CHAPTER 85: TINY HANDS, BIG DRAMA

[Rynthall Estate—The Morning Before the Naming Ceremony | Garden of Chaos]

The morning sun was warm.

The air smelled like rosewater, fried pastries, and the inevitable scent of disaster. In other words, it’s a perfect day for a baby naming ceremony.

Well... it would’ve been.

If Silas and Seraphina weren’t still glaring at each other from opposite ends of the garden like two generals preparing for a very sparkly war.

Lucien sat on a plush settee in the middle, holding his daughter and sipping what was definitely not tea—it was straight whiskey in a teacup. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. His hair was quite messy. His soul had already vacated the estate.

The soft golden sunlight filtered through the garden canopy, casting angelic beams across the courtyard—like the universe was trying really hard to pretend this wasn’t absolute chaos in slow motion.

Meanwhile, in Lucien’s arms—His daughter.

His tiny, sacred, beautiful, holy-grail-of-hormonal-emotions daughter...

...was currently sucking on his nipple.

Through the shirt.

With passion.

With commitment.

Lucien’s soul, already halfway to the afterlife, stared down at her like a man on the brink. She clutched at his robes like a tiny war general, her brows furrowed in that very serious baby way. Her little eyes bounced between Silas and Seraphina—who were still arguing in the background about whether the child should be named after a flower, a gemstone, or a celestial event—and then slowly drifted back to Lucien’s chest.

"Ah," Lucien murmured, voice hollow with disbelief. "Of course. Of course you’re feeding again. Even though I just gave you a royal five-course breast buffet ten minutes ago."

The baby let out a happy snort and latched harder.

Lucien’s pupils dilated in shock.

He looked at her.

She looked back, smug.

"You’re more mature than both your parents combined, you know that?" he whispered, brushing a thumb along her squishy little cheek. "And I say that as the one currently being... emotionally mugged through my own shirt."

His daughter gave a delighted little giggle—and then resumed her work like she had a deadline.

Lucien went pale.

"Please," he whispered dramatically, eyes fluttering heavenward. "Papa’s soul has already left the estate. You’re sucking on a ghost, sweetheart. You win. I surrender."

Across from him, seated in a dainty chair with her lace-gloved hands folded elegantly in her lap, Countess Isodore—his great-aunt and walking terror of the aristocracy—let out a rich, amused chuckle.

"Lucien, darling, she’s a baby," she said, sipping her tea. "Sucking is in her nature. It’s practically her full-time duty."

Lucien turned toward her like a man emerging from battle.

"Auntie," he croaked. "I’m so tired I just hallucinated a pigeon calling me mama."

Countess Isodore stood up, her diamond brooch catching the sunlight and temporarily blinding a servant. "That’s exactly why I brought a gift."

Lucien perked up. "If it’s a new set of jewelry, she doesn’t need it now, so don’t take it out; I’ll cry."

She pulled something out from her elegant bag.

Gold glinted in the light.

Lucien squinted. "What... is that...?"

"A pacifier," she said grandly. "Enchanted. Imported. Blessed by three very bored neighboring kingdom priests and dipped in chamomile essence. Pure gold, of course. My sweetheart deserve nothing less."

Lucien sparkled. Literally. "Wow. So shiny. I’m hallucinating again."

She leaned down and, with the grace of an empress herself, gently offered the pacifier to the hungry little storm cloud on his lap.

The baby hesitated.

She blinked.

Her lip wobbled.

Then—plop.

She accepted the golden pacifier with royal dignity and settled back into Lucien’s arms like a tiny overlord who had just been appeased.

Silence.

Peace.

Lucien nearly cried.

"Bless you, Auntie," he whispered hoarsely, eyes glimmering with the sheer, unfiltered joy of not being used as a chew toy for once. Countess Isodore gave him a regal little pat on the arm—the kind that said, You may be a lactating mess, but you’re still family—just as a herald’s voice rang across the garden.

"Their Imperial Majesties, Empress Elowen and Emperor Adrien of Aetheria—along with His Young Highness, Prince Kael—have arrived."

Every noble in the garden froze mid-teacup.

Silas nearly dropped a tray.

Callen tripped over his own fan and dramatically fainted behind a rosebush (again).

All heads turned.

And there, descending the marble steps like a celestial power couple from a dramatic ballad—were the Empress and Emperor of Aetheria.

Resplendent in shades of royal indigo and sun-gold, they looked like they stepped out of a myth and landed straight into a baby naming ceremony. The Empress had her signature stiletto crown perfectly in place. The emperor’s cape sparkled as though bedazzled by a thunder god with too much free time.

In the Emperor’s strong arms?

A baby boy.

Prince Kael of Aetheria. Three months old. Plump-cheeked.

Everyone bowed.

