Chapter 112: What do you want?

Chapter 112: Chapter 112: What do you want?

The silence lingered after Adrian’s final words.

"I don’t understand."

Neither of them spoke.

The Emperor remained seated behind his desk.

Adrian sat opposite him.

The city stretched beyond the windows.

Unchanged.

Indifferent.

For several moments, the only sound in the room was the distant ticking of a clock.

Then the Emperor exhaled slowly.

Thoughtfully.

And for the first time since the conversation began, the father receded.

Not completely.

Never completely.

But enough.

He had heard the story.

The emotions.

The regrets.

The mistakes.

Now came the unpleasant part.

Reality.

The Emperor folded his hands.

"The request can be denied."

Adrian looked up.

The statement was simple.

Matter-of-fact.

Not a threat.

Not a promise.

A fact.

"The audience can be delayed."

Silence.

"Duke Valmort can be pressured."

Another pause.

"The matter can remain unresolved for months if necessary."

The Emperor’s gaze never left him.

"The court would support such a decision."

Which was true.

No one would openly oppose the Crown Prince.

Not in a matter like this.

Not when Marian was the one requesting release.

Not when Adrian had done nothing visibly wrong.

The Emperor continued.

"Politically, your position is stronger."

Adrian said nothing.

Because that was also true.

The Emperor leaned back slightly.

Then added:

"Cassian can be reassigned."

The room grew still.

"The capital is not the only place in the Empire that requires capable men."

Silence.

The Emperor watched carefully.

Very carefully.

There.

A reaction.

Small.

Subtle.

But present.

Interesting.

The mention of Cassian had provoked more visible emotion than anything involving Marian.

The Emperor stored the observation away.

Then finally:

"What do you want?"

The question settled between them.

Simple.

Direct.

Not as Emperor.

As father.

What do you want?

The answer came immediately.

Without hesitation.

Without thought.

As though Adrian had known it all along.

"I don’t want to let her go."

The Emperor nodded once.

"I know."

The admission seemed to drain something from Adrian.

Not relief.

Nothing so simple.

Merely exhaustion.

Because saying it aloud made it real.

Made it impossible to hide behind explanations.

Or logic.

Or pride.

That was the truth.

The ugly truth sitting underneath everything else.

The Emperor was silent for several moments.

Then:

"And Marian?"

Adrian frowned.

"What about her?"

"What do you want for her?"

The question caught him off guard.

He had expected discussions of politics.

Of strategy.

Of consequences.

Not this.

The answer came naturally.

Instinctively.

"I don’t want her harmed."

The Emperor wasn’t surprised.

Not remotely.

Not once during the entire conversation had Adrian suggested punishment.

Not once had he spoken of consequences for Marian.

Not once had he expressed anger toward her.

Frustration.

Certainly.

Confusion.

Absolutely.

But not anger.

Interesting.

The Emperor asked another question.

"And Cassian?"

The change was immediate.

Small.

Subtle.

Yet impossible for a father to miss.

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

His eyes hardened.

Not dramatically.

Not enough for most people to notice.

Enough for the Emperor.

Silence stretched.

Then:

"He knew."

The words emerged quietly.

Almost cold.

The Emperor remained silent.

Allowing him to continue.

"He knew she was engaged."

A pause.

"He knew who she was."

Another.

"He knew what she meant."

The room grew quiet.

The Emperor understood immediately.

Not the words.

The difference.

Because Adrian had spent the entire conversation explaining Marian.

Defending Marian.

Excusing Marian.

She had been hurt.

She had been angry.

She had been confused.

She believed she loved Cassian.

Every explanation had been for her.

Not once had Adrian offered the same courtesy to Cassian.

Not once.

And suddenly the Emperor understood something important.

Adrian had already assigned blame.

Not consciously.

Not deliberately.

But he had.

Marian was someone to forgive.

Cassian was not.

The realization settled heavily inside him.

Because it explained everything.

Adrian wasn’t fighting for an engagement.

He was fighting for Marian.

And somewhere deep inside, he still believed she could come back.

That was the difference.

The Emperor folded his hands.

"You believe she made a mistake."

It wasn’t a question.

Adrian’s gaze lowered.

Then:

"Yes."

Simple.

Certain.

The Emperor nodded slowly.

"And Cassian?"

A long silence followed.

Long enough that another man might have avoided answering.

Eventually:

"I don’t know what he was thinking."

The answer sounded honest.

Brutally honest.

"I keep trying to understand it."

His jaw tightened.

"I can’t."

The Emperor watched quietly.

Adrian stared at the floor.

At memories.

At regrets.

At possibilities.

At futures that no longer existed.

Then:

"He should have stayed away."

The words escaped before he could stop them.

The room fell silent.

Adrian closed his eyes briefly.

Because there it was.

The truth.

Not the polished version.

The real one.

"He should have known better."

The Emperor listened.

"He knew who she was."

Another pause.

"He knew she was promised."

The frustration finally surfaced.

Not explosive.

Not loud.

Worse.

Quiet.

Controlled.

Years of discipline wrapped around hurt.

"And he still stepped forward."

The room grew still.

The Emperor understood.

Not because he necessarily agreed.

Because he understood how Adrian saw it.

Cassian had entered through a door Adrian believed should never have been opened.

And once opened—

Everything had changed.

The Emperor remained silent.

Allowing the emotion to settle.

Then finally:

"And if I send him away?"

The question arrived unexpectedly.

Adrian looked up.

The Emperor held his gaze.

Steady.

Calm.

"If I transfer him."

Silence.

"If I remove him from the capital."

Another pause.

"If I separate them."

The room felt smaller.

Heavier.

The Emperor watched carefully.

Waiting.

Adrian’s answer did not come immediately.

For the first time, uncertainty appeared.

Not because he didn’t want it.

Because he had imagined it.

More than once.

Cassian gone.

Distance restored.

Everything returning to the way it had been.

The fantasy was familiar.

Comforting.

Dangerous.

Then Adrian exhaled.

Slowly.

And something strange happened.

For the first time in the entire conversation—

he hesitated.

The Emperor noticed.

Of course he did.

And suddenly the realization struck him.

His son wasn’t imagining a world without Cassian.

He was imagining Marian’s reaction to it.

And that reaction troubled him.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The Emperor leaned back.

The pieces finally beginning to fit together.

Marian.

Cassian.

Adrian.

Not politics.

People.

Always people.

And people were infinitely more difficult than politics.

The silence stretched.

Then finally the Emperor spoke.

Quietly.

Thoughtfully.

"You’re asking me to keep her."

Adrian looked up.

The Emperor’s gaze remained steady.

"Not the engagement."

A pause.

"Her."

The words settled between them.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

For a moment, Adrian couldn’t answer.

Because for the first time, someone had spoken the truth plainly.

Not the engagement.

Not tradition.

Not politics.

Marian.

The woman herself.

And after everything—

all the explanations,

all the arguments,

all the regrets,

all the mistakes—

the answer remained unchanged.

"Yes."

The word was almost a whisper.

Yet somehow it filled the room.

The Emperor closed his eyes briefly.

And for the first time since returning to the capital, a headache threatened.

Because now he understood the problem completely.

His son did not want revenge.

He did not want punishment.

He did not want political victory.

He wanted Marian.

And that was the one thing no Emperor could simply place into another person’s hands.

The room fell silent once more.

Heavy.

Thoughtful.

Dangerous.

And for the first time, the Emperor wondered whether there existed any solution that would not leave someone broken by the end of it.