CHAPTER 70: HELPLESS HUSBAND

After that night, everything began tu blur. It was not supposed to happen again, but it did. Once, then twice, until the sight of her dozing off at his desk became less of an interruption and more of a routine neither of them bothered to correct.

He never told her to stop, and she never asked if she should either. And somewhere between his ink-stained papers and her half-mumbled goodnights, they found a rhythm that did not need words to be justified.

If Levan were to look back on it, he would scarcely believe he had ever allowed himself such things — Her voice in the doorway, her warmth beside him, her breathing threading through the quiet of his study... it all became something he no longer tried to unlearn.

And maybe that was his first mistake.

~×~

The throne room had been bustling since dawn, filled with hurried footsteps, reports exchanged, and grim faces as the soldiers from the Northern region sat together in the presence of the crown prince. A map of Noctharis was spread wide across the long table, red markers pressing against the northern edge.

It had not been long since the wards had fallen. The invisible barrier that once separated their borders from the wilds are still weak, its reconstruction barely underway. But now, this notice arrived. The ink on the repair orders had not yet dried, and already, the North was burning.

"The attack originated from here," one of the Hydra knights explained, pointing to the forest beyond the Northside. "Tracks suggest the beasts emerged from the Fenrir Verge, heading toward the Deyliric Expanse."

Levan’s eyes flared at the report.

The Deyliric Expanse was a vast stretch of endless waters that bordered the northern realm, their world’s own abyss was like an ocean that swallowed the horizon whole. Whispers called it the end of the continent. And now, it seemed, the beginning of something far worse.

It had been years since the last beast sighting, longer still since one dared cross into human borders. Whatever still lurked beyond the Verge had long been quiet, tamed by the wards and the blood pacts that held the balance in place. But now, with the wards fractured and the scent of magic unbound in the air, it was as if the wild had remembered itself and hungered.

Levan stood at the head of the table, hands pressed against the carved wood, his expression cut from stone. His golden eyes lingered on the map longer than necessary, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his thoughts. "Victims?"

"Eight dead, and twelve severly wounded," came the report. "We’ve sent men to contain the area, but the signs..." The knight hesitated, knowing that the next word will irritate the crown prince more than it will frighten him. "...it may be because of the Blithe."

A muscle in Levan’s jaw twitched. For a moment, silence pressed heavier than the news itself.

Of course it would come back to that. The Blithe. That cursed thing that seemed to hate his very existence. He could feel the beginning of a headache pulse behind his temple. The matter was serious, people had died, after all, but at this point, it was becoming less of a looming catastrophe and more of an elaborate joke the world refused to end.

Levan closed his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose as he cracked his neck like that would ease the tension on his shoulders. When he opened them again, the gold in his irises caught the candlelight sharp enough to make the nearest knight straighten on instinct.

"Of course..." He sighed, "How could I forget? The same thing that was apparently in the South since few months ago, in the East since last winter, and in my castle just last week."

The knights froze, exchanging nervous glances to each other. Even Captain Harken went rigid at the sudden comment. He had seen him angry before, but never like a volcano awaiting its time to explode.

Levan veered his gaze towards Harken, his eyes slitting dangerously. "Tell me, Captain," he said mildly, "when do you suppose it sleeps? I would like to send it an apology for occupying so much of its free time."

No one dared to make a noise. Someone coughed, the other hit him to shut him up.

The prince dragged a hand through his hair, the movement too controlled to be casual. "The Blithe this, the Blithe that— as if it doesn’t have an entire kingdom to torment. Is ruining my week its only purpose? If I hear that word one more time, I might start believing it has a personal grudge against me."

He exhaled sharply, jaw ticking as he looked at Harken. "Just once, I’d like to receive a report that doesn’t include that cursed word."

Captain Harken hummed quietly, the kind of sigh that carried years of knowing when to speak and when not to. "With all due respect, Your Highness, if the Blithe is involved, omission won’t change what’s coming. Whether we speak its name or not, it’s already moving."

The room went still again, but differently this time. Levan did not look up at first, only stared at the map as though he could glare the red markers into submission. He knew that, he was just annoyed. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze back to Harken.