The Empress, predictably, ignored the formalities and beelined to Lucien like a woman possessed, holding her son.

She gasped the moment she saw the bundle in Lucien’s arms.

"Oh stars above," she squealed, sparkling from crown to toe. "She... she’s SO CUTE—she looks like a tiny royal dumpling dipped in moonlight!"

Lucien blinked, tired but smug. "She drools like a royal dragon too. She just stopped trying to milk my soul through my shirt."

The Empress clutched her own face. "Look at those cheeks! She looks like she holds the secrets of the universe and also just pooped!"

Lucien snorted, then leaned closer and whispered out of the side of his mouth, "...What about that priest? Did he die yet?"

The Empress leaned in too, all glitter and subtle menace. "Not yet. Just as you wanted—we’re keeping him alive. Barely. So he can enjoy every minute of the alphabetically organized punishments."

Lucien nodded with cold satisfaction. "Perfect. Make sure he’s awake for W: Wasp-infested pillows."

"Oh, I already made that his Wednesday."

Lucien smiled. "You’re the only reason the empire hasn’t collapsed."

Then he glanced at the bundle in the Empress’s arms. "Kael has grown, hasn’t he? Look at him. He’s starting to glare."

The empress sighed like a woman who hadn’t slept since the equinox.

"He’s growing too fast," Empress muttered dramatically. "I blinked yesterday, and he had opinions on tax reform. Today I’ll blink and he’ll be married."

Countess Isodore let out a delighted laugh. "Don’t worry, dear. You’ll have plenty of time before he starts dating."

Empress groaned. "He’s already staring at people, Countess Isodore! With intensity!"

Lucien chuckled, but then—

A tiny hand waved in the air.

Everyone turned.

Prince kael had leaned very far in his mother’s arms... and was now staring, fixated, at the baby girl in Lucien’s lap.

Not just staring.

Reaching.

"Oh my stars," the Empress whispered, covering her mouth. "Is he—?"

Lucien looked down at his daughter.

His precious, pacified daughter blinked up at Prince Kael.

Just blinked.

Wide-eyed. Slightly cross-eyed. Like she was trying to calculate if this pudgy creature reaching for her was food, a threat, or just... boring.

Then—without any warning—Fwip.She turned her head.

Fully ignored him.

Like royalty brushing off a commoner. Like she had seen the drama forming and promptly opted out of the plot.

The silence?

Thunderous.

Even the baby birds in the garden paused mid-chirp.

The Emperor’s jaw dropped. The Empress gasped like she’d just seen a love confession slapped mid-air. And Prince Kael?

He blinked.

Stunned.

His tiny hand, still extended, wobbled uncertainly in the space where rejection now echoed.

And then—

Silas chuckled.

"Oh gods," Lucien muttered, clutching the baby like she’d just delivered a diplomatic insult.

Silas strode forward, chest puffed with all the proud delusion of a man whose daughter had just disarmed international politics with a single head turn.

He plucked her from Lucien’s lap and cradled her dramatically. "There, there, my baby girl... That’s it. That’s how you do it. That’s how you ignore every single man in the universe."

The crowd gasped.

Adrien raised an eyebrow and strolled up beside the Empress. "Are you..." he drawled, lips twitching, "are you planning to be the villain in your daughter’s love life?"

Silas turned slowly. Cold. Blunt. Murderously calm.

"YES."

Time stopped.

Even the wind froze in place, like, Oh gods, he meant it.

Lucien blinked from his place on the settee, still sipping whiskey from a teacup. "He made a spreadsheet, you know."

"What?" Adrien asked.

Lucien nodded solemnly. "A spreadsheet. Titled ’Emergency Evacuation Plans for All Future Suitors.’"

The Empress laughed so hard she nearly choked on air. "That is so excessive it’s almost hot."

Callen—who had spent this entire time half-fainting behind floral arrangements and scribbling down ’Lucien’s Daughter Rejects A Prince, Chapter One’ in his love journal—finally stood up, dramatically clapping his hands.

"ALRIGHT!" he announced like a herald at a wedding-slash-heist. "We shall now begin the Naming Ceremony! Before someone proposes a baby engagement or Silas challenges an infant to a duel!"

He twirled in place and pointed to the ceremonial platform.

"Everyone! To your decorative thrones, sparkly rugs, or whatever level of aesthetic chaos you require! Let us celebrate this glorious little empress of rejection!"

Lucien sighed and whispered to his daughter, "I hope you nap through this chaos. If not, we fake an emergency and hide in the rose garden."

The baby yawned.

Silas kissed her head. "She’s ready. Let’s make this day legendary."

And somewhere above them, even the sun sparkled a little brighter.

Because the naming of a future chaos wasn’t just a royal event—it was the start of a royal revolution.