Chapter 28: The Impromptu Rescue

The Roscaire carriage rolled into Werestia’s main market quarter, its wheels clattering over the cobblestones. The moment they entered the Grand Avenue, the noise hit them like the entire city had collectively decided that speaking at a normal volume was a criminal offense.

The capital was alive from one end of the street to the other. Merchants competed to attract customers with increasingly desperate cries, stray dogs treated the crowded roads like their personal playgrounds, and the street-sweepers looked ready to resign on the spot. Meanwhile, the irresistible smell of roasting sausages and warm bread drifted into the carriage, making it considerably harder for Lioren to remember that he was supposed to behave like a respectable Grand Duke.

Lioren sat with his knees practically touching Xavion’s, leaning toward the glass with a look of absolute, childish triumph.

The carriage came to a stop in front of a two-story restaurant, its leaded windows gleaming in the daylight and its freshly painted sign swinging gently above the door. Lioren stepped out as soon as the footman opened the carriage, with Evelia and Xavion following behind him. Caldrin and Therin emerged last, wearing their usual expressions, the sort that suggested smiling was a waste of perfectly good energy. Then, almost immediately, the mood around the restaurantchanged.

The restaurant owner, a round-bellied man with an apron tied around his waist, was wiping down the window frame when he glanced outside. The moment he recognized Grand Duke Roscaire, the rag slipped from his hand and landed on the cobblestones.

"Y-Your Grace!" he squeaked, bowing so fast his forehead nearly hit his knees. "An honor! An absolute..."

Then his gaze drifted past Lioren’s shoulder, settling straight on Xavion.

The blue hair. The dark wool tunic. The silk eyepatch.

The man jaw went completely slack. Behind him, a young maid carrying a tray of mugs froze in the doorway. Word had spread through the capital like wildfire over the last twenty-fourhours: Grand Duke Roscaire hadn’t just claimed a war prize, he had brought the fallen Ostharian prince right with him. And now here he was, standing on their doorstep, looking quiet, pale, and remarkably dangerous.

It took exactly five seconds for the staff to lose every last bit of their professional composure. One moment, they were doing their jobs. The next, they looked ready to flee the country.

"Table! A table for His Grace... no, for His Highness! Inside! The private alcove!" the owner babbled, gesturing wildly to his staff while tripping over his own rug.

A young waiter darted forward, grabbing a chair and yanking it back with a screech that made two noblewomen at a corner table jump. Another maid rushed out with a pitcher of water, her hands trembling so violently that the ice inside rattled like dice in a cup.

Lioren, completely misreading the room as usual, puffed out his chest and beamed. "Ah, look at that! They’re always so energetic here. Wonderful service!"

He ushered Xavion toward a wide booth lined with dark green leather. But as they sat down, Xavion couldn’t help but notice the way the waiter’s eyes kept darting nervously toward his eyepatch, his knuckles white as he set down the silver cutlery. The poor boy looked as if he expected Xavion to draw a concealed dagger and slaughter the kitchen staff over a chipped plate.

Lioren finally caught the heavy, suffocating tension in the air. He leaned across the table, offering the terrified waiter a massive, overly bright grin intended to be comforting.

"Relax!" Lioren boomed cheerfully. "Don’t look so pale! Nobody is getting executed over breakfast today!"

The waiter flinched violently, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror. He bowed three times in rapid succession, stammering an apology for a mistake he hadn’t even made, before backing away so fast he nearly knocked over a coat rack.

Evelia closed her eyes, resting her forehead against her gloved fingers with a long, suffering exhale. "Lioren," she muttered softly, "I am begging you to stop speaking. You are going to terrify these poor people into burning the entire building down for insurance."

Therin coughed quietly into his fist, staring intently at the ceiling beams, while Caldrin suddenly found the grain of the wooden table deeply fascinating.

Xavion looked at the retreating, terrified staff, then turned his single violet eye toward Lioren, who was looking genuinely baffled as to why his reassuring speech hadn’t worked. A tiny, almost imperceptible trace of amusement flicked through Xavion’s chest.

When the head waiter returned, hovering five feet away with a platter of toasted rye and spiced butter as if approaching a sleeping bear, Xavion reached out and took the basket himself.

"Thank you," Xavion said, his voice quiet, low, and completely smooth. He offered the man a tiny, polite dip of his head. "The butter smells wonderful. We appreciate your care."

The waiter blinked. The rigid, terrifying image of the "ruthless southern war prince" shattered against Xavion’s gentle, quiet courtesy. The man’s shoulders visibly dropped two inches. "Y-yes, Your Highness! Right away with the poached plums, sir!" he gasped, offering a genuine, relieved bow before hurrying off to the kitchen.

Lioren stared at Xavion, his mouth hanging open slightly. "How did you do that? I literally told him he wasn’t going to die, and he looked like he was about to faint!"

