Madame Cronac's hands trembled as she caught Claudel's arm as the Duchess stepped from the carriage, nearly stumbling.
This was unlike her. Madame Cronac and Salon Arvo had a reputation for flawless service. Dropping expensive opera tickets in front of a valued customer—it was unthinkable.
Her maid retrieved the tickets from the ground, bewildered at her mistress's unusual distraction.
"Are you unwell?" Madame Cronac asked with genuine concern, studying Claudel's drawn face.
"Just a poor night's sleep," Claudel replied with a tired smile. "I had a nightmare."
Madame Cronac's chest tightened. *Did I cause this?*
---
Claudel's unexpected visit to the salon yesterday had been shocking. Kaian had planned to visit today, and Madame Cronac—Kaian's informant and the shadow network manager for Temnes—had been anticipating that reunion for months.
She'd never been to Rowen, despite her position. For nearly a decade, she'd managed the salon while secretly coordinating intelligence. She'd wanted to see Claudel from afar at the Rowen Festival, to observe how the girl had grown, to assess her health after the illness. But Kaian's sharp mind made such reconnaissance risky.
Instead, he'd been summoned to the royal castle, and Claudel had appeared unexpectedly at the salon.
And Madame Cronac, unprepared and without makeup to cover her scars, had startled her so badly that guilt had consumed her since.
Claudel, however, had apologized.
In Oberon's rigid class system, nobles never apologized to commoners. Yet Claudel—raised in a commoner village before becoming a duchess—had offered sincere regret for her reaction.
*I'm sorry I was so surprised when I first saw you.*
Her golden eyes had held genuine contrition. Red hair, golden eyes—like her husband. The coloring Madame Cronac had once loved, before a man with those same features had scarred her so deeply.
Her brother Evan. Claudel's uncle. Vermont.
The hatred she thought unforgettable had crumbled in the face of this girl's kindness.
"Your nightmare," Madame Cronac said gently. "It wasn't because of me, was it?"
"The royal castle bed is just uncomfortable," Claudel offered, easing her guilt with a small lie.
"Would you like medicinal tea?" Madame Cronac asked, seizing the opportunity. "I have an herbal blend that helps with sleep and stress. From my homeland—Flogne village, in the mountains."
Claudel's eyes widened. "Flogne?"
"You know it?"
"I was born there."
The coincidence felt like fate. Madame Cronac had brought medicinal herbs from Flogne specifically, wanting to share them with someone precious. She'd had no idea she was preparing a gift for the girl she'd been wanting to see.
Before Claudel could respond, another carriage pulled up.
Madame Marcel emerged, dressed impeccably in capital fashion, beside a plainly-dressed young woman.
"Madame Cronac!" Madame Marcel called warmly, embracing her old acquaintance. "Rowen suits me so well. You should visit sometime."
It was only when Madame Cronac greeted her that she noticed the young woman staring intently.
"And who is this young lady?" Madame Cronac asked with her professional smile.
The girl's lips trembled. "...Aunt Leonie?"
Madame Cronac's breath caught. Hannah. Her niece. Somehow, impossibly, here in the capital.
---
## The Noble Conference
In the grand conference chamber, local lords were gathered—men who rarely left their territories except for major events like the King's Birthday celebration.
An old nobleman stood, voice booming with indignation. "Liberating serfs is madness! They're property! Who will work the fields if we grant freedom? The Rowen estate's actions will damage all nearby territories!"
Kaian, sitting with an impassive expression, received the right to respond.
"Smart individuals among the serfs will eventually escape regardless of restrictions," he said coolly. "Better to liberate them gradually than to watch only the dull and lazy remain. Farms require intelligence. Serfs need capable leaders. If they believe freedom is earned through honest work, they'll continue farming willingly—not flee to cities."
The reasoning was purely pragmatic. Kaian didn't care about the serfs' welfare the way Claudel, raised among commoners, did. He simply understood that clinging to outdated systems bred resentment and rebellion. Farming tools in desperate hands became weapons.
"Times change," Kaian continued. "Forcing the past upon the present creates only conflict."
Some nobles nodded thoughtfully. Others muttered skepticism, insisting such policies only worked in Rowen's abundant territory.
But Valquiterre, sitting at the head of the table with his customary mild smile, wasn't listening.
Internally, he was seething.
*He shares a room with Claudel.*
For two days in the royal castle, the Duke and Duchess had spent their time together. The servants reported they slept in the same chamber—a real married couple, not a political arrangement of convenience.
Valquiterre had sent Claudel to Kaian with his own hands. The woman he'd met at the lake, who'd captivated him in ways he'd never experienced, now warmed his cousin's bed every night.
*I should have married her myself.*
The thought was bitter, impossible, and utterly consuming.
"Your Majesty," the Minister of Home Affairs prompted. "Your thoughts on serfdom policy?"
Valquiterre forced himself to respond. "Liberating serfs simultaneously reduces labor. While other territories may suffer harvest losses, estate taxes cannot be reduced in kind. Balance must be maintained."
The logic was sound, but his delivery was hollow. He felt sick.
"I'll adjourn for today," Valquiterre announced, exhaustion evident despite the afternoon hour. "We'll continue this discussion at our next meeting."
As nobles filed out, Kaian remained. He studied the King with knowing eyes.
"What's troubling you?" he asked casually. "You haven't concentrated once."
Valquiterre's mask nearly slipped. Few men could read him—but Kaian wasn't most men.
"I couldn't focus on the meeting," Kaian continued with deliberate casualness. "Claudel and I plan to attend an opera tonight. I was thinking about that instead."
At the mention of Claudel's name, Valquiterre felt something twist in his chest.
The opera. The one Madame Cronac had arranged.
*He's taking her. Of course he is.*
Kaian watched the King's expression shift fractionally—a crack in the carefully maintained facade.
"An opera," Valquiterre repeated quietly. "How... domestic of you."
"She's curious about capital culture," Kaian replied, his tone carrying subtle satisfaction. "I'm obliging her."
There was nothing inherently possessive in the statement, yet it was undeniably a claim. *She's mine. I do this for her. I know what she wants.*
Valquiterre felt his blood pressure rise.
"Enjoy the performance," he said coldly, turning away.
Behind him, Kaian's expression remained neutral, but his eyes held something knowing—as if he understood exactly what was troubling the King.
As if he took pleasure in it.
---