Chapter 116: A Father’s Argument

Chapter 116: Chapter 116: A Father’s Argument

The question lingered in the room.

Simple.

Direct.

Dangerous.

"Why should I release Marian Valmort from her engagement to my son?"

The Emperor’s gaze remained steady.

Patient.

Waiting.

Duke Valmort did not answer immediately.

Not because he lacked an answer.

Because he had spent weeks preparing for this moment, and somehow none of the speeches he had rehearsed felt appropriate anymore.

Politics seemed inadequate.

Protocol seemed pointless.

The truth, he suspected, would serve him better.

So he gave it.

"Because she asked me to."

The silence that followed was immediate.

The Emperor’s expression did not change.

Yet something flickered briefly in his eyes.

Interest.

Perhaps surprise.

The Duke continued.

"That answer probably sounds insufficient, Your Majesty."

"A little."

The honesty almost made him smile.

Almost.

"I thought so as well."

The Emperor remained silent.

Allowing him to continue.

The Duke folded his hands behind his back.

Carefully.

Measured.

Not because he was nervous.

Because he needed something to do with them.

"If another noble had come to me with such a request, I would have advised patience."

His voice remained calm.

Steady.

"If a political ally had sought my opinion, I would have reminded him of duty."

A pause.

"If a vassal had approached me, I would likely have advised obedience."

The Emperor listened.

Expression unreadable.

The Duke met his gaze.

"But it was my daughter."

Silence.

The words settled between them.

Simple.

Undeniable.

The Emperor leaned back slightly.

"And that changes everything?"

"Yes."

The answer came immediately.

Without hesitation.

Without apology.

"Yes, it does."

The room fell quiet.

The Emperor studied him.

Not as ruler.

As man.

As father.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Because Duke Valmort was not presenting political arguments.

Not yet.

He was presenting something far more troublesome.

Conviction.

The Emperor folded his hands.

"You understand what you are asking."

Not a question.

The Duke inclined his head.

"I do."

"You are asking me to dissolve an engagement that has existed for eighteen years."

"Yes."

"You are asking me to release your daughter from a promise recognized throughout the Empire."

"Yes."

"You are asking me to reject my son’s wishes."

The Duke paused.

Only briefly.

Then:

"No."

The Emperor’s eyebrow rose.

For the first time since the audience began.

The Duke continued.

"I am asking Your Majesty to consider my daughter’s wishes as well."

The silence stretched.

Long.

Measured.

The Emperor tapped a finger lightly against the desk.

A habit Adrian had inherited from him.

"I have considered them."

The Duke believed him.

That was perhaps the most troublesome part.

The Emperor was not dismissive.

Nor was he cruel.

If anything, he suspected the Emperor had thought very carefully about this matter.

Which only made the conversation more difficult.

Because reasonable men were harder to argue against.

The Emperor’s voice remained calm.

"Marian loved Adrian."

There it was.

Not an argument.

A fact.

The Duke nodded.

"She did."

No hesitation.

No denial.

The Emperor watched him.

Waiting.

The Duke understood the unspoken question.

Then what changed?

The problem was that the answer wasn’t simple.

Human beings rarely were.

Still—

"There was a time," the Duke said quietly, "when I believed my daughter would marry your son and spend the rest of her life happy."

The Emperor remained silent.

Listening.

The Duke’s gaze drifted briefly toward the window.

Toward the city beyond.

Toward memories.

"I watched her grow up loving him."

A faint smile touched his lips.

Gone almost immediately.

"Frankly, most of the Empire watched her grow up loving him."

The Emperor almost smiled.

Because that part was undeniably true.

Marian’s affection had never exactly been subtle.

The Duke continued.

"When she was six, she followed him everywhere."

The Emperor’s eyebrow twitched.

"I remember."

"When she was ten, she spoke of him constantly."

"I also remember."

The Duke exhaled slowly.

"When she was fifteen, I stopped worrying whether she loved him."

The room grew quieter.

"Because by then I thought the answer had become obvious."

The Emperor said nothing.

Because he had thought the same thing.

Most people had.

The engagement had seemed inevitable.

Natural.

The future had appeared settled.

Then the Duke spoke again.

And this time his voice carried something heavier.

Something sadder.

"I was wrong."

The words lingered.

The Emperor watched him carefully.

Not because the statement surprised him.

Because of how difficult it had clearly been to reach.

The Duke looked down briefly.

Then back up.

Steady once more.

"Your Majesty, I spent a long time convincing myself this was temporary."

The admission surprised even him.

Perhaps because he had never spoken it aloud.

"I thought she was angry."

A pause.

"I thought she was confused."

Another.

"I thought she would change her mind."

The Emperor remained silent.

Because he had recently heard very similar thoughts from another man.

A younger one.

The Duke laughed once.

Softly.

Without humor.

"Then one day I realized I was no longer trying to understand my daughter."

The room fell silent.

"I was simply waiting for her to become convenient."

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The Duke continued.

"That realization was unpleasant."

"I imagine it was."

The Duke almost smiled.

Almost.

Then the expression vanished.

Because this part mattered.

Perhaps more than anything else.

"My daughter has never been difficult."

The Emperor’s gaze sharpened.

The Duke pressed on.

"She has never demanded much."

True.

"She has never sought power."

Also true.

"She has never cared about titles."

Again true.

The Emperor knew all of this.

Everyone who knew Marian knew it.

The Duke’s voice softened.

"She has spent most of her life doing what was expected of her."

The words seemed to settle heavily in the room.

Because they were true.

Painfully true.

The Duke remembered a little girl trying desperately to make everyone happy.

A teenager carrying responsibilities she had never requested.

A young woman smiling through obligations because she believed that was what good daughters did.

And suddenly he realized how fiercely protective he sounded.

The realization did not bother him.

Not today.

"If she were merely rebelling, I would not be here."

The Emperor remained silent.

Watching.

Listening.

The Duke met his gaze directly.

"If she were acting out of spite, I would not be here."

Another pause.

"If she were acting impulsively, I would not be here."

The room grew still.

"Then why are you here?"

The question arrived quietly.

The Duke’s answer arrived just as quickly.

"Because this is the first thing she has ever truly asked of me."

The silence afterward felt almost tangible.

Heavy.

The Emperor looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And for the first time since the audience began, something shifted.

Not agreement.

Not yet.

Understanding.

The Duke continued.

"My daughter has asked me for many small things throughout her life."

A faint smile appeared.

"Books."

The Emperor’s mouth twitched.

"Ridiculous quantities of books."

The smile vanished.

"But never her future."

The room fell silent again.

The Duke stood straight.

Proud.

Steady.

Certain.

"When she came to me, she wasn’t asking for permission."

His voice lowered.

"She was asking whether I would stand beside her."

The Emperor said nothing.

The Duke understood why.

Because there was nothing simple about that question.

Not for fathers.

Never for fathers.

The Duke held the Emperor’s gaze.

Unwavering.

"My daughter asked me for her future."

The words echoed softly through the room.

Then:

"How could I refuse her?"

Silence.

The Emperor did not answer immediately.

For a long moment neither man spoke.

Two fathers.

Two loyalties.

Two children standing behind them.

And somewhere between them sat the future.

Waiting.