Chapter 489: A Suspicious Little Mention

The sunroom on the eastern wing of the upper palace was bathed in soft, warm afternoon light. Tall glass archways opened out into a quiet courtyard garden where white roses clung to stone trellises, filling the air with a faint, sweet scent.

Inside, a small round table held a light meal, roasted poultry, buttered vegetables, and fresh white bread alongside chilled fruit juice.

Alderon sat at the center, looking far lighter than he had during the heavy council meeting earlier that morning. To his right sat Yerel, his coat unbuttoned slightly at the collar, looking completely at ease. Sitting directly across from Yerel was Philia, his light hair catching the sun as he quietly picked at the roasted poultry on his plate, taking small bites between sips of juice.

"I must admit, this is my favorite time of the day," Alderon said softly, setting his linen napkin onto his lap with a small, contented sigh. "A rare hour where I do not have to listen to old lords complain about taxes or border patrols. Just a quiet meal with my sons."

Philia looked up, offering the King a warm, gentle smile. "It is a lovely afternoon, Your Majesty. The palace kitchen always prepares the meal so wonderfully."

"You are eating too little, as usual, Philia," Yerel interjected, setting his fork down with a quiet clink against the china. His eyes rested squarely on Philia, holding a subtle, searching warmth that made the air in the room feel just a fraction heavier. Yerel turned toward his father. "Father, did Philia tell you? He was feeling rather unwell this morning."

Alderon stopped mid-bite, his eyebrows knitting together in sudden, sharp concern. He looked directly at Philia. "Unwell? You said nothing about this during our tea earlier, Philia. What is wrong?"

Philia felt a small, cold ripple run along his spine beneath his high-collared coat, right where the bandages pressed tightly against his ribcage. His expression, however, remained entirely calm and unbothered. He let out a light, quiet laugh, waving his hand reassuringly.

"Please, Your Majesty, do not let His Highness worry you," Philia said gently, his tone completely smooth. "It was merely a slight morning fatigue. I felt a bit dizzy when I first woke, but after walking in the garden air, I felt much better. Laying in bed all day would only make me feel truly sick."

"Fatigue or not, you should not brush it off," Alderon insisted, his voice laced with genuine paternal worry as he leaned forward over the table. "You have always been rather delicate, Philia. I shall have the royal physician come to your quarters this evening to run a proper examination and prepare a restorative tonic."

Philia’s heart beat a fraction faster, though his serene smile didn’t slip for a single second. The last thing he could afford was a royal physician unwrapping his shirt and discovering the fresh, bandaged injury hidden on his chest.

"You are far too kind, Sire, but I truly assure you it is unnecessary," Philia replied hastily, keeping his voice soft and deeply appreciative. "It would be a waste of the royal physician’s time and energy over a simple spell of tiredness. I have already rested, and I feel completely fine now."

Yerel let out a quiet, amused hum, leaning his elbow against the table and resting his chin in his hand as he looked at Philia with a sly, affectionate smirk.

"If you won’t listen to my nagging, Philia, at least listen to His Majesty’s orders," Yerel teased smoothly, his dark eyes sparkling with a playful, possessive light. "You have a habit of being far too quiet about your own discomfort. I worry about you."

"I am listening," Philia murmured, offering Yerel a mild, graceful look that masked the tension lingering beneath his skin. "I simply do not wish to cause a stir over nothing."

Alderon chuckled softly, his tension melting away as he watched the two of them interact. "Very well. But if you feel even a moment of dizziness tonight, Philia, you must promise to inform the royal physician immediately. I will not have my future son-in-law falling ill under this roof."

"I promise, Your Majesty," Philia said softly, taking a polite sip of his cold juice to give his hands something to do.

The three of them continued eating in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the soft clink of silverware against porcelain filling the sunroom. The King seemed completely at ease, clearly enjoying the rare chance to simply sit and have a quiet meal with his family.

Yerel wiped his mouth with a napkin, setting it down neatly before breaking the silence once more. His tone shifted, dropping slightly into a more serious, businesslike register.

"Father," Yerel began casually, "while we have a moment, I received a dispatch from the southern border watch an hour ago. It seems like..."

"Yerel," King Alderon interrupted, his tone instantly dry as he cut his son off without looking up from his plate. He raised a hand, giving his son a warning look. "We are having lunch. We agreed no state affairs at this table."

Yerel held up his hands in half-hearted surrender, a polite, harmless smile returning to his face. "My apologies, Father. I merely thought it was worth mentioning before the evening reports."

"The evening reports can wait until the evening," Alderon grunted, though there was no real anger in his voice. "Let us enjoy our meal in peace."

"Of course," Yerel replied smoothly, picking up his glass.

Across the table, Philia lowered his teacup slowly, his light eyes fixed quietly on Yerel. On the surface, Yerel looked completely unbothered by his father’s mild scolding, casually taking a sip of his drink with complete composure.

Yet, Philia’s mind raced behind his calm facade.

The southern border? Philia thought silently, his pulse taking a sharp, quiet jump beneath his ribs.

Yerel was never careless with his words. He didn’t bring up political conflicts by accident, especially not in front of the King during a private meal. As far as Philia knew, the Southern territory had always been peaceful, with no major incidents to draw attention.

Philia kept his eyes on his plate, his fingers going still around the fork. He wondered what could have happened in the south.