staring at the blinking screen, feeling a strange, tender warmth bloom behind his ribs.
When Windstone returned, balancing a new tray, he found Lucas still smiling faintly.
"Good news, Your Grace?"
Lucas looked up. "The Emperor knows."
Windstone blinked, almost but not quite smiling. "Then the empire is about to get very protective."
Lucas sighed, reaching for another biscuit. "Wonderful. Just what I needed."
Windstone set down the tray with the calm of a man who’d survived nobility before. "I’ll make extra tea."
Lucas hummed in agreement, chewing the bland biscuit like a soldier facing his fate.
Outside, the clouds parted enough to let in a line of pale sunlight, falling over the paperwork, the tea, and Lucas himself, Grand Duchess of Fitzgeralt, conqueror of empires and stale biscuits alike.