Raising Beast Cubs to Find a Husband-Chapter 47: The Dad Defense

I floated in the hallway for a long time after Caspian left.

My brain was spinning.

In Beastly B.A.D.S., the lore entry for King Caspian said: "The King’s heart turned to ice the day his beloved Queen perished, leaving him unable to look upon the son who cost him his love."

It was poetic. It was tragic. It was designed to make players want to "fix" him with the power of love.

But the reality? The reality was messy, ugly, and human.

Caspian hadn’t loved the Queen. He had been a prisoner of biology. A modern architect from Seoul forced into a primal, magical ritual because the "game" demanded an heir.

No wonder he can’t look at Orion, I thought, swimming back into the bedroom. He doesn’t see a son. He sees the evidence of his own captivity.

I looked at the Prince. Orion was awake, picking at the loose threads of his blanket. He looked small, grey, and incredibly lonely.

But it’s not the kid’s fault, I thought fiercely. Orion didn’t ask to be born any more than Caspian asked to be King.

If I was going to survive down here—and if I was going to get back to the surface—I needed to fix this. Not with magic. Not with politics.

With Family Dinner.

Later That Day at The Dining Hall,

I had bullied Crustar into setting a table.

Usually, the King ate alone in his chambers (or didn’t eat at all), and the Prince was fed in his shell.

Not today.

I set a small, round table made of coral. I placed two bowls of "Sea-Oat Risotto with Scallops" (creamy, cheesy, and very comforting).

Then, I went to get the boys.

The King arrived first. He looked wary. He was wearing formal robes again, his "King Mask" firmly in place.

"A communal meal?" Caspian asked, eyeing the table. "This is... unorthodox."

"It’s Tuesday," I lied. "In my culture, Tuesday is family night. Sit."

Caspian sighed, the bubbles escaping his lips like smoke. He sat—or rather, coiled his tail onto the stone seat.

Then, the guards brought Orion.

The Prince shrank back when he saw his father. He tried to hide behind me.

"It’s okay," I whispered, holding Orion’s tiny hand. "He’s not going to bite. He’s just... grumpy. He needs carbs."

I lifted Orion onto his high chair (a modified clam shell).

The silence was deafening.

Caspian stared at his food.

Orion stared at Caspian.

I stared at both of them, willing someone to speak.

Okay. Let’s break the ice.

"So," I said brightly, clapping my hands. "Orion, did you know your dad used to build... castles?" (I swapped ’skyscrapers’ for ’castles’ to keep the cover).

Orion blinked. He looked at the terrifying King. "Castles?"

Caspian looked up, surprised. "I... yes. Before I was King. I designed structures."

"Big ones?" Orion whispered.

Caspian hesitated. He looked at me. I gave him a sharp nod that clearly said: Talk to your kid, or I will put hot sauce in your pudding.

"Yes," Caspian said, his voice stiff but quiet.

"Very big. Structures that touched the sky. Made of... glass and steel."

Orion’s eyes went wide. "Glass? But it breaks."

"Not the way I built it," Caspian said. For a second, a flicker of pride crossed his face—the pride of the Architect, not the King. "I used... geometry. Math. To make the glass strong."

Orion looked down at his bowl. He picked up a scallop with his spoon.

"I like math," the Prince mumbled.

Caspian froze. "You do?"

"Yes," Orion said, shrinking back a little.

"The tutors say I am boring. I like to count the tiles in the floor. And the patterns in the coral."

Caspian stared at his son.

In the game lore, the Royal Heir was supposed to be a warrior. A mage. A leader.

But this boy... this grey, quiet, lonely boy... liked math.

He liked patterns.

He liked structure.

He’s like me, Caspian realized. He isn’t just the Queen’s biology. He has my mind.

Caspian leaned forward slightly. The terrifying aura dampened.

"Counting tiles is not boring," Caspian stated firmly. "It is... analytical. It is how you understand the world."

Orion looked up, shocked that he wasn’t being scolded. "It is?"

"Yes," Caspian said. He picked up his spoon. "When I was your age... I used to count the stars."

A small, shy smile appeared on Orion’s face. It was the first time I had seen him smile at his father.

"There are no stars down here," Orion said sadly.

Caspian looked at the boy. He looked at the endless, dark ceiling of the cavern.

"No," Caspian whispered, a profound sadness in his voice. "There are no stars here."

He looked at me.

"Perhaps," Caspian said slowly, "The Chef can tell us about them. She... hums about them."

I grinned. "I can do better than that. Eat your risotto, and I’ll draw you a constellation map."

Orion dug into his food with enthusiasm. Caspian ate slowly, watching his son with a strange, new expression. It wasn’t love yet. It wasn’t warmth.

But it wasn’t revulsion.

It was curiosity.

As I watched them, I realized something important.

Caspian wasn’t the Villain. And he wasn’t the Hero.

He was just a guy who got lost on his way to work 25 years ago. And he was finally starting to find his way home.

Two Weeks Later

Time in the Sunless City was hard to track. There was no sunrise, no sunset. Only the rhythmic dimming of the bioluminescent coral that signaled the "Sleep Cycle."

For Primrose, life had settled into a strange, comfortable routine. She wasn’t a prisoner anymore. She was something far more dangerous to the King’s solitude: she was a roommate.

