The final course arrived with a flourish — silver trays gliding across the hall, each bearing delicate desserts that shimmered under candlelight. Almond tarts with honey glaze, citrus mousse with sugared petals, and a layered chocolate mint cake that stole the breath of every guest.
Francis took one bite.
And paused.
The mint.
Not overpowering — just a whisper, folded into the cream like a secret.
He smiled faintly.
"That's Colden," he murmured.
It was his signature — a touch of mint, always subtle, always unexpected. Francis had taught him that trick when he was just a boy, standing on a stool in the royal kitchen, trying not to spill batter on his boots.
A quiet pride bloomed in Francis's chest.
He looked around the hall, watching nobles devour the desserts with wide eyes and murmured praise. Colden had made his mark — even in absence.
Then came the voice.
"Well," said King Charles, ruler of a neighboring kingdom, his voice booming across the table. "Noir was the finest king I ever knew. His son will have to do providently more to match him."
Francis's smile faded.
A chill ran down his spine.
Noir.
The name still echoed in the halls of memory — the late king, Colden's father, and the man Francis had served with quiet loyalty. The weight of legacy pressed down like a stone.
Francis nodded politely, but his fingers curled slightly around his goblet.
Then Lady Viremont stood.
Her gown rustled like silk over thorns.
"I believe it's time," she said, voice sharp. "To introduce the future of Velloria."
The doors opened.
And in walked Elaine's fiancé.
Francis blinked.
The boy — no, the brat — wore long velvet sleeves despite the summer heat, his hair slicked back with enough oil to fry a tart. He walked like he expected applause, followed by a butler who looked like he'd collapse if someone sneezed too hard.
Viremont beamed. "Prince King."
Francis stared. "His name is… King?"
"Prince King," Viremont repeated, proud as ever.
The boy immediately began tweaking — adjusting his sleeves, sniffing the desserts, poking the mousse with a jeweled spoon.
Francis watched in horror.
This was the man Elaine was being offered to?
A pompous warlock with a title for a name and the grace of a startled goose?
Francis took a long sip of wine.
The dinner concluded with polite applause and forced smiles. The nobles hounded the platters like pigs at a trough, while the foreign royals took small bites, exchanging glances of quiet disbelief.
Francis stood, bowed, and left the hall.
His mind was racing.
And the clock was ticking.