The Reborn Sovereign of Ruin, Bound by His Star

Arik looked at the foyer, then at Liam. "Money cannot create taste."

Liam’s eyes moved over the stripped walls, the walnut reception tables, the low charcoal chairs, the black stone runners, and the complete absence of decorative birds committing crimes from the corners.

"No," he said, reluctantly. "But it can hire people with taste."

"That is what we did."

"Practical."

"Survival," Arik corrected. "The original version had gold-framed mirrors facing each other across the hall."

Liam stopped walking.

He turned his head very slowly. "Facing each other."

"With ether lighting," Arik added.

Liam closed his eyes. "That is not interior design. That is an optical weapon."

Noah, walking behind them at a deeply unsafe distance, made a sound of agreement. "I got a headache in six minutes."

"You complained by minute two," Mezos said.

"Bravery often complains."

Liam opened his eyes, looking around again with sharper, more suspicious appreciation. "You removed the mirrors."

"We removed many things," Arik said.

"How many?"

A woman in a dark uniform approached from the left corridor with a tablet held neatly against one arm. "Forty-three mirrors, twelve gilded bird sculptures, nine ornamental screens, six velvet settees, and one fountain."

Liam stared at her. "A fountain?"

"In the foyer alone, Lord Liam. With perfumed water."

Liam’s face went blank.

"I need everyone in this country to understand that wealth is not a substitute for judgment."

The woman inclined her head. "That has been our working principle since arrival."

Arik’s mouth curved. "This is Sella Harper, Chief of the Crown Prince’s household. She keeps us alive."

"With mixed success," Sella said calmly.

Noah sighed. "She means me."

"Yes," Sella said.

Liam looked at her again. Competent. Professionally restrained. Entirely too calm for a person standing inside a building that had once contained a perfumed fountain in the foyer. He liked her immediately, which was inconvenient. This building was ugly, Arik was impossible, Noah had the moral stability of a firework, and now the staff was producing competence.

He hated exceptions. They made hatred untidy.

Sella gestured toward the inner corridor. "The private dining room is ready. Tea first. The meal will follow. Nothing has been sourced from Wrohan’s palace kitchens."

Liam’s attention sharpened. "You don’t trust their kitchens."

"No," Arik replied.

"George’s or Felix’s?"

"Neither."

"Good."

Arik’s eyes warmed slightly. "A strong foundation."

"If you call this an alliance, I will leave."

"Noted."

They followed Sella down the central corridor. The original structure still tried to assert itself through pale stone, unnecessary ceiling arches, and decorative panels that implied an architect with no restraint. Heavy drapes had been replaced with charcoal fabric. The gilded sconces were gone, replaced by thin blue-white ether strips. Several alcoves that had likely once held statues now contained ward projectors and communication relays.

One alcove held a thermal kettle, cups, and a neat row of tea canisters.

Liam slowed.

Sella followed his gaze. "People are calmer when given tea before bad news."

"That is not universally true," Liam said. "But I approve of the attempt."

Noah leaned toward Mezos. "He likes the tea station."

"I hear everything," Liam said.

"You were meant to."

"I am revising your future audit to include personality damage."

Noah put a hand over his heart. "Cruel."

Sella stopped before a pair of dark doors. They opened smoothly before anyone touched them.

Liam’s eyes narrowed. "Automatic hinge system?"

"Retrofitted," Sella said.

"Who calibrated the delay?"

"Mezos."

Liam looked back at him.

Mezos inclined his head.

Liam examined the doors again, then gave the smallest nod. "Acceptable."

Noah brightened. "That is the closest thing to approval anyone here has received."

"You received none of it."

"I bask in reflected competence."

"You are going to burn."

"Possibly."

Mezos placed one hand on Noah’s shoulder. "We will be elsewhere."

"Cowards," Liam said, narrowing his eyes at the men fleeing.

"Professionals," Mezos corrected, and guided Noah away before Liam could argue.

