CHAPTER 101: A SMILE THAT TREMBLED

[Rynthall Estate—Three Years Later]

Three years had passed since the Grand Duke silas had ridden out beneath the banners of Rynthall to the north. Three long years since the clash of steel and the echo of war drums had carried him away, and still everything remained silent.

No letters came. No messengers crossed the borders. Only rumors drifted down from the frozen mountains—of victories, of stalemates, of blood spilled on snow.

Some whispered that Silas of Rynthall had fallen; others claimed he was carving a new legend on the battlefield. But the truth remained locked behind the veil of the warfront, and the waiting grew heavier with every season.

The empire shifted uneasily. Nobles murmured in corridors about succession. Merchants fretted over caravans. Even the servants of Rynthall estate, who had once carried themselves with unshaken pride, now whispered behind closed doors: Would their lord ever return?

Yet within the walls of the estate, life refused to stand still.

***

[Rynthall Estate Gardens—Morning]

The Rynthall estate was never quiet. Not since she learned how to run.

"Little Miss, stop running on the gravel! You’ll ruin your shoes!" shouted a maid, breathless as she tripped over her skirts.

Elysia—three years old, black curls bouncing in the sunlight, crimson eyes glinting with mischief—looked over her shoulder like a fugitive on the run.

"I am a warrior princess! Warrior princesses don’t wear shoes!" she declared at the top of her lungs, hurling the embroidered slippers straight into a rose bush before bolting down the path again.

Behind her, Theoram Rynthall himself, the empire’s stoic iron pillar, was sprinting like a man half his age. His cloak flapped behind him, his composure shattered.

"ELY—SIAAAAA! I swear, child, if I catch you—!"

But the girl squealed dramatically and dove headfirst into the grass. "You can’t, Grandpa! I’m faster than the winds!"

Theoram nearly collided with a gardener carrying flowerpots, who shrieked and scattered daisies everywhere. The stableboys abandoned their work to watch. Birds erupted from the hedges in a feathered panic. A line of maids chased after her in desperation, skirts hitched up to their knees.

Alphanso, a man famed for never losing his composure in forty years of service, took one look at the scene—his master rolling across the lawn, maids shrieking, servants stumbling after a giggling three-year-old—and fainted clean away.

From the second-story windows, curious guards leaned out, whispering, "Is this... a game?"

"No," another corrected grimly. "This is war."

Somewhere inside the estate, a newly hired maid already clutched her head, whispering to herself, "Why... why did I take this job...?!"

Meanwhile, Elysia popped her head up from the grass like a triumphant little general, dirt streaking her cheeks but her grin radiant.

"See, Grandpapa? Even the earth protects me! You cannot defeat me!"

Theoram, panting heavily, jabbed a finger at her. "You are NOT some ordinary child. You are a three-year-old menace!"

"I am not a menace," she corrected, puffing out her chest until she nearly toppled backward. "I am LEGEND!"

Her shout rang across the estate like a battle cry.

"LEGEND!" echoed one of the stableboys, swept up in the madness. "LEGEND!" cried another maid, already too tired to resist.

And before long, the entire courtyard rang with voices—guards, servants, and gardeners—united in a chant they never thought they’d yell for a toddler.

"LEGEND! LEGEND! LEGEND!"

Theoram froze, aghast, as his household—the proud, disciplined staff of Rynthall—cheered for the little monster who had just uprooted their order.

Elysia threw her arms wide, triumphant, her curls haloed in sunlight. "See? They believe me! I am legend!"

Theoram pressed a palm to his forehead, staggering like a man carrying the weight of the heavens. His voice rose, trembling with despair, as if summoning the gods themselves."Silas... Lucien... what calamity have you unleashed upon this world?! A child?! A child should not move like a hurricane of death!"

And then—

WHOOSH!

The air split apart as little Elysia was scooped clean off the ground, her tiny feet kicking before she found herself high in the air, safe and secure. She blinked—then her face lit up brighter than the sun.

"Mamaaaa!" she squealed, throwing her arms around Lucien’s neck, burying her little face against him.

Lucien chuckled softly, ruffling her hair with that unshakable calm of his."Having fun, my little tornado?"

"Yes!" Elysia beamed proudly, her voice carrying across the courtyard. "I defeated everyone here!"

Lucien’s smile froze. His eyes darted around.

The courtyard was a warzone.

Maids were hunched over, gasping like they had run marathons. A butler sat slumped against a pillar fanning himself with a tray. Two servants were sprawled face-first in the grass, unmoving, while another tripped over her own skirts and collapsed with a wail. It looked less like a palace courtyard and more like a battlefield after a siege.

Lucien’s lips twitched. He let out a weak, nervous laugh. "Don’t tell me... I’ll have to give every single one of them... a day’s leave?"

"LUCIEN!"

The voice croaked up from below.

Lucien peered down and blinked.

Theoram was on the ground, dramatically spread-eagled, wheezing as if his very soul had been trampled underfoot. His trembling finger rose, pointing at his son with all the tragic weight of a man betrayed by fate itself.

