CHAPTER 426: CHAPTER 426: ROYAL VISITORS (2)

Lucas arched a brow. "You are the crown prince. Logically, that implies heirs."

Lucius let out a sound that could generously be called a laugh but was more accurately a diplomatic snort. "Finally. Someone said it."

Caelan didn’t comment. Which, for Caelan, was basically the equivalent of applause. He had grown tired of reminding his heir that it was time for children. A decade of subtle suggestions, formal briefings, and thinly veiled birthday toasts had yielded nothing but excuses and another imported consort.

Sirius, caught mid-bite of his pastry, held it up like a shield. "You are... a menace. Are you trying to bring discord into the family?"

Lucas shrugged, unbothered. The pregnancy, Benedict, the healing scar, and the hormones, at some point in the last six months, most of his diplomatic filters had been filed under "optional." And right now, he didn’t feel like being optional.

"You have three consorts," he said, tone cool. "One would assume you’re eager to have your own children."

Sirius made a face. "Why would you assume that?"

Lucas tilted his head. "Because they’re beautiful, diplomatic, and genetically terrifying. You don’t gather a royal gene pool like that by accident."

Trevor had long since migrated to the armrest, arms folded and expression far too smug for a man still wearing house slippers. Across from him, Caelan cradled Sebastian with a serenity that was equal parts imperial dignity and grandfatherly indulgence. Between the two of them, there was a shared silence of men thoroughly enjoying the Crown Prince getting verbally annihilated in his nephew’s nursery.

Sirius, pastry abandoned and dignity hanging by a thread, tried to shift the spotlight. "Lucius doesn’t have any children either, and he’s barely two years younger than me."

Lucas didn’t even blink. "Lucius has been engaged to Mia for less than a year. He gets a pass."

Lucius inclined his head graciously. "Also, I have taste."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Sirius asked, scowling.

"Meaning," Lucius replied smoothly, "that I don’t require an entourage of consorts to make basic emotional decisions."

Caelan made a sound, quiet, low, and suspiciously close to a chuckle. Trevor smiled, sharp and small. It wasn’t fair. It was three against one, and they were all so good at it.

Lucas, arms folded now, leaned back with the practiced stillness of someone who had been raised by wolves and chose to stay in the den. "Look, we’re not judging," he said with a fake sweetness that made it very clear they absolutely were. "But if you want to be the responsible imperial figurehead, it’s traditional to at least pretend you’re considering the future of the bloodline."

"You are relentless," Sirius muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Caelan glanced at Lucas. "You’ll make an excellent politician."

"I’m retired," Lucas replied, deadpan. "I have a baby and unresolved trauma."

Trevor offered, "He’s fun at brunch."

Lucius added, "And lethal at galas."

"I am right here," Sirius groaned.

Caelan gave him a look that didn’t contain judgment so much as... deep, ancestral disappointment. Like he’d raised Sirius on dragon-spiced discipline, and the man had grown up to collect silk-robed excuses instead.

Lucas reached for a cherry tart. "You could’ve told me you were allergic to commitment six months ago. I would’ve made a spreadsheet."

And just when Sirius seemed on the verge of surrendering, when the corners of Caelan’s mouth had actually turned up and Trevor was halfway to proposing a public deadline for Sirius’s firstborn...

He dropped the bomb.

"Well," Sirius said, voice too light, too casual, "at least my consort isn’t Serathine."

Silence slammed into the room.

Lucas froze, tart halfway to his mouth.

Trevor, who had been sipping tea in a posture of profound peace, visibly tensed.

Lucius straightened.

Caelan... did not react. And that was the most dangerous part of all.

Lucas blinked once. "Excuse me?"

Sirius leaned back, clearly aware that he had crossed into uncharted territory and, like every proper heir, had decided to go full speed ahead.

"I mean," he continued, "you’re coming after me for not producing heirs when your adoptive mother, who’s been closer to the Emperor than his actual wife ever was, has been unofficially his consort for how long now?"

Trevor set down his cup with a coolness that made Lucius quietly reach for the pastry knife, just in case.

Lucas wasn’t surprised. Not really. He should have been, should have demanded explanations, or shouted, or at least thrown a tart. But instead, he sat there with one hand loosely curled around his tea and the other resting near Sebastian’s discarded blanket, staring into the middle distance like someone realizing a twist halfway through a film they should have seen coming.

"Seems fair." He said in the end. Serathine was Serathine and Lucas couldn’t blame her; to him, Caelan had many sins, but the man was decently gray and, damn him, handsome enough to match Serathine. "Also... Low blow, Sirius."

Lucius, still holding the pastry knife like it was part of a state-issued cutlery set for tense family visits, muttered, "Extremely low. Like basement level."

Trevor, who had not moved an inch from his unnervingly composed position, added, "We’re going to have to start frisking him for tact before entry."

Sirius raised both hands, defensive but not repentant. "I panicked. I was losing the argument."

"That wasn’t an argument," Lucas said, calm now, too calm. "That was an intervention with sugar."

Sebastian snuffled faintly in Caelan’s arms, as if offering moral judgment.

Caelan glanced down at the baby, then back up at Sirius. "He’s already disappointed in you."

Sirius looked to Lucius for backup.

Lucius took a delicate bite of his pastry. "You brought this upon yourself."

Lucas finally leaned forward, resting his elbow on the arm of the couch and fixing Sirius with a look that was half exasperation, half reluctant fondness. "You don’t get to drop imperial scandals like breadcrumbs just to distract from your complete lack of reproductive ambition."

Sirius had the decency to look mildly ashamed. "I wasn’t trying to scandalize anyone."

Trevor tilted his head. "Then why mention Serathine at all?"

"She’s part of the family," Sirius said quickly, then winced. "Sort of. That’s not what I meant."

Lucas sighed. "You really are terrible at this."

"You made me panic!"

"I made you tell the truth, which isn’t the same thing."

Caelan’s tone remained mild, but it was the kind of mildness that made Prime Ministers recheck their budgets. "Serathine’s status isn’t news to anyone who needed to know."

Lucas nodded slowly. "And I wasn’t one of them?"

"You were. Eventually."

Lucius helpfully offered, "Consider this your soft launch."

Trevor added, "With a side of foot-in-mouth syndrome."

Sirius groaned. "I hate this family."

"You’re not even married yet," Lucas said, reaching for another tart. "Wait until you’re sleep-deprived and someone leaks your grocery list to the press."

Sebastian stirred again, as if offended by the noise, and Caelan shifted just enough to soothe him. The baby settled with regal disdain, clearly taking after someone.

Lucas exhaled and sat back. "Next time, if you want to shock me, Sirius... pick a topic I haven’t already guessed while filing Serathine’s estate paperwork."

Sirius blinked. "Wait, you knew?"

"No," Lucas said. "But I’m very good at connecting dots. Especially when they keep showing up in the same column."

Lucius leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. "This has been surprisingly productive."

Trevor looked at the clock. "And no one cried. Yet."

Lucas glanced around the room. "Windstone’s probably taking bets."

"Correct," Windstone’s voice called mildly from the hall. "And you just ruined the odds, sir."