*Phebe's POV*
"What do you mean?"
He asked again, and this time I heard the disappointment beneath the words—the faint edge of disapproval he could not entirely conceal.
Every head turned toward him. The garden fell silent, so suddenly it felt unreal, like the frozen moment in a play before tragedy strikes.
I noticed the exhaustion in him at once. His academy cloak still hung over his shoulders, travel dust clinging faintly to the hem. He had clearly come straight from the gates without stopping to change.
His gaze swept the table briefly before softening as it settled on Rena and me.
He had just returned from the academy, and he had arrived at precisely the wrong moment.
I saw it then—how the truth had already begun to form in his eyes, piecing itself together from half-spoken cruelty and careless laughter. Of all of us, of everyone in the imperial family and the court, Piers was the only one who had been kept in the dark.
The draw.
The fate chosen without him.
My chest tightened. I had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in my head—how I would explain it gently, how I would soften the blow, how I would remind him that duty did not mean disgrace.
I had never imagined it would reach him like this.
In fragments.
In mockery.
He looked betrayed.
Like a sacrificial lamb led forward by hands he trusted.
I opened my mouth. "Piers—"
He did not let me finish.
His gaze locked onto mine, searching, pleading despite
himself.
The garden seemed to hold its breath.
"What she said… is it true?"
"Sister," he asked quietly, "is it true?"
The question landed like a blade.
For a heartbeat, I considered lying. Just one word—no—sharp enough to cut through the moment, gentle enough to spare him. I could explain later. I always did.
I opened my mouth.
Rena moved first.
Her hand struck the table with a crack sharp enough to rattle the porcelain. "Enough," she snapped, rising to her feet. "You've all said far more than you were permitted to."
Several ladies flinched. Lady Anastasia's color drained; Lady Diana stared suddenly at her cup as though it might swallow her whole. Even Isabella, so quick with her tongue moments ago, looked as though she wished to take her words back and lock them away.
They had gone too far—and they knew it.
But Piers did not look at them.
He was still looking at me.
I saw it then: the truth had already found him. Not through proclamation or ceremony, but through pitying glances and careless cruelty. Of everyone in this gathering , he alone had been left ignorant—offered up like something expendable, something to be decided without consent.
A prince, treated as a sacrifice.
forcing my voice to remain steady. "Piers," I began, choosing each word as though it might break if handled poorly, "this is not how you were meant to learn of it."
His jaw tightened.
"So it is true," he said, softly now. Not angry. Worse—hurt. "My fate was decided before I returned."
The silence that followed was heavy, shame-laced. No one laughed. No one spoke.
Rena's fury burned openly. Mine had turned inward.
And in that moment, I knew there would be no gentle explanation—only damage control, and the knowledge that something between us had already been broken.
I rose from my chair, careful and composed—because this was still a tea party, and decorum mattered, even as everything unraveled
."Piers," I said quietly, holding his gaze. "There is a royal draw."
He did not look away.
"It is an old duty," I continued, choosing my words with care. "One that has fallen to the youngest prince for generations."
The garden felt suddenly too still.
"A peasant bride is chosen by lot," I said. "It has always been so. Long before you. Long before us."
I stepped closer. "This is not punishment. It is expectation."
He laughed once—short,
disbelieving.
"So while I trained," he said, voice tight, "tradition decided my life for me."
"The draw has not yet been held,"** I said quickly. "Nothing is final. We meant to tell you properly—"
He shook his head, cutting me off.
The chair scraped sharply against the stone as he stepped back. Porcelain rattled. Someone inhaled sharply.
"Expectation," he echoed. "Another word for being chosen last."
He turned away before I could finish, before I could soften it, before I could make it bearable.
I won't stay," he said, anger now breaking through his restraint, "to hear how this is meant to be my honor."
And then he left.
He walked out of the garden without looking back, cloak swinging behind him, the afternoon peace shattered in his wake.
I remained standing, my hand still half-raised, the truth unfinished.
Around the table, the ladies sat frozen, their tea untouched.
For a moment, no one moved.
Steam still curled lazily from untouched teacups. A spoon lay abandoned against porcelain. The garden birds had resumed their song, unaware of what had just broken among us.
I lowered my hand and turned back to the table.
The ladies avoided my gaze—some out of guilt, others out of calculation. A few still looked startled, as though they had only just realized the weight of their words.
I did not raise my voice.
I did not need to.
"You were invited here as guests," I said calmly, letting my eyes pass over each of them in turn. "Not as commentators on the fate of a prince."
Lady Isabella's lips parted, but no sound followed.
"Tradition is not entertainment," I continued. "And my brother is not a subject for speculation or mockery over tea."
The air grew tight.
"What was said here today," I added, "will go no further."
That was not a request.
I straightened, folding my hands before me. "This gathering is concluded."
Chairs scraped softly as the ladies rose, some hastily, others with forced grace. Apologies were murmured—thin, uncertain—but I acknowledged none of them. The damage had already been done.
As they took their leave, the table was stripped of voices and laughter, leaving only remnants behind—cooling teacups, half-eaten pastries, untouched slices of fruit glistening in the afternoon light, disturbed cushions, and the hollow quiet of a garden pretending nothing had happened, crumbs scattered like evidence of a moment that had gone sour.
When the last of them was gone, I allowed myself one slow breath.
The tea party was over.
And so was my patience.