"YOU!" Theoram gasped, chest heaving. "You have given birth... not to a child... but to a MONSTER!"

There was a heavy pause.

Lucien blinked once. Then twice.

And then—he smiled. Slowly.

"You mean..." He tilted his head, voice sweet as silk. "...a lovely monster, Father?"

Elysia, still clinging to his neck, beamed with innocent pride, nuzzling him like a little kitten.

Theoram’s lips trembled. His eyes darted from Lucien’s calm face to his granddaughter’s big, sparkling eyes.

The heavens could smite him, the earth could swallow him whole—but one thing he could not resist was that cherubic, mischievous smile.

"Y-Yes..." he croaked, defeated. "...a... a lovely monster."

And with that, the great Theoram—slayer of demons, feared master of arcane theory—collapsed flat on the ground again, groaning like a man whose spirit had been crushed by a toddler.

Elysia blinked down at him, tilted her head, then promptly lost interest. She spun around, pounced into Lucein’s arms, and nudged at his neck with tiny persistence.

"Mamaaaa," she whined, drawing out the word until it was practically a song. "I’m hungryyyyyy."

Lucein chuckled, brushing a hand through her wild golden hair. "Yes, yes, I know, little star. Let’s go. The chef made your favorites."

At that, her eyes lit up like twin suns, and she threw her arms into the air with all the majesty of a conquering general.

"F-F-F-FRIIIIIED CHICKENNNNNN!" she bellowed, as though announcing salvation to the heavens. She began stomping in a circle, chanting, "Fried chicken! Fried chicken! YAAAAAAYYYY!"

Theoram groaned louder, clutching his chest like she had just stabbed him with the words. Yet, at the mention of food, he bolted upright, hair sticking out in every possible direction.

"Wait...I’m coming too."

***

[Rynthall Estate—Dining Area—Later]

The dining hall was filled with the golden scent of fried chicken. Elysia sat comfortably in Lucien’s lap, her little legs swinging back and forth like tiny pendulums as she munched noisily, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. Grease clung to the corner of her lips, crumbs dusted her fingers, but she looked happier than a queen on her throne.

"Mmhmhm—sooo good!" she mumbled through a mouthful, holding up another drumstick triumphantly. "Mama, look—this one is extra crispy!"

Lucien chuckled softly, brushing back the strands of hair falling over her face. "Careful, sweetheart, don’t choke. Slow down." His voice was warm, almost tender, as he wiped her chin with a napkin.

"Mama, I want more! More, more!" she cheered, stuffing another bite into her already full mouth.

Theoram sat across from them, arms folded loosely, watching the scene with a soft, rare smile. His granddaughter’s laughter rang like bells—sweet, pure, untouched by the weight of the world. For a fleeting moment, it warmed even his old, battle-scarred heart.

But then, his gaze shifted. Past the crumbs and giggles. Past the little girl’s swinging feet. His eyes landed on Lucien.

Lucien’s lips curved into a smile every time Elysia beamed up at him, but his eyes... Theoram saw it. The dimness that lingered there. The heaviness that clung to him like a shadow. A man who once burned brighter than any flame, who once lived like a storm unchained, now sat hollowed, surviving each day because his daughter needed him to.

Silas.

The name hung unspoken between them, suffocating the air. There was still no word. No sign. No proof of life. No body. Only silence.

And in that silence, Lucien lived. Alive, but not living. Smiling, but not whole.

Theoram’s jaw clenched. He knew what his son-in-law was doing—hiding his grief beneath Motherly warmth, swallowing his pain for the sake of that little girl who thought fried chicken was the greatest gift the world could give her.

And all because of one name.One man.Silas.

No one knew if he lived. No one dared to say if he had fallen. The silence stretched like a blade, cutting deeper with every day.

And then, Alphanso stepped inside, head bowed respectfully, a sealed letter pressed tightly in his hand.

"My lord," he began, voice formal but hesitant, "we have received—"

Lucien’s head snapped up, hope surging into his crimson eyes, too raw, too desperate. He cut Alphanso off, his voice trembling though he tried to steady it.

"...Is it about Silas?"

The room stilled.

Theoram’s heart twisted. Alphanso froze for half a breath before tightening his grip on the letter, his shoulders drooping.

"I am sorry, my lord," he murmured. "It is only... a tea party invitation."

The fragile flame of hope flickered in Lucien’s gaze... and died. Slowly, "I see."

Elysia’s eyes, wide and perceptive despite her years, caught it. She saw her mother’s smile falter. She saw the light dim. And even as Lucien forced his lips upward again, her little heart knew.

"Did you finish, sweetheart?" Lucien asked, voice warm but thinned, as though stretched too far.

Elysia nodded, crumbs still clinging to her mouth. "Yes, Mama."

"Good." His voice cracked, but he hid it behind a brighter smile as he reached out, sweeping her effortlessly into his arms. "Then let’s go..."

Without another glance at the men behind him, Lucein carried Elysia out of the chamber. The silence he left behind was heavier than any words could have been.