Gareth had never imagined that a scheme years in the making carefully laid, carefully kept would be unraveled by a blind man at a vegetable stall before it had even properly begun.
"Unbelievable," he said, and then laughed, because there was nothing else to do with it. The laugh came out wrong too sharp, too high. The composed aristocratic bearing he had spent his whole life cultivating crumbled off him all at once, leaving something uglier underneath.
Who could explain this to him?
Who could tell him how Ethan Ashford had simply wandered over, opened his mouth, and in the space of one conversation dismantled years of work?
Gareth reached for something, anything near enough to use.
He never got the chance.
Vivienne didn't speak. She didn't explain herself or issue a warning. She simply raised one hand and pressed her palm outward, and Gareth's spiritual power was crushed flat and locked. He dropped to the ground like something with the bones removed, twisting against the dirt, unable to rise.
The Officials in the market who had quietly supported Gareth felt the cold move through them all at once.
Anyone with eyes could see it was over for him.
The Captain exhaled through his nose. For all that Her Majesty was young and a woman, her willingness to act without hesitation had always been something else entirely.
"Spiritual energy — just for a moment," Ethan murmured, sensing the flicker. But it was already gone, dissipated cleanly. He shook his head. A cultivator passing through, maybe. He let it go.
He turned back toward Gareth — who was face-down on the ground, unable to speak, unable to move — and offered his final piece of advice with complete sincerity.
"You should really take your family and leave Ashenvale. The Duke has the ambition, but not the depth. To challenge a full kingdom, he'll have to conscript everyone — men, women, young, old, cultivator or not. When that war comes, every household in Ashenvale will be hanging white mourning cloth from the door. It'll be a tragedy for ordinary people."
He genuinely meant it.
Gareth's eyes were fixed on him. The fury in them was absolute.
The blind man — who had no idea his advice had already ended the mission, already put Gareth on the ground, already reduced the Duke's grand plan to ash — was standing there expressing concern for innocent Ashenvale citizens.
If his mouth hadn't been sealed, Gareth would have cursed him until he ran out of words, and then exposed the Queen's identity for good measure.
Among the Officials listening from the market edges, more than a few were rattled.
Another prophecy?
The Duke of Ashenvale intended to drain his entire duchy — every able body, every resource — in a bid for the throne?
Even Vivienne found herself turning this over seriously. It warranted consideration.
"I'll take my leave." Ethan gave Vivienne a polite nod in her general direction and turned to go, vegetables tucked under his arm.
"I'll walk back with you." Vivienne looked at him for a moment — something quietly curious in her expression — and fell into step beside him.
Ethan turned his head. "Good. I'll cook. You can see if it's to your taste."
"Fine," Vivienne said.
They moved through the market side by side, easy and unhurried, the space between them comfortable. To anyone watching, they looked like a pair who had been walking together for years.
On the ground, Gareth watched them go.
The Officials, servants, and attendants scattered throughout the market — all of them playing their village roles — watched Ethan's retreating figure with expressions that had quietly shifted. The contempt from before was gone. Something more careful had replaced it.
"Take him. I'll conduct the interrogation myself." Greymoor made a short gesture.
Armored soldiers materialized from the side streets and escorted Gareth away toward the Ministry of Justice.
Greymoor stood in the lane a moment longer, watching the direction Ethan had gone, his hand moving absently to his beard.
"A time of great upheaval approaches," he said slowly, "and a Sage steps into it. Could it be that the Mandate of Heaven favors Goldmere?"
He paused, revising this.
"Or perhaps the more accurate reading is this: because Goldmere has Her Majesty, the Sage who appears once every three thousand years has been drawn here."
General Aldric Stormwall — Minister of War and Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Army — stepped out from a shimmer in the air where he had been listening unseen, and said without ceremony:
"The histories say a Sage comprehends the Heavenly Dao and must move with it, not against it. That means he cannot cultivate the way a fighter does. If the King-Consort is truly a Sage, he has at most a hundred mortal years."
He let that land, then continued with the bluntness that had always defined him:
"Then use him while we have him. Launch the war of unification now. Let the Sage's predictions lead the army through every kingdom, and it's finished."
Greymoor was more moved by this than he expected. He hadn't arrived at the idea himself, and the fact that the General had beaten him to it was mildly irritating.
"Further verification first," he said, with dignity. "Once it is confirmed beyond doubt that the King-Consort is a true Sage — then the campaign begins."
The Cottage — the Queen's private quarters within the palace grounds.
Thin smoke rose from the kitchen chimney. In a few minutes, the smell that followed was rich enough to reach the courtyard.
Ethan moved through the kitchen without hesitation — hands finding each jar and measure by feel, weighing portions with relaxed precision, balancing oil and salt and seasoning by instinct rather than sight.
"Have a taste." He carried the last dish out, set it on the table — braised short ribs — and untied his apron with a satisfied expression.
Vivienne looked at the table. Then she looked at Lily. Color everywhere, steam rising, the smell impossible to argue with.
"This way of cooking," she said. "I've never seen it."
She picked up her fork, cut a piece of the tender braised pork and tried it.
The fat and lean had balanced perfectly — it dissolved the moment it hit her tongue, rich and clean at once.
"That's remarkable." Her expression opened up — just briefly, just a little, like a window catching morning light.
Ethan didn't see it. He had never seen her face, had no idea whether she was plain or striking, and that absence of knowledge had always made it easy to be natural around her.
"What do you call this dish?" Vivienne's eyes were still bright with it.
"Braised ribs," Ethan said. "If you want it again sometime, just say so."
"Good." She touched the corner of her mouth with a napkin, caught herself looking slightly too eager, and reassembled her composure with quiet efficiency.
She had eaten food prepared by the finest palace chefs her entire life. None of it had tasted like this. The technique was something she had no name for.
From behind Vivienne, a small sound broke the silence.
Lily's stomach had made its opinion known. She was staring at the table with an expression of helpless longing.
"Sit down," Ethan said, already pulling out the chair beside him. "We're not standing on ceremony here."
Lily shook her head quickly and began to step back.
"Sit." Ethan caught her sleeve, steered her firmly into the seat, and set a plate in front of her. "Eat. Don't be polite about it."
Lily glanced at Vivienne. Vivienne gave the smallest nod.
Lily picked up her fork, took one careful bite and gave Ethan a silent thumbs-up, eyes bright.
Then she remembered he couldn't see it, stuck her tongue out at her own forgetfulness, and whispered, "It's really good."
Half an hour later, both women had quietly worked through most of what was on the table.
Lily sat back and pressed one hand to her stomach with an expression of deep personal satisfaction.
Vivienne set down her cup.
"Ethan."
He looked toward her.
"I want to know your thoughts on Goldmere's future." She paused. "And what is your opinion of its Queen — Vivienne?"