[House Veyrath — Dining Chamber — Early Morning]
Morning sunlight spilled through the high lattice windows, illuminating the painted walls and the long cedar table. Bronze bowls gleamed beside plates of sesame flatbread, figs, and dates. A servant poured warm milk into a small clay cup while Vaerun sat beside Seyra, feeding her spoonfuls of barley porridge sweetened with honey.
"Hmmm... hmmmmm... hmm-hmm-hmmmm~~~"
Seyra swung her legs beneath the chair, humming as though she were the priestess of some very important temple.
Vaerun glanced at her. "You are unusually cheerful this morning. Did you finally grow an inch overnight?"
Seyra stopped humming. "Papa, why must you begin every morning by attacking my height?"
"I was asking a question."
"You were insulting me in the shape of a question."
Vaerun offered her another spoonful. "Then I shall ask plainly. What has made you so cheerful?"
Seyra swallowed, lifted her chin, and gave him a dazzling smile. "I am simply glowing with beauty."
"You have porridge on your nose."
"That is not porridge...It is a beauty mark."
"It is beige."
"Natural beauty comes in many forms, Papa."
Vaerun wiped it away with his thumb. Seyra gasped dramatically. "You’ve ruined it."
"I have saved the table."
She waved him off. "It’s fine; I’ll forgive you. After all, you’re my papa."
"How merciful."
"I know, you should be grateful to be blessed to have a daughter like me."
Vaerun smiled softly and fed her another spoonful. "Now tell me what has you sparkling before sunrise."
Seyra sat up straighter; she placed one hand beneath her chin and gave him a smile so innocent it could have fooled a temple statue.
"I always sparkle, Papa. I’m a walking Barbie!"
. . .
. . .
Vaerun stared at her.
"Barbie?"
"Yes." Seyra lifted her chin. "Beautiful, fashionable, and beloved by everyone."
"You are four."
"Four and fabulous."
"You are wearing porridge."
"Fashion is suffering."
A servant standing beside the cedar table lowered her eyes. Her shoulders trembled.
Vaerun said nothing. He simply scooped up another spoonful of barley porridge, sweetened with honey and crushed dates, and held it out.
Seyra accepted it with the dignity of a queen receiving tribute.
The dining chamber glowed in the morning light. Sunlight spilled through the carved lattice windows, catching on the bronze lamps and the blue-glazed tiles that lined the walls. A tray of sesame bread, figs, and dates sat within reach, but Vaerun seemed determined to make sure every spoonful of porridge reached its destination first.
He fed her another bite, then another, and Seyra’s cheeks puffed out. Vaerun glanced at her, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Pig."
Seyra froze.
"Bhwat?!"
The word emerged around a mouthful of porridge. She stared at him, scandalized, while a tiny blob of breakfast threatened to escape her lips. Vaerun’s expression returned to its usual calm. He offered her another spoonful.
Seyra swallowed with great effort.
"Papa. Did you just call me a pig?"
"I said nothing."
He fed her again as she squinted and then accepted the spoonful, glaring at him over it. Vaerun continued as though he were tending to a very noisy, very small royal obligation.
At last, she swallowed and leaned forward.
"What exactly are you planning at Malik’s ceremony, Papa?"
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with. It is a ceremony. There will be speeches, guests, and people pretending they enjoy the speeches."
"That’s tragic."
Vaerun placed another piece of sesame bread on her plate. "Children should not meddle in matters beyond their understanding. Sit, eat, nap, and play."
Seyra huffed. "You make childhood sound like a prison sentence."
"Only when you are awake."
The servant beside them made a strangled sound and abruptly became fascinated by the bronze water jug. Seyra narrowed her eyes at her father. "You’re lucky I love you."
"I am beginning to question that."
Before she could reply, Vaerun added, "We are expecting a guest soon."
Seyra blinked. "A guest?"
"My friend."
She stared at him, then she laughed. Not a polite little giggle. A full, delighted laugh that made her nearly slide off her cushion.
"Oh, come on, Papa. You’re so cold that anyone standing near you in this desert probably starts looking for a winter cloak. You could freeze a date palm. You don’t have friends."
The attendants went very still; one of them coughed into his sleeve. Another suddenly found an urgent reason to inspect the floor.
Vaerun looked at his daughter for a long moment. "I am being bullied by my own child."
"I’m not bullying you. I’m describing you."
"Your descriptions are becoming increasingly unpleasant."
"Because the facts are unpleasant."
He set the spoon down. Seyra took the opportunity to reach for a fig. "Honestly, how could you ever have a friend—"
She stopped, and the fig paused halfway to her mouth. A memory stirred in the back of her mind: a scene from the novel, a name attached to Vaerun’s past, and a relationship she had almost forgotten.
