Chirp…
Chirp, chirp, chirp…
Ah, morning in Wilderwood Capital Mansion—where the birds sang, the air was crisp, and the lingering tension of imminent political chaos settled like a heavy woolen cloak over the grand estate.
The sun, rcifully indifferent to the drama about to unfold, filtered through the towering stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the polished marble floors.
It was the kind of morning that could almost fool one into thinking that everything was peaceful—that is, until you rembered the ticking ti bomb of the Mythical Assembly was set to explode before noon.
Anticipation.
The scent of strong, ticulously brewed coffee wafted through the halls, mingling with the faint aroma of old parchnt and political tension.
Servants moved swiftly but silently, navigating the space with the efficiency of people who had long mastered the art of not being noticed when things were about to get ssy.
And ssy, it would be.
The final judgnt was looming over a list of criminals who had gotten a little too cozy with the Demon Lord—and now it was ti to clean house.
The gentlen’s club, an establishnt whose true activities were far less refined than the na suggested, had already been audited and apprehended by the rebelling nobles of Inkia.
The Loneborn rchant Group, a syndicate with fingers in far too many cursed pies, had been effectively seized by Luminus Kingdom.
The Democratic Teachers, a once-idealistic gathering that had taken an unfortunate turn toward corruption, had been disbanded and arrested, courtesy of Bianca Lumine herself.
And then, of course, there was the grand prize of the day’s spectacle—Rafaye, the King of Inkia.
His cris, his excuses, his desperate attempts at self-preservation—all neatly compiled and waiting to be torn apart by the assembly. The docunts had been gathered, the testimonies noted, and soon, the final verdicts would be handed down by the order of the assembly.
The mansion, a haven of power, strategy, and the occasional passive-aggressive breakfast conversation, was practically thrumming with energy. So prepared for the coming battle with deep contemplation and quiet resolve. Others sharpened their words like knives, ready to slice through any weak defense presented at the Assembly.
And then there were those who simply sat back, sipped their tea, and waited for the show to begin.
Because at the end of the day, there was nothing quite like the thrill of watching the powerful fall.
For example, these two.
The doors creaked open at the sa ti.
Galahad stepped out.
Gawain stepped out.
Both froze. Both raised their eyebrows. Both imdiately regretted life.
Cue the obligatory, throat-clearing ritual.
“Morning, brother.”
“Morning.”
Awkward.
Chirp… chirp, chirp…
Galahad crossed his arms. “You went back to your wife first last night.”
Gawain smirked. “I heard you returned together with Landevale last night.”
A pause. A stare-down.
Two of the last bachelors of the Round Table stood in silent judgnt, silently assessing if the other had finally, finally crossed the line.
Had Gawain managed to charm his new wife into more than just polite company? Had Galahad sohow miraculously bulldozed through Landevale’s defenses?
Then, the real interrogation began.
Gawain scoffed. “You hadn’t done it, right? There’s no way.”
Galahad rolled his eyes. “I know you hadn’t either, you bastard. Don’t act cocky just because you’re married.”
Gawain let out a slow, mocking chuckle. “Ohhh, listen to you talk, Mister Pining For A Century. Be honest, you didn’t even get a kiss, did you, professional yearner?”
Galahad narrowed his eyes. “Excuse ? That’s your problem. You, little proper gentleman, must be too much of a pussy to actually take advantage of your wife, huh?”
Gawain gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “Oho? What do you an? I’ve slept with her!”
Galahad smirked. “Yeah? Just sleeping in the sa room while you’re passed out on the sofa doesn’t count.”
Gawain’s eye twitched. “Is that… projection I hear? You slept on the sofa, huh?”
“You—!”
“You—!”
Both lunged at each other, grabbing each other’s collars in disgust, faces twisted into identical expressions of utter, profound disappointnt.
“Galahad?”
A sleepy voice.
Galahad stiffened.
From behind him, the chamber door cracked open, revealing Landevale—red-haired, adorably yawning, rubbing her eye like she hadn’t quite rejoined the waking world yet. A loose nightgown draped over her fra, and—oh. Oh.
Traces of red marked her neck. And her shoulder.
Landevale blinked. Processed Gawain being there. Then, as if finally realizing her own state, her entire face erupted into crimson flas.
“Galahad, what are you doing?!” she squeaked, slamming the door so fast the wood nearly splintered. “Dummy!”
Galahad’s soul left his body.
anwhile…
“Umm… Lord Gawain?”
A soft voice behind Gawain.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Marissa. Peeking shyly from the door, face bright red. The delicate, proper lady clutched his house robe to cover her chest—oh, and she was definitely hinting at sothing because she added, in the softest, most demure voice imaginable:
“Lord Gawain, please call soone to help clean up?”
A slight tilt of her head. Just enough to make Gawain’s knees tremble. And then, door shut.
Silence.
Silence…
Galahad and Gawain let go of each other’s collars in slow, synchronized motion.
They turned.
They locked eyes.
And then—
SLAP. GRASP.
Their right hands t in the first, most dignified, solid bro handshake of their entire lives.
“Good work, brother!”
“Good work!”
A different door creaked open.
In the midst of their silent brotherly victory, a presence erged.
Galahad and Gawain froze mid-celebration, instinctively stepping aside to make way. A man strode down the hallway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unmistakable.
Imdiately, the two averted their eyes—heads bowing low, lower, lowest.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Gawain bit back a shit-eating grin. Oh, Galahad was suffering. This bastard had finally bedded His Grace’s younger sister, after all.
Aroche Leodegrance barely spared them a glance, rubbing his temples as if their very existence exhausted him. “Morning. Why the hell are you two making such a racket this early?” he grumbled.
The two dipped their heads lower.
“Forgive us, Sir.”
Aroche humd, waving a dismissive hand. “Mm. Good work, the both of you.”
Oh?
Oh.
A hearty pat on the shoulders—both of them. Praise from His Grace? How unexpected!
But then—
Squeeze.
Galahad stiffened.
Aroche’s grip on his shoulder tightened.
“Especially you, Galahad.”
Fucking hell.
Galahad’s entire soul detached from his body. Gawain? Gawain was vibrating with the effort to suppress his laughter.
But Aroche wasn’t done.
“Gawain, you better not ss up your marriage.” He sighed. “Stop being impulsive. Get to know your wife, take care of her properly.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And the both of you—don’t create more problems for His Majesty.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
At last, they dared to glance up. And—
Pink. Shimring. Heart eyes.
…
L—love potion?
Silence.
A shared, horrified realization.
‘Forget about us, Your Grace. You’re about to be His Majesty’s biggest fucking problem.’
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