Chapter 59: Chapter 59: Male beauty
Rowan now experiences the unique educational trauma of a student who confidently raises his hand for every question, only to produce answers so spectacularly wrong they should be preserved for scientific study. First came his catastrophic miscalculation regarding Carlton’s feelings toward Johan—expecting pleased nostalgia but receiving apocalyptic rage—and now this. He’d assumed Carlton would sooner eat his own crown than hear tales of reconciliation with his arch-nemesis, yet here stands the Empress, expression ravenous for information rather than blood.
Academia’s most persistent failure has nothing on Rowan’s current batting average.
A cautious relief washes over him like a tentative spring thaw. Perhaps they might avoid reigniting the infamous cousin feud that once required three regiments and a diplomatic intervention from neighboring kingdoms to contain. The royal treasury still hasn’t recovered from the damages to the western wing of the palace after their last "disagreement."
"Your Majesty..." Rowan begins, unconsciously shifting Kilian to a more comfortable position on his hip, the child’s attention now divided between Carlton’s magnificent fury and a passing butterfly that has somehow survived the emotional climate crisis in the corridor. "So after the war 11 years ago, where Lord Johan fell into the abyss..."
Rowan’s mind supplies unhelpful imagery: Johan plummeting dramatically, possibly accompanied by orchestral music, his cape billowing like theatrical curtains closing on his villainous act.
"He returned 1 year later, at which time His Highness, Prince Malcolm was seriously ill a few months after birth..."
Rowan pauses, swallowing a lump in his throat as ancient anxiety resurfaces. Even now, a decade later, the memory of Malcolm’s tiny form burning with fever makes his paternal heart clench like a fist.
"And... when all the royal physicians were panicking because the Crown Prince’s condition was getting worse, and only the rare herb from the Northern Kingdom—who had betrayed our kingdom after the war—could save him... Johan appeared..."
Rowan halts his narrative, eyes darting nervously across Carlton’s face like a mouse searching for escape routes in a room full of cats. The Empress’s expression has transformed into something more dangerous than rage—absolute neutrality. The complete absence of reaction terrifies Rowan more than any display of anger could. It’s the facial equivalent of the ocean receding before a tsunami—the calm that precedes unprecedented destruction.
"Continue." Carlton’s voice emerges cold and precise, the verbal equivalent of a surgeon’s scalpel. His eyes remain fixed on Rowan’s face, unblinking as a predator tracking movement, while his posture achieves a stillness so complete it borders on unnatural.
"He returned to the kingdom," Rowan continues, his words accelerating like a runaway carriage down a steep hill, "and was immediately arrested by the royal guards. They clapped him in irons with such enthusiasm that the captain’s mustache nearly quivered off his face!"
Rowan’s free hand gesticulates wildly, nearly clipping a passing servant who performs an elegant, practiced dodge—clearly not the first time he’s navigated Rowan’s storytelling radius.
"Despite being tortured in ways that would make professional pain enthusiasts take notes, Lord Johan remained fixated on one demand: an audience with you and the Emperor. The dungeon master reported that even while hanging upside down over a pit of—well, let’s not traumatize little ears—Johan kept repeating your names with the persistence of a town crier with rent due."
Rowan’s eyes grow round as dinner plates as he reaches the narrative climax, his body unconsciously leaning forward as if physically pushed by the momentum of his own tale.
"But Your Majesty, you and Emperor Alaric only descended those dungeon steps two days later, when Prince Malcolm’s fever had risen so high the nursemaids were using his forforehead to boil water for medicinal teas! And no one—absolutely no one—expected what happened next! When Johan finally saw you approach his cell, he yanked at this little pouch—this grimy, travel-stained little thing hanging around his neck like some peasant’s good luck charm—and thrust it through the bars at you with such insistence that three guards nearly impaled him as a precaution!"
Rowan’s free arm pantomimes the dramatic handover, accidentally swatting a decorative vase that a nearby servant saves with a diving catch worthy of the kingdom’s most celebrated cricket matches. The servant rises, bows, and retreats three careful steps beyond Rowan’s theatrical radius.
"Inside that shabby pouch? The Midnight Bloom! The very herb that grows only on the northern cliffs of our enemy’s territory—harvested during the full moon by virgin herbalists or some equally ridiculous requirement—the only cure for the royal infant’s mysterious ailment! The very plant our diplomats had begged for, our spies had failed to steal, and our merchants couldn’t purchase for all the gold in the treasury!"
Kilian bounces in Rowan’s arms, captivated by the storyteller’s animation rather than the content. He claps his tiny hands in delight at particularly emphatic gestures, treating the entire narration as a private puppet show.
