QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)

Chapter 413:

Caspian

I am back home.

The Devil kept her end of the bargain. The first trade ships have sailed under her protection, their flags flying high, their holds full of goods that should have been lost to the monster years ago. The markets are reviving. The people are eating. The kingdom is healing.

I sit in my office.

Once, this was my brother’s office. His chair. His desk. His maps still pinned to the walls. I can smell his scent in the wood—or maybe I am imagining it. Maybe I am imagining him.

It feels... awkward.

I am finding it hard to settle down here again. For some reason.

The room is too quiet. The walls are too close. The air is too still. I miss the creak of the ship, the slap of the waves, the endless horizon stretching before me.

Here, in the courts, there is etiquette. Rules. Obligations.

Men suck up to me, their smiles too wide, their words too sweet. They want favors. They want titles. They want to be close to the new king—the replacement.

And the stares.

Always the stares.

They compare me to my late brother for every minor thing. Xavier would have done this. Xavier would have said that. Xavier would have—

I clench my fists.

It is genuinely too much.

If Larissa were around, I bet it would be easier to endure all this. Her comforting warmth made me feel so at peace—like nothing could touch me, like the weight of the crown did not exist, like I could simply be.

I stand and walk to the window.

The capital is only a day’s carriage ride from the port, so the water is visible from here—a thin line of blue on the horizon, distant and unreachable. Somewhere out there is Larissa.

Does she miss me like I miss her?

I press my palm to the glass.

I know it is not right to think of her. I am married now. Penelope is my wife.

Penelope is what you would expect from a noble lady of her stature. A duke’s daughter. The epitome of perfect etiquette. Her back is always straight. Her voice is always measured. Her smile never wavers.

But I do not feel comfortable in her presence.

There is no warmth. No ease. No peace.

Smith tells me I must make an effort. She is my wife. The kingdom expects an heir. I cannot spend my life staring at the sea.

He is right.

I know he is right.

But knowing and doing are different things.

Just then—

"Your Highness, the Crown Princess is here," an attendant announces.

I stand. I smooth my coat. I arrange my face into something presentable.

Servants file in with trays—tea, desserts, small cakes dusted with sugar. They arrange them on the low table between the chairs. They pour the tea. They retreat.

I leave my desk and sit in the chair opposite her.

The room is silent.

The clock ticks on the wall.

I pick up my teacup. I take a sip. I set it down.

Penelope does the same.

We do not speak. I search for something to say.

"Penelope," I say. "How has everything been?"

"All right, Your Highness." She lifts her teacup, takes a delicate sip, and sets it back on the saucer without a sound. "Not much different from my duties when I was your fiancée."

"Of course." I nod. "But surely the duties have increased now."

"Of course." Her voice is measured. Polished. Empty. "But do not concern yourself. The Queen and the former Crown Princess have been absolutely helpful in aiding me to acclimate to my role."

"Understood."

I look around the room.

The servants stand at attention along the walls, still as statues. Guards flank the door, hands on their swords. My coat is stiff, my collar too tight, my boots pinching my feet. Penelope sits across from me with her fixed posture, her large dress spreading across the entire chair, her hair pinned so tightly it looks painful.

I am so exhausted.

I think of the waters. The salt spray on my face. The wind in my hair. The simple shirt and trousers I wore for days without anyone telling me I was dressed wrong.

I think of Larissa. Her laugh. Her warmth. The way she looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

"Yes." I stand abruptly. "I have to get back to work."

Penelope stands as well. Her dress rustles. Her expression does not change.

"Of course, Your Highness."

"You know we are married now." I keep my voice even. "You do not have to keep calling me ’Your Highness’ in non-formal settings."

She blinks. Once.

"But I cannot do that, Your Highness." Her tone is polite but firm. "It is against propriety."

"Propriety." I exhale. "Of course."

She curtsies. Her attendants fall in step behind her—a small procession of silk and starch and silent footsteps.

I watch her go.

The door closes.

The room is quiet.

I sink back into my chair.

I think about the way Larissa said my name. Just Caspian. No title. No formality. Just... me.

I miss it.

I miss her.

The crown, my position—it all feels like shackles. Golden shackles, polished and gleaming, but shackles nonetheless. They weigh on my wrists, my shoulders, my chest. Every breath is measured. Every word is calculated. Every smile is a performance.

I pick up my quill. I dip it in ink. I sign the next document.

The pile never seems to shrink.

Trade agreements. Tax exemptions. Land disputes. Petitions from nobles who want more than they deserve and offer less than they should. The words blur together after a while—ink on parchment, signatures and seals, the endless machinery of a kingdom that never stops demanding.

I set down the quill.

I lean back in my chair.

I look up and accidentally make eye contact with one of the guards standing along the wall.

How I long for the days at sea

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