Contrary to what Liam had expected after his mother and aunt declared social war on House Canmore, the world did not explode immediately.

That, in itself, felt suspicious.

People reacted, of course. The capital had been dining out on the Ray-George scandal for three straight days, and even Wrohan’s most disciplined hypocrites could only pretend surprise for so long when a man looked almost identical to the king in bad lighting and unforgivably similar in good lighting. Still, there had been no public collapse.

Felix Canmore, however, had not enjoyed it.

That alone made the inconvenience worthwhile.

Three days later, Liam was in his study at Ravenwood Manor, still technically confined by his mother’s will and his aunt’s enthusiastic support of it, but at least no longer bruised. The swelling had gone down. The color had faded. His jaw only hurt when he laughed, yawned, or thought too hard about violence, which unfortunately remained a frequent hobby.

He was healed.

He was also, according to Dr. Voss, medically fit to resume normal movement.

This had not impressed Enia in the slightest.

So Liam remained in the manor, trapped under velvet domestic tyranny, surrounded by polished furniture and maternal surveillance, trying to work through a stack of municipal flow reports while pretending he was not being guarded by architecture, staff, and the general threat of being perceived.

His desk was buried in papers, old grid maps, and three disassembled regulator cores he had not been allowed to bring to the dining room because, according to Aunt Mirelle, "there are limits, darling, and one of them is brass components beside the soup."

Liam had been offended.

He was still offended.

The comm on his desk chimed once.

It was not one of the municipal back channels he still had access to despite Enia’s best efforts.

This one came through with royal encryption.

Liam stared at it.

Then at the sender line.

Then, very slowly, he leaned back in his chair.

"Well," he said to the empty room, "that feels unpleasant."

The request sat on the screen with all the false courtesy of a snake wearing a tie.

ROYAL SUMMONS: ENCRYPTED

His Majesty King George of Wrohan requests your presence for a private meeting at the Palace.

Time: Tomorrow, 11:00.

Attendance: Mandatory.

The attire code and security protocols are attached.

Liam stared at the screen for three full seconds.

Then a fourth, because apparently the king of Wrohan had decided that royal dignity now included sending encrypted demands to engineers as if they were misfiled furniture.

"Mandatory," Liam read aloud.

The word sat there in polished authority.

Liam’s mouth flattened. ’Mandatory. Wonderful.’

So George had finally decided his inconvenient blood relative existed.

That alone was offensive.

Liam pushed back from the desk, stood, and crossed to the door with the summons still glowing in his hand. The study at Ravenwood Manor was warm, ordered, and full of the kind of careful wealth that made his current irritation feel especially vulgar against it. Bookshelves in dark wood. A long carpet in muted green and cream. The late afternoon light pooling over polished floorboards and catching on the brass edge of a drafting ruler abandoned near the maps.

He opened the door.

One of the household staff was already passing the corridor.

"Find my mother," Liam said. "And Aunt Mirelle."

The maid took one look at his face and decided, very wisely, not to ask questions.

"They’re in the west sitting room, Master Liam."

Of course they were.

Where else would two women conducting a quiet social war position themselves except in the room with the best tea and the best light for assassination by conversation?

Liam arrived three minutes later, irritation still clean and sharp inside him.

Enia sat near the window in deep burgundy silk, a folder open on her lap, reading glasses low on her nose in the specific posture that meant someone, somewhere, was being dismantled on paper. Aunt Mirelle occupied the opposite chair with embroidery in hand and the expression of a woman who found domestic grace fully compatible with strategic ruin.

Both looked up as he entered.

Liam held out the comm without preamble. "George remembered I exist."

Enia took the device.

Mirelle leaned in to read over her shoulder.

Neither woman spoke for a beat.

Then Enia’s mouth tightened. "Mandatory."

Mirelle’s needle paused above the fabric. "He’s frightened."

Liam folded his arms. "That was also my interpretation, though mine included more swearing."

Enia handed the comm to Mirelle and rose in one smooth, elegant motion. "You will go."

Liam stared at her. "I did not suggest I wouldn’t."

"No," Enia said. "You only looked like you were considering faking your own death to avoid it."

"That remains an option."

"It does not."

Mirelle handed the comm back. "He has summoned you as king. Unless you intend to start a constitutional crisis before lunch, you attend."

Liam’s brow lifted, equally amused and irritated. "Yes, I said so just a moment ago."

Enia gave him a flat look. "And yet I did not feel sufficiently obeyed."

"That sounds like a personal standard, not a legal one."

"In this house," Mirelle said, returning to her embroidery, "those categories overlap more than you enjoy."

Liam took the comm and glanced down at the summons again, as if the wording might improve under repeated exposure.

It did not.

"Do you think he would recognize me as his nephew only to use me?" he asked at last.

Enia and Mirelle exchanged one of those brief, entire conversations that women like them could conduct without wasting a single spoken word.

Then Enia said, "We don’t know."

Mirelle’s needle moved once through the silk in her lap. "But with men like George, the worst assumption is usually the safest one."

Liam’s mouth flattened.

That sounded right enough to be irritating.

He looked back at the message, at the court formatting and the mandatory attendance, at the polished royal certainty of a man who had not sought him when Felix struck him, had not sought him when the bloodline scandal broke, but had suddenly remembered him now.

"He ignored me for years," Liam said quietly. "Now suddenly I’m worth a private audience."

"Yes," Enia replied. "Which means something changed."

"Or he believes something changed."

"Functionally the same."