Chapter 57: Chapter 57: Neutralized
Carlton, ready to throw in the towel on this conversation faster than a royal jester at a courtly duel, felt his blood pressure spike. Kastiel’s eyes had snagged onto Cristian, who’s whispering conspiratorially to Cristyn, both twins unaware they’re about to be drafted into Kastiel’s one-man theatrical production of "I Definitely Don’t Have Feelings For Your Husband: The Musical." A primal, parental instinct surges through Carlton’s veins—the desperate need to shield his youngest from becoming the next unwitting performer in this corridor catastrophe.
His patience, already stretched thinner than the last sheet of palace parchment, finally snaps. The temperature in the corridor plummets several degrees as he fixes Kastiel with a stare so frigid it could flash-freeze a volcanic eruption.
"Kastiel," Carlton enunciates each syllable with surgical precision, voice dropping to a register that makes everyone’s survival instincts scream in warning. "Stop. I told you I trust you... unless you want me to think otherwise and do something to you..."
The threat hovers in the air like the blade of a guillotine. A butterfly flapping its wings three corridors away could be heard in the ensuing silence. Somewhere in the distance, a fly approaching the corridor makes a 180-degree turn mid-flight, its tiny insect brain registering imminent danger with clarity that would impress military strategists.
Kastiel’s complexion transitions from flushed panic to ghostly pallor faster than a chameleon on caffeine. Rowan, standing beside him, achieves a shade of white previously unknown to medical science, the blood draining from his face so rapidly it’s a wonder he remains conscious.
The royal children, blessed with the survival instincts of prey animals, react with coordinated chaos. The triplets—Cristian, Cristyn, and Cristina—activate some latent primate DNA, scaling their older siblings like experienced mountaineers tackling vertical cliffs.
Cristian and Cristyn scramble up Malcolm’s back and waist with the speed and dexterity of squirrels fleeing predators. Malcolm grunts as his center of gravity shifts dramatically, his ten-year-old frame suddenly bearing the weight of two terrified two-year-olds.
Cristina bypasses the climbing stage entirely, launching herself at Helena with such force that the nine-year-old princess staggers backward before stabilizing. The youngest princess clings to her sister’s chest like a koala in a hurricane, face buried in Helena’s shoulder to avoid witnessing whatever glacial punishment their parent might unleash.
Not to be outdone, Nikolai and Austin complete the human fortress, wrapping themselves around whatever remaining exposed parts of Malcolm and Helena they can access. The result transforms the two oldest royal children into bizarre, multi-limbed entities—living armor constructed entirely of frightened younger siblings.
Unexpectedly, the glacial atmosphere shatters like spring ice breaking over a thawing lake when a voice—clear as cathedral bells and twice as innocent—slices through the tension. Kilian, still nestled in Rowan’s protective embrace - his innocent intervention creates a ripple effect through the corridor’s oppressive atmosphere.
"Daddy!!! His Majesty the Empress already believes in you!!! You should thank him~"
Kilian chirps, his cherubic face practically radiating warmth. His eyes—amber pools of childish wisdom—remain fixed on Carlton while his admonishment targets Kastiel. The little boy leans forward in Rowan’s arms, tiny hands clasped together as if preparing to applaud should his daddy actually follow his sage advice.
Rowan’s entire demeanor transforms at the sound of his eldest son’s voice. The color returns to his face in a flush of parental adoration, and his rigid posture melts like ice cream on a summer day. His eyes—previously wide with terror—soften to crinkled crescents of unbridled affection.
The man’s notorious ’Kilian Complex’—an affliction that mysteriously targets only Kilian among his children—activates like a hidden mechanism. The resemblance between Kilian and a younger Kastiel triggers something primal and protective in Rowan that transforms the usually dignified nobleman into a puddle of paternal adoration.
"Darling," Rowan pivots toward Kastiel, emboldened by their son’s intervention, "listen to our son! You should stop doing all that!" A newfound confidence inflects his voice as he straightens his spine. "Our Empress is a smart, wise, mature man, and surely now understands that you were used and framed by Charlotte... stop being stubborn if Empress Carlton still doesn’t forgive you."
Carlton’s analytical mind clicks into overdrive at these revelations—puzzle pieces slotting together with satisfying precision. If the Carlton native to this world stood here now, Kastiel would likely be fleeing down the corridor with sword wounds. That Carlton would have already drawn his ceremonial sword at the first mention of Alaric, hunting Kastiel through the palace corridors, demanding retribution for perceived betrayals. He would sooner believe pigs could fly than accept Kastiel’s innocence.
But current Carlton—the one transported from the original novel—possesses something his counterpart lacked: perspective. Where the other Carlton saw only betrayal, this one perceives the intricate web of manipulation with Charlotte at its center.
No wonder, as everyone else remains trapped in their limited understanding— other Carlton and Alaric from his original world believing Carlton has time-traveled, while this world’s Alaric convinced Carlton suffers from amnesia—he alone perceives the complex truth.
