Chapter 42: The Things He Didn’t See Coming

"You’ve grown soft, Lioren. Honestly. Utterly, shockingly soft. You merely poked him in the legs? And pinned his hands? What were you doing, preparing a roast chicken?"

Lioren, who was busy smoothing down the front of his newly purchased clothes, stopped, and stared at his sister with wide eyes.

"What on earth did you expect me to do to him instead?"

"An ear," Evelia said promptly, resting her gloved hands on her knees as if proposing the most obvious, sensible solution in the world. "You should have taken one of his ears off for ignoring a direct command from a Grand Duke. It sets a clear tone. It shows discipline."

Lioren scoffed loudly, throwing his hands into the air. "An ear?! Are you out of your mind? If I lop off his ear, how is the miserable rat supposed to hear the questions I intend to ask him down in the cells tonight?"

Evelia rolled her eyes, her silver earrings swaying with the movement of the carriage. "I said one ear, Lioren, not both. Most human beings are equipped with two for a reason. He would still have an entire ear left on his right side to receive your precious questions."

"Oh, nonsense!" Lioren argued back instantly, his green hair bouncing as he leaned forward in his seat. "Have you ever tried interviewing a man who’s bleeding out from the side of his head? He’d be far too busy groaning and clutching his skull to focus on my voice! The man refused to cooperate when he had two perfectly functional ears attached to his head, Evelia. Taking one away isn’t going to suddenly turn him into an eloquent orator!"

Evelia tilted her head, considering his objection for a brief, thoughtful second before tapping her chin with a gloved finger.

"Fine," she conceded lightly. "Perhaps an ear is too messy for your delicate sensibilities. You could have taken the tip of his nose instead. Or an eyebrow. A shaved eyebrow with a small notch, it marks him as a liar for the rest of his natural life, and it leaves his hearing entirely intact."

"A nose tip? Really?"

"It’s practical..."

"It is utterly impractical, absurd, and frankly bizarre!"

From his quiet corner by the narrow carriage window, Xavion sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his eye shifting slowly between the two siblings as the debate raged on.

They were already on their way back to the Roscaire estate after spending most of the afternoon wandering through the capital. What had started as a pleasant outing filled with shopping, pastries, and a leisurely stroll through the market had taken a rather unexpected turn when Lioren and Caldrin cornered the man who’d been following them. Now, with the prisoner on his way to the estate’s cells and the evening drawing closer, Xavion had hoped for a peaceful carriage ride home.

Judging by the ongoing argument over which part of a prisoner’s anatomy made the most practical target, that hope had been rather optimistic.

He had spent years in military encampments. He had listened to veteran generals argue for four hours straight over grain supply routes, siege ladder dimensions, and horse fodder rations. He had heard southern lords debate tax levies until their throats were dry as ash. But he had never, not once in his entire life, witnessed two high-born nobles argue over the exact anatomical mechanics of torturing a captive spy with such breezy enthusiasm.

They spoke of severing ears and shaving eyebrows with the exact same conversational tone one might use to debate whether a roast duck required more thyme or extra garlic. Neither of them raised a fist. Neither of them showed genuine malice toward each other. It was simply an endless, rapid-fire volley of ridiculous assertions and equally ridiculous counter-arguments, and neither Lioren nor Evelia seemed remotely willing to let the other have the final word.

The resemblance is undeniable, Xavion thought quietly to himself, a tiny twitch stirring at the corner of his lips. Terrifying, the both of them.

By the time the carriage finally clattered through the tall, iron gates of the Roscaire estate, the two were actively debating whether removing a man’s left pinky toe would ruin his balance enough to prevent him from escaping a dungeon cell.

"It ruins his center of gravity!" Evelia insisted loudly as the carriage ground to a halt.

"He’s in a cell bound with iron chains, Evelia, he doesn’t have a center of gravity!" Lioren shot back, shoving the door open before the footman could even reach the handle.

The cool, damp night air rushed into the warm cabin, carrying the rich, familiar scent of pine needles, wet stone, and burning woodsmoke from the estate’s massive stone chimneys.

A line of six liveried servants and two junior maids were already waiting near the grand front steps, bowing low as the group stepped out onto the gravel drive. Therin, who had taken a separate carriage behind them with the heavier packages, began directing the staff with sharp, efficient gestures, pointing toward the massive pile of leather boxes, paper-wrapped parcels, and wooden crates stacked high in the luggage boot.

