The air in Zariusās private chambers felt cold. It was thick with the cloying, medicinal stink, a smell that had become his unofficial scent over the last few months.
Zarius was propped up against a mountain of pillows that looked far too soft for a man who usually slept on stone. He looked... well, he looked like hell. Thereās no polite way to put it. Every breath he took sounded like a rusted gate swinging in the wind.
On the nightstand, looking entirely too cheerful for the current situation, sat a scroll sealed with the golden sun of the Empire. A royal decree. A "gift" from the King.
"A betrothal," Elios grunted, his voice sounding like two boulders grinding together. He was standing by the hearth, though even the roaring fire didnāt seem to touch the frost in his eyes. "Heās sending a... what? A leftover?"
Flio was quiet per usual, before then he looked up. "Itās Cherion," Flio finally blurted out. "Your Grace, surely youāve heard the talk? Heās not just some random noble. He was His Highnessās shadow. The Crown Princeās... well, his most dedicated hanger-on."
Zarius shifted, a low hiss of pain escaping his teeth as the movement agitated the rot in his chest. His eyes looked strangely hollow. "I am aware of the name, Flio. I havenāt lost my hearing along with my health."
"But to send him?" Flio pressed, his hands waving around like he was trying to catch the logic out of the air. "The King is basically tossing us a used glove. Everyone in the capital knows the boy was infatuated with the Crown Prince. Obsessed, even. The rumors say heād follow the Prince into a fire just to get a pat on the head. And now, suddenly, the King decides heās the perfect match for the Great Wolf of the North? Itās an insult. Itās a total, blatant slap in the face."
Elios stepped forward. "You canāt possibly agree to this, Your Grace. Youāre the Duke of the North. Youāre the only thing standing between the whole Empire and the monsters at the wall. You canāt let them treat you like a dumping ground for the Crown Princeās unwanted baggage."
Zarius let out a shallow, rasping laugh that turned into a coughing fit. It took a moment for him to settle, his chest heaving. "And what would you have me do, Elios? Send the scroll back with a polite note saying āNo thanks, Iād rather die in peaceā?"
"Iām serious," Elios growled.
"So am I," Zarius countered, his voice suddenly sharp as a razor, despite the weakness. "His Majesty has played his hand perfectly. If I reject this marriage, I am officially a rebel. I give them the excuse theyāve been salivating over for a decade to march up here and āstabilizeā our borders. I am dying, not stupid."
He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The shadows under them looked like bruises. "Besides... I want to know why."
Flio tilted his head. "Why what?"
"Why him?" Zarius murmured. "The boy is the last of his line. His family was loyal to the Crown to a fault, almost suspiciously so. Why would the King part with the last scion of a loyal house? There is a motive here. Something deeper than just clearing out the palace pantry or getting rid of a lovesick boy."
Elios snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "The motive is probably that the boy is a nightmare to live with and the King is tired of hearing him whine about Yerel. Iāve heard it. They say heās got a personality like a winter thorn. Arrogant, prone to screaming fits if his tea is the wrong temperature, and completely, utterly delusional when it comes to the Crown Prince. They say heās a brat, My Lord. A spoiled, sun-drenched brat whoās never seen a drop of sweat in his life."
"A bad personality is the least of my concerns," Zarius said, a small smirk pulling at the corner of mouth. "They think they can send their āusedā things up here to watch me rot. They think heāll be a useful spy, or perhaps just a nuisance that keeps me from focusing on the wall."
"Heāll be a disaster... probably," Flio muttered.
"Perhaps," Zarius said, opening one eye to look at his two most trusted men. "But heās coming to the North. Heās coming to my house."
He paused, a sudden, heavy silence settling over the room. The wind rattled the windowpanes, a reminder of the unforgiving wasteland just outside the glass.
"Let him come," Zarius continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibration. "A little omega like him? He wonāt be able to do as he pleases in this palace. Heāll either be useful, or heāll freeze. Itās quite simple, really."
Elios looked like he wanted to argue, to shout, to shake some sense into his Duke, but he saw his face. It was the same look the Duke had when he was leading a charge into a pack of shadow-beasts. He was so determined that nothing in this world could change his mind.
"If he tries anything..." Elios started, the threat hanging heavy.
"Then Iāll deal with it," Zarius interrupted. "If heās a spy, Iāll find the leak. If heās a brat, Iāll break his spirit. I donāt care if he spends his nights crying over the Crown Princeās portrait. He is a hostage of fate now, just like the rest of us."
The two men then walked toward the door, leaving Zarius to lay on his bed. His mind was a mix of pain and cold strategy. He didnāt know Cherion. He didnāt care about his past or his broken heart. He just saw a potential variable, a complication sent from the Palace that he intended to monitor until it either proved its worth or withered in the cold.
But for now, the Duke just waited. He waited for the cold to take him, or for the boy to arrive. Whichever came first.