Second Choice Noble Son: Apparently I’m Stronger Than the Summoned Heroes Side Chapter : The Emperor and His Queen

Emperor POV

The morning sun slipped through the tall, arched windows of the imperial dining hall, scattering light over untouched dishes.

Emperor Bastille Asterion sat alone at a table long enough for thirty, yet the echo of his sigh filled every corner.

Breakfast was quiet now. It always was.

He used to share this hour with Darius Valemont—his childhood friend, his sword, the one man who never bowed to him unless ceremony forced it.

Back then, laughter and argunt alike had filled these halls.

Now… there was only the sound of spoons and regret.

“Your Majesty.”

A group of nobles approached, their silks whispering greed.

One bowed deeply before speaking.

“The treasury council requests your permission to raise provincial taxes again. The noble houses must maintain their status, after all—”

“Denied.” Bastille’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

The nobles froze, exchanging uneasy glances. “Your Majesty… the empire’s expenses—”

Bastille’s hand tightened around his cup. His knuckles went white.

“Valemont never raised taxes. Not once,” he said, voice calm but shaking. “They ruled by giving, not taking. Perhaps you should learn from them before speaking of status.”

“Does the Emperor play favorites now?” one dared to whisper.

A slow breath escaped Bastille. He didn’t shout. He didn’t glare.

He rely lifted a hand, and the guards wordlessly ushered the nobles out of the room.

Their footsteps faded until only silence remained.

He exhaled, long and heavy.

“Favorites, huh…”

The cup in his hand trembled. A single tear fell into the tea.

“I told him he could stop. That he’d done enough,”

Bastille muttered to the empty hall.

“He should’ve ignored that damn promise.

He should’ve… grown old with her instead.”

His gaze drifted toward the golden sunlight bleeding over the marble floor.

He could still see Darius’s back walking away from the capital—Selene at his side, her eyes hollow but defiant.

He’d told himself it was rcy. That exile was better than execution.

But now, months later, rcy felt no different from betrayal.

He brushed the corner of his eye roughly with his thumb.

Then ca another na to haunt him—Lyra.

His secret daughter. His one hidden sin that had blood into light.

“At least you’re safe now,” he whispered, leaning back in his chair.

“She’s probably with you, Darius. Watching over that child of yours.”

His thoughts softened as another image ca: his son, Edmond, smiling nervously beside Elara Valemont.

A rare warmth crossed Bastille’s face.

“That girl will keep him strong. She’s got her father’s fire and her mother’s pride.”

He chuckled quietly, the sound breaking halfway through with a sob.

“At least… at least they’ll have each other.”

The Emperor of the Asterion Empire sat alone in the great hall, sunlight glinting off his crown.

To the world, he was a ruler of unmatched authority.

To himself, he was just a man haunted by the friends he’d failed to keep.

He lifted his tea once more. The reflection that looked back at him was tired, old, and human.

“Darius… when the ti cos,” he murmured softly,

“I’ll make it right. I swear it.”

And for a fleeting mont, the warmth of the sun felt almost like forgiveness.

The evening sun dipped behind the ivory spires of the imperial palace, painting the horizon with gold and blood.

Inside the Emperor’s private chambers, the air was heavy—not with incense or power, but with unspoken words.

Emperor Bastille Asterion sat by the window, his crown set aside on the table beside a half-finished bottle of wine. His fingers traced the rim of the glass, but he hadn’t taken a sip.

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Behind him, soft footsteps echoed.

“Your Majesty, still not resting?” ca a gentle voice, steady yet distant.

The Empress—Queen Suzanne Asterion of Solmaria—stood at the threshold, her pale hair cascading like silver thread.

She was once a holy maiden of the Theocracy of Solmaria, married into the Empire to seal peace between nations of faith and steel.

A union of politics, not affection.

“You’ll make yourself sick if you keep staring out that window,” she murmured, crossing the room. Her gown shimred faintly under the candlelight, pristine as the temples she once served in.

Bastille smiled faintly. “Maybe sickness is the only thing left that’s truly mine.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes—clear, gentle, and tired—settled on the empty chair across from him.

“You’re thinking of him again,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

“Darius,” Bastille whispered. The na left his lips like a prayer he had no right to speak.

