Chapter 68 #2
Alexander drew attention as he always did.
His height and breadth alone made heads turn and jaws dropped.
He had to duck to avoid the low lanterns strung between tables.
But for once, he wasn’t the sole target of curiosity.
Whispers sparked over bowls and teacups—not just toward the foreigner, but his companion as well.
Some stared at Haorán with curiosity or veiled suspicion. Others, more openly, with disdain.
Alexander lowered his voice. “Is it difficult,” he asked, “to live here and stand out?”
“Yes,” Haorán answered without pause.
They waited a while, but no one came to their table, not even to offer a cup of tea.
From his sleeve, Haorán withdrew a palm-sized wooden plaque and set it on the table between them.
It was dark-stained and finely carved with three vertical characters picked out in gold leaf.
Even before Alexander could decipher the script, he recognized what it was: a token of imperial sanction.
It marked the bearer as an extension of the emperor’s own authority. To insult him was to insult the throne.
“This helps,” Haorán said.
Alexander eyed the plaque. “Does it?”
Haorán glanced over his shoulder where an elderly man was still frowning in their direction.
“It helps,” he said again. “But it doesn’t change hearts. Only behaviour.”
One of the attendants, drawn by the sight of the plaque, approached their table.
His gaze bounced from the lacquered wood to Haorán’s features, then to Alexander’s.
Without a word, he placed a pot of fragrant tea before them, followed by two pairs of jade tsaiwàn—the eating rods of her people.
One end tapered to a fine point for piercing, the other flattened for lifting and balancing.
“Honoured guests, would you like today’s special? The broth has been slow-cooked since dawn.”
Haorán nodded. “Two servings, please.”
The man vanished with no further question.
Alexander glanced at him. “You didn’t even ask what it was.”
“I never need to.” Haorán shrugged. “And it has never let me down.”
It arrived moments later, carried by a boy no older than fifteen. He weaved between tables with careful steps, trying not to rush, though the slight hitch in his gait suggested he’d already been scolded once today.
He set the bowls down with a nervous glance, then straightened.
“Today we have hand-pulled noodles in chicken broth with tea-smoked duck breast, red dates, and ginger,” he recited, gesturing with two fingers as he named each item.
“There’s pickled chrysanthemum stem on the side, and a little fermented bean paste.
If you want more spice, there’s chilli oil at the table. ”
His voice cracked on the last word, but his tongue didn’t trip. He gave a small nod and turned to leave, nearly walking off without the empty tray, then hurrying back for it with an apologetic bow.
Alexander watched him go, something catching at the base of his throat.
There was a bit of Conrad in that boy, the same scrappy energy beneath all the carefulness. The same way his voice caught when he tried to speak with confidence. The same habit of looking back over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t done too poorly.
A faint smile touched Alexander’s lips before he turned to his meal. Haorán lifted his bowl with both hands, sipping from the edge. Alexander followed, careful to hold the porcelain the way he’d seen others do—thumb pressed against the rim, pinky curled inward.
Steam rose between them, fragrant with pepper and star anise. For a few breaths, neither spoke. The clink of utensils and murmur of other diners filled the silence between them.
Then, Alexander asked, “Does she eat well?”
Haorán glanced at him over the rim of his bowl, one brow lifting.
“She eats,” he said after a moment, “but enjoyment is rare currency in her world.”
He stirred his broth, eyes fixed on the shimmer of oil dancing across the surface. “Do you see her often?”
“I provide escort when required. Few others are allowed that honour.”
Alexander nodded, tension prickling at the back of his neck. He hesitated, then asked, “Is she . . .”
The word stalled.
Happy? Well?
He settled on neither.
“. . . safe?”
Something flickered across Haorán’s face. It wasn’t quite a smile but something drier. A touch sardonic. “Safe enough, for now.”
Alexander’s frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Haorán dipped his tsaiwàn into the bowl to pick up strands of noodles and tilted his head, as if weighing the value of a bite versus the pleasure of a small cruelty.
“The Dowager is set on securing another match for Her Highness. Talk of marriage has returned to the court.”
Alexander froze. “Marriage?” The word came out loud and sharp, but he didn’t care. “To whom?”
“That changes by the week, but the pressure is mounting. The court prefers her wed while the public is still dazzled by her return.” Haorán lifted his tea, watching him over the rim. “They say a list of suitors has been drafted.”
Alexander set his bowl down with more force than necessary. Broth sloshed over the rim.
“Does she wish it?” At this point, his voice sounded more like a growl.
Haorán didn’t respond right away. Silence spooled out. A tactic, no doubt, learned in court to sharpen a pause into a weapon.
The thought of her—a second wedding band slipped onto her hand, another Alpha claiming her name and scent—stilled him. A low, tight heat gathered in his chest. He didn’t have the right, not anymore, but that didn’t stop the feeling.
She was his wife. His Omega. His. Even if the ink had never dried on their future.
“Why do you care so much?” Haorán asked, finally meeting his gaze. Then, after deliberate silence: “It’s not like you’re her husband.”
Alexander’s hands curled into fists against the table.
“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t deserve her before, but I let her go so I could earn the right to try again.”
Across the table, Haorán stared at him—not with surprise or skepticism, just silence. That unreadable calm that made him impossible to anticipate.
Around them, the teahouse swelled with life. Eating rods clicked against porcelain. Someone at a nearby table let out a wheezy laugh. Then finally, the Beta leaned back slightly, arms folding.
“In two weeks,” he began, “the emperor will hold an audience with his people. The two Omega High Princesses will attend.”
The rest of the teahouse blurred. Alexander could barely hear the clink of dishes over the roaring in his ears.
“It’s open to all, to anyone with a grievance,” Haorán paused, then added with an arch of his brow, “or a plea.”
Two weeks.
Alexander’s knuckles whitened where they curled against the table.
Time was already slipping, each second peeling away like bark from a dying tree.
Across from him, Haorán stood. He strapped his sword back to his hip, laid a few crisp notes on the table and, with a flick of his wrist, sent something glinting through the air.
Alexander caught it by instinct. Cool metal bit into his hand. He looked down and found his signet ring on his palm. For weeks now, he’d kept it hidden beneath his shirt, strung on a thin gold chain around his neck. Close. Protected.
Or so he thought.
His gaze snapped up. Haorán was already turning away, his voice light over his shoulder.
“Guard your treasures, Lán mùyan.” A pause, just enough for the cut to land. “Before someone else steals them from under your nose.”
Then, he vanished into the hum of the teahouse.