Chapter Three: The Third Seat
When a new face enters the real
of silence, features remain unchanged… but meanings shift.
A first encounter between three princes begins not with words, but with what their eyes conceal.
And in the presence of Argentina, the lesson becomes a quiet stage where dignity and silence are put to the test.
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She wasn't expecting anyone, yet she felt something approaching.
Madame Argentina stood at the threshold, hands clasped behind her back, her eyes examining the empty space beyond the door as though she expected a faceless era to step through.
And indeed, it wasn't time that arrived—but a child.
Not just any child.
A boy with short blue hair, eyes glowing with a faint red hue like a quiet flame, and a beautifully crafted face graced with a deceptively innocent air. Though no older than six, he entered as though his name followed him, not preceded him.
The room fell silent, as if time itself had paused to offer its throne to stillness.
It was the First Prince: Xander Haruth Eland.
His voice had not yet spoken, but his presence said everything.
From the rear corner where Iswar sat by the window, nothing in him moved… except for one thought:
> "Who let this person into my space… uninvited?"
His face remained unchanged—no expression, no twitch. Yet inside, something stirred with no name to be given.
That was when Ayanth spoke.
His voice was calm, free of tension, nothing like the quivering tone of children in the face of authority.
Rather, it resembled a fabricated smile—soft on the surface, sharp beneath:
— "Ayanth Saynar greets His Highness, the First Prince of the Empire."
Then, with the same quietude veiled in gentle mockery, he added:
— "Forgive me, Your Highness… but what brings you here with Madame, unannounced?"
It wasn't a true question—it was a soft test.
Beneath the gentle tone, a harsher inquiry whispered in the background:
"Who gave you the right to intrude on my world?"
For a moment, Ayanth's features shifted, as though the polite mask cracked—not out of anger, but clarity. The clarity of a boy who didn't need permission to feel.
That's when Xander revealed himself, radiant with a hint of mischief, his tone sly—soft, yet direct:
— "I didn't know your door required keys, son of the Marquis."
Then, with a long, slightly crooked smile, he added, voice tinged with cleverness:
— "Or is this warm welcome… your new way of honoring guests?"
He stepped forward and took the designated seat without asking permission.
His movement was calm, but laced with deliberate disregard for the symbolism of place.
Iswar watched without immediate reaction, but in his eyes, a deep shadow recoiled. Then he spoke—not with anger or rejection, but with a tone that stirred questions in the air, leaving no answers:
— "In this place, value isn't measured by the color we bear… but by what we choose to represent."
He didn't look at him as he said it, instead fixing his gaze on a point no one else could see, as if speaking to something older than them all.
Then he added, in an oddly quiet tone:
— "And what is done in my name… does not pass without weight."
Iswar's words were like a cipher—not explicit, yet terrifying if understood.
Ayanth, despite his steady exterior, seemed to realize he was no longer alone in that moment.
As for Xander, he let out a sarcastic sigh and smiled:
— "I've always been fascinated by the way you speak, brother. Like you're playing a tune we only understand after it's too late."
And just as the tension in their words began to rise, Argentina stepped in.
With her calm stride and voice tuned like an old cello string, she gently and firmly broke the standoff:
— "Your Highnesses, my young sirs… if I may, let us reserve this morning for knowledge, not dominion."
She said it with a poised smile, blending nobility and resolve. Then, as she stepped into the center of the room, she added:
— "If lessons were granted by title, I would not be here. But as knowledge belongs to those who seek it, your presence here honors me."
Then she lightly turned to the servant:
— "Please, bring a third seat—as befits the station of His Highness the First Prince."
And thus, the stage was leveled—not through anyone's triumph, but through the wit of a woman raised in palaces of meaning.
Once seated, a kind of tense calm prevailed, as though everyone sought a new position on the board of silence redrawn by Madame's words.
Argentina sat before them and opened the covers of a grand book, bound in decorated leather with subtle designs that appeared only in special light.
She studied it for a moment, then said in a neutral tone:
— "Today, we continue with lessons on courtly conduct and symbolism in imperial speech."
Iswar nodded slightly, while Ayanth flipped through the pages before him as though they held keys to unopened doors.
As for Xander, he leaned on his chin, staring at the book as one would at a painting yet to impress.
— "May I choose the passages I read?" he asked playfully, though his tone tested boundaries softly.
She looked at him and replied with a brief smile:
— "If you can do so without offending protocol, then by all means."
Xander responded immediately, as if awaiting the chance:
— "Then I shall read the Emperor's address upon the birth of his first heir… seems fitting, doesn't it?"
Argentina gave him a cautious glance, then nodded for him to proceed.
Iswar's brows rose slightly—as if something in him found the choice more amusing than profound.
Xander read with a smooth, clear voice, but infused the words with a faint tone of mockery, as if the text were meant for broadcast, not understanding:
— "With the birth of my heir, the pillars of the empire tremble with joy, and the stars realign in golden balance. From the northern ice to the southern sands, all shall know the bloodline is unbroken, and the throne has seen its coming face…"
He paused, then looked at Ayanth and added with a sly smile:
— "A face like this, perhaps?"
Ayanth didn't respond. He simply turned the next page without lifting his gaze.
But Iswar spoke in a low tone:
— "Addresses aren't judged by the heir's face… but by the weight of his name."
As if the words slipped from Iswar without full intent—yet they filled the room, like all things spoken from hearts bearing unspoken burdens.
Madame sighed gently, then closed the book for a moment and said:
— "Today's lesson wasn't truly about speech… but about what lies beyond it. It seems you've all grasped that without my needing to explain."
Then she added, as though addressing each of them individually:
— "True conduct cannot be taught—it is revealed. And your words this morning… revealed enough."
She lifted the book again and gestured to the beginning of a new chapter:
— "Now, on to the next topic: the hierarchy of titles in High Council discourse."
The morning resumed—not as a rigid lesson, but as a small theater… with more than one role, and more than one intent.
---
From Madame Argentina's Perspective
As with any farewell morning, Argentina walked toward the terrace carrying her final papers—bearing with them a trace of gratitude, and another of veiled sorrow.
She was to deliver her last lesson to the two young boys, and she did not hide her happiness about it. They were impressive. Even though one had fallen behind his peers due to his duties beside Prince Iswar, he displayed a maturity in learning rarely seen at such a young age.
She was lost in these thoughts when an unfamiliar scene interrupted her—deep blue and rich crimson preceded his steps, as though his presence always arrived before his shadow.
He stopped at the entrance of the terrace, offering his words like the opening line of a play:
— "What a beautiful moment to stumble upon you, Madame Argentina."
She turned toward him slowly and bowed slightly in respect:
— "I salute the little sun of the Empire, Your Highness."
He smiled, stepping forward as though his presence required no permission:
— "I was wondering, Madame… might I join today's lesson?
I feel I need a bit of quiet… and perhaps a touch of your educational magic."
She chuckled lightly, masking her pleasant surprise:
— "Your request honors me, Your Highness. Though I'm unsure what the young gentlemen will think of a surprise guest."
He took a step closer and put a finger to his lips as if they were co-conspirators:
— "Let's keep it between us. I promise he'll be pleased—though his pale face might say otherwise."
Upon arriving at the lesson space, she found the two boys already there, as usual. Despite her initial concern, all went smoothly.
She clapped lightly to gather their attention:
— "Since today is our last day, I wished to make this an open lesson—more like a tea gathering, where knowledge whispers instead of lectures."
The lesson was serene, harmonizing Prince Iswar, the young companion Ayanth, and even the unexpected visitor Xander… as if each played an old melody they knew in their own way.
Before her departure, she looked at them with a mother's eye trying not to reveal her feelings:
— "I wish you all health and strength, Your Highnesses, young sir."
Ayanth responded with a smile that conveyed nothing but mystery:
— "We wish you a pleasant journey, Madame Argentina. We greatly enjoyed your lessons."
Prince Iswar gave a short reply, full of respect:
— "May peace accompany you."
She left the terrace with measured steps, Xander beside her, silently confident—as though the story had yet to begin.
But before she passed the threshold, the imperial servant's voice rang out with official tone and sudden impact:
— "By order of His Majesty the Emperor, the presence of all three princes is requested… at the imperial lunch table."
---
She paused, then turned with a slight bow, as if handing over the final chapter of her day with a contented smile.
The first prince smiled with theatrical warmth and departed with deliberate lightness, as though the invitation had awakened a long-awaited appointment.
Iswar followed with short, confident steps—steps that hinted at an unspoken unease. His eyes remained fixed on the ground, as if trying to ignore the weight of the path beneath him.
Then… after a noticeable delay, Ayanth moved.
It was as if his body needed more time to understand what it had heard, or as if the call that stirred the others had merely brushed past him without sinking in.
He couldn't recall anyone ever saying such a thing to him before.
Around him, the scene was dissolving gently: bodies retreating, doors opening, time resuming its flow...
But he felt as though someone had suddenly dropped him inside himself,
like a foreign page inserted into a book whose language he couldn't read—
a margin with no context,
an orphan of meaning in a sentence never meant for him.