Chapter 62: The Little Nugget

If being trapped in the mind of an eight or nine-year-old was a circle of hell, Cherion was pretty sure he’d reached the center. Yerel was currently performing a highlight reel of original-novel nostalgia. He was charming. He was kind. He was, quite frankly, exhausting.

"And over here," Yerel said, gesturing with a hand that seemed to literally catch the sunlight, "is the Royal Rose Garden. My mother says they’re the finest in the continent."

Young Cherion was currently a shade of crimson that would have put the roses to shame. He looked like a ripe tomato in a lace collar. Every time Yerel smiled, the kid’s heart did a little double-tap against his ribs. It was sickening.

Seriously?

Modern Cherion groaned from the dark recesses of the subconscious.

Can we skip the "look at plants" part?

I’ve seen better landscaping in a Minecraft.

He was a passenger on a very slow, very sentimental train. He felt the original Cherion’s awe, the way the boy saw Yerel as a literal beacon of hope after the darkness of his family’s demise.

To the boy, this was the beginning of a fairy tale. To the man watching through his eyes, it was the opening credits of a horror movie. He wanted to scream, to shake the kid, to tell him that this golden boy’s shadow was where he’d eventually find his own executioner’s block.

But he couldn’t. He just had to sit there and watch the "Sunshine and Rainbows" show continue.

Ugh. How long was he stuck in this memory? And what the hell even happened to him? Knocked out? Coma? Dead again? Fingers crossed it’s not the last one.

Okay, silver lining, maybe I can pick up some hints or clues. Better be.

They wandered past the fountains and the marble statues, eventually drifting toward the outskirts of the training grounds. The sound of clashing wood and grunting soldiers replaced the soft chirping of the garden birds. Yerel’s pace slowed as he spotted a lone figure standing off to the side, away from the others.

Yerel hopped over, his golden hair bouncing with every step, and tapped the boy on the shoulder.

When the figure turned around, Cherion felt his entire mental state shift from "bored out of his mind" to "emergency broadcast system."

It was young Zarius.

He was maybe twelve or thirteen, but he was already built differently. Broader across the shoulders, a jawline that was just starting to sharpen into that familiar, stubborn granite, and eyes that screamed, I’ve seen too much. He was wearing dark, practical gear that stood out against the flashy silks of the Capital like a bruise on a peach.

OH MY GOD, LOOK AT THE LIL’ NUGGET!

Cherion’s mental voice reached a pitch that would have shattered glass.

He’s so cute! Look at that face! Zarius, it’s me! I’m the one who heals your nasty curse in the future! Turn around, you tiny emo wolf!

"Your Highness," Zarius said, inclining his head in a perfect bow.

Yerel laughed, shaking his head. "Hey now, I thought I told you not to use that with me, Zarius. We’re friends, aren’t we? Or close enough for the holidays, at least."

Zarius didn’t smile. He just shifted his grip on his practice sword, his gaze flickering toward the small, silver-haired boy standing half-hidden behind Yerel.

"Zarius," Yerel said, pulling Cherion forward with a gentle hand on his back. "This is Cherion Hale. His Majesty has taken him under his protection." He turned to Cherion. "Cherion, this is Zarius Valtrane. He’s visiting from the North for a few weeks."

The "Lil’ Nugget" raised a hand, not for a wave, but a formal, stiff gesture of greeting. It was surprising, honestly. He looked like he’d rather be wrestling a bear than talking to a pampered palace kid.

Cherion, trembling like a leaf, timidly reached out his own hand. His small fingers looked like porcelain compared to Zarius’s calloused, sun-browned palm.

Yerel chuckled, a bright, melodic sound. "Honestly, you two. You’re both so stiff. You’d think we were at a funeral instead of a tour."

The comment? Tone-deaf as hell. Cherion was basically grieving his whole family, and Yerel didn’t even blink. Zarius did, though. His eyes narrowed slightly, focusing on Cherion with a stare heavy enough to punch a hole through the ground.

"I heard about your family," Zarius said, zero courtly sugar coating. "I’m sorry."

It wasn’t a long speech. It wasn’t poetic. Just real words. For once today, something that actually mattered.

Cherion felt the boy’s lips twitch upward. It was a sad, fragile little smile, the kind of expression that breaks your heart if you look at it too long. The original Cherion, who was supposed to be obsessed with Yerel from minute one, was actually looking at the grumpy Northern boy with curiosity.

Oh?

Modern Cherion noted, feeling the tingle of interest through the boy’s nerves.

Even you got curious?

As Yerel and Zarius began to exchange the usual noble pleasantries, Yerel doing ninety percent of the talking while Zarius gave one-word answers, Cherion couldn’t look away. The kid stood like he already carried his father’s title on his shoulders.

Zarius must have felt the lingering stare. He turned his head abruptly, his red eyes locking onto Cherion’s.

Young Cherion panicked. He whipped his gaze away, staring intensely at a blade of grass near his boots, his face heating up for an entirely different reason than before.

Yerel, ever the mediator, stepped between them and threw an arm over each of their shoulders.

"Come on," Yerel chirped, steering them away from the training grounds. "I think the kitchens are putting out the honey cakes now."

Just as they reached the edge of the stone courtyard, Cherion couldn’t help himself. He tilted his head back, his gaze sliding over his shoulder one last time.

He expected to see the back of Zarius’s head. He expected the boy to be looking far ahead, but Zarius had turned, too.

The young Duke was staring directly at him. There was no smile on his face, just a look that felt like it was trying to read his soul. For a split second, it seemed like they were the only two people in the entire palace.