"Prince Malcolm was saved by the miracle plant within hours! The apothecaries worked through the night, brewing and distilling with such frantic energy that three of them singed their beards and one accidentally created an elixir that now serves as the palace’s most effective floor polish." Rowan’s voice rises to a triumphant crescendo, his free hand conducting an invisible orchestra. "The prince’s fever broke just as dawn painted the eastern towers, and the royal nursery erupted in celebrations so joyous that even the palace cats abandoned their dignified aloofness to join the festivities!"
"And then," Rowan continues, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper that somehow manages to be louder than his normal speaking voice, "after ensuring Prince Malcolm was safely recovered and sleeping peacefully in his royal cradle, you and Emperor Alaric descended once more into the dungeons. The guards speak of how you dismissed them all with a single imperious wave—" he attempts to demonstrate, nearly releasing Kilian in the process, "—and spent three hours alone with Lord Johan behind that iron door. No one knows what words passed between you three, but when you emerged, the Emperor was nodding thoughtfully, you looked... well, less murderous than usual, Your Majesty... and from that day forward, the legendary feud that had spawned seven epic ballads and one particularly scandalous puppet show was simply... over!"
Rowan concludes his tale with the satisfied air of someone who has just delivered the perfect moral to a bedtime story, his expression radiating the expectation of applause or at minimum, appreciative nods.
Carlton’s brow furrows so deeply it threatens to collapse into a geological formation. The awkwardness that descends upon him feels almost physical, as if someone has draped a particularly heavy and ill-fitting ceremonial robe across his shoulders. Rowan’s fairy-tale ending tone only intensifies his discomfort, the man’s expression so hopefully earnest it would be cruel to crush it—like stepping on a particularly enthusiastic puppy’s tail.
"Wait!" Carlton interjects, one imperial hand raised to halt any further narrative flourishes. "You’re forgetting something... so what misunderstanding are you trying to explain to me?"
"Oh that... the misunderstanding is... I don’t know either...."
The words hang in the corridor like a dropped chandelier suspended in mid-air before the inevitable crash. Rowan’s expression remains beatifically innocent, his face a portrait of childlike confusion that somehow makes Kilian—an actual child—look worldly and cynical by comparison.
The silence that follows could be measured in glacial ages rather than seconds. Temperature in the corridor plummets so dramatically that a passing servant’s tea freezes mid-pour, the liquid transmuting into an elegant arc of ice that shatters upon impact with the floor.
"...........?"
Carlton’s previous facade of imperial composure fractures like thin ice beneath a charging war elephant. The carefully maintained neutrality dissolves into something far more dangerous—the tranquil eye of a hurricane passing to reveal the full destructive force of the storm. A vein pulses at his temple with such vigor it appears to be attempting escape from his royal person altogether, perhaps seeking asylum in a more hospitable diplomatic climate.
"So after you told me quite a long story," Carlton enunciates each syllable with the precision of a master swordsmith hammering a blade, "complete with unnecessary gestures which nearly resulted in the destruction of an old dynasty vase worth approximately the cumulative lifetime earnings of your entire genetic line extending three generations into the future... you want to say you didn’t know, huh?"
The flatness of his tone achieves a remarkable physical property—it somehow manages to be simultaneously arctic in temperature yet volcanic in pressure. Nearby houseplants visibly wilt, their leaves curling inward as if attempting to protect themselves from the verbal frost.
Rowan’s face performs an impressive color transformation, cycling through shades of pink, white, and a peculiar greenish hue previously documented only in certain deep-sea creatures. Sweat materializes on his forehead with such sudden abundance it seems less like a physiological response and more like a magical summoning.
"I... I told you that only you, the Emperor, and Lord Johan spoke about the misunderstanding!" Rowan’s voice achieves a pitch that causes distant dogs to howl in sympathetic resonance. "I thought you understood, Your Majesty! All I know is that it has to do with the late Duke Caelian, your father and Lord Johan’s parents!!!"
The words spill from him with the desperate velocity of someone emptying pockets before being tossed overboard. His arms tighten protectively around Kilian as if prepared to use the child as both shield and flotation device in the coming storm.
Every pair of eyes in the corridor—from Carlton’s narrowed imperial gaze to the wide-eyed stare of the youngest servant—fixes on Rowan with expressions ranging from disbelief to secondhand embarrassment. Even Kilian, whose understanding of court politics extends primarily to knowing which nobles provide the best sweets, regards Rowan with the disappointed judgment of someone who expected better storytelling standards.
