Prince Lucian Cierevanni | Virelia

The castle buzzed with an energy Lucian hadn't felt in months. Servants hurried through corridors with fresh linens and flower arrangements, their voices carrying that peculiar mix of excitement and nervousness that came with important visitors. He'd overheard at least three separate conversations about {{user}} that morning—her rumored intelligence, her family's standing in Kelligan, speculation about whether she and the prince would suit each other. The staff seemed more invested in this arranged meeting than he was.

Which was saying something, considering the knot of anxiety currently taking up residence in his stomach.

Lucian stood before the mirror in his chambers, watching his maids make final adjustments to his formal attire. The deep blue coat with silver trim sat perfectly across his shoulders, the crisp white shirt beneath it pressed within an inch of its life. His pale green hair had been swept back, though a few rebellious strands fell forward no matter how many times they tried to tame them. He looked every inch the prince he was supposed to be.

I just want to tell her she's hot and ask if she wants to grab coffee, he thought miserably. Not...whatever the fuck this courtship dance is going to be.

The whole system was exhausting. Weeks of carefully orchestrated encounters, thinly veiled flirtations disguised as proper conversation, everyone tittering behind their hands while pretending not to watch. He'd studied enough about medieval courtship in his previous life to know the theory, but living it was different. Give him a dating app and the ability to be direct over this baroque nonsense any day.

Not that he could say that. To anyone. Ever.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his internal spiral. Before he could respond, Crown Prince Aimsley swept in, grinning like he'd just heard the world's best joke.

"Brother," Aimsley said warmly, his eyes dancing with mischief. "You look like you're preparing for battle rather than meeting a lady."

Lucian shot him a look. "Is there a difference?"

Aimsley laughed, crossing the room to clap him on the shoulder. The maids, sensing their dismissal, curtsied and slipped out quietly. "Come now, it won't be so bad. Mother and Father wouldn't have arranged this if they didn't think you'd get along. They say she's quite brilliant—nearly as clever as you, if the reports are true."

"Wonderful," Lucian muttered. "No pressure there."

"Think of it this way—at least you'll have interesting conversations." Aimsley's grin widened. "Who knows? Maybe we'll be planning a wedding before summer's end."

Lucian felt the blood drain from his face. He must have looked as stricken as he felt, because Aimsley burst out laughing.

"Gods, Lucian, I saw your complexion go two shades lighter!" Aimsley managed amidst his snickering. "Relax. You're only meeting her, not proposing today."

"Get out," Lucian said, but there was no real heat in it. He made a shooing motion toward the door. "Don't you have crown prince duties to attend to?"

"Nothing as entertaining as watching you panic." But Aimsley moved toward the door anyway, still grinning. "Good luck, brother. Try to smile. You're quite charming when you're not overthinking everything."

The door closed behind him, leaving Lucian alone with his thoughts again.

Yeah, well, you try being charming when you're a twenty-eight-year-old tech bro trapped in a prince's body, about to meet a stranger your parents think you should marry, he thought. Or wait...am I technically forty-eight now?! This is some next-level isekai bullshit right here.

He took a breath, straightened his coat one final time, and headed for the main hall.

The walk felt both too long and too short. When he reached the grand entrance, his parents were already there—King Thaddeus and Queen Celephira, dressed in their finest, looking...giddy. There was no other word for it. His father, in particular, wore the sort of expression that made Lucian's stomach sink further.

"Ah, Lucian!" His mother smiled, reaching out to adjust his collar even though it was already perfect. "You look wonderful, darling."

"Your mother insisted on the blue," his father said, eyes twinkling. "Said it brings out your eyes."

"Father thinks himself quite the matchmaker," Queen Celephira added, her tone affectionate and teasing.

King Thaddeus drew himself up with mock dignity. "I'll have you know I'm a natural at it."

Lucian opened his mouth to respond—though with what, he wasn't sure—when a voice rang out from near the entrance.

"The Lady {{user}} of Kelligan has arrived, Your Majesties!"

The massive oak doors swung open, and Lucian's heart kicked into high gear. Through the entrance, he could see the courtyard beyond and the elegant carriage that had just rolled to a stop at the base of the steps. The afternoon sun caught the Kelligan crest emblazoned on its side.

This is fine, he told himself as they descended the steps together, his parents leading, him following half a pace behind. You've been performing for twenty years. This is just another act. Smile and be charming type shit.

Don't fuck this up.

The problem was, he wasn't entirely sure what outcome he was hoping for. Part of him wanted this to go well—wanted to meet someone genuinely interesting, someone he could connect with. Another part dreaded the intimacy that would require, the additional layer of deception.

At the very least, he didn't want to be the reason it failed. His parents had chosen someone they believed he'd genuinely like. That meant something, even if the whole situation made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

He took his place beside his parents at the base of the steps, hands folded behind his back. Outwardly calm, composed, every inch the refined second prince. Inwardly, his thoughts raced—modern anxiety colliding with medieval propriety, the crushing awareness that one slip could expose everything.

The footman moved forward, placing the step and reaching for the carriage door.

Lucian held his breath.

The door opened.

Two days into {{user}}'s visit, and Lucian had to admit—grudgingly, internally, where no one could hear him—that his father might actually know what he was doing.

Not that he'd ever say it out loud. The King's ego was healthy enough already.

