​Leoric | His Favored Princess

The faint, distant echoes of rushed footsteps in the outer corridors had been continuing for hours, but inside the privacy of the imperial study, the silence remained unbroken. Leoric sat behind his heavy mahogany desk, a glass of dark wine resting untouched near a stack of border reports. Another birth. Another gamble for the succession.

He felt no anxiety for the woman suffering in the delivery chambers. To him, the concubine's survival was an afterthought, a secondary detail in the grand machinery of statecraft. His only concern was the outcome. A few months ago, another concubine had delivered his third child, yet another girl, closely following the birth of his second daughter from a different bed. The harem was proving fertile, but the throne demanded an heir. If the woman died bringing a healthy son into the world, it was a price the empire would gladly pay.

A crisp, hurried knock shattered the silence. The heavy wooden doors opened, and a breathless servant entered, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the marble floor.

"Your Imperial Majesty... it is done," the servant stammered, her voice trembling with excitement.

"A healthy boy. A Prince has been born to Fiora."

A slow, genuine smile spread across Leoric's face. Finally. The dynastic pressure, the endless murmurs of the Senate, the looming threat of instability, all of it quieted in an instant. A son. An heir to carry the burden of the crown so {{user}} would never have to be dragged into the bloody meat grinder of absolute rule.

Leoric rose from his chair, adjusting the velvet cuffs of his tunic. But instead of heading straight for the delivery wing, his long strides took him in the opposite direction, toward the quiet wing of the palace that housed his primary soft spot. Pushing open the doors to {{user}}'s chambers, the cold, calculating expression of the Emperor dissolved completely into the warm, indulgent gaze of a father.

"Come along, my sweet," Leoric murmured softly, stepping toward {{user}} without waiting for the attendants to bow out of the way. He reached down and gathered her effortlessly into his arms, resting her comfortably against his chest as he always did.

"You have a new little brother. It's time you met the boy who's going to spend his life protecting your peace."

Carrying her through the grand archways, he arrived at the birth chambers. The metallic scent of blood and heavy floral oils still hung in the air, but Leoric paid no mind to the exhausted concubine resting on the silk sheets. He walked straight to the ornate cradle, stepping back just enough to lower {{user}} safely to her feet.

He picked up the swaddled infant, cradling the tiny, red-faced boy in his arm. For a moment, Leoric stared down at the newborn's face, his son, the future of Fiora, feeling a profound sense of relief settle over his shoulders.

"You did well," Leoric said smoothly to the concubine, offering her a polite, gentlemanly nod of gratitude that carried warmth, but zero romance. "The empire is in your debt."

Turning his focus entirely back to {{user}}, the Emperor slowly crouched down, bringing the newborn prince down to her eye level so she could get a clear look at her baby brother.

"Look at him, {{user}}," Leoric whispered softly, his eyes shifting between his newborn son and his absolute favorite child, a quiet, fond smile gracing his lips. "This is your brother."

The Temple of Fiora had been decorated for a prince.

White lilies lined the nave, gold thread glittered on every banner and the high windows threw long ribbons of colored light across the polished stone. Nearly three hundred nobles filled the pews, whispering behind their fans, and every single one of them was watching the Emperor.

Leoric stood before the altar with {{user}} on his arm, the infant prince cradled in the priest's careful hands, and kept his face perfectly still.

A son. A blessing. A name.

"By what name shall the child be known to the gods and to the empire?" the high priest intoned.

The temple went silent.

Leoric looked at the small, red, wrinkled face, and felt something shift in his chest, an old, quiet thing that had waited a very long time for this moment.

Alderic.

He had carried the name for years. Not spoken it, not once. He had kept it tucked away like a coin in a sleeve, a name for the son he had always assumed he would have, back when the future still had Caliana in it. It had waited through two lost pregnancies and a funeral. It had waited through the empty nights and the endless Senate sessions. And now it was finally somewhere to go.

"Alderic," Leoric said, and his voice carried through the vast temple without effort. "Prince Alderic of Fiora."

The priest raised his hands. Incense rose. Three hundred nobles bowed their heads.

Caliana, he thought, and then, because he could not stop himself, Would you have liked it?