The collective look could be translated as sophisticated adult version of "Are you actually kidding me right now?" The silent accusation hangs in the air: Who begins a dramatic revelation about a secret misunderstanding, delivers an extended narrative complete with theatrical flourishes and near-destruction of priceless artifacts, only to arrive at the critical revelation with all the satisfying conclusion of a sneeze that fails to materialize?
It’s the narrative equivalent of climbing a mountain only to discover the promised spectacular view is obscured by fog—or more accurately, by the storyteller’s own admitted ignorance. Rowan has essentially recreated the frustration of every deathbed scene in theatrical history where the dying patriarch gasps "The truth is..." before expiring mid-revelation, leaving heirs clutching their pearls and audiences clutching their programs in unified frustration.
Carlton’s right eye develops a twitch so pronounced it could be used to signal ships in distress.
Kilian also puffs out his cheeks in exasperation, his small hands placed dramatically on his hips despite still being held in his father’s arms. The gesture transforms him into a miniature nobleman expressing profound disappointment at subpar service.
"Father... you’re making us curious..."
The six-year-old’s protest lands with the devastating precision of a seasoned diplomat, his childish indignation somehow more damning than Carlton’s imperial fury. Even developing minds understand the cardinal sin of narrative incompletion—the storytelling equivalent of serving a feast but withholding dessert.
Meanwhile, the royal triplets have formed their own parliament of judgment. Having migrated away from their eldest sibling during Rowan’s increasingly dubious tale, they now huddle in a conspiratorial triangle of toddler disapproval. Their matching outfits only enhance the effect of a unified front against storytelling malpractice.
Cristian leans toward his sisters, his voice a stage whisper that carries with the acoustic efficiency typical of children attempting discretion:
"Uncle Rowan is good at telling stories but the ending is so bad... no wonder our daddy is angry..." The wisdom in his two-year-old assessment belies his age, as if he’s channeling the collective frustration of audiences throughout literary history.
Cristina and Cristyn nod in solemn agreement, their synchronized head movements resembling metronomic precision. Cristina adjusts her miniature tiara that’s slightly too large for her head while Cristyn absently twirls a lock of hair, both maintaining the grave expressions of theater critics at a particularly disappointing opening night.
Even Kastiel, mouth still efficiently muffled by Carlton’s improvised royal censorship via handkerchief, manages to communicate volumes through his eyes alone. His gaze contains multitudes—disappointment, secondhand embarrassment, and the particular brand of marital exasperation that silently asks, "How did I marry someone who would build narrative tension only to abandon it at the summit?" His eyebrows perform a complex dance of judgment, the right one rising in question while the left flattens in disapproval.
Rowan’s soul seems to visibly shrink within his mortal frame. The weight of accumulated disappointment from every pair of eyes—from imperial to infantile—presses down upon him with the force of the entire royal archives. A peculiar heat rises behind his eyes as he confronts the devastating realization that he has somehow achieved the impossible: united the entire imperial household, from sovereign to smallest subject, in perfect consensus regarding his narrative inadequacy.
Why is it, he wonders with growing despair, that today has transformed into an unending series of missteps? Each attempt to right his course seems only to propel him further into disaster, as if the very fabric of the universe has decided that Rowan shall not know peace. Most crushing of all is the double betrayal from his own family unit—Kastiel’s silent condemnation and Kilian’s verbal mutiny striking twin blows to his already battered confidence.
Even Carlton’s frigid imperial displeasure—a force known to freeze fountains mid-flow and cause courtiers to develop spontaneous cases of diplomatic illnesses requiring immediate retreat to country estates—feels almost secondary compared to the devastating weight of his son’s disapproval and his husband’s judging stare.
"Huh? Why are you all gathered here? Darling, you’re here too?"
Alaric’s entrance shatters the frozen tableau like a hammer to glass, his imperial presence sweeping through the corridor with the casual dominance of a lion strolling into its territory. The dark hair frames his sculpted features in perfect disarray—the kind that suggests not carelessness but an aesthetic so naturally superior it defies conventional grooming. The golden eyes flash with curiosity and warmth, transforming instantaneously to confusion as they scan the peculiar scene before him.
His melodic baritone reverberates through the corridor, causing several advisors trailing in his wake to collide into each other like dominoes when he abruptly halts. They scatter diplomatic documents in an impromptu confetti shower, then frantically gather them while pretending this choreographed disaster was intentional all along.
