Chapter 97: A Secondary Wife

[Flashback]

The Emperor sat in his seat within the solar, staring down at a stack of state papers, when the quiet entrance herald announced Vincent’s arrival.

As the oak doors clicked shut behind him, the Emperor raised his eyes to find Vincent standing in the center of the room, executing a precise, formal bow.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Vincent addressed him.

The Emperor stood up from his desk and approached the young lord, resting a brief, approving hand on Vincent’s shoulder.

Without a word, he gestured toward the balcony, and the two men walked into the open air. The atmospheric chill of the High palace balcony immediately brushed past them, lifting the dark hair from Vincent’s forehead. The sun was still high, but its glow was tempered by soft clouds, leaving the weather calm and mild.

Turning to face the ruler who had shaped his rise, Vincent bypassed courtly pleasantries entirely. “Regarding your health… what seems to be the real issue?”

“The real issue?” The Emperor queried, tilting his head with a touch of dry, deliberate ignorance. He rested his hands against the stone balustrade, looking out over his domain. “The issue is merely time, my boy. I am an old man, and the curtain is fast falling on my reign. Yet, whatever time I have left, I choose to pass the mantle without leaving my empire in regret.”

Vincent watched the old man carefully.

“…Are you certain, Your Imperial Majesty?”

The Emperor let out a soft, dry chuckle. He tilted his head back slightly, letting the calm afternoon breeze wash over his weathered face as he stared off toward the distant mountain ranges bordering the empire.

High above, a flock of white birds circled lazily against the calm sky.

“What matters is not the nature of the illness,” the Emperor replied smoothly, turning his head to lock eyes with Vincent. “What matters is what happens when the heart of this realm stops beating. It may not look like it, but the court is already fracturing. The councilmen smell blood in the water, and they are preparing for a feast.”

He turned fully to Vincent, resting a heavy look on him. “Tell me… What are your thoughts on taking a secondary wife?”

The question made Vincent’s demeanor drop.

“A secondary wife?”

The Emperor turned away, interlocking his fingers behind his waist. “I recognize that you married Lady Penelope out of personal desire. But desire builds no fortresses in high society. She is merely a baron’s daughter, and I see no political weight she brings to your house. Had you aligned yourself with Lady Catherine instead, the councilmen would be silenced. You would possess a formidable backing rather than carrying a liability into a war where you must now fight to keep two heads on their shoulders.”

A suffocating silence descended over the high balcony.

As the Emperor’s words settled, the atmosphere around Vincent transformed into a cold, terrifying frost. The proposal was so utterly outrageous that a sharp, humorless chuckle broke from his throat.

“A secondary wife?” Vincent repeated, his dark eyes narrowing into steel as he addressed the ruler of the realm. “You speak of political expediency, Your Imperial Majesty, but you underestimate the strength of the woman I chose.”

The Emperor raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed. “She is a minor baron’s daughter, Vincent. In the eyes of this treacherous court, she is nothing more than a glaring target.”

“She is my future Duchess,” Vincent corrected instantly, his tone razor-sharp and leaving no room for debate. “She is the only woman who will ever wear the Devereux crest beside me. I bound my name, my crest, and my soul to Penelope. I will not dishonor her—or demean myself—by bringing a secondary wife into my domain.”

The Emperor quietly studied the lethal shift in the young lord’s posture.

“Penelope is my wife. My only wife,” Vincent stated clearly. “If the councilmen believe her standing makes her vulnerable, let them try to cut through me to reach her. I singlehandedly secured the northern borders, and I carved my own path to this title. I do not need a convenient union to secure my standing, and I have no use for Lady Catherine.”

Vincent held the Emperor’s gaze without a flicker of hesitation.

“If taking the mantle of Duke demands that I betray my vows to my wife, then Your Imperial Majesty may seek another commander to defend your throne. Because while I live, no one, not the council, not the nobility, and not this court, will ever relegate her to my shadow.”

The suffocating silence returned, heavier this time. A cool breeze whipped past the stone balustrade, rustling the fabric of their formal cloaks, but neither man moved.

Instead of ordering the royal guards to take his head for treason, the Emperor simply stared at Vincent. Slow seconds ticked by until, unexpectedly, the dark, severe lines on the monarch’s weathered face softened. A quiet, rasping chuckle escaped his chest, gradually morphing into a soft sigh that seemed to carry the exhaustion of decades spent ruling a treacherous court.

[Flashback ends]

The Emperor leaned back in his seat, his ringed fingers laced together as the memory of his balcony audience with Vincent faded from his thoughts.

The soft, warm aroma of herbal medicine filled the air as a cup containing a dark brown liquid was quietly set beside his papers.

“Is His Imperial Majesty truly concerned about the future Duchess of Vandalia?” his senior court advisor inquired, stepping back into the candlelight.

He was younger than the monarch, but his sharp, perceptive gaze betrayed a lifetime spent mastering the dangerous subtleties of imperial politics.

The Emperor stared absentmindedly into the dark brew. “I confronted Vincent first to measure his resolve, to see if power had made him complacent, or if he would let the high court govern his private heart. A commander who lacks absolute conviction is nothing more than a puppet waiting for an enemy to cut his strings.”

The Emperor shifted his gaze toward his advisor, his voice low and contemplative. “There is an undeniable devotion between them. But if Lady Penelope is indeed the anchor he believes her to be, she must prove herself capable of standing in the tempest beside him.”

The advisor smiled faintly, adjusting his immaculate sleeves with calm composure.

“If I may speak candidly, Your Imperial Majesty,” the advisor murmured, his tone smooth and reassuring, “True strength rarely wears an obvious mantle. Lady Penelope stood before you today, alone and unbefriended in the imperial heart of power, yet she did not falter.”

The Emperor picked up the steaming cup of medicinal tea, swirling the rich brown liquid thoughtfully. The bitter aroma of herbs rose in the quiet air of the solar, reminding him of his own fading time.

“She possesses spirit, I will give her that,” the Emperor conceded, taking a slow sip. “Her eyes carry neither greed nor fear. But spirit alone does not survive the poison of high society, old friend. The councilmen will not strike at Vincent where his armor is thickest; they will aim for her. And now, I have laid the weight of Duke Lucian upon her shoulders as well.”

The advisor bowed his head slightly, a subtle glimmer of confidence in his eyes.

“Then perhaps, Your Imperial Majesty, we should not treat her merely as Lord Vincent’s anchor,” the advisor replied softly. “Perhaps she is the spark that will finally unite the two grand houses. A blade can cut down enemies, but it takes an entirely different kind of strength to forge an alliance.”

The Emperor stared down into his tea, a rare, faint smirk touching his pale lips as the echoes of Penelope’s unwavering declaration echoed in his mind.

“I did not marry Lord Vincent to become his weakness. I have every intention of standing by his side.”

“We shall see,” the Emperor murmured, setting the cup down on the polished dark wood of his desk with a definitive tap.