CHAPTER 424: CHAPTER 424: PLANNING

The morning was soft. Not just in light, though the pale sun threading through the windows certainly helped, but in feel, in tempo. In the way the sheets had tangled gently around Lucas’s ankles, in the quiet breath of the baby asleep beside him, and in the low hum of the world moving without urgency.

He hadn’t planned on working from bed. But that’s what happened when your son had recently discovered the twin joys of kicking and volume control, and your abdomen still hadn’t fully forgiven you for being cut open like a birthday cake.

Lucas adjusted the tablet resting on his knees, stylus tucked behind one ear. Sebastian, now three months old and fat with opinions, was sprawled across his chest like a particularly entitled cat. His tiny socks were mismatched, Trevor’s fault, and one of his fists was currently trying to grasp Lucas’s shirt with the intensity that suggested an impending thesis on textile engineering.

"You can’t eat my collar," Lucas murmured, brushing a kiss to Sebastian’s cheek. "But points for commitment."

Sebastian grunted in protest. Or agreement. Or perhaps existential dismay at being denied control of the shirt.

From the foot of the bed, the baby monitor blinked with serene disinterest. Windstone had updated the house system three days ago and somehow managed to make the new alert tones sound both professional and personally disappointed in you.

Lucas didn’t mind. There was comfort in being over-monitored these days, and Windstone had earned the right to be invasive.

He leaned back against the pillows, the mattress perfectly molded from too many recovery days and Trevor’s insistence on proper rest. The faint scent of cedar and starch clung to the linens, a telltale reminder that his husband had left for the morning meeting not long ago. Lucas had been awake then, sort of. Sleep-blurred and smug with the weight of Trevor’s parting kiss still warm on his lips.

He hadn’t told anyone yet, but he’d finished the last of his transition documents the night before.

Just in time for his twenty-first birthday.

Lucas exhaled slowly and let the thought settle.

The Empire would shift soon. It always did on certain birthdays, crowns, and inheritance of old powers and older debts. But this time, it didn’t feel like something looming over him. It felt like a door quietly unlocking.

He was almost ready to walk through it.

Sebastian made a pleased squeak against his chest, kicking one socked foot triumphantly. Lucas looked down and smiled. "Are you declaring victory? You haven’t even filed your taxes yet."

A knock came at the bedroom door. Not loud. Just polite enough to be theatrical.

Lucas didn’t need to ask.

"Come in, Windstone," he said without raising his voice.

The door opened with the gentle efficiency that only came from decades of service and blackmail-worthy knowledge of every creaky floorboard in the manor. Windstone entered like a man arriving at a board meeting and a nursery at the same time.

"I bring offerings," he said, setting a tray on the low side table with a flourish. "And reminders. Mostly reminders."

Lucas blinked. "I thought I wasn’t allowed caffeine until I hit six hours of consecutive sleep."

"That rule has been quietly retired." Windstone poured him a small cup of coffee with precise grace. "As have many others."

Lucas arched a brow. "Because of the child?"

"Because of the child," Windstone confirmed solemnly, adjusting Sebastian’s abandoned blanket without being asked. "You’ve been cleared for soft returns to full duties, and His Grace requested that you at least pretend to be a functional adult by noon."

"I am in bed. Working. Covered in offspring," Lucas said flatly. "This is the most adult I’ve ever been."

Windstone made a soft sound that may or may not have been a laugh. "And yet the socks don’t match."

"Trevor dressed him."

"Of course he did."

Lucas accepted the coffee and took a slow sip. It was strong, slightly sweet, and brewed with just enough bite to remind him that he hadn’t ruled out murder as a hobby during his sleepless postpartum nights. He let out a small, blissful sigh.

Windstone took that as permission to proceed.

"Your birthday preparations are almost finalized. "

Lucas groaned. "Please tell me that Serathine and Cressida stopped arguing about the seat charts."

Windstone’s expression didn’t shift much, just a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, the kind that suggested internal suffering honed by decades of nobility-fueled trauma.

"They reached a compromise," he said neutrally, placing the folded swaddle back on the armchair like it was evidence in a criminal trial.

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "Define compromise."

"Serathine agreed not to rearrange the inner circle’s table placement..."

"Good."

"...and Cressida agreed not to set the entire west wing on fire."

Lucas stared at him.

Windstone offered a polite, almost apologetic smile. "The candles will be electric."

"Oh, thank God." Lucas exhaled and reached down to reposition Sebastian, who was now trying to gnaw on the blanket with the intensity of someone who had lived through war. "Did they at least stop using me as a message relay?"

"No. But I’ve begun pretending you’re unavailable for comment unless written in triplicate and submitted before breakfast."

Lucas looked up, genuinely touched. "You’re my favorite person alive."

Windstone bowed slightly. "I strive for excellence."

"And peace treaties," Lucas muttered. "Between duchesses. In heels. During dinner prep."

Windstone didn’t deny it.

Sebastian let out a burble that sounded vaguely judgmental.

Lucas nodded solemnly at his son. "Exactly. That’s what I said."

Windstone paused for a moment and Lucas knew that there was more. "What?"

"His Majesty, the emperor, wants to visit... like family before the gala of your birthday."

Lucas blinked once. Then twice.

"...You mean Caelan?" he asked slowly, as if there were a small but non-zero chance Windstone meant some other emperor who might casually drop in like a nosy uncle from hell.

Windstone inclined his head with the precision of someone who had practiced court etiquette on unwilling aristocrats and at least two stags. "The invitation is phrased as a personal visit. Not an inspection. He emphasized family."

Lucas’s eyes narrowed. "Did he also emphasize which security unit will be sweeping the house five times beforehand?"

"He did not. However, the Prime Minister’s office forwarded a list of dietary preferences and prohibited scents."

Lucas snorted into his coffee. "So it is an inspection. Just with more gift wrapping."

Windstone gave a mild shrug. "It could be worse."

"How?"

"He could bring Lucius."

Lucas made a noise of immediate betrayal. "You take that back."

Windstone smiled, utterly unapologetic. "You asked."

Sebastian gave another warble of disapproval from his cocoon of blankets, as if offended on Lucas’s behalf.

Lucas looked down at him. "We are never letting Uncle Lucius hold you. He’ll start whispering strategies and secrets directly into your fontanelle."

Windstone added mildly, "The last time Lucius held a baby, he reorganized its toys by political value."

Lucas dragged a hand down his face. "What does that even mean?"

"No one knows," Windstone said. "The rattle is still under diplomatic surveillance."

Lucas leaned back against the headboard, coffee in one hand, baby squirming like a well-fed worm in the other. "Okay. If Caelan visits, I want the fancy tea out, the good curtains closed, and absolutely no wine."

Windstone raised a brow. "Your Majesty doesn’t drink wine."

"He does when trying to prove he’s not inspecting the place."

Windstone bowed again, perfectly solemn. "Noted. Shall I prepare the crown or just the emotional armor?"

Lucas sipped his coffee. "Just the coffee. And maybe a dessert we can weaponize."

Sebastian let out a perfectly timed hiccup.

Lucas sighed. "Great. He’s already learning imperial timing."