Chapter 443. Ten Seconds of Humanity (and a Stolen Pastry)

Chapter 443: 443. Ten Seconds of Humanity (and a Stolen Pastry)

William pressed his back against the cold stone pillar, his breath held tight in his chest. Through the narrow gap between the masonry and the doorway, he watched the boy, a teenager, perhaps sixteen, whose knuckles were white from gripping the silver tray.

The cup rattled against the saucer, a frantic, metallic staccato that betrayed the boy’s terror.

Alden never raised his voice. That was the true horror of him.

He spoke with the detached calm of a man reciting a grocery list, his tone devoid of any heat or rage. Yet, that clinical indifference crushed the boy more effectively than any shouting could.

The boy seemed to be physically shrinking, his spine curving inward as if trying to become small enough to vanish into the floorboards.

’He doesn’t even hate him,’ William thought bitterly, his jaw clenching. ’He doesn’t even see him as human enough to hate.’

’To Alden, he’s just a malfunctioning tool.’

Involuntary muscle memory betrayed him. William shifted his weight to adjust his stance, and the sole of his boot scraped against the flagstone with a sound that seemed thunderous in the confined gallery.

Before the echo of the scrape had even died away, William witnessed something that made his skin crawl: Alden’s face transformed.

It was instantaneous and it was supernatural. William watched it happen because he was already braced for it.

The flat, dead line of Alden’s mouth lifted into a pleasant curve. The glacial stillness in his eyes thawed into a warm, inviting light.

His shoulders dropped, relaxing as if someone had suddenly cut a tension wire.

By the time William deliberately stepped out from behind the pillar, the Prince looked like a man caught in the middle of sharing a delightful joke with a friend. The entire metamorphosis had taken less than a heartbeat.

"Instructor Wade." Alden turned, his hands open in a gesture of harmless openness. "Good morning."

"What a surprise to find you in these dusty passages." His voice was now rich, melodic, and utterly convincing. "Please, forgive the scene."

"I was just telling our young friend here that while his tea is excellent, his timing requires a touch more refinement."

"We all have our lessons to learn, don’t we?"

With terrifying casualness, Alden reached out and clapped the boy on the shoulder. It was a gesture of apparent mentorship, warm and paternal.

But William saw it. He saw the way the boy flinched, a micro tremor that rippled through his entire frame, a reflexive spasm of pure terror that anyone else would have dismissed as nervousness.

"I’d say that’s fair, Your Highness," William said, his voice steady despite the venom coiling in his gut.

He forced himself to adopt the mask of the disciplined soldier, the polite instructor who accepted authority without question. "I’m terrible at timing myself..."

"Ask anyone in the training yard; I’m always three steps behind the rhythm."

Alden laughed a rich, genuine sound that would have convinced any bystander that he was the kindest man in the kingdom. It was exactly the laugh he wanted to give, the perfect response to William’s self-deprecating deflection.

"I will make a point of remembering that, Instructor... Do enjoy the rest of your morning."

With a courteous nod, Alden turned and strode down the gallery. His footsteps faded with measured confidence, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of expensive cologne and the lingering chill of his presence.

William waited.

He stood motionless, letting the silence of the corridor settle like dust, until he was certain the Prince was well beyond hearing. Only then did he turn his attention to the boy.

Piers looked as though he might collapse. His chest was heaving in shallow, ragged breaths, and his eyes were fixed on the floor as if staring at the spot where he expected the next blow to fall.

"What’s your name?" William asked, his voice dropping the formal edge of an instructor and softening into something human.

"Piers, sir," the boy whispered.

The word cracked. He didn’t dare look up.

"Piers." William stepped closer, offering a small, grounding presence. "Listen to me."

"The kitchens really are a long walk from here... I’ve timed it myself while passing through."

"No one can sprint that distance without losing heat."

The boy finally risked a glance up, his eyes red-rimmed and bewildered.

William reached out to a passing tray carried by another servant, deftly lifting a small, golden honey pastry. Without breaking eye contact, he set it gently on top of the boy’s cold teapot.

"That’s from me," William said quietly, a small smile touching his lips, a real one, this time. "Don’t tell the head cook."

"We wouldn’t want any more... timing issues."

Piers stared at William, his expression a fragile mosaic of confusion and terror. He looked like a man who had spent his entire life expecting a trap, unable to process an act of kindness that didn’t come with a hidden price.

For several seconds, neither moved. Then, with a jerky, uncertain nod, the boy turned and hurried away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the strange encounter.

William stood alone in the service gallery for a long moment after the boy vanished. The silence of the corridor felt heavier than before.

He let out a slow breath, watching the dust motes dance in the dim light.

’Ten seconds,’ he thought bitterly. ’Ten seconds to give a child a pastry, and it might be the only moment of genuine humanity I witness in this entire palace.’

Five days later, the welcome banquet descended upon the Hall of Lanterns.

Within ten minutes of crossing the threshold, William decided that royal dinners were not social gatherings; they were a form of psychological combat, fought with poisoned words instead of poisoned blades, and wielded with far more expensive cutlery.

The hall was an architectural marvel designed to intimidate: a massive horseshoe of polished marble with the high table perched on a raised dais at the closed end.

From the vaulted ceiling beams, hundreds of hand-blown glass lanterns hung like captured stars, casting a warm, golden glow that felt unnaturally steady, as if the light itself were under orders not to flicker.

The room was divided by a visual war: the Delmore delegation occupied the right arm of the horseshoe, a solid wall of deep midnight blue coats stitched with intricate silver thread.

Across from them, the Celestial court filled the left arm in robes of pristine white and shimmering gold. The contrast was jarring: two predators circling each other across a sea of fine linen.

Everyone looked so impossibly polished, so perfectly groomed, that William half expected the courtiers to begin reflecting light onto the ceiling like living mirrors.

The Delmore delegation had been settling into the east guest wing for ten days, a period of tense quiet that had felt like the indrawn breath before a scream.

Now, protocol demanded a spectacle. And Celestial protocol did not believe in doing anything halfway; if they were going to feed their enemies, they would do it with enough opulence to make them choke.

The table before William was a battlefield of excess. There was roasted pheasant dripping with honey and cracked black pepper, river fish swimming in a pale, citrus-scented butter sauce, and mountains of candied fruits and delicate pastries.

More importantly, there were more forks beside William’s plate than he had encountered in two lifetimes combined. Silverware of varying sizes, shapes, and tines lay arranged in perfect, intimidating rows.

"Which one is for the fish?" he muttered under his breath, leaning slightly toward Catherine.

Catherine sat directly across from him, draped in a formal green robe that she had spent the better part of the morning complaining about, which made her look like an overgrown hedge.

William had disagreed with her twice already; he thought she looked regal, though he knew better than to push the point when she was in this mood. She didn’t bother lifting her gaze from her own plate, her movements precise and practiced.

"The small one on the outside," she whispered back, her voice carrying the clipped tone of someone who had long ago accepted the absurdity of court life.

"They’re all small, Catherine," William grumbled, eyeing a fork that looked like it was designed for a doll. "I can’t tell the difference between ’fish fork’ and ’dessert fork’ if they’re both the size of a toothpick."

"Then start from the outside and work your way in, William... It’s basic etiquette."

"That sounds like a rule some bored aristocrat made up centuries ago just to see who would panic during dinner."

Catherine finally looked up, and for a fleeting second, the rigid formality of her expression broke. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in the faintest ghost of a smile.

"That," she said quietly, "is exactly what it is."