"Push, you miserable excuses for Northmen! If a shadow-beast sneezes, half of you will be flat on your backs before the spit hits the ground!"
Eliosâs voice didnât just carry across the training yard; it seemed to vibrate the very frost off the stone battlements. It was the most normal thing Zarius had heard in weeks. He stood on the observation balcony, the wind whipping his heavy cloak, feeling a strange, almost foreign sense of... solidity.
Beside him, Flio was busy trying to look busy with a stack of logistics reports, though his eyes kept darting toward the Duke.
"The third company looks sluggish," Zarius noted. "Theyâll be meat for the grinders if the pass breaches before the moon turns. We need to tighten the formations for the subjugation."
Elios, having finished traumatizing a young soldier, stomped up the stairs to join them. He was huffing, his face a shade of brick-red that usually signaled a looming lecture. He stopped, wiped sweat from his brow, and just... stared at Zarius.
"Youâre standing up straight," Elios blurted out. No âYour Grace,â no âMy Lord.â Just blunt, Northern confusion. "Usually, by this hour, youâre leaning against the masonry like a wilted weed."
Flio chimed in, finally dropping the pretense of the reports. "Itâs more than that. You pale skin? Itâs gone. You look... Well, you look like you might actually survive the month. Iâd bet my best horse itâs the boyâs doing. Whatever voodoo heâs practicing in your chambers at night, itâs working better than a mountain of royal tonics."
Zarius didnât answer immediately. He let his gaze drift across the churning mud of the yard, his mind retreating into the quiet, dark hours of the previous nights.
It was an absurd arrangement. Every night, like clockwork, he and Cherion would retire to the same bed, an intimacy that would have sent the Capitalâs gossip-mongers into a literal coma. They sat or lay there, hands locked together, fingers intertwined as if they were trying to fuse their very souls.
They had to do it that way. The logic was as grim as it was practical. During their midnight heist into the Forbidden Section, theyâd found the Maleficarum of Agony.
The book had been a revelation. An Agony-type curse wasnât just a static poison, it was a sentient, spiteful parasite. During the day, while Zarius moved, commanded, and bled, the curse fed on his adrenaline. It tightened its grip on his mana, turning them into brittle glass. But at night? The curse went dormant.
That was when Cherion worked his magic. His healing energy wasnât just restorative, it filled Zarius from the inside out, little by little, like warm light flowing through fragile pipes. By the time morning came, his body wasnât fully untouched by the curse, but it was strengthened, stabilized, ready to endure the day without collapsing under the poison feeding off him.
And it had to be at night.
It was the only time they could do it without anyone poking around, asking questions, or deciding the Duke had finally lost whatever remained of his mind. Night meant privacy. Night meant they could work without interruption.
"Heâs... efficient," Zarius finally said, the word feeling too small for what the boy was actually doing. "Heâs doing his duty."
"Duty? Is that what the kids are calling âsleeping in the Dukeâs bedâ these days?" Flio muttered with a grin that earned him a sharp elbow from Elios.
Zarius ignored them, but his hand instinctively twitched, remembering the warmth of Cherionâs palm. It was a terrifying thought, really, that his life was now tethered to a boy the King had discarded like a used glove.
The sun set early, as it always did in the North. By moonrise, Zarius found himself pacing his own room. Usually, he waited for Cherion to come to him. It was the "safe" routine. But tonight, a restless energy was buzzing in his chest, a byproduct of the healing that he didnât quite know how to spend.
He decided, on a whim that felt dangerously impulsive, to go to Cherionâs room instead.
When he reached Cherionâs door, he knocked and Soren was the one who opened it.
The aide blinked, clearly caught off guard, though he tried to hide it. Only the faint hitch in his posture betrayed him. "Your Grace? I... I apologize. We werenât expecting you here."
Zarius didnât move to enter yet. He just loomed. "Where is Cherion?"
Soren stepped aside with a jerky, nervous movement, his eyes darting toward the interior of the room. "He is within, My Lord."
Zarius stepped over the threshold. Cherion was sitting by a small table, looking genuinely bewildered. His hair was a mess, something Zarius was beginning to realize was its natural state, and he was clutching a quill like a weapon.
"Your Grace?" Cherion blurted out, then immediately turned pink. "Why are you here? I was just about to head over to your room. Did... did I miss the time?"
Zarius let his gaze wander over the room. It felt remarkably small compared to his own, almost cramped. "I felt like walking," he said simply. "And as this is my house, I believe I am permitted to visit any room I choose. Is there a reason I should not be here?"
Cherion let out a disgruntled grunt, the kind of sound a cat makes when you wake it up from a nap. "I mean, technically, sure. Itâs your house. Youâre the big, scary Duke. You can stand in the pantry all night if you want, but itâs just... so unusual."
Zarius glanced over at Soren, who was still standing by the door like a gargoyle carved from ice. "Soren. You are dismissed for the evening."
His gaze shifted to Cherion then back to Zarius. There was a question in it. No, not a question. A calculation.
For a second, something tightened in the aideâs jaw. His mouth parted slightly, like he meant to speak, but nothing came out.
Whatever words had risen to his tongue were swallowed back down.
"Of course, Your Grace," he said. Soren bowed deeply, every inch of it proper and precise. As he straightened, though, his eyes flicked to Cherion, lingering just a second too long.
Zarius caught it. It was only a second, but it was unmistakable. That wasnât irritation. It wasnât boredom or wounded pride. It was something darker. Territorial.