Light breeze drifted through the meticulously maintained gardens. A gazebo sat elegantly over a pond, its gilded walls catching the evening sun like something out of a seasoned poet's memoir. Carefully pruned bushes cradled blooming roses—each a deep, velvety red, bred to perfection. This was, after all, the famed Red Rose Garden of the palace—better known as the Emperor's favorite spot for tea.
"Two sugars... and jasmine. Just how you like it," Aiden murmured, sliding a porcelain teacup across the table toward Elliott, who accepted it with a small smile.
"Sometimes, I feel like you can read minds, Aide. You always know exactly what I want."
"Considering you take the same thing every day except when it rains, it's not exactly complex sorcery," Aiden replied dryly, though there was an unmistakable fondness in his tone.
Elliott chuckled. "I suppose that just makes you observant, then."
The air was thick with the scent of roses as the sky deepened into a dusky orange. Aiden had taken to feeding the fish, tossing crumbs into the pond with casual grace. As much as he claimed Elliott's koi were an inconvenience, he was always the first to feed them. Elliott's lips curled in quiet amusement as he watched the scene unfold.
Aiden—he'd grown so much. It felt like only yesterday he was a wide-eyed child who had just lost his parents, wary of strangers, clinging to Elliott during stormy nights because he couldn't sleep. Elliott didn't know when that child had disappeared. When had Aiden grown taller than him? He wore a training outfit now, fresh from sword practice, and he filled it out well. Stronger than Elliott, certainly—he didn't have the same physical limitations. A small pang of pride swelled in Elliott's chest. This was his son. The boy he raised.
Aiden, oblivious to the older man's thoughts, continued throwing bread to the fish. He was used to Elliott falling silent mid-conversation, lost in his mind. A small scoff escaped him. Elliott still saw him as the kid afraid of thunderstorms. Father and son? Don't make him laugh. They had never truly felt like father and son. From the beginning, Elliott treated him like an equal, inviting him to council meetings even as a child, asking his opinion, listening seriously. Elliott didn't command like a parent; he negotiated, reasoned. Like an equal.
"You're getting old," Aiden remarked suddenly. His tone was teasing, but the barb was light. "You've got that old-man-thinking face on. Like you're about to start a sentence with, 'Back in my day…'"
Elliott snorted. "Well, young man, I'll have you know—back in my day, people respected their fathers."
Clack.
Aiden set down his teacup with a little more force than necessary. Under his breath, he muttered, "—adopted father."
"Hm?" Elliott looked up, not catching it. "What was that?"
"Nothing. You're not even that much older than me."
Elliott arched an eyebrow but let it go. "Well, I am more than a decade older than you, Aiden."
"Ten years, seven months," Aiden corrected instantly. "You make it sound like it's a chasm."
Elliott blinked. Precise, as always. He should've expected that.
They fell into a comfortable silence, watching the sun melt lower into the horizon. The birdsong that had filled the background gradually faded as the birds returned to their nests. Two maids arrived quietly to clear the now-stale snacks, replacing them with fresh ones—lemon cookies and chocolate-glazed pastries. Elliott had always been against excessive preparation and insisted that the staff wait for their orders rather than preparing an entire spread.
"Your Majesty, I apologize for the interruption."
A guard approached. Aiden's jaw tensed when he recognized him—it was Sir Galen. It tensed further when he saw Elliott's warm smile in return. Well, maybe Sir Galen could be—purely by accident, of course—reassigned to dungeon duty. Nothing personal.
With Elliott's nod of permission, Galen continued. "Prime Minister Keslar requests an audience, Your Majesty."
"Right now?" Aiden scowled. Everyone knew evening tea was sacred—almost ritualistic—and not to be interrupted with politics. He crossed his arms, clearly annoyed. "Ugh. Why's the old man here now?"
Elliott offered a gentle chide, though his smile remained. "Don't speak like that. Lord Keslar wouldn't interrupt unless it was important." He turned back to Sir Galen. "Grant him permission."