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    "My lady?"


    David Garcia flung open the balcony doors, vibrant health radiating from his tanned face. "Sickbed? Pfah!" He scoffed at the physician’s tonic steaming on his desk. "Let the Southern Minister believe I’m vomiting insides—he’ll claw at my empty seat like starved hound!"


    David turned to see his youngest sibling Anthony slouched in the doorway, jam staining his collar. At nine, the boy resembled a pampered alley cat—all soft edges and sticky fingers clutching sweet buns.


    "When the hares die, the hounds get cooked?" Ethan Davis drawled from the shadows. The military strategist emerged like drawn steel, eyes glinting. "Clever adage for a child who still wets his bed."


    David stepped between them, laughter brittle. "Merely a boy’s prattle, Ethan! From some sotted tutor’s ramblings, no doubt—"


    Anthony’s bun hit the carpet. "I-I just...it made sense! After the Emperor gifted those poisoned falcons to General Liu last week, cook said—"This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    As the boy scrambled out, Ethan seized David’s wrist. "Your father’s retiring for this farce?"


    "...terrible tragedy, Young Master Garcia’s collapse!" A fishmonger wailed to customers.


    "Not sunstroke," Ethan snapped, tossing coins at saffron. "Pneumonia from valor! Camped three weeks in northern marshes to quell rebellion..."


    "...bulwark of the realm forced to this!" A scholar shook his head. "With Lord Garcia ill, who protects our borders?"


    Ethan’s gaze snapped to her. "You dare imply—"


    Anthony gulped moonlight like secrets as he crept to the ancestral hall. Father had been shouting about censors and supply routes—grown-up nonsense until...


    David’s shadow shrugged. "Let him stew. We play invalid until spring, stash Anthony with cousins..."


    "Well?" Ethan yanked him from hiding by his collar. "Learning more treason, princeling?"


    Ethan shoved him against bloodwood pillars. "Who taught you that phrase?"