---

Primrose stood in her thermal air bubble, folding dough.

She had learned quickly that underwater eating required structural integrity. You couldn’t make a sandwich; the bread would disintegrate. You couldn’t make a salad; the dressing would float away.

So, she specialized in "Sealed Foods."

Today, it was Shrimp and Sea-Chive Dumplings.

She rolled the dough (made from ground sea-oats and binding algae) thin, stuffed it with a dense mixture of minced shrimp and herbs, and pleated the edges tight. Once boiled in the thermal vent, the skin became rubbery and waterproof, sealing the flavor inside.

"Perfect," she muttered, tossing a dumpling into the boiling cauldron. "High protein, waterproof, easy to eat with webbed fingers."

Outside the bubble, Chancellor Crustar was waiting. The crab-man clicked his claws impatiently.

"Is the Royal Snack ready, Lady Chef?" Crustar asked. "The Prince has finished his math lesson. He requires... sustenance."

"Coming, Crabby," Primrose grinned, stepping out of the bubble with a sealed basket.

Crustar didn’t even scold her for the nickname anymore. Ever since Primrose gave him a "Crab-Cake" (made of kelp, not crab, obviously), the Chancellor had become her biggest fan.

---

Primrose swam to the Royal Garden—a private courtyard filled with glowing anemones.

There, she found the boys.

Prince Orion was sitting in the sand, arranging glowing pebbles into patterns. He looked healthier. His skin was no longer grey, but a soft, pale pearl color. His tail swished with energy.

King Caspian was floating above him. The King had shed his heavy formal robes for a simpler tunic of woven silk. He looked less like a deity and more like... a dad.

"No, Orion," Caspian was saying, pointing a clawed finger at the pebbles. "The hypotenuse is the longest side. If you construct the base like that, the tower falls."

"But it looks prettier this way," Orion argued, holding up a blue stone.

"Engineering does not care about ’pretty’," Caspian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It cares about gravity."

"Actually," Primrose interrupted, floating down to them with the basket, "Engineering cares about both. It’s called ’Aesthetics’, Mr. Architect."

Caspian looked up. The moment he saw her, the tension in his shoulders—the weight of twenty-five years of ruling—evaporated.

"Chef," Caspian greeted her, a small smirk playing on his lips. "You are late. The structural integrity of this sandcastle was compromised."

"I brought dumplings," Primrose announced, opening the basket.

Orion cheered. He grabbed a dumpling, popping the whole thing into his mouth. The chewy skin held firm, and he hummed happily as he chewed.

"So," Primrose said, sitting in the sand beside Caspian. "How are the lessons going? Did you teach him about... the thing?"

She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

"The thing" was Earth Math. Since the Jiaoren education system was mostly about magic and history, Caspian had secretly started teaching Orion basic geometry and physics.

"We are discussing triangles," Caspian said, taking a dumpling. "He learns fast. Suspiciously fast."

"I like triangles," Orion said with a mouth full of shrimp. "They are strong."

"See?" Primrose nudged Caspian’s arm. "He’s a chip off the old block."

Caspian looked at his son, then at Primrose. For a moment, the three of them sat there in the glowing light of the garden. Eating dumplings. Talking about triangles.

It felt... domestic.

It felt real.

It felt like the life Caspian had died in 2025 wishing for.

"Primrose," Caspian said suddenly, his voice low.

"Yeah?"

"The constellation map you drew," he said, gesturing to the pebbles Orion was playing with. "That is Cassiopeia."

"Yep."

"And that one," he pointed to a cluster of red stones. "That is The Big Dipper."

"Uh-huh."

"No one here knows these stars," Caspian whispered, looking at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "Only us. We are making our own sky down here."

Primrose looked at him. She saw the loneliness in his teal eyes, but also the possessiveness. He was building a little world within a world, just for the three of them.

"It’s a nice sky," Primrose admitted softly.

But then, she thought, Don’t get too comfortable. You have a daycare on the surface.

"Speaking of the sky," Primrose said, keeping her tone casual. "Did you... check on the message? To the surface? Just to let them know I’m not dead?"

The warmth instantly vanished from Caspian’s face.

"I told you," he said smoothly, picking up another pebble. "The currents are blocking long-range magic. The array is down."

"Still?" Primrose pressed. "It’s been two weeks, Caspian."

Caspian’s hand tightened around the blue pebble he was holding until it cracked. He forced his grip to relax, dusting the powder off his fingers.

He didn’t look at her. He looked at the sand, his expression shifting into a mask of practiced regret.

"I am sorry," he said, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating register that always made her spine tingle. "I know you are anxious. The atmospheric pressure from the surface storms is... scrambling the mana waves. My technicians are working on it around the clock."

He looked up, meeting her eyes with a look of heavy solemnity. "I would not keep you from your... pack... if I could help it, Primrose."

Primrose narrowed her eyes.

Surface storms?

She tilted her head back, looking up at the vast, watery "sky" of the cavern. The water was still. The giant jellyfish were drifting lazily in perfect, concentric circles.

Usually, when there were storms above, the deep currents grew restless. The thermal vents would hiss louder. The guards would complain about the "turbulence" making their patrols difficult.

But for the last week, everything had been dead calm. Even the sensitive anemones in the garden were standing straight up.

This is very suspicious.