41 - Friends
Grand Duchess Darelene did, in fact, request medicinal tea.
By the time the servants cleared the last of the dessert plates, the atmosphere in the dining hall had settled into something far calmer than anyone would have expected after such a chaotic discussion.
Ironically, dinner ended peacefully. No swords were drawn. No wars were declared. And Mariana managed to finish the strawberry cake.
Which, considering the circumstances, felt like a small personal victory. The servants bowed and began clearing the table. Chairs scraped lightly across the polished floor as the Vernon family stood.
Grand Duke Maximus looked far less explosive than earlier. But that did not mean the matter was finished. Far from it. He turned toward his sons. “Eirwen. Aguerico. Alistair.” All three straightened immediately. “Follow me to the study.”
Aguerico grinned. “Finally.”
Eirwen sighed quietly, already anticipating another lengthy strategic discussion. Alistair simply nodded.
Maximus glanced briefly toward Mariana. His voice softened slightly. “Rest tonight.”
It was the closest thing to reassurance he could offer. Then the Grand Duke turned and strode toward the large doors leading deeper into the estate. His three sons followed behind him.
Aguerico still muttering something about imperial princes and neutrality. Eirwen calmly countering every argument. Alistair silent as always. The moment the doors closed behind them, the entire hall seemed quieter.
Darelene exhaled slowly. “Saints preserve me.” She rubbed her temple again.
Mariana stood beside her silently. “Are you alright, Mother?”
Darelene gave a faint smile. “I will be.” Her gaze softened as she looked at her daughter. “You had a difficult day.” Before Mariana could react, Darelene stepped closer and gently kissed her forehead. “Good night, my child.”
Mariana blinked. “… good night, Mother.”
Darelene gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Then she turned toward the staircase leading to the upper floors of the estate. The chambers she shared with Maximus awaited. And, more importantly, a letter needed to be written.
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The Grand Duchess of Forebros sat at her writing desk later that night. A single candle illuminated the room. The estate was quiet now. Most of the household had already retired.
Only the distant footsteps of night guards echoed faintly through the halls. Darelene dipped her quill into ink. For a moment, she did not write. Instead, she stared at the blank parchment.
“… it has been a long time.”
Her voice was quiet. Almost nostalgic. The recipient of the letter was written carefully at the top.
Her Imperial Majesty, Empress of the Empire.
But in Darelene’s mind, she saw someone else. A younger woman. Years ago. Back when the current Empress had still been the Crown Princess. Back when they had both been young.
Darelene leaned back slightly.
Memories surfaced like gentle waves. The eastern border of the Empire. The vast estate of House Kylin. She had not always been the Grand Duchess of Forebros.
Once, she had simply been Darelene Cerys Kylin. The second daughter of the Marquis of Kylin. A powerful noble family that guarded the Empire’s eastern frontier. And during those years, she had met the Crown Princess. The future Empress.
The two of them had been introduced during a spring gathering of noble families. At first, it had been formal. Polite. But the Crown Princess had never been fond of stiff court etiquette.
Within weeks, they had become inseparable. Darelene smiled faintly at the memory. The two of them riding horses across the fields. Sneaking pastries from the kitchen during late-night conversations. Laughing at court gossip.
Back then, the Empire had felt simpler. There had been no wars. No political tension. Just two young women dreaming about the future. Darelene finally lowered the quill onto the parchment. Her writing flowed smoothly.
To my dearest friend.
The words felt strange after so many years of formal correspondence. But she continued.
It has been far too long since we last spoke without the weight of titles between us.
Her quill paused briefly. Then resumed.
Do you remember the spring festival at the Kylin estate? You were still the Crown Princess then. And I was merely the troublesome second daughter of a marquis.
A faint smile touched her lips.
You once told me that when we both had children, we should arrange their engagement.
The memory was vivid. They had been sitting beneath a cherry tree. Both barely older than girls. Laughing. Dreaming.
The Crown Princess had teased, “If I have a son and you have a daughter, they’ll be perfect for each other.”
Darelene had laughed and agreed without thinking. Back then it had meant nothing. Just youthful imagination. But time had passed.
The Crown Princess had become Empress. Darelene had married Maximus Einarr Galbraith la Vernon. And now, the Crown Prince had stood in a public hall and declared that engagement as if it were already law.
Darelene’s expression grew wry.
Your son has inherited your boldness.
She continued writing.
Today, Crown Prince Zafiel publicly announced that my daughter Mariana is his fiancée.
The quill scratched lightly against the parchment.
You and I both know no formal arrangement has ever been made.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
While I appreciate the Crown Prince’s intervention against the Temple today, his declaration has caused considerable chaos.
Darelene dipped the quill into ink again.
As his mother—and my long-time friend—I ask that you speak with him. Perhaps remind him that engagements between noble houses require discussion before announcement.
Her tone softened near the end.
I hope you are well. It has been many years since we last spoke as friends rather than political figures. Perhaps one day we might share tea again as we once did.
She signed the letter carefully.
Darelene Cerys Kylin la Vernon.
Grand Duchess of Forebros.
But for a moment, she was simply Darelene again. The girl who once laughed beneath cherry blossoms with the future Empress.
Darelene folded the letter and sealed it with wax.
Tomorrow, it would be sent to the Imperial capital. To Luxor. To her old friend. And hopefully, to the one person capable of scolding Crown Prince Zafiel without starting a war.