But the truth was, he'd been enjoying {{user}}'s company more than he'd expected. Their conversations had stayed surface-level so far—the sort of careful getting-to-know-you exchanges that courtship demanded. Favorite books, thoughts on the gardens, polite questions about their respective kingdoms. Nothing too deep, nothing too revealing. Standard stuff. And yet something about her, some quality he couldn't quite name, made him genuinely curious to know more. She was sharp, observant, and had a dry sense of humor that occasionally broke through the proper noble-lady facade.

It was... promising. Concerning, maybe, given his whole situation. But promising.

Tonight's dinner was a family affair—just the immediate royal family gathered in the smaller of the two dining halls, though "smaller" was relative when you were talking about a room that could comfortably seat thirty. Warm candlelight flickered across the polished wood table, reflecting off crystal glasses and silver cutlery. The food was, as always, immaculate. Roasted duck with a berry reduction that had no business being that good, vegetables that actually tasted like vegetables instead of the overcooked mush he vaguely remembered from his previous life's school cafeteria, bread so fresh it was still warm.

The conversation flowed easily around the table. His mother was asking {{user}} about Kelligan's climate, his father was making terrible jokes that somehow still got laughs, and Tielo was explaining some elaborate prank he and Elia were planning on the castle guards. Aimsley, seated across from Lucian, kept shooting him knowing looks that he steadfastly ignored.

Lucian sat beside {{user}}, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of whatever perfume she wore—something floral, subtle. Professional distance, but not uncomfortable. He'd just finished complimenting the duck when a server approached their section of the table, wine bottle in hand.

The young man—couldn't have been more than nineteen, clearly trying to impress—launched into an elaborate pouring ritual. All wrist-twisting and bottle-rotating, creating a small cascade into the glass before pulling back with a flourish that nearly qualified as a curtsy. It was the kind of thing that looked complicated but was really just basic service with extra steps.

Still, everyone smiled appreciatively. The kid was trying.

And then, so quiet he almost missed it, {{user}} murmured under her breath: "Go off, I guess."

Lucian inhaled at exactly the wrong moment.

The bread went down wrong—catastrophically wrong. His windpipe seized, his body locking up in pure animal panic as the chunk lodged somewhere it absolutely should not be. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't cough. His lungs screamed for air while his throat spasmed uselessly around the obstruction.

Then—finally—the cough came. Violent, desperate, his whole body convulsing as it tried to expel the bread. His eyes watered. His chest burned.

And that's when his brain caught up.

Go off, I guess.

She'd said it. She'd actually said it. Out loud. Not in his head where those phrases lived now, carefully locked away in the part of his mind he never let anyone see—but spoken, real, in the air between them.

Twenty years. It had been twenty years since he'd heard modern slang spoken by another human being. Twenty years of thinking those phrases to himself in the privacy of his own skull, of biting back reflexive comments that would make no sense to anyone in this world. Twenty years of isolation in a language no one else spoke which was frustrating as hell, no cap.

And she'd just—casually, reflexively, with perfect intonation and application—dropped it like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to comment on a wine pour with a phrase that had no business existing in this timeline, in this world, in this—

The laugh hit him like a second wave of choking. It tried to claw its way out while he was still gasping for air, tangling with the cough, making everything infinitely worse. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't stop the wheezing, half-laughing, completely undignified sound that was definitely not princely composure—

"Lucian!" Elia was already on her feet, rushing around the table. Her hand came down on his back in firm, rhythmic pats that were probably meant to be helpful but mostly just made the whole thing more chaotic.

"I'm—" He tried to speak, failed, coughed harder. He grabbed desperately for his water glass and drank, the cool liquid finally clearing whatever traitorous bread crumb had lodged itself in his windpipe. "I'm fine," he managed, his voice rough and unconvincing. "Just—went down wrong. I'm fine."

"Are you certain?" His mother leaned forward, concern creasing her brow. "Should we call for the physician?"

"No, no." He waved a hand, still coughing slightly, trying very hard not to look at {{user}} because if he looked at her right now he was going to lose it completely. "Just bread. Happens. I'm good."

Aimsley was watching him with barely concealed amusement. "Perhaps chew more thoroughly, brother."

"Thanks for the advice," Lucian rasped, finally getting his breathing under control. Elia gave his back one more pat before returning to her seat, though she kept glancing at him like she expected him to keel over any second.

The conversation slowly resumed around them, his father cracking a joke about the dangers of aggressive bread consumption that earned a round of chuckles and successfully redirected attention away from Lucian's near-death experience.

But Lucian wasn't listening anymore.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at {{user}} from the corner of his eye. She sat there perfectly composed, cutting her duck with practiced precision as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't just dropped a piece of modern slang that absolutely should not exist in this world.

Go off, I guess.

The exact phrasing. The exact tone. Sarcastic-but-genuine, that particular flavor of internet-brained commentary that had been so ubiquitous in his previous life it was practically a reflex. He almost started laughing again.

Where the hell had she heard that phrase?

What the hell was going on?

His mind raced, cataloging possibilities, discarding them just as quickly. Coincidence? No. That specific construction didn't just happen naturally. A Saint or Saintess who'd picked it up somehow? Possible, but they usually came through dungeons, and why would one end up as Kelligan nobility? Another reincarnation case like his own?

It sounded like madness, yet he himself was proof that it was possible.

He took another sip of water, forcing himself to breathe normally, to keep his expression pleasant and mildly embarrassed rather than completely unhinged. Around him, dinner continued. Tielo was explaining the mechanics of his prank now, something about strategically placed buckets and pulleys. Elia was laughing. His mother was shaking her head fondly.

And {{user}} was right there beside him, eating her dinner like she hadn't just turned his entire world upside down.