All My Summons Become Divine Girls

The King sat in his private study, a room smaller than the throne room but lined with books and maps that smelled like old leather. A single candle burned on the desk, its light catching the edges of a half-empty glass of wine he hadn’t touched in almost an hour.

Didi stood in front of him with her hands clasped behind her back, her posture perfect and her face carefully neutral.

He studied her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair.

"So," he said, keeping his tone light. "Tell me about this boy."

"What about him?" she replied, not missing a beat.

"You know what about him," he said, giving her a flat look. "He walked into my throne room dressed like a beggar, smelled like he hadn’t bathed in weeks, and somehow carried my daughter out of a forest that killed an entire squad of knights. I would like to know a little more about the person who accomplished that."

She didn’t blink,"he is strong, fast, and resourceful. He saw an opportunity to escape with me while the monster was distracted, and he took it. That is all."

"That is all?" he repeated, one eyebrow lifting.

"Yes."

He stared at her for a long second, watching the way her jaw stayed perfectly still and her eyes didn’t waver even once. She was lying, he could tell that much, but she was doing it so well that if he hadn’t spent the last eighteen years memorizing every single one of her tells, he might have actually believed her.

’This girl,’ he thought, feeling a small mix of admiration and frustration settle in his chest. ’She learned to lie from the best, which is unfortunately me.’

"What about his companion?" he asked, shifting his angle. "The beastkin girl."

"Juna," she said. "She is his companion."

"His companion," he repeated slowly. "A beastkin who follows a supposedly talentless commoner around like a bodyguard."

"She stays with him because she chooses to," Didi said. "He treats her well."

"I see," he said, tapping one finger against the glass. "And you have no idea how a boy with no family backing, no formal training, and no verified ability managed to earn the loyalty of a beastkin warrior?"

Her expression flickered for exactly a second before she caught it and smoothed it back into place. "I did not ask him about the specifics of their relationship, it felt... intrusive."

’Intrusive,’ he thought, resisting the urge to laugh. ’My daughter, who interrogated a six-Shard diplomat for three hours because she thought he was lying about trade routes, suddenly developed a sense of boundaries when it comes to this boy.’

He picked up his glass and took a slow sip, keeping his eyes on her over the rim.

"Didi," he said, setting the glass back down. "I am not your enemy here. I am not trying to hurt him or dig up something to use against him. I am simply trying to understand the person you brought into my palace."

She held his gaze for a moment, and he could see the war happening behind her eyes. She wanted to tell him something, he was almost certain of it, but something was stopping her. A promise, maybe. or a fear that sharing too much would put Hajin in danger.

"I understand that, Father," she said, her voice softening just a little. "But I gave him my word that I would protect his privacy. He has enemies, powerful ones, and the less people who know about his circumstances, the safer he is."

’Enemies,’ he thought, filing that away. ’Interesting word to use. Not troubles or problems but enemies.’

"Does this have anything to do with the Flint family?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.

Her jaw tightened and that was all the answer he needed.

"I see," he said quietly not pushing any further. He had already confirmed what he wanted to know in the throne room when the boy had walked in behind Didi and the Patriarch’s composed mask had cracked like thin ice.

"I will not ask you to break your promise," he said, standing up from the desk and walking toward the window. "You have my word on that. But I need you to understand something."

He turned back to face her, the candlelight throwing shadows across his face.

"That boy is not ordinary," he said. "You know it, and I know it. Whatever he is hiding, whatever power he carries, it is significant enough that you felt the need to argue with your father and the entire Council to keep him close. That tells me more than any answer you could have given me."

Didi’s composure cracked just slightly, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. "I was not trying to keep him close. I was simply repaying a debt."

"A debt," he repeated, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Of course."

She held his stare for exactly two seconds before looking away, which was the most honest thing she had done this entire conversation.

"You may go," he said, waving a hand. "And tell your savior that if he needs anything before the evaluation, the palace doors are open to him."

She bowed once, turned on her heel, and walked toward the door. She was halfway out when his voice caught her one last time.

"Oh, and Didi?"

She stopped, turning her head slightly.

"He seems like a good person," he said, his voice dropping into something warmer than his usual regal tone. "You chose well."