Xavion stepped down onto the gravel, pulling his charcoal cloak tighter around his shoulders as the drizzle caught his hair. He assumed, quite reasonably, that the mountain of boxes being hauled into the main hall consisted entirely of the winter riding boots, tailored shirts, velvet doublets, and personal toiletries Lioren had spent three hours ruthlessly forcing upon him at the market.

"Well," Evelia said, gathering her maroon skirts as she climbed the last few steps to the entrance. She turned back to give Xavion a warm, genuine smile that entirely erased her earlier gruesome debate. "I shall leave you gentlemen to unpack your treasures. I am going to wash the market dust off my hands before dinner. Prince Xavion, it was a genuine pleasure having your company today."

Xavion offered her a low, polite bow. "The pleasure was mine, Lady Evelia. Thank you for the hospitality."

She gave him a brief nod, threw her brother one final, mocking glance, and disappeared through the heavy oak doors into the warm, torch-lit interior of the manor.

Once the servants had carried the bulk of the bags inside, Lioren turned to Xavion, his bright blue eyes twinkling with an odd, suppressed excitement that made him look like a child holding a secret behind his back.

"Right!" Lioren chirped, clapping his hands together briskly. "Let me walk you back to your quarters. I want to ensure the house stewards arranged everything properly while we were out."

"You don’t need to trouble yourself, Lioren," Xavion said gently, shaking his head. "I know the way to my room, and you’ve already spent far too much energy on me today."

"Nonsense! It’s no trouble at all, absolutely zero trouble," Lioren insisted, already taking two long strides up the stone staircase and gesturing for Xavion to follow. "Come along, come along! A proper host always escorts his guests, or in this case, his betrothed."

Xavion let out a soft, quiet exhale, a half-sigh that carried more quiet amusement than annoyance, and followed the tall Duke up the stairs and into the grand, carpeted corridors of the east wing.

When they finally reached the double doors of Xavion’s assigned guest suite, Lioren stepped aside with a grand, sweeping bow of his arm, gesturing toward the brass handle.

"After you, Your Highness," Lioren said, his boyish grin stretching so wide it looked almost painful.

Xavion gave him a cautious, suspicious glance. Something in Lioren’s posture, the tight, eager tension in his shoulders, the way he was bouncing slightly on the balls of his boots, warned Xavion that whatever lay behind that door was not merely a freshly swept floor.

Xavion reached out, turned the heavy brass handle, and pushed the oak door inward.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

His room, which had been spacious, simply decorated, and comfortably practical when he had left it early that morning, looked as though a high-end market bazaar had exploded inside it.

Boxes, trunks, and delicate wooden crates were stacked against every available wall. Packages wrapped in fine parchment and tied with silk ribbons sat on the velvet armchair by the hearth. On the long mahogany writing desk near the window, several small velvet pouches and glass cases had been arranged in neat, deliberate rows.

For one brief, disorienting moment, Xavion wondered whether he had opened the wrong door.

Perhaps this was not his bedroom anymore. Perhaps the servants had mistaken it for a storage room and decided to put every parcel that had entered the Roscaire estate within the past hour. That would explain the boxes. The trunks. The crates. The small army of packages currently occupying his furniture as though they had paid rent.

Xavion stood completely still, his hand still resting on the brass door handle, his breath catching silently in his throat.

Xavion slowly turned his head back, staring at his betrothed with absolute, speechless astonishment, unable to find a single word to bridge the gap.

Behind him, Lioren leaned against the doorframe, watching Xavion inspect the room with a smile he clearly wasn’t even trying to hide. He looked like someone who had spent the entire journey home congratulating himself on a brilliant idea and was now waiting for everyone else to appreciate his genius.

Lioren’s smile grew wider.

"Ta-da!"

He even spread his arms to present the room, looking as proud as a merchant unveiling his finest collection to a potential buyer. Considering the sheer number of boxes, trunks, and packages crammed into the bedroom, the comparison wasn’t entirely unfair. The only difference was that most merchants probably wouldn’t try to sell their entire inventory to a single customer, let alone dump it all into the poor man’s bedroom.

Xavion stared at him, then he looked at those things.

Finally, he turned back to Lioren.

What is all this?

That was the first question that came to mind.

The second followed close behind.

And what in the world is a ta-da?