The Extra's Rise-Chapter 519: Mothers (4)

I smiled from my position on the marble veranda, watching as my Luci stood beside the Eastern girl—Seol-ah, if I’d heard correctly. They looked like they’d stepped straight from the pages of a political marriage brochure: poised, radiant, and entirely too unaware of how perfectly they complemented each other. His blonde hair caught the northern light like spun gold while her raven-black locks provided a striking contrast, and the way they unconsciously mirrored each other’s posture spoke of a connection deeper than mere attraction.

’Oh my,’ I murmured behind my hand, though I couldn’t quite suppress the grin tugging at my lips. Not the delicate smile of a refined noblewoman—no, this was the calculating expression of a mother who sensed opportunity and was already mentally rearranging the wedding seating chart.

Of course, I’d always known Luci was exceptional. Every mother believes her child is special, but I had empirical evidence. Impeccable bloodlines stretching back centuries, combat records that made seasoned instructors weep with pride, refined etiquette mastered by age six, and posture so perfect it could serve as a textbook illustration. But still—two extraordinary young women orbiting around him like celestial bodies drawn to a particularly bright star? That transcended mere charm. That was either destiny or suspicious fortune.

My smile faltered slightly as a more sobering thought crept in. Someone had clearly been influencing my son, because while I had given birth to Lucifer Windward, I hadn’t truly raised him in the traditional sense. That honor—or burden, depending on which family crisis we were weathering that particular year—had fallen to his father Arden and the rigid Windward educational tradition.

And really, who was I to interfere? The Windwards had ruled the Northern territories for generations, maintaining their grip on power without a whisper of scandal or even a slightly crooked ceremonial sword. So I had stepped back gracefully, observed from an appropriate distance, and trusted in centuries of proven methodology.

But as Luci matured, I began noticing the hairline fractures beneath all that polished perfection.

He was brilliant—staggeringly so. The sort of prodigy that made other geniuses consider early retirement. But he was also vain, arrogant, too accustomed to being the most luminous presence in any room he entered. The problem with raising a child to excellence is that they begin to believe their own propaganda. And what exactly was I supposed to do? Scold him for being extraordinary? Ground him from achieving greatness?

Then he lost. Publicly. Decisively. To Arthur Nightingale, of all people—a boy from a merchant family who had somehow clawed his way to the pinnacle of magical society through sheer determination and talent. The defeat had shattered something in Luci that I hadn’t even realized needed breaking. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

Afterward, he changed. Less preening, more genuine contemplation. Less smirking superiority, more authentic listening. He even began spending time with me—tentatively at first, awkwardly navigating the unfamiliar territory of actual mother-son interaction rather than the formal exchanges we’d maintained for years. We were slowly learning how to exist as family rather than simply two nobles connected by blood and protocol.

And now here he stood, surrounded by remarkable individuals who clearly saw something in him worth their devotion. Better than remarkable, actually—grounding influences who somehow managed to bring out his best qualities while tempering his worst impulses.

Arthur Nightingale’s influence, undoubtedly. I allowed myself a genuinely satisfied smile this time, tinged with maternal smugness. The kind that silently communicated: I know exactly what you’ve done for my son, young man, and you have my eternal gratitude.

"Luci, darling," I called with the silky authority that had been negotiating noble politics since before he was born, "why don’t you go find your father? I believe he’s anxious to hear about your Eastern adventures. I’ll look after Seol-ah and make sure she feels properly welcomed."

He hesitated—bless his conflicted heart—his emerald eyes darting between us like a loyal hound told to choose between equally beloved masters. But he knew better than to argue with that particular tone, having learned years ago that maternal suggestions were rarely optional.

He nodded reluctantly and departed, though not without a lingering glance that suggested he was torn between filial duty and protective instinct.

At this rate, I mused privately, our family tree might sprout some fascinating new branches. A proper noblewoman doesn’t indulge in such speculation, but a prospective mother-in-law operates under entirely different social guidelines.

I turned to the two young women with the practiced warmth of a seasoned hostess and the barely contained glee of someone already planning an extensive series of intimate tea gatherings.

"How about you both join me for refreshments?" I offered, my smile never wavering. "I’m absolutely dying to hear about your adventures in the East, and I suspect you both have fascinating stories to share."

They exchanged a quick glance—the sort of wordless communication that suggested they were assessing potential diplomatic hazards—before nodding with appropriate politeness. Excellent manners, both of them. That boded well for future family integration.

I led them through the estate’s main corridor, past the cascade of lightglass chandeliers that caught and refracted the afternoon sun into prismatic rainbows, along the elegant bridgeway that spanned our central courtyard with its carefully maintained topiary arrangements.

Our destination was the floating garden—a masterpiece of architectural ambition and magical engineering that never failed to impress visitors. Translucent platforms shimmered in the air above a grove of glimmerleaf trees, their surfaces stable as stone despite appearing gossamer-thin. It was beautiful, undeniably regal, and most importantly for my current purposes, completely private.

Perfect for tea service. Perfect for civilized conversation. Perfect for conducting the sort of delicate interrogation that would reveal exactly what manner of young women my son was allowing into his increasingly complex romantic orbit.

As we settled onto cushioned chairs that floated at precisely the ideal height for comfortable conversation, I couldn’t help but reflect on Arthur Nightingale’s more challenging situation. The boy had become the world’s most scandalous topic of drawing-room gossip, and not because of any impropriety—quite the opposite. His apparent ability to inspire devoted affection in multiple extraordinary women simultaneously had become the stuff of legend.

Four young ladies, by current count. Three of them were princesses from three different continents, wielding the sort of political influence that could redraw continental borders. The fourth was the daughter of a Marquis who happened to own the Empire’s largest and most successful necromancy corporation—hardly insignificant in terms of both wealth and magical connections.

’Poor mother,’ I thought with genuine sympathy. But well, she was a Nightingale, so it would be fine.

My situation, while certainly complex, was far more manageable. Seol-ah represented one of the great Eastern families, bringing impeccable breeding and considerable political connections despite her current refugee status. Deia, while I still needed more information about her background, clearly possessed both magical talent and the sort of quiet confidence that suggested noble training.

I could work with this. In fact, I was rather looking forward to it.

"Now then," I said as the tea service materialized on our floating table—delicate porcelain cups, silver implements, and an array of pastries that represented the finest Northern culinary traditions, "I do hope you’ll indulge an old woman’s curiosity about recent events. It’s not every day my son returns from a continental war with such distinguished company."

Seol-ah’s golden eyes met mine directly—no shy ducking or diplomatic evasion. Good. I appreciated straightforward communication.

"Your Majesty is too kind," she replied with perfect formal courtesy. "Though I suspect you’re far more interested in evaluating potential family additions than in hearing war stories."

I laughed—a genuine sound of delighted surprise. Oh, this one was sharp. Very sharp indeed.

"My dear girl," I said, raising my teacup in a small salute, "I believe we’re going to get along splendidly."

Deia watched our exchange with the careful attention of someone learning the rules of a game she hadn’t previously encountered. Interesting. That suggested her background might be less traditionally noble than I’d initially assumed.

"So," I continued, settling back into my chair with the satisfied air of a predator who had just confirmed that her prey would provide excellent sport, "shall we discuss how exactly this arrangement is going to work?"