Chapter 145: A Very Unwilling Passenger

In the ranking of "cool transportation methods," getting hauled over a grumpy duke’s shoulder sits comfortably between "falling down the stairs" and "being wheeled around like a sack of potatoes." It’s a niche aesthetic, truly. Cherion had barely finished mourning the scorched remains of his dignity when Zarius decided he was essentially an oversized, particularly troublesome parcel that needed to be delivered to a horse.

There was no velvet-lined litter waiting outside that godforsaken cave. No cozy carriage with heated stones and silk curtains to hide his shame. No, there was just a hairy, massive warhorse that looked like it genuinely enjoyed eating healers for breakfast and crushing bones for a light afternoon snack.

Cherion just kind of... existed there, draped over Zarius’s shoulder like a very unfortunate scarf, stomach digging into metal armor while he watched the Duke stomp through slush like an angry snowplow. He found himself wondering, quite seriously, in fact, if he could file a formal complaint with the Duke’s HR department. That was, of course, assuming the "Human Resources" department wasn’t just a crumpled list of people Zarius had successfully glared into a state of total submission.

God, my life is a parody

, Cherion thought, his head bobbing like a very tired dashboard ornament.

Everything had happened with a dizzying, cinematic blur. One moment, he was in the cave, drowning in a confession of heartbeats and pheromones. The next, the world exploded into orange torchlight and the frantic shouting of names. Reiner and Marielle had descended upon him like worried mother hens, hovering, fussing, and asking a thousand questions at once. Are you hurt? Did you catch a fever? Can you feel your toes?

Mercifully, and Cherion thanked every deity he could think of, including the ones he didn’t believe in, no one had made a scene about the shirtless situation. Maybe it was the "one step away from becoming a popsicle" weather, or the widely accepted theory that if you get trapped in a blizzard, modesty immediately clocks out. Either way, the silence on that front was a gift he wasn’t about to return.

Then came the "mounting."

Zarius had deposited him onto the horse with the grace of a man tossing a sack of flour onto a cart. Cherion scrambled to find purchase on the saddle, his thighs aching as he settled (very awkwardly) in front of the Duke.

"You’re joking," Cherion blurted out, twisting his torso to look up at the mountain of a man behind him. "Tell me you’re joking. Why am I here? On this horse? Specifically this horse, underneath your chin?"

Zarius didn’t even look at him. He just reached around Cherion, arms boxing him in like a very secure, and very illegal-feeling, seatbelt. "If you hadn’t noticed, the carriage met a very violent end the other day."