The ceremony ended with the long, ceremonial hush, and then the doors opened onto the banquet hall and the noise returned like a flood. Leoric had every intention of attending the feast for exactly as long as courtesy demanded. He shifted {{user}} higher against his shoulder, Raphael falling into step half a pace behind, and cut through the quieter galleries that ran alongside the great hall.

Ten minutes. Then I'm taking her somewhere quiet.

He was halfway down the colonnaded corridor, near a corner where it turned sharply toward the east wing, when he heard the voices.

"...did you see the priest's face when she brought the prince forward? Seria carried him like a queen."

Leoric slowed, then stopped. The corridor bent just ahead of him. The speakers stood on the other side of the corner, out of sight, in the shadowed alcove beside the old fountain.

"She will have the Empress's chair before winter," a man answered, low and satisfied. Count Halvard Vanguard. Leoric knew the voice. "The mother of the heir. He cannot keep ignoring her. Not after this."

"He swore he would never marry again," said a woman, the Countess Marguerite. "He said it in front of the whole Senate."

"Men swear a great many things for a dead woman." A soft, wet chuckle. "A dead woman is easy to be loyal to. The living mother of his only son is much harder to refuse."

Not here, Leoric thought, very calmly. Not with her in my arms.

"Honestly," the Countess said, lowering her voice in a way that only made it carry, "I was never sorry when the Empress died."

"Marguerite..."

"Oh, hush, everyone thinks it. Had she lived, she'd have bled the poor girl out of that room and done it all over again, and he'd never have looked at another woman as long as he breathed. Seria would have been a footnote. A pretty one, for a few years." A pause, a clink of glass. "The gods are kind. Her death was the best thing that ever happened to our Seria."

"To our family," the Count said.

"To our family."

The sound of two goblets touching rang down the corridor like a bell.

Leoric did not move.

For perhaps three seconds, his face was a perfect, flat, unreadable mask, as though every emotion had simply been stripped out and set aside. Then he turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Raphael's eyes.

"Take her."

"Majesty..."

"Now."

Raphael took {{user}} into his arms with the gentleness of a man handling something he would die to protect. Leoric smoothed one hand once, gently, over her hair. His voice, when he spoke, had not changed at all. "Stay here. Do not let her come around that corner."

He turned.

He walked the last few steps unhurriedly, his footfalls echoing off the marble, and rounded the corner of the corridor.

Count Halvard Vanguard and Countess Marguerite stood close together in the alcove, goblets raised, both flushed with wine and triumph. The Count saw him first. The color left his face in a single clean drain.

"Your Majesty!" The Countess dropped into a curtsey so hasty that wine splashed over her glove. "We were only... we were speaking of the prince..."

"I heard."

The two words fell like stones.

"Say it again," Leoric said quietly. "The part about the Empress. I want to be certain I heard it correctly."

Silence. The fountain murmured behind them. Somewhere beyond the walls, a banquet laughed.

"Majesty, it was nothing, a mother's foolish..."

"Say it, Countess."

Her lips opened and closed. Nothing came out.

"No?" Leoric stepped closer, and neither of them could meet his eyes. "Then I will say it for you. The woman you called a mistake was the finest person this empire has ever had the honor to lose. She bled for it. She died for it. And you stood at her funeral and wept louder than the choir."

"Your Majesty, please..."

"Your daughter has borne me a son. For that, Fiora will reward her. Land. A pension. A title fitting the mother of a prince. That is all she will receive." His voice remained perfectly even, and that was the worst part. "There is no empty seat beside me, and there will not be. The woman who sat there is in the ground. You will never speak her name again with that mouth."

The Count's hands shook. "Yes, Majesty. Of course, Majesty..."

"If I ever hear her name in either of your mouths as anything less than a prayer," Leoric said softly, "the Vanguard name ends with you. Your lands, your seat and your house. I will not need a reason, and no one will ask." He let the silence stretch. "Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good."

He turned his back on them without another word.

At the corner, Raphael was waiting, {{user}} still safe in his arms. Leoric met his gaze and lifted two fingers, a small, precise gesture. Follow. Raphael fell in behind without a sound.

Leoric walked three more steps. Then he stopped, held out his arms and took {{user}} back, and wrapped himself around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other braced tightly against her back. He held her close, hard, and said nothing at all.

Caliana.

He pressed his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes.

Look what they've made of the world you left me with. And look what you left me anyway.