. . .
. . .
’Wait...he does have a friend...or...someone the novel called a friend.’
Ilyra Qadim.
She was a Nareza (countess) of one of Eshkaran’s old noble houses. In the original story, Ilyra had appeared when Vaerun needed advice, offering suggestions he was willing to consider.
Looks like... I am finally meeting someone closer to the male lead this time, but what I did not know was...
***
[House Veyrath—The Same Evening—Later]
...I would also be witnessing a crime against dignity.
. . .
. . .
"Waaahhh... Honey!"
Ravian stumbled into the woman’s arms and clung to her like a shipwrecked sailor who had just spotted land.
"Do you know how much I’ve missed you?"
The woman, tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a knight’s uniform, looked down at him with brown eyes and the weary patience of someone who had rescued the same fool from the same ditch far too many times. Her long black hair was tied neatly behind her back.
She patted his head. "Honey... you look so thin. Have you been working too much? You look like a walking corpse."
Ravian hiccupped, then he cried harder. Vaerun stood beside them, his expression so profoundly exhausted that even the bronze statues lining the courtyard seemed to pity him.
"If someone hears you," he said, "they might think I threaten you with a sword every day."
Ravian lifted his tear-streaked face from his wife’s shoulder.
"DO YOU NOT?!"
The courtyard fell silent; a bird chirped from the roof. Vaerun stared at him. Ravian stared back; his wife continued stroking his hair, apparently unfazed by the fact that her husband had just accused the Azram of daily attempted murder.
"I told you," she murmured to Ravian, "you need to rest more."
"I can’t rest! I have duties!"
"You have dark circles."
"I have responsibilities!"
"You have the complexion of a boiled turnip."
Ravian made a wounded noise and buried his face in her shoulder again. Seyra watched the scene with the same expression. Vaerun wore a flat, deeply troubled stare.
Their eyes remained fixed on the couple. "I understand now...this is why you’re against love, Papa."
Vaerun glanced down at her.
"You finally understand me, my daughter."
"I do." She watched Ravian cling to his wife as though the woman were the last surviving honey cake in Eshkaran. "Love makes people embarrassing."
"Among other things."
Ravian lifted his head again. "I heard that!"
"Good," Vaerun replied. "Then you may also hear this: release my guest before you drown her in your tears."
"She’s my wife!"
"And yet she appears to be surviving."
Ravian gasped, scandalized, as his wife patted his cheek. "Don’t listen to him, honey."
"I’m not listening," Ravian sniffed. "I’m being emotionally supported."
Seyra watched him cling to his wife, then slowly turned to Vaerun, saying, "I shall stay away from love, ten miles away!"
"Make it a hundred," Vaerun replied. "I’m not allowing any man into your life."
Seyra gritted her teeth.
’One hundred miles? That’s not a boundary. That’s a military campaign...’
Before she could argue, the woman beside Ravian stepped forward. Her long black hair was neatly tied back, and the dark uniform of an Imperial commander sat sharply against her shoulders. Brown eyes studied Seyra with quiet warmth.
"You must be Lady Seyra Veyrath, am I correct?"
Seyra blinked.
The woman bowed with effortless grace. "Greetings, Lady Seyra. I am Ilyra Qadim, Commander of the Imperial Guard."
Seyra’s eyes widened.
Commander?
She straightened at once, remembering her manners. "Greetings, Commander Ilyra."
Ilyra smiled. "A pleasure to meet you."
Then she turned toward Vaerun. Her expression softened, not much, but enough for Seyra to notice.
"Greetings, Azram."
Vaerun inclined his head. "Commander."
A brief silence passed between them.
Seyra looked from one to the other.
’Ah. So this is the famous friend; she’s a commander, she’s composed, she’s respectable, and she has somehow survived being friends with Papa.’
Then---
Ilyra’s smile sharpened.
"Now, shall we have a duel?"
. . .
. . .
Seyra stared at them dumbfounded. "Looks like they both survived each other."
Vaerun’s expression did not change, but the air around him seemed to grow a degree colder.
"Here?" he asked.
"Unless you’ve become afraid of losing."
Ravian, who had just been wiping his eyes, immediately looked up. "Oh, this is going to be wonderful."
Ilyra rolled her shoulders, her hand settling near the hilt of her sword. Vaerun regarded her for a long moment and smirked, saying, "Alright."
Seyra stared at the two of them, sensing the sudden, entirely unnecessary murderous intent gathering between these so-called friends.
’What a lovely reunion; they greet each other like friends and then immediately try to kill each other.’
"What a great murderous friendship."