The council sat around the ornate circular table, sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows, casting golden slats over rich mahogany. At the head of the table sat Elliott—the emperor.
It was the day after his address to the nation, and this was the first council meeting following it. All the ministers were present, gathered to discuss the impending war with the Southern Empire.
Currently, the Finance Minister stood with his hands clasped behind his back, droning on about treasury reserves and resource allotments. He was an old man—well into his sixties—who had refused to retire even when offered a dignified exit. He had been speaking for over two hours now, and judging by the scattered scrolls and unrolled ledgers before him, he wasn't close to finished.
Still, everyone listened intently. A necessary evil.
Elliott nodded at regular intervals, offering murmured approvals when prompted. He looked composed, but a certain tension lingered in the way his fingers tapped ever so subtly against the polished surface of the table.
Then—without fanfare—a guard entered the chamber.
No one batted an eye at first. Interruptions weren't uncommon during wartime. The guard strode with purpose, weaving through the council members until he reached the side of Prince Aiden, who sat silently two seats to the Emperor's left.
The guard leaned down, whispering just loud enough for Aiden to hear:
"Your Highness. There is a woman at the palace gates. She bears a striking resemblance to the exiled Queen Mother, Gabriella Lancaster, and is claiming that identity. She asks her arrival be formally announced."
Aiden's gaze sharpened immediately.
He blinked once. Twice.
"...The Queen Mother, you say? Gabriella Lancaster?" he asked, voice low, cautious.
The guard gave a measured nod. "She is seated in a waiting room."
Aiden's expression steeled. Outwardly, he smoothed it into something unreadable, neutral. But inwardly, the blood in his veins ran colder than usual. He could feel Elliott's curious eyes on him now— he'd noticed the gaurd approaching Aiden.
The emperor tilted his head ever so slightly, silently questioning the exchange.
Aiden mouthed back with a subtle shake of his head: "It's nothing. Don't worry."
Then, without another word, he rose from his chair and exited the room.
The waiting room was quiet. Dimly lit by a row of tall windows, the sun filtering through gauzy curtains and spilling warm light across the rug. Despite its opulence, the air in the room felt still. Almost tense.
Gabriella sat on a velvet-cushioned chair, posture perfect, spine straight, hands lightly resting in her lap. Her face bore an impassive, queenly expression—neither warm nor hostile. She looked entirely at ease, as if this palace were still her domain. As if she hadn't been exiled from it for over a decade.
Aiden stepped into the room.
She turned to look at him, slowly—like a feline sensing movement in the grass. Her gaze landed on him with practiced detachment. Cool. Measured.
Aiden studied her.
Gabriella Lancaster was smaller than he'd imagined. Petite. Her skin was the same warm honey-brown shade as Elliott's. Her hair, a dark crimson, was coiled into an elegant twist atop her head, pinned with simple but tasteful ornaments. She wore deep forest green robes that draped over her frame with casual grace.
She was small—but there was nothing delicate about her.
Not when she looked at you like that—a gaze sharp enough to cut. Assessing. Calculating. Like she had already seen ten of your next moves and written counter-strategies in her mind.
Aiden stopped a short distance from where she sat. He didn't offer a greeting. Didn't sit.
His arms folded across his chest, gaze hard and unmoving. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other—like wolves circling each other's territory.
It was a predator meeting another predator. A silent standoff.
Finally, Gabriella spoke—her voice smooth, soft, and sharp-edged like velvet hiding a dagger.
"Prince Aiden," she greeted. "How... unexpected. To be received by you."
Aiden's jaw tensed. His voice was low and tight. "...Queen Mother."
A faint smile touched her lips—curled somewhere between amusement and warning.
"You've grown."
"And you've returned."
Gabriella leaned back into her seat, her gaze never leaving him.
"When I heard my son had adopted a stray, I was expecting a puppy. Not a hound."
Aiden's eyes narrowed. "Guess even vipers get old and make mistakes."
She let out a quiet scoff, more amused than offended. The boy wasn't afraid of her, then. Nor did he hesitate to bite back. She'd give him that.
But she didn't come for a verbal duel. Not yet.
"I assume my son is occupied?" she asked, her tone turning cool and efficient.
"He's in a war meeting," Aiden replied flatly.
She hummed in approval. "Naturally."
A pause.
"Is the situation dire?"
Aiden's brow arched, incredulous. "Dire? We're on the brink of war. Of course it's dire."
Gabriella gave a quiet nod, as if confirming something she already suspected. She thought perhaps that was the end of the exchange.
But it wasn't.
Aiden spoke again, voice forcibly calm, though the tension beneath it was impossible to miss.
"Look—whatever game you think you're playing, this is not the time. The situation is serious. And please, Your Highness, we don't have the time or the capacity to deal with your games. If you've returned for some twisted power play—some attempt to profit from chaos—I suggest you leave."
She interrupted him. Quietly. Dangerously.
"You think I'm back for ambition?"
Her voice was still soft—but it hit like a cold blade. There was no raise in volume. No shout. But something in the way she said it made Aiden's spine instinctively stiffen.
"Let me tell you something, Prince Aiden," she continued, eyes narrowing. "If you truly believe I've returned for some conquest of power, then you don't know me at all. And I suggest you stop speaking on things you know nothing about."
The sharpness in her voice wasn't theatrical. It was real. Old and seasoned. The kind of sharp that had slit many throats behind silken veils.
Aiden was momentarily stunned—not by what she said, but by how she said it. She hadn't needed to raise her voice to make the room colder.
Still, he forced out a scoff. "Right. Of course," he said, the sarcasm barely concealed. "Why are you here, then? Enlighten me—since I assumed so wrongly."
Gabriella's eyes gleamed, dark and unreadable. Her reply came in a whisper—so quiet that, had Aiden not been listening closely, he might have missed it entirely.
"They tried to kill my child," she said. "Did you really think I wouldn't come?"
Aiden didn't respond.
For a long moment, silence settled over the room once more—heavy and suffocating. Their gazes locked. Her face was impassive. His burned with restrained fury.
Then—Gabriella smiled.
It wasn't kind.
It wasn't warm.
It was amused. Mocking.
"Relax, little prince," she murmured, voice honeyed with venom. "I'm not here to challenge you. You can stop the territorial glaring now."
His brow twitched. "Then what are you here for?"
"To help."
Aiden let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "Help. Right. You just happened to return now, on the eve of war, as a gesture of goodwill."
Gabriella tilted her head slightly.
"You don't trust me. Good. I wouldn't either," she mused. "But you trust Elliott. You want to keep him safe. So do I. Enemies with a common goal make better allies than corpses, don't you think?"
He still said nothing. But she continued.
"And despite everything... Elliott is still my son."
That one struck.
Aiden's chest burned—rage, protectiveness, perhaps something he didn't want to name. He wanted to argue. To say Elliott is mine to protect now. To say he doesn't need you anymore. But—
He couldn't say she was wrong.
Elliott was hers before he was... anything to Aiden.
And Aiden had no right to take that away.
He let out a sharp breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'll inform him," he said at last, tone clipped. "He'll probably come after the meeting's over."
Gabriella inclined her head gracefully. "Of course."
As he turned to leave, her gaze followed him.
He could feel it on his back—heavy and unrelenting. Like she was measuring him. Weighing him. Like she already knew what he meant to her son.
There was no denying it—they were wary of each other.
But if she was telling the truth... if her only goal was protecting Elliott...
Maybe—just maybe—they could coexist.