Alaric’s mind races through potential explanations for this unprecedented gathering—a surprise birthday celebration perhaps? No, his birthday passed 3 months ago with that memorable incident involving the fire-breather and the unfortunately flammable ceremonial drapes. A coup? Unlikely, as coups rarely include small children and nobles typically don’t bring their offspring to overthrow monarchies.
With the effortless grace of someone accustomed to commanding armies, he crosses the space in strides that somehow manage to be both purposeful and languid. His ceremonial cape billows behind him with suspicious dramatic timing, as if a dedicated servant’s sole purpose is to follow the Emperor with a portable fan for optimalcape theatrics.
The tableau before him defies immediate comprehension: Carlton radiating murderous intent with clinical precision; Kastiel gagged like a diplomatic hostage during failed negotiations; Rowan’s face cycling through emotional states faster than the royal weather vane in spring; the children formed into what appears to be a miniature tribunal of judgment; and various servants frozen in dramatic poses of interrupted service—one still holding the rescued vase in a death grip that’s whitened his knuckles to the color of fine porcelain.
Alaric’s attention narrows first on Kastiel’s disheveled appearance— Kastiel’s mere presence within striking distance of Carlton would trigger an immediate sword-drawing, chase-through-the-palace scenario that the royal guards have codified into their training manual as ’Routine Diplomatic Exercise #7’. But Carlton remains unmoved, his sword undrawn, and Kastiel remarkably un-impaled.
Oh, the amnesia! Of course!
His darling empress doesn’t remember that he considers Kastiel’s continued respiration a personal affront to imperial dignity. The revelation illuminates Alaric’s expression, a sunrise of understanding breaking across his handsome features with such radiance that three servants instinctively shield their eyes.
This epiphany promptly evaporates as his attention shifts to the handkerchief secured in Kastiel’s mouth - but this observation barely registers before Alaric’s focus magnetizes to Carlton, his true north, his imperial compass rose.
With the practiced ease of someone who routinely defuses international incidents between breakfast and lunch, Alaric slides behind Carlton, arms encircling his waist in a possessive gesture that has caused diplomatic incidents in fourteen countries. One hand splays protectively across Carlton’s still-flat abdomen, the touch reverent yet casual, as if contact with his consort is both sacred ritual and natural necessity.
"What’s wrong, darling? Don’t be so angry, it’s not good for our baby..."
His voice drops to a velvet murmur, lips close enough to Carlton’s ear that the words become an intimate secret rather than a public announcement, despite being perfectly audible to every straining ear in the corridor.
"Wow, you’re pregnant again, cousin? Oh, I mean... Your Majesty the Empress..."
A voice slices through the crowded corridor, resonating with aristocratic drawl and the faintest touch of something more dangerous beneath—like velvet wrapped around a blade.
The temperature in the palace corridor, which had just begun recovering from Carlton’s frost, plummets anew. But this chill carries a different quality—less the imperial winter of Carlton’s rage and more the otherworldly cold of encountering something not quite mortal.
From behind the cluster of advisors emerges a figure that seems to bend light around himself—less walking than flowing into existence. The nobles part instinctively, creating a path not through any command but through sheer magnetic presence. Cascading blue hair falls like water, catching the afternoon sun streaming through high windows and fracturing it into prismatic shards.
One eye remains hidden beneath an eyepatch of fine black silk embroidered with silver thread so delicate it appears to shift like smoke when he moves. The visible eye, however, compensates magnificently—a silver iris that seems to capture and reflect light like a polished mirror, framed by lashes so lush and lengthy they cast actual shadows upon his cheek when he blinks.
His features exist in that rare anatomical territory where masculine and feminine beauty achieve perfect equilibrium—sharp enough to cut diplomatic ties but soft enough to inspire sonnets about the curve of his jawline. The overall effect is less like looking at a person and more like witnessing a particularly convincing illusion that might vanish if observed too directly.
Standing beside Alaric—himself considered the kingdom’s premier example of male beauty—Johan doesn’t compete so much as offer an alternative aesthetic thesis statement. Where Alaric embodies regal power and golden-hued dominance, Johan presents ethereal, almost otherworldly perfection, like a sculptor’s fantasy given impossible life.
The combined effect of both men in the same visual field forces three junior advisors to avert their eyes to avoid aesthetic overload, their mortal retinas clearly unprepared for such concentrated handsomeness. In the harsh visual mathematics of the corridor, even the objectively attractive courtiers are reduced to the approximate appearance of squids caught in unflattering lighting.
Carlton’s response comes as a barely audible murmur, the name emerging from his lips not as a question or exclamation but as a complex emotional equation with too many variables to solve.
"..... Johan..."