"Right," he said finally, his tone flat. "Because why would it ever be anyone else? Of course it’s the Blithe. It couldn’t possibly let me breathe for one damned day."

Harken bowed his head slightly, not daring to answer. He had already said enough.

Then— without warning, the prince laughed.

A quiet, humourless kind of laugh that scraped against the air and made every knight in the room stiffen where they stood. It was not loud. It did not have to be. Something about it was worse. It was the kind of sound that came from a man who had run out of patience, not mercy.

Every Hydra Knight’s hand froze over their hilts, as though the slightest motion might invite ruin. Even the air seemed to still, unwilling to move without permission. And Harken, who had once fought beside the prince and lived, felt the old instinct crawl up his spine, the one that warned when the line between man and monster began to blur.

For all his iron composure, Levan had never smiled. Never laughed. So when he did now, the sound was too quiet and far more terrible than a shout could ever be. It rolled through the room like a crack in the earth, thin and sharp, and every man present knew then that fury had finally found its voice.

"Fine," Levan said, his voice smooth and deadly. "If it’s moving, then so are we."

The silence that followed was so suffocating it could have snapped. No one dared to move, let alone breathe too loudly. The air itself felt heavy that when the doors creaked open, every knight in the room jumped.

Armour clinked, someone swore under their breath, another looked seconds away from fainting. The collective tension cracked like glass, but no one dared to relax, not while the prince was still standing there, all calm fury and unreadable quiet.

It was almost funny. If anyone lived through this meeting, they might even laugh about it later.

Every head snapped toward the sound to see the intruder, already praying for their survival.

Levan’s gaze followed, sharp and dangerous, a look that could cleave silence in two. For one suspended heartbeat, the room braced for blood— only for the tension to die a comically fast death.

Because standing there, haloed by the light of the corridor, was not an assassin or a useless messenger, it was Ilaria. Her hair loose, her smile bright enough to blind the entire room, and in her hands, of all things, was a glass jar filled to the brim with pastel macarons.

"Ah, you’re all here!" she greeted cheerfully, completely unaware of the massacre she had just prevented. "I brought some for everyone~"

The knights just stared, half in awe, half in sheer confusion, unsure how to react to the crown prince’s wife waltzing into a war council with all the brightness of spring.

Levan could not even think. Of course. Of course she would walk in here like it was a tea party.

For a long moment, he could only stare at her as the silence in the room grew unbearable, the kind that creaked louder than the doors had. She stood there all smiles and ribbons with sunlight in her hands while the men who had been preparing for war just gawked.

Levan turned away from the map. "Aria," he said slowly, his voice caught somewhere between irritation and surrender, "you have terrible timing."

But she was already crossing the room, her skirts brushing against the cold marble, the soft click of her steps echoing through the silence the knights did not dare break.

Well, it was Levan’s fault for not including her in the order. He had told the guards to bar everyone from entering. Everyone except his wife. And now, here she was. Beaming like dawn in a room full of thunderclouds, carrying a jar of macarons as if that alone could fix the kingdom’s crises.

She stopped beside him, close enough that the scent of strawberry and sugar from the jar to mingle with the faint ink and steel that clung to him. Tilting her head, she looked up at him with that bright, unbothered smile, making it impossible to remember he had been furious a while ago.

"I thought you and everyone might be in need of something sugary," she chimed, lifting the jar toward him like a peace offering.

He exhaled through his nose, brows furrowing. "You literally brought sweets to a war meeting. It’s not the right time to pester me with this."

"I wasn’t pestering," she shook her head, "you looked like you needed saving."

"Aria," he warned, or at least tried to, because his voice had already softened halfway through her name.

She only smiled, all innocent defiance and honeyed warmth as she returned, "Husband~"

And that was it. The final blow.

He tried... Saints know he tried to school his face back into composure, to be the crown and not the man. But the corner of his mouth betrayed him first, then the silent huff that slipped through before he could swallow it down.

The tension in the room fractured, splintered by the quietest sound imaginable. The room watched as the crown prince of Noctharis lowered his head, hiding the smallest, most helpless smile in his palm.

He had lost. And worse, he did not even mind.