Lucas sat down, smoothing the hem of his sweater almost absently, his eyes flicking to the empty plate in front of him, then to the small, steaming carafe in the center of the table.
Before he could reach for it, the door opened again.
Lucius stepped in like someone who didn't knock anymore. His coat was half-zipped, still catching wind from the east corridor, and a datapad was tucked under one arm, screen glowing faintly with alerts he clearly hadn't read yet. His hair was neat—too neat, the kind of precise that usually meant someone else had done it for him.
His eyes went straight to Lucas. Not to Serathine. Not to Trevor. Just Lucas.
"Good," he said, like the word had been held under his tongue since dawn. "You're awake."
Trevor didn't bother hiding his smirk. "Please tell me you didn't jog across the courtyard for dramatic effect."
Lucius ignored him. Mostly.
"Are you okay?" he asked, taking a cautious but confident step closer. "Did the doctor check in again? Are they still monitoring your vitals remotely? I asked for the data feed but they said it was restricted"—
"Oh gods, here comes the health-monitoring monologue," Trevor muttered, slouched comfortably in his chair, wrist flicking as he scrolled something casual on his own tablet. "Did you run here straight from your fiancée's meditation chamber? You smell like designer incense and emotional avoidance."
Lucius didn't look at him.
"I was passing through."
"You're wearing a ceremonial coat, Lucius."
Serathine raised an eyebrow as she set her cup down. "Was there a parade?"
"She wanted to see the garden," Lucius muttered.
"In heels?" Trevor deadpanned.
Lucius finally turned toward him, tired and resigned. "Do you want to duel me, or submit a complaint form through the family channel like everyone else?"
"I would duel you," Trevor said, "but we both know the last sword fight I saw ended with someone getting a participation medal and an NDA."
Lucas blinked, startled—but not in alarm.
Just… amusement. Quiet. Unfamiliar. Welcome.
Serathine reached for the carafe and poured a fresh cup for him, sliding it toward Lucas with the same elegance she used to sign treaties.
Lucius, meanwhile, returned his full attention to the table's occupant.
"If you need anything," he said, quieter now, expression shifting just enough to read as earnest beneath the layers of court polish, "I'm here. Doesn't matter what time. Doesn't matter who says no. Even if I have to climb through the balcony."
Trevor gave a sharp hum of mock consideration. "Sounds like a threat and a lawsuit."
"With Lucius," Serathine said, sipping calmly, "it's always both."
"I want the promised holiday," Lucas said, voice even and low—anchored by something steadier than jest—and a faint smile, thin and dry, ghosted across his lips as if he wasn't quite sure it had permission to exist.
The room paused.
Trevor glanced up from his tablet, one eyebrow lifting with exaggerated skepticism.
"Now?" he asked, tone dry. "With the imperial menace the second here?"
Lucius didn't dignify that with a full response.
Just a slow blink. The kind reserved for people you couldn't arrest but really, really wanted to.
Lucas didn't hide the flicker of amusement this time. It passed across his face like sunlight filtered through glass—quick, faint, but undeniably there.
Serathine didn't look up. Her tone didn't shift. She didn't need to raise her voice to make the threat sound imperial.
"If either of you manages to ruin breakfast before the croissants arrive," she said, "I'll have you both reassigned to media relations."
Trevor scoffed, setting the tablet aside with the delicate flourish of someone pretending not to be cornered.
"I dare you to order me around after all that happened," he said, lifting his brows. "I've earned at least one diplomatic incident and partial immunity from breakfast politics."
Serathine finally looked at him.
Just once.
"You're in my house," she said evenly.
Trevor blinked.
Lucas watched the exchange, eyebrows barely raised, his cup halfway to his lips.
Lucius, ever helpful, added, "She's not joking. Last time I stayed here and misread the dress code, I ended up listed as a press liaison for the Westmar Expansion Project for six weeks."
"That was you?" Trevor turned to him, scandalized. "I thought they just sent a training drone."
"Same energy," Serathine murmured into her cup.
The kind of laugh that came out before he could swallow it down. The kind that surprised even him.
Trevor blinked, mid-sip, then looked at him with mock suspicion. "Was that joy I heard?"
Lucas shook his head, pressing his fingers to his mouth, trying—and failing—to pull it back.
Lucius, still leaning lightly against the edge of the table, tilted his head with something faintly amused beneath the usual intensity.
"Well," he said, "now we do have to take you on holiday. You're clearly delirious."
Serathine didn't speak right away. She just set her cup down slowly, folded her hands, and watched him laugh like it was something she'd ordered from the heavens and had just now arrived.
When Lucas finally exhaled, breath steady, the corners of his eyes still warm, he looked up and caught her gaze—clear, quiet, unspoken understanding passing between them like something older than words.
"Well," he said, voice still touched with amusement, "by holiday, I meant to be free from duties for a while. Or drama."
Trevor made a small sound of mock disbelief. "You live with Serathine and have me as your breakfast companion. That's ambitious."
Lucius raised a brow. "And you think drama is something that waits politely outside the gates?"
"I don't think it waits at all," Serathine replied dryly. "I think it RSVP'd without our consent and sent a gift basket in advance."
Lucas leaned back slightly in his chair, hands still wrapped around the cooling cup. He wasn't smiling anymore, but the trace of it remained in his posture—in the way he didn't brace for the next sentence. In the way he let himself belong in the room.
"With you two here," he murmured, the words laced with something dry and fond, "I don't think I can escape drama even if I declared diplomatic neutrality."
Trevor gave a modest shrug, sipping his coffee like a saint sipping arsenic. "We're excellent at ruining peace."
Serathine tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch—not in true annoyance, but with the kind of practiced precision that meant she was already two moves ahead.
"That aside—Trevor, you do have your own mansion in the capital. It's bigger than mine. Why are you here?"
Trevor didn't flinch. Just leaned back, wrist draped over the arm of the chair like he had all the time in the Empire.
"You're just bitter I offered more for it," he said, tone light, bored, almost gleeful in its defiance. "But as for why I'm here—well. I thought you'd appreciate someone reminding Lucius what indoor diplomacy looks like."
Lucius didn't look up from his coffee. "If you're referring to the garden incident, I was provoked."
"You scared the ambassador's aide into vomiting," Trevor replied. "By asking how his family felt about bribery in foreign schools."
"I was being polite."
Serathine exhaled through her nose. "This is why I have ulcers."
Trevor grinned, then turned just enough to glance at Lucas.
"But truly—I'm here because we still have to talk about the interest of Nord in the new D'Argente heir."
Lucas stilled.
The weight of the phrase landed with the kind of deliberateness that made it impossible to deflect with charm. Not an heir. Not a possibility. Not you might be important someday.
Just: You already are.
Serathine set her cup down gently.
"So much for a quiet morning."
"I didn't say it wouldn't get loud," Trevor said. "Just that we'd wait until the croissants arrived."