“Waste of time, Ophelia won’t let you in,” Gallienus returned.

“We shall see,” Cassis murmured, reaching to his coffee cup.

“You will, and what you’ll see is that woman not letting you in,” Gallienus retorted.

“You do remember I’m marrying her daughter,” Cassius asked with faux concern, as if his father might be growing addled.

“Don’t patronize me,” Gallienus spat. “And go,” he bid. “Embark on this futile journey. With my leave. I could use the break from you and,” his gaze went specifically to Elena and his supercilious tone turned cutting, “our vaulted company.”

While Gallienus spoke, Cassius took a drink of his coffee with his eyes over the rim aimed at his father before he lowered the cup, set it aside and turned to Elena.

He then drawled, “Ah, the joys you’ll know when you reach the Sky Citadel, my lamb. Family breakfasts just like this every day. And in the evenings, it’s all the better, for there are dozens of courtiers Father can choose from to be an arsehole to.”

Jasmine snorted.

Elena hissed, “Cassius,” but her lips were twitching.

Vanka gasped in affront at the cursing.

True’s mother sighed.

Farah made a noise of amusement and True squeezed her hand.

“Have you not gone yet?” Gallienus asked snidely.

Cassius’s attention swept back to his father and when it did, True braced to move, he sensed Mars bracing to move, and Cassius spoke.

“As you can see, we have not, old man, and if you speak in that manner to my future wife again, I’ll ascend the throne of Airen a far more direct way.”

Elena repeated, “Cassius,” but this time in a pacifying tone, her melodious voice wrapping around his name, making two syllables into a song.

Cassius instantly relaxed.

Watching this, True decided she’d be good for him. The man he was growing up in a den of vipers, he’d become accustomed to being quick to strike.

Elena could be lively and engaging, but for the most part she was mellow and spiritual.

True sensed Cassius could use a bit of all of that in his life.

“Good gods, people, we’re all adults. Can we not get along for one breakfast?” Father broke in to say, exposing a rare moment where he seemed attuned to the atmosphere and an even rarer moment of wishing to do something about it. “Now, someone, hand me the preserves.”

And there was the reason.

He wanted everyone to get along long enough for someone to pass him the preserves.

Vanka reached and handed the pot to her king.

“Melisse,” Elena called, and received her mentor’s attention. “If you’d like to come with us, you know you’re more than welcome.”