CHAPTER 428: CHAPTER 428: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

The crowd parted before them.

Not because anyone moved, but because presence, real presence, had a gravitational pull, and Lucas carried his like a crown no one dared to name aloud. He didn’t pause at the threshold. Didn’t glance at the decor or the orchestra or the four-tiered cake that was definitely an imperial threat disguised as dessert. His eyes locked on the one corner of the room already thrumming with power and familial chaos.

Of course they were all there.

Serathine, in obsidian silk and green garnets, holding a wine flute like it doubled as a scepter.

Cressida, layered in cream and gold, a vision of seasoned strategy in heels sharp enough to puncture treaties.

Caelan, regal in midnight black, with one hand tucked behind his back and the other holding what might have been the event schedule or a list of nobles to ignore.

And behind them, slightly to the left, like carefully arranged witness statements:

Lucius, already pretending to be bored while watching Mia like a hawk.

Sirius, already drinking.

Andrew, perfectly polite in a way that made Mia look like she wanted to commit at least two crimes.

Lucas approached with the kind of smile that had once started rebellions and now ended awkward conversations before they began.

"Happy birthday," Serathine said smoothly, stepping forward first. She kissed his cheek and adjusted his collar. "You’re underdressed."

Lucas’s mouth twitched. "You gave me four options. One included a cape."

"I stand by that decision."

"You have a closet full of capes."

"They are functional."

Lucas turned just enough to flash her a dry look. "For what? Gusts of ambition?"

Serathine didn’t miss a beat. "Gusts of incompetence. I like to be prepared."

Beside her, Cressida hummed in vague approval. "You look radiant, dear. But next time, try to avoid any outfit that implies you still remember what sleep feels like."

Lucas smiled, too sweet. "And you look exactly like someone who has blackmailed four ministers today and is considering a fifth for dessert."

"That’s because I did," Cressida said primly. "And if the fifth brings me another pastel proposal for diplomatic outreach, I will spike his wine and call it a tasting flight."

A snort escaped from somewhere behind them, probably Lucius. Sirius was still mid-drink and couldn’t be trusted with that kind of timing.

Caelan, watching the exchange like one watches a storm build over a battlefield they technically own, simply held out a hand.

"Lucas."

Lucas took it without hesitation, eyes steady. "Your Majesty."

Caelan’s gaze flicked over him, not judgmental, just deeply, imperially unimpressed. "You could start calling me other things."

Lucas raised one brow. "Would you like me to start now?"

Caelan’s mouth twitched, not a smile, but the closest thing to it in imperial terms. "No. But it wouldn’t kill you to try."

Lucas tilted his head. "You say that like there isn’t a historical record of your pettiest relatives dying mysteriously after doing exactly that."

Behind him, Trevor coughed politely into his glass.

Cressida murmured, "He has a point."

"I always have a point," Lucas said, too brightly. "Sometimes it’s just buried under trauma and sarcasm."

Serathine raised her glass again, this time in silent toast. "Welcome to adulthood, darling. You’ve made it to the part where you no longer get cake without consequences."

"I’ve never had cake without consequences," Lucas said. "Not since the palace learned I’m lactose-sensitive and important."

"Tragic," Mia muttered, eyeing him like she could start a revolution and still be home for drinks.

Lucius, finally stepping forward from the shadows of elegant disdain, said, "You’ve changed."

Lucas blinked once. "That sounds like a compliment, and I don’t trust it."

"It isn’t," Lucius replied smoothly. "It’s an observation. You used to flinch when anyone mentioned you were born imperial."

"I flinch now," Lucas said, "just quieter. It’s called parenting."

Sirius drained his glass, eyed the four-tiered cake like it might demand a speech, and said, "This is my favorite part of family events, when everyone pretends not to be dramatic and fails."

Andrew coughed lightly. "You all look lovely."

Mia turned to him and, with the mild hostility only siblings could manage in formalwear, said, "Stop being nice. It’s suspicious."

"Where is Dax?" Lucas asked, confused. He would have expected at least Chris to come.

"Diplomatic visit," Trevor said with a sigh. "Saha and Belvare decided they needed three back-to-back meetings and a cultural performance night. I assume they’re being held hostage by a string quartet and overly symbolic hors d’oeuvres."

Lucas blinked. "You’re telling me the King of Saha and his very expressive spouse missed my birthday gala... because of an interpretive violin solo and themed snacks?"

Trevor tilted his head. "With ceremonial dancing. Chris tried to leave. Dax caught him by the collar halfway out the door."

That earned a pause.

Lucas could picture it perfectly: Chris, in full diplomatic regalia, making it to the palace exit before a Sahan guard discreetly signaled Dax, who arrived like divine retribution in navy silk and dragged his husband back to the reception hall with a whispered apology and zero shame.

"I admire the effort," Lucas said, deadpan. "Not the outcome. But the effort."

"He called twice," Trevor added. "Chris. Said he’d rather be here and that you were probably wearing something Serathine bullied you into again."

"I am," Lucas muttered.

"Good," Serathine said, not looking up from her drink. "He has taste."

Lucas rolled his eyes skyward like he could find patience written in the ceiling. "Tell him I’m offended."

"I already did," Trevor said mildly. "He said that sounded right."

Cressida, sipping her wine with leisurely menace, murmured, "They’ll likely arrive tomorrow, full of guilt and political gossip."

"Perfect," Lucas said. "I can weaponize that."

Caelan gave him a look that might have once passed as paternal, if you squinted and imagined a world where ancient dragons wore crowns and raised children.

"You’re turning into one of us," the Emperor said, quiet and dry.

Lucas met his gaze without flinching. "No. I’m worse. I’ve had all of you as examples."

There was a beat of silence, then Mia muttered, "He’s not wrong."

And from somewhere behind, Andrew added diplomatically, "Happy birthday, Lucas."

Lucas exhaled slowly. "Thanks. I think. Can someone bring me cake now? Preferably one not laced with commentary?"

Cressida lifted a hand delicately. "Too late."

The orchestra changed tempo behind them, something formal, grand, and almost imperial in tone.

Lucas glanced back once at the entrance, just in case.

No Dax. No Chris.

Just a lingering sense that tomorrow, there would be hell to pay, and that Chris would bring flowers and Dax would pretend it was all a perfectly reasonable misunderstanding.

He didn’t mind. Not really.

They’d show up.

Late, dramatic, and exactly on brand.