The flush on her cheeks turned a shade darker. "I did not choose anything," she muttered, and walked out before he could say another word.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the study completely silent.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door with a complicated expression. Then he let out a slow breath and walked back to his desk, lowering himself into the chair with the weight of a man who had too many thoughts and not enough time to sort through them.

His mind drifted back to the throne room, to the moment after Didi and the boy had left.

The Patriarch had stayed behind, standing in the exact same spot he had occupied during the entire audience, his posture unchanged and his expression locked into that infuriating mask of noble composure.

The King had let the silence stretch for almost a full minute before speaking.

"That boy," he had said, turning to face the Patriarch directly. "He is your son, isn’t he?"

The Patriarch’s mask had shattered. Not dramatically or with a gasp or a flinch, but in a way that was far more telling. His eyes went completely blank for one heartbeat, then refocused with a sharpness that told the King he had struck something real.

"Your Majesty," the Patriarch had said, his voice perfectly controlled despite the crack in his composure. "I am not sure what gave you that impression, but I can assure you that boy has no connection to my family."

"No connection," the King had repeated, walking slowly toward him. "That is interesting."

The Patriarch hadn’t moved or even blinked. The man was good, one of the best the King had ever seen at keeping his emotions buried under layers of political training. But the King had been doing this for over thirty years, and he knew exactly what to look for.

"Because when I pressured him," the King had continued, stopping a few feet away, "I sensed something very familiar coming off his body. A mana signature that I have encountered before, one that I remember quite clearly."

The Patriarch’s jaw had tightened, just barely, enough that most people would have missed it entirely.

"It was the same resonance," the King had said, his voice dropping low, "that your wife used to give off. The woman you brought to court exactly once before announcing she had passed away from illness."

The room had gone so quiet that the King could hear the guards shifting their weight outside the doors.

"That woman," he had said, watching the Patriarch’s face with the patience of someone who already knew the answer. "The one with the strange power that made even my Royal Guard uneasy. The one whose funeral you held in private with no witnesses and no body presented for viewing."

The Patriarch had stood completely still, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the King’s shoulder.

He was calculating, the King could see it happening behind those cold eyes, running through every possible response and weighing the consequences of each one.

"Your Majesty," the Patriarch had finally said, his voice carrying the same measured calm as before. "My late wife was a woman of modest background and no notable ability. Whatever resonance you believe you sensed from that boy, I can assure you it bears no connection to her. Perhaps the stress of the situation affected your perception."

The King had stared at him for a long moment, then smiled.

It was not a warm smile, a smile of a man who had just been told a lie so polished that he could almost admire the craftsmanship behind it.

"Perhaps," the King had said, turning away from him and walking back toward the throne. "You are right. The stress of worrying about my daughter may have clouded my judgment. Forgive an old father for seeing connections where there are none."

The Patriarch had bowed, his movements precise and unhurried. "There is nothing to forgive, Your Majesty. I am simply glad Her Highness returned safely."

"Indeed," the King had said, settling back into his throne. "You are dismissed. We will discuss the gate rewards at a later date."

The Patriarch had bowed once more and left without another word, his footsteps fading down the corridor with the steady rhythm of a man who believed he had won that exchange.

The King sat in his study now, swirling the wine in his glass while the memory played out in his head.

’He denied it, of course,’ he thought, staring at the dark liquid. ’He denied it with perfect composure and perfect logic, and if I were any other man, I would have accepted his answer and moved on.’

But the King was not any other man. He had felt that resonance before, years ago, when the Patriarch had first brought his new wife to court. She had been beautiful, quiet, and completely unremarkable in every way except one.

The mana flowing through her body had been wrong. Not weak or broken, just fundamentally different from anything the King had ever encountered in his life.

It was subtle enough that most people would have dismissed it as imagination, but the King’s senses had been honed by decades of combat and political warfare, and he trusted them more than he trusted any noble’s word.

He had never said anything about it at the time. The woman had died shortly after, the Patriarch had announced it with the same composure he used for everything, and the matter had been buried under the weight of daily politics.

Until now, when a boy with cheap clothes and sharp eyes had walked into his throne room, and the King had felt that exact same resonance radiating off his body like heat from a forge.

’I sense a huge change coming very soon,’ he thought, holding up his glass and smiling.