Kastiel performs an elaborate dance of indecision, his eyes ping-ponging between Carlton, Rowan, and Kilian like a spectator at the world’s most stressful tennis match. His survival instincts finally kick in as he executes a maneuver that can only be described as "tactical husband shielding," retreating behind Rowan’s broad back with the practiced ease of someone who’s used his spouse as human furniture before. Only his wide, suspicious eyes and the crown of his head remain visible, giving him the appearance of a particularly anxious meerkat peering from its burrow.
"Your Majesty," his voice quavers from his inadequate hiding place, "are you really not going to question the incident back then? Won’t get angry while slashing me like before? Or are you really not misunderstanding that I still like His Majesty Emperor?"
Meanwhile, through the impromptu fortress of clinging royal offspring, Carlton observes this grown nobleman cowering like a child caught stealing sweets. His analytical mind dissects the situation with surgical precision. If this world’s Carlton truly believed Kastiel guilty, the man would currently be fertilizing the royal gardens rather than standing here with all limbs intact.
The notorious ’pregnant Empress rampage’ had become legendary not only among his children but also among the palace staff, who still whispered about how Carlton had chased Kastiel through three wings of the palace with a ceremonial sword while seven months pregnant with the triplets.
No, this world’s Carlton harbored no genuine belief in Kastiel’s betrayal. His fury stemmed purely from jealousy—the unbearable knowledge that Kastiel had once harbored feelings for Alaric.
Carlton pinches the bridge of his nose so firmly he might permanently alter its shape. A headache pulses behind his temples like a second heartbeat as he struggles to modulate his voice. Eight pairs of innocent eyes watch him with varying degrees of terror and fascination—not the ideal audience for the diplomatic catastrophe unfolding before them.
"I trust you about everything, Kastiel," Carlton states with deliberate flatness, each word measured and precise. "So you don’t have to be afraid anymore..."
Kastiel emerges from behind Rowan like a turtle cautiously extending from its shell, his expression cycling through disbelief, suspicion, and finally tentative relief - though a second later he hides again.
"You... trust me?" The words emerge as if they’re in a foreign language he’s just learning. "Completely? About everything? Even about—" he gestures vaguely toward Alaric’s portrait hanging mockingly on the wall nearby.
Carlton’s thoughts, however, remain far less diplomatic:
Great heavens above, is this truly the hill we’re dying on today? A grown man hiding behind another grown man because I’m NOT trying to skewer him with royal cutlery? The prophecy foretold many challenges in my reign, but "reassuring an anxious confidant that I won’t murder him for past crush" somehow wasn’t mentioned.
Carlton’s mind then takes a sharp left turn into bewilderment as he studies Kastiel’s behavior. Could it be? Was the man actually deriving some perverse pleasure from nearly being skewered like a royal kebab? The pieces click together in Carlton’s mind like a deranged puzzle—Kastiel’s persistent need to mention Alaric, the way he seems almost disappointed when Carlton doesn’t erupt into murderous rage...
Is he... getting something out of this?
Carlton wonders, a new horrified understanding dawning.
Does he secretly enjoy watching me transform into a sword-wielding maniac?
As Kastiel opens his mouth yet again—undoubtedly to offer another self-destructive comment about Alaric—something in Carlton snaps. His gaze darts frantically around the corridor, landing on little Kilian who’s innocently dabbing at his mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. With the reflexes of a man who’s survived multiple assassination attempts and bloody battlefields, Carlton lunges forward, plucks the handkerchief from the startled child’s hand, and in one fluid motion, stuffs it directly into Kastiel’s still-moving mouth.
"Oofu—" Kastiel’s words transform into muffled nonsense as his eyes bulge comically, cheeks puffing out around the improvised gag. His hands hover uncertainly near his face, clearly torn between self-preservation and dignity restoration. When Carlton’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits—a look that has made hardened generals reconsider their life choices—Kastiel’s hands slowly lower. He stands frozen, a human statue with decorative mouth accessories, looking like a peculiar art installation titled "Consequences of Provoking Royalty."
The children stare in fascinated horror, this new development in adult behavior clearly requiring extensive mental cataloging for future reference. Malcolm whispers something that sounds suspiciously like "Can we do that to Lord Humphrey when he starts talking about tax reforms?" to which Helena responds with a solemn nod. The triplets, still clinging to their older siblings, peek out with newfound fascination now that Uncle Kastiel has been effectively silenced.
With the primary source of chaos temporarily neutralized, Carlton pivots smoothly toward his actual target. Rowan clutches Kilian closer to his chest, a living shield against whatever imperial wrath might follow. Carlton’s hand rises, clearly intending to grab Rowan’s collar in that intimidating way that has made countless nobles confess to tax evasion, but the presence of Kilian—eyes wide and innocent—forces him to abort the motion mid-air.
Instead, Carlton leans forward until their faces are uncomfortably close, his voice dropping to a register that makes Rowan consider early retirement.
"Rowan," he enunciates with deadly precision, "I wanted to ask you... who is the temporary duke’s successor now in Hawthorne Dutch... until Austin is old enough...?"
The question hangs in the air like an unsheathed blade, and somewhere behind them, Kastiel makes a muffled sound of confusion around his fabric muzzle...
