Aiden had barely finished speaking before Elliott was on his feet.
As soon as the words "your mother is here" registered in his mind, he stood up so fast his chair nearly scraped the floor.
A general had been speaking—voice steady, composed—as he detailed something about supply lines and logistical support across the southern border. The man paused mid-sentence, blinking in confusion as the emperor, who'd sat unmoving just moments ago, abruptly rose and turned away.
Elliott cast a quick, apologetic glance around the table. "Apologies," he said, his voice tighter than usual. "Something unavoidable has come up. The meeting is adjourned—we'll resume this discussion tomorrow."
Aiden watched the hasty motion, his brows lifting slightly in surprise. He had expected Elliott to be cautious. Perhaps formal. Cold, even. Not... this. Not wide eyes and the near-frantic rush of someone who'd just been told a ghost from their past was waiting in the next room.
The emperor didn't offer further explanation. He didn't need to. His eyes met Aiden's for a fleeting second—just a flicker—but in that silent glance, something passed between them. Unspoken, but clear.
She's here, Elliott thought.
And in that moment, his breath hitched.
Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room. The silk of his formal robes billowed behind him, fluttering like a banner in a storm. He moved too fast for someone still healing, body still thin and weakened from his last bout of illness. But none of that mattered now.
"Your Majesty—" the prime minister finally managed to choke out, voice half-raised in stunned protest. "Wait—!"
"Later, Prime Minister!" Elliott called out behind him, already halfway down the hallway, his voice breathless with urgency.
Aiden blinked after him, stunned.
He really didn't hesitate at all, he thought.
The waiting room door swung open with more force than grace.
Gabriella Lancaster stood slowly from the plush velvet seat where she'd been waiting, hands folded in front of her, posture ramrod straight. A quiet, restrained elegance clung to her like perfume. Even after all these years, she still carried herself like a queen—composed, regal, untouchable.
Her heart, however, was pounding. Loudly. Unrelenting.
She had braced for this moment—for polite civility, for cold distance.
It had been fifteen years, after all. Fifteen years since she had last held her son. Fifteen years in which he had been emperor—and she had been disgraced and exiled. Time and power had ways of changing people.
If Elliott had hardened in her absence, if he had become cold or arrogant—if the kindness in him had finally rotted under the weight of his crown—then so be it. She would accept that. Gladly, even. A hardened heart might mean he would survive.
She was ready for anything.
Except this.
Elliott stood frozen in the doorway. His chest rose and fell too quickly, the effort of his sudden pace catching up to him. His face was slightly flushed from exertion, and yet his eyes... his eyes were soft.
Too soft.
Gods, no. Not that.
He looked exactly the same.
Older, yes—but not by much. His body had grown into itself, but his height had changed little since he was eighteen. His face bore signs of wear—lines of stress, of sleepless nights—but it hadn't lost the tender roundness that made him look far too gentle to be an emperor. And his eyes... those eyes.
They were still the same.
The same green-blue shade she had passed down to him.
The same devastatingly kind eyes.
How can they still look like that? she wondered, throat tightening.
"...Mother," Elliott finally breathed out. His voice cracked, thick with emotion. "You... came."
And just like that, the last of her resolve shattered.
Gabriella had rehearsed this encounter over and over during her exile. Dignified greetings. Cool detachment. Prepared statements. She had steeled herself for scorn, for hatred, even for indifference. She had accepted that he might have stopped loving her—that she would have to smile and bow to the emperor, not embrace the child she once held.
She had not prepared for this.
He moved toward her. Stumbling slightly on the hem of his robes. Reaching her in quick, desperate strides—and then he was there. Arms wrapping around her, breath trembling against her neck.
His grip was too tight. Too familiar. Too real.
"You came back," he whispered, his voice so raw, so aching, it cut her to the core.
Her arms hovered in the air for a moment. Awkward. Hesitant. She didn't know where to place them. Didn't know if she deserved to place them anywhere.
He wasn't her little boy anymore. Right?
She wanted to believe that. She needed to believe that. But as his head buried into her shoulder, and his shaking breath spilled against her collar, her heart betrayed her.
She gave in.
Her arms closed around him, trembling as they pulled him close. "Of course I did, Eli," she murmured, the childhood nickname slipping out before she could catch it. Her voice didn't crack.
It did.
Elliott finally leaned back, though his hands still clung to her arms, as if afraid she might disappear again. Gabriella scanned his expression—looking for the hardness she had hoped to see. Any trace of it.
It wasn't there. Of course it wasn't.
He was tired. His eyes held exhaustion and weight. But the softness—that softness—had survived everything. Somehow, despite fifteen years of rule, betrayal, assassination attempts, war, and isolation... it was still there.
Her heart sank.
He hasn't changed, she realized, not where it matters. He's still too good. Too gentle. Too kind.
And the next thought struck like a blade to the gut:
He's still going to get himself killed.
She didn't want him hardened out of malice or bitterness. She didn't want to see hatred in his eyes—gods, no. But if that was what it took to keep him alive, she would bear it. Willingly.
She blinked the thoughts away, focusing on him. "You shouldn't have rushed out of your meeting," she said at last. She tried to sound stern. Scolding. It came out sounding like a plea.
Elliott blinked at her, then gave a startled laugh—a quiet, breathless sound. "That's the first thing you say to me? After fifteen years?"
Her lips twitched. Just slightly. A smile—not quite bitter, not quite fond. "Well," she said quietly, "someone has to remind you of propriety and etiquette."
Elliott chuckled again. It was soft but strained. A little wet at the edges.
Behind them, Aiden cleared his throat. Deliberately. Loud enough to remind them that he was, in fact, still there.
The moment cracked.
Elliott's head turned quickly—almost instinctively—toward the sound. Gabriella's eyes caught the movement. She didn't miss the speed of it. or the familiarity.
And she saw his expression shift.
The same softness. But different. Still affectionate, still intimate. But not familial. Not the way he looked at her.
His eyes found Aiden's and held his gaze there, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. There was a silent exchange—nothing spoken, but full of meaning. A small smile curled on Elliott's lips, reassuring, as if to say "just a moment."
And Gabriella... noticed. Of course she did. She noticed everything.
Oh.
Oh.