"Because you mentioned execution at a breakfast table, you absolute thick-skulled brute," Evelia chimed in, taking a crisp linen napkin and laying it over her lap.

"I said nobody was getting executed!" Lioren argued indignantly.

"Which naturally implies that execution was an option on the menu to begin with!" she shot back.

Before the sibling debate could turn into another full-blown altercation over table manners, three servers arrived carrying heavy silver platters. The table was instantly filled with the restaurant’s famous breakfast spread: thick cuts of smoked pork belly glaze-roasted with apples, poached eggs resting on herb-crusted pastry, small bowls of spiced stewed cherries, and baskets of hot, steam-rising biscuits.

Lioren’s previous annoyance evaporated instantly. He picked up his fork and knife, pointing them at the various dishes like a general deploying regiments on a map.

"Alright, Your Highness, listen to me," Lioren instructed with deadly seriousness. "You have to start with the pork belly. The glaze is made with dark honey and cider. It’s life-changing. Then, take one of those biscuits, split it open, and put the stewed cherries right in the middle. Don’t listen to Evelia, she eats like a bird."

"I eat like a civilized human being," Evelia corrected smoothly, neatly buttering a single piece of dry toast. "Your Highness, please feel free to ignore him. You don’t have to eat enough to feed a whole household before noon just to appease his ego."

Lioren looked at Xavion, his eyes practically pleading. "Just try one piece of the pork. Please. I swear on the Roscaire family crest, it’s incredible."

Xavion looked down at his plate, then at the glowing, expectant face of the young Grand Duke. He picked up his fork, cut a small piece of the glazed pork, and tasted it.

The meat was tender, rich, and balanced perfectly against the tart apple glaze. It was, admittedly, exceptional.

"It is... very good," Xavion acknowledged softly, taking a second bite. "The cider flavor is quite distinct."

Lioren practically vibrated in his seat with sheer, unbridled joy. He grinned so wide his cheeks dimpled, looking as proud as if he had raised the pig and built the smoker himself. "HA! I told you! See, Evelia? Culinary genius!"

Evelia rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful, but a small, fond smile tugged at her lips as she watched her brother piled another biscuit onto Xavion’s side plate.

The meal settled into a surprisingly pleasant, easy rhythm. The ambient noise of the bustling restaurant filled the background, washing over their alcove. Lioren kept up a steady, lighthearted stream of commentary, pointing out local capital gossip, complaining about Therin’s strict budget rules, and explaining the history of the market district, while Evelia interjected with sharp, witty retorts that kept her brother from getting too arrogant. Therin occasionally added a dry, factual correction regarding city taxes, and Caldrin quietly ensured their tea cups were never empty.

Eventually, the main plates were cleared away, leaving only their small coffee cups and linen napkins on the table.

"And for the grand finale," Lioren announced, leaning back against the leather cushions with a contented sigh, "they bring out the cream tarts. They use fresh wild raspberries from the eastern hills..."

A young, clearly inexperienced waiter approached their alcove carrying a wide silver tray. On it sat three delicate porcelain plates, each bearing a tall, fluffy pastry piled high with whipped cream and bright red raspberries. The boy was visibly trembling, his eyes locked nervously on his own boots as he navigated the narrow space between the heavy oak chairs.

"P-pardon me, Your Grace... Your Highness," the boy squeaked, leaning over the side of the table to set the first plate down near Evelia.

He took a step back, trying to squeeze past the back of Caldrin’s chair.

His right boot caught squarely against the thick, carved wooden leg of the furniture.

"Whoa...!"

The young waiter made a strangled noise as he stumbled, his balance completely gone. The tray tipped to one side, and the remaining plates began sliding across the silver surface. Before anyone could react, a cream-covered tart sailed through the air, heading straight for Xavion’s head and shoulder.

"Hey!" Caldrin barked.

It happened in less than a second.

Lioren didn’t even think. He didn’t grab a napkin. He didn’t pull back.

With the explosive, lightning-fast instinct of a military commander who had spent years dodging falling spears on the northern front, Lioren launched himself sideways across the table. He braced his left hand hard against the back of Xavion’s chair, throwing his entire body over the blue-haired prince like a human shield.

SPLAT

The porcelain plate hit the back of Lioren’s coat with a heavy, squelching thud. Whipped cream, crushed raspberries, and sticky pastry crust exploded across the shoulders and spine of the Grand Duke’s fine tailored garment, sliding down his back in a gooey, red-streaked mess.

The young waiter fell to his knees, looking as though his entire life had flashed before his eyes and none of it had been particularly satisfying. His face had gone deathly pale, and he seemed one breath away from begging for mercy. Evelia froze with her glass halfway to her mouth. Therin stared at them in complete silence, apparently waiting for someone to explain why breakfast had turned into a public tragedy.

Lioren didn’t move.

Instead, he remained hovering over Xavion, their faces mere inches apart, close enough that the slightest movement would bring their noses together.