CHAPTER 91: TOO TIRED TO LIFT A PEN

[Rynthall Estate, Living room]

Silas let out the kind of sigh that could only be forged from years of emotional trauma and absurd family situations.

"So... Why didn’t you come back to the Empire?" he asked, voice tight. "Where were you all these years? If you were alive... why were we told you were dead?"

Theoran, now lazily lounging with Elysia on his lap like a war veteran enjoying his last cup of tea, sighed as though Silas had just asked him to recount the plot of a three-hour opera.

"Well... while I was traveling north, some wild bear—yes, an actual bear—decided to crash our carriage. The driver died; may he rest in peace. I got thrown into a bush, mildly bleeding and mildly unconscious. Then, some villagers found me, patched me up, and fed me suspicious stew for three weeks straight."

Silas blinked. "...And then?"

Theoran raised an eyebrow. "Well, I thought, ’Hey... maybe I’ll just stay here. It’s peaceful. No politics. No paperwork. No soul-crushing responsibilities.’ It was a rather lovely escape from reality."

"You could have sent a letter," Silas deadpanned.

"I was too tired to lift a pen," Theoran replied, shameless.

. . .

. . .

There was a long, horrified pause.

Then—

"ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE ACTUALLY MY FATHER?" Silas exploded, throwing up his hands. "DO YOU KNOW WE PLANNED A FUNERAL FOR YOU? YOU WERE DECLARED DEAD IN EVERY DOCUMENT KNOWN TO MANKIND! DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND

THE MOUNTAINS OF ADMINISTRATIVE HELL I HAD TO CLIMB TO REPLACE YOUR ABSENCE—?!"

Lucein, ever the stabilizing force, gently patted Silas’s back like he was a malfunctioning kettle. "There, there... breathe, silas..."

Theoran simply blinked, unimpressed. "Tch. Can’t even handle a little extra paperwork for your poor, nearly eaten father? What an ungrateful son I raised."

Meanwhile, Elysia had taken the opportunity to grab a lock of her grandfather’s long, graying hair. She giggled, happily trying to stuff it into her mouth.

"Ah-ah—no, no, no," Theoran quickly pulled his hair away, grimacing. "I haven’t washed this in days, my love. I’m not feeding you that kind of ancestral legacy."

Then he turned toward Alphanso with the dramatic elegance of a returning king. "Is my room ready, dear butler?"

Alphanso gave a graceful bow. "Yes, my lord."

"Excellent," Theoran stood up like he was performing on stage, still cradling Elysia. "I shall take a bath. A long one. Possibly with scented oils. The good kind."

Lucein stood as well. "It’s time to feed her."

Theoran hesitated. His arms clung tighter to Elysia as though handing her over would shatter his soul.

"...After you feed her," he said with immense gravity, "I want her back. Promise me that, my sweet child-bearer."

Lucein laughed nervously. "Oh—yes! Sure, of course. Definitely. Borrowed baby policy, I get it."

Theoran looked like he was parting from his reason to live. He gently handed Elysia back to Lucien with the careful sorrow of a soldier surrendering his sword. "Goodbye, my most precious joy. Grandpa will return soon—cleaner, but emotionally the same."

Then his eyes turned to Silas. The jovial twinkle in them disappeared for a second. His tone dipped—deeper, serious.

"And you," he said, voice almost low enough to command storms. "There’s something you need to know. Meet me after my bath."

Silas, still processing the absurdity of the past ten minutes, narrowed his eyes. Something in his father’s voice made his stomach twist.

"...Alright," he said cautiously.

With that, Theoran dramatically turned on his heel, muttering to himself, "Where are my rose oils... I deserve them after surviving long journey, trauma, and an ungrateful heir..."

Silas dropped onto the couch like a man who had lived ten lives in one morning. Lucein sat beside him, holding Elysia, who cooed and waved her little fists.

"...Your family’s insane," Lucein whispered.

Silas closed his eyes. "You married into it."

Elysia sneezed adorably.

***

[Lucein’s Chamber, Later]

Elysia was peacefully latched onto Lucien’s chest, suckling like she was trying to drain his soul out along with the milk. Her tiny hand rested dramatically on his collarbone, her crimson eyes fixed—unblinkingly—on her mother like she was judging her for something only babies could understand.

Lucien shifted slightly on the velvet couch, cradling her while absently petting her wild black curls. He blinked. Once. Twice.

"...I never really asked about Lucien’s parents..." he murmured to himself, his voice trailing off as the realization slowly smacked him across the face like a forgotten royal decree.