“I miss those nights. The taverns, the laughter, the way he’d challenge every noble fool who thought their blade sharper than his tongue.”

He exhaled, voice cracking. “Gods, how I wish I could share a drink with him again. Just once more. No throne. No crown. Just… us.”

Suzanne’s smile was faint and sad. “Then do it, my emperor. You are Bastille before you are Asterion. Go to him. Be who you once were.”

He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head.

“If that were true, love… I’d have gone months ago.”

He leaned back, weary. “These people—these nobles—they smile while counting daggers behind their backs. If I misstep even once, if they sense weakness, they’ll turn this empire into a feast of vultures. And I won’t drag my friend—or his family—into that banquet.”

Suzanne’s tone sharpened, quiet but cutting. “So you’re saying endangering my son is acceptable?”

Bastille looked up sharply. “That’s not what I ant.”

She only gave a brittle smile. “You don’t have to explain. I’ve known for years you never truly loved . I was the peace between nations, not the woman you wanted.”

Her gaze softened with sothing like pity. “You still look at the stars the sa way you did when you were just a prince dreaming of battle—with soone else beside you.”

The Emperor lowered his head. “Suzanne—”

She turned before he could finish. “It’s all right. You gave a son, Bastille. That’s more than most queens receive from a loveless marriage.”

And with that, she left the room in silence, her white gown fluttering like a prayer departing the altar.

Bastille sat alone once more. The sun had long vanished, leaving only the faint glow of the candle beside his untouched glass.

He lifted it finally, staring into the dark liquid as if it could answer him.

“Darius,” he whispered, voice breaking,

“I envy you. You lost your crown, but kept your soul.”

And when he drank, it burned less like wine—

and more like penance

Queen POV

The candlelight shimred against marble pillars, its golden glow tracing the murals of gods long forgotten.

Inside the quiet chapel of the imperial palace, Queen Suzanne Asterion knelt in silence before the altar of Lunis, goddess of light.

No attendants.

No guards.

Just her, the steady hum of silence, and the sound of her own restrained breath.

The chapel had been her one request when she left Solmaria, her holand of radiant faith, to marry a man she had never t.

Back then, she had imagined the Empire of Asterion as a place of strength—

Now, she only saw how easily strength beca cruelty.

Her fingers tightened on her rosary, knuckles pale.

“Forgive , goddess,” she whispered softly.

“For even after all these years, I still do not know if I am praying for peace… or escape.”

A faint wind passed through the stained glass window, carrying the distant echo of court laughter.

She had once been called the Saint of Dawn, yet here, in this palace of shadows, her light was just another candle flickering against marble.

Her thoughts wandered—to Bastille.

The man the world called emperor, but she still saw the boy who had once trembled before the crown.

She had seen the guilt in his eyes when he spoke of Darius Valemont.

And she had seen the longing too—the love that no throne could erase.

Suzanne’s lips trembled into a tired smile.

“I was his peace treaty,” she murmured to herself. “Not his peace.”

Her gaze drifted to a small painting hanging beside the altar—a portrait of Edmond, her son, smiling shyly as a child.

Even in the stillness, she could hear his timid voice, could see the way he hid behind her gown when nobles spoke too loudly.

“You have his kindness, Edmond,” she whispered.

“But not his strength. And maybe… that’s a blessing.”

She rose slowly, brushing the dust from her knees, her reflection caught in the stained glass.

Behind her own image glowed the carved crest of the Empire—the twin lions of Asterion—facing the sun.

A symbol of power, unity, and blood.

Her voice broke in a bitter laugh.

“How poetic,” she said. “The lions devour each other the mont the sun turns away.”

She turned her gaze toward the moonlit courtyard beyond the window. Sowhere far beyond those walls lay the borderlands—the lands of Valemont.

She didn’t know if Bastille’s exiled friends still lived, but part of her prayed they did.

“Lady Selene,” she said quietly. “If your heart still burns with fury, spare it for .

For he may have banished you—but I… let it happen.”

The moonlight cut across her face, softening her expression.

She crossed herself, then whispered one final prayer—not to the gods of Solmaria, but to fate itself.

“Let the sins of the throne end with .

And let our children be free from the promises we couldn’t keep.”

As the candles flickered, her shadow bowed one last ti before the altar.

And for the first ti in years, the Queen of Asterion allowed herself to cry.