The morning cold was straight-up vicious. It was that specific brand of Northern cold that turned a manās lungs into a lattice of glass shards with every inhale. Usually, Zarius met this hour with a face carved from the very glaciers he commanded, stony, unyielding, and perpetually radiating a "do not speak unless the world is ending" energy. But today? Today, the Great Duke of the North looked like a man who had secretly discovered a second sun and tucked it into his breast pocket.
He was standing by the primary supply wagon, hands clasped behind his back, firing off logistical coordinates to the vanguard knights. His voice was steady, yes, but there was a certain... buoyancy to it. Something about the way he spoke felt different today, lighter, more in sync.. He even paused to offer a curt, approving nod to a junior scout who had tripped over his own scabbard, an act of mercy so rare it nearly caused a secondary pile-up of confused knights.
Elios, leaning against a frost-rimed fence post with a mug of something steaming and smelling vaguely of burnt grain, watched this display with narrowing eyes. Heād known Zarius since they were knee-high to a warhorse. He knew every twitch of the Dukeās jaw.
"Youāre unusually spirited this morning, Your Grace," Elios drawled, the teasing lilt in his voice cutting through the crisp air. He took a slow sip from his mug. "Almost looks like a smile. If the men see that, theyāll think weāve already won the war and start breaking out the celebratory ale."
Zarius didnāt immediately snap back. He didnāt even offer the customary "get back to work" glare. He tightened the leather strap on his gauntlet without looking away from the mountains. But his mind? His mind was miles away, trapped in the suffocatingly small space of a dark tent, replaying the friction of a lower lip against his own.
He meant for it to be just practical. Heād insisted it was nothing but a way to keep the cold out. To keep the little Omega warm. But the moment his mouth had actually met Cherionās, the logic had evaporated like mist over a bonfire. The little Omega was... intriguing. Heād been an enigma since the first day heād stepped into the snow with those ridiculous Southern silks and that sharp, defensive wit. But now? Now, Zarius found himself wondering if "intrigue" was a strong enough word for the way his pulse spiked whenever he saw a certain head of silver hair in the distance.
"Instructions are clear. Move the heavy infantry to the flank by sunrise," Zarius said, finally acknowledging Elios with a look that was far too calm to be natural.
Elios didnāt let him off the hook. He pushed off the fence, falling into step beside the Duke as they began the morning rounds. "Youāre sleeping with your mind elsewhere, Your Grace. Or perhaps you didnāt sleep at all? You have the look of a man whoās been... enlightened."
Zarius allowed a small, barely noticeable smile tugged at his lips. It was there for perhaps half a second, a tiny crack in the glacier, before it vanished. But Elios saw it. The knightās smirk widened into something knowing, something dangerously amused.
"The weather must be rubbing off on me," Zarius muttered, his tone remarkably light. "Though I suspect the āenlightenmentā is just the lack of oxygen at this altitude."
"Right. The altitude," Elios echoed, his voice dripping with mock-sincerity. "Nothing to do with a certain sharp-tongued healer, Iām sure."
They made their way toward the cooking field, where the smell of woodsmoke and dicing salt-pork began to dominate the wind. And there they were.
They stood by the well together, working in silence that felt a bit too peaceful.. Marielle chopped the turnip with sharp, precise movements, while Cherion was carefully dicing something with a focused, furrowed brow.
For a moment, everything felt... calm.
Until Marielle lifted her knife. Zariusās gaze snapped to it instantly.
The blade caught the morning light as she raised it, but from where he stood, the angle was all wrong. Too close. Far too close to Cherion.
Zariusās protective instincts flared with the suddenness of a lightning strike. It wasnāt that he didnāt trust his sister, well, not her temper, but the sight of Cherion there, smaller, unguarded beside her, set something off in him. He walked over, his boots crunching on the frozen ground.
In one fluid, possessive motion, Zarius looped an arm around Cherion from behind. It wasnāt a hug, not really, there was something more intentional in the way he held him. A subtle, "Iāve got you" stance that forced Cherion to lean back slightly into the Dukeās solid, armored chest.
"Are you alright?" Zarius asked.
Marielle didnāt even look up from her turnip, though her blade paused for a micro-second. "Relax, Brother. Iām not going to eat him. Heās actually quite useful when he isnāt shrieking about the cold. Weāre just having a bit of āquality culinary bonding,ā as he calls it. Oh, right. Good morning to you, too."
Cherion, caught completely off-guard by the sudden physical contact, let out a laugh that was about three octaves too high. He tried to wiggle slightly, his face flushing a shade of pink that put the sunrise to shame. "Yeah! Totally fine! Nothing happened. Just... you know, chopping veggies builds character. Itās very therapeutic. Really."
Zarius didnāt let go. He leaned over Cherionās shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the scene until it landed squarely on Cherionās face. And there it was. In the bright, unforgiving light of the morning, he could see the slight, tell-tale puffiness of Cherionās lower lip. Those lips, usually so ready with a sharp retort, looked impossibly soft, red, and, gods, plump.
The thought hit him fast and hard, enough to make him forget where they were.
I want it again.
The thought wasnāt a suggestion, it was a demand from his own blood. He wanted to drag him back to the tent, away from the prying eyes of Elios and the sharp tongue of his sister, and finish what theyād started.
Cherion was still rambling, something about the "structural integrity of root vegetables," but the words were white noise. Zarius leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of Cherionās ear, his breath hot against the freezing morning air. The motion was so intimate, so blatantly scandalous, that Marielle actually stopped cutting her turnip and looked up, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.
"Next time," Zarius whispered, his voice a dark, teasing rasp that only Cherion could hear, "Iāll try to tone it down. Just a little."
He felt Cherion go absolutely rigid beneath his arm, a soft, strangled sound escaping the healerās throat. Zarius pulled back just enough to see the look of utter, wide-eyed shock on Cherionās face, gave him a final, lingering squeeze on the shoulder, and turned to walk away as if he hadnāt just dropped a metaphorical bomb on the poor manās dignity.
Behind him, he could hear Eliosās delighted, booming laughter and Marielleās dry, contemplative "Hmm."
Zarius didnāt look back. The subjugation still came first, but for once, something else was starting to matter.