He blinked again, now staring at the wall like it had answers. "I mean—I know there’s an uncle and aunt... and a cousin, Seraphina..."

His eyes widened a bit, Elysia still suckling like a tiny vacuum cleaner. "...But where are the actual parents?! Like the OG creators of Lucien?! How do I not know this?! I transmigrated, yes—but still! I’ve been here for years!"

He gently pulled a blanket over Elysia’s legs, her stare still soul-piercing. "You’re judging me, aren’t you?" he whispered to her.

Elysia gave a small grunt.

He dramatically leaned his head back with a groan. "Maybe I should ask Marcel—" Then immediately tensed. "No, wait, no no no. Bad idea. Very bad idea."

He rolled his eyes, doing a mocking impression, "’Oh no, Master Lucien, how could you forget something so important?! Do you feel unwell? Are you under a curse? Should I write to the temple? Shall I summon the royal physicians?!’"

Lucien dragged a hand over his face. "Gods. He’ll give himself a stroke."

Then suddenly, his face lit up. "Ah! Seraphina!"

He sat upright as much as Elysia’s feeding position would allow.

"I should write to her. She’s not a screamer like Marcel. She’s calm. Smart. Elegant. Possibly hiding five thousand secrets, but who isn’t these days?"

Elysia made a small hiccuping noise and detached herself with a loud pop, looking satisfied and mildly sleepy, like she had won a duel.

Lucien looked down at her and smiled. "Yes, yes, little bloodsucker. You’ve done well."

He gently shifted her in his arms and said, "Right, next step—write to Seraphina."

And he wrote a letter to Seraphina saying, "Elysia is missing you." He didn’t write much because...he knew once she reads this letter, she will come immediately.

***

[Theoran’s Chamber, Later]

Silas pushed open the door to Theoran’s chamber, already exhaling in exhaustion.

Theoran was fully dressed, cloak draped with royal precision, gloved hands tightening on his walking stick as he turned to the door. He squinted immediately. "Where... is my granddaughter?"

Silas didn’t even glance up. He collapsed onto the nearest couch with a dramatic flop. "It’s her nap time. She’s asleep. Peacefully."

Theoran groaned loudly, a deep, theatrical groan that could’ve echoed through the halls. "Tch! I miss her already. She’s the only one in this entire bloodline I love!"

Silas leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You said there was something I needed to know. What is it?"

Theoran’s humor faded. He moved slowly toward his armchair and lowered himself with the kind of groan that made it sound like the whole world had offended his spine. "It’s about... the North."

Silas straightened slightly. "What happened there?"

Theoran inhaled deeply, steepling his fingers under his chin like a villain in a third-rate drama. "Something is not right up there... I could feel it in my bones the moment I stepped foot in that snow-infested tundra."

Silas raised a brow. "You have arthritis. You feel everything in your bones."

Theoran ignored him. "There’s a... a silence. A wrongness. The air itself felt too clean. Too quiet. And when I tried to dig deeper—question some local ministers, poke around the ledgers, ask some guards—I found... nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," Theoran repeated, voice low and sharp. "As if someone wiped it all clean. Records—gone. Ledgers—burned. Witnesses—poof, vanished into the snow. Even the damn tavern gossip had nothing to say! You know how impossible that is?"

Silas frowned now. "You think it’s... sabotage?"

"I think," Theoran said, dragging out every syllable like he was chewing on them, "someone is hiding something. And it’s big. The North was never the most obedient region in the realm, but this... this was something else. The enemy kingdom... that snake pit to the east... I wouldn’t put it past them to be stirring things behind our backs."

Silas leaned back, arms crossed, expression darkening. "You want me to investigate?"

Theoran didn’t answer immediately. He merely leaned forward, fingers laced under his chin, eyes glinting with something unreadable. Then came the smirk—half proud king, half mischievous grandfather.

"No," Theoran said slowly, drawing out the word like a seasoned actor. "I want you to send someone else first. A whisper in the wind, not a thunderstorm. If you show up suddenly, boy, they’ll go scurrying like roaches in the light."

Silas exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "So... spies."

"Loyal spies. With quiet feet and sharper ears," Theoran added, tilting his head, still watching him. "I need shadows. Not swords."

Silas nodded, though a grim look settled in his eyes. "Fine. I’ll arrange it... But I hope to the stars it’s not something big."

Theoran didn’t answer.

He just stared at the floor for a long moment.

And for the first time in years, Silas felt a rare weight settle between them—

An omen.

Something was coming.

And whatever it was... it wasn’t small.