The dining room was smaller than Liam expected, which meant only that Wrohan had probably labeled it private because one did not need a telescope to see the other end. The ceiling remained too high, and some ugly molded pattern had survived overhead, but below that, the room had been corrected.

A dark walnut table. Two chairs. No long diplomatic spread. No floral centerpiece. No candles. No wine. No fruit carved into a crest by some poor kitchen worker forced into political sculpture.

The chairs were set up so that they were close enough to talk but not so close that they made George smile. Both had clear views of the door. Neither had its back to the window.

Liam noticed.

He wished he had not.

"Normal food?" he asked.

Sella’s answer was immediate. "Depending on what you consider normal, this is still an imperial household."

Liam looked at her.

Sella looked back with the immaculate calm of a woman who had survived princes, kitchens, foreign palaces, and possibly Noah before breakfast.

"That," Liam said, "is making me regret my choices."

"It was not meant to be dishonest," Sella replied. "There will be no symbolic arrangement or decorative food. But the ingredients are excellent, the kitchen is Agaronian, and His Highness does not eat like a monk."

Arik, already taking his seat, said, "I have never claimed otherwise."

"You look like you consume duty and the occasional enemy," Liam said.

"Noah once said something similar."

"Of course he did."

"He said I looked like I survived on black coffee, national pressure, and spite."

Liam paused. "That is unfortunately plausible."

Sella poured tea first, dark and strong enough that its scent cut cleanly through the room. Liam accepted the cup with suspicion, tasted it, and found no flowers, no perfume, and no honeyed court nonsense.

The first dishes arrived quietly. Warm bread. Butter. Clear soup with ginger and green onion. Roasted vegetables. Fish with herbs. Rice. Sliced fruit in a plain black dish. Nothing arranged into a crest. Nothing shining with sauce in a way that implied diplomacy had entered the kitchen and threatened people.

Liam stared at the table.

His stomach reacted before his pride could stop it.

A sharp, embarrassing pull of hunger moved through him.

He had forgotten, somehow. Or rather, he had postponed the problem until his body decided that escaping George, Felix, Arik’s hand, Arik’s scent, Arik’s car, and Arik’s entire existence had required fuel.

Arik noticed, but he didn’t say anything.

Sella stepped back. "If anything is needed, the panel beside the door reaches me directly."

Liam glanced at it. "Good," he said.

Sella inclined her head and left.

The door closed.

Silence settled over the table, too private now that Mezos and Noah had vanished with the cowardice of experienced men. Liam reached for the bread because hunger was becoming louder than dignity. It was warm. The butter softened instantly.

He took a bite, and it was perfect.

Arik watched him for only a second before looking down at his own plate.

The restraint sat oddly between them.

Liam chewed, swallowed, and finally said, "You are being quiet on purpose."

"Yes."

"That is manipulative."

"I thought speaking was manipulative."

"With you, both are."

Arik raised a brow, smiling. "Then choose."

Liam set the bread down with care.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

"That sounds false."

"It is true."

"I didn’t say it was untrue. I said it sounds false."

Arik looked amused. "Why?"

"Because sometimes you speak like someone’s vengeful ancestor escaped an oil portrait and learned modern tailoring."

The amusement deepened, but something older moved behind it.

Liam saw it.

He wished he had not.

"What happened at the welcoming gala?" he asked.

Arik’s cup paused halfway to his mouth.

For the first time since they sat, the room felt less like dinner and more like a locked archive.

"I spoke to Felix," Arik said.

"I gathered that. What did you say?"

Arik set the cup down. "Enough for him to remember fear."

Liam’s fingers tightened around the bread.

"Fear of you?"

Arik’s golden eyes held his.

"Yes."

Liam looked down at the table and picked up his tea again because otherwise he might keep staring.

"This meal," he said, "is becoming less normal."

Arik’s mouth curved faintly. "Depending on what you consider normal."

Liam hated that Sella had infected him.