"The Pros Festival is about to begin. Any thoughts, everyone?"

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Inside the royal conference hall, beyond the nobles’ murmured discussions, came the familiar sound of fingers tapping the table—a rhythm everyone had long grown used to.

Arman sat with one leg crossed, tapping steadily with one hand, as if the meeting meant nothing to him and he had zero intention of joining in.

"The Pros Festival honors war heroes. We should invite knights and soldiers to take center stage—and give them roles to keep the event lively."

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Arman’s mind wasn’t on the meeting or the festival at all. Not a shred of interest.

Last night, business took him to the Knights Order; he returned past midnight and missed Evelia. He’d planned to see her this morning—only to be dragged into this damn morning meeting. His mood had shifted from *"Did I do something wrong? What’s going on?"* to *"For fuck’s sake, just leave me alone."*

"The Royal Knights Order is a solid choice. They just quelled the demon beast invasion in the Far North."

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

"So… Arman must be involved, right?"

Tap, tap—

At the sound of his name, Arman’s fingers stilled. He should’ve spoken up about the Knights Order long ago—but the usually chatty, slightly annoying fellow hadn’t uttered a word all meeting.

Only because the Crown Prince, seated at the head of the hall, had raised the Pros Festival and named Arman under the Knights Order’s banner did anyone dare steer talk toward the relentless tapper.

Because right now, Arman’s expression was dangerously grim.

Few had ever seen Arman wear such coldness in court. Today, the nobles—who prided themselves on untouchable status—faced the man they’d mocked as "the court’s foolish lapdog," his gaze sharp enough to devour flesh.

Truth was, Arman had done nothing. Said nothing. He’d simply dropped his usual easygoing smile. Yet that blank stillness unnerved nobles accustomed to his carefree grin.

After all, Arman had carved his path through blood and steel. When his face turned cold, the aura of a battle-hardened warrior surfaced. To his left, Deputy Captain Kale was long used to it. To his right sat a scholarly baron—unprepared for such presence. Psychologically shaken, the man almost *smelled* blood on the Captain of the Royal Knights.

Those ice-blue eyes—fixed on no one, or some shadowed corner—held a blade-like edge no one wished to meet.

"What’s wrong, Arman? Disagree?"

Only the Crown Prince dared ask.

No matter how fierce Arman looked, he was still *his* man—a wolfhound that never bared teeth at its master.

Ten years at his side taught the Crown Prince well: if real trouble struck, Arman wouldn’t be here. His scowl meant only foul mood. Still… *Who* ruffled him this badly?

"Ah—" Arman turned, rolling his eyes without filter. "I’m not giving a speech."

He hated pointless festival formalities.

"Hah…"

The ever-stern Crown Prince chuckled—uncharacteristically. Master and servant seemed to have swapped souls: the smiler scowled; the serious one laughed.

"Captain," Second Prince Erik chimed in, cheerfully shuffling papers, "as Captain of the Royal Knights, skipping the Pros Festival seems… unwise?"

In the tense silence, none dared speak—afraid the two volatile figures might vent fury on them. Only Erik pressed on.

"The Pros Festival honors war heroes. What’s *my* role there?" Arman snapped, no sugarcoating. Erik, used to his roguish sarcasm, blinked at the blunt tone—but recovered fast.

"You returned victorious from the Far North. A hero. Or… does that campaign have *other* interpretations?"

Mockery dripped from every word. Others praised the victory; Erik knew the frozen hell had scarred Arman. Even if it didn’t kill him, it stole years.

And the speech? Hollow royal platitudes. Arman would have to praise the Crown’s "wise judgment" while reliving Far North suffering—and *thank* Erik for "strategic insight." The very man who’d nearly gotten him killed.

"Your Highness, the Second Prince—"

Arman leaned forward, palm meeting wood with firm *thud*. Voice low, restrained—a wolf locking onto prey. Kale sighed beside him. The baron scrambled sideways, dignity forgotten.

"—In my dictionary, only the dead deserve to be 'honored.'"

Silence swallowed the hall. No one moved. No one spoke. Only the princes held sway over Arman’s deepening shadow.

"The Pros Festival commemorates the soldiers who gave their lives at Pros Harbor. Their spirits would rejoice seeing our kingdom thrive. Therefore, Your Highnesses," Kale continued smoothly, "as deputy captain of the Knights Order, I believe the festival’s true purpose is to help people cherish peace—not force our knights into hollow ceremonies as 'heroes.'"

Kale, nicknamed "the captain’s external brain," stepped in. He’d read Arman’s reluctance. He didn’t know Far North details, but Arman’s exhausted return—silent, cursing Erik—spoke volumes.

Besides… no one wants overtime on *knights’* festival day.

"Exactly." Arman seized the opening, nodding quietly.

"Then—any other opinions?" The Crown Prince hid a smile, scanning the room. No replies. He turned. "Erik? Your thoughts?"

"…None for now, Brother."

Erik fell silent, brow furrowed, documents crumpling in his grip.

"Very well. Submit festival proposals within days. We’ll reconvene when progress is made. Meeting adjourned."

Sensing the deadlock, the Crown Prince rose. As nobles muttered about the scene, Arman and Kale were already walking out—no second to spare.

Noting Arman needed air, Kale skipped the carriage. Walking beside him toward the Knights Order headquarters, he watched the ever-chatty captain stay stubbornly silent. Curiosity won.

"What’s eating you?"

Arman glanced over. "Me?"

"Obviously." Kale nudged his elbow. "Your face is so dark it could drip water."

"Haah…" Arman groaned, rubbing his nose bridge. "Spit it out. What’s wrong? Need help?"

"I—" Arman hesitated, then covered half his face. "My maid… stopped cooking for me."

"…? *What?*"

"My maid. Won’t cook for me."

"—?"

Kale pressed Arman’s forehead, then his own. Convinced he wasn’t feverish, he stared, baffled. "You nearly clashed with the *Second Prince*… over *this*?"

"*This*? This is serious!"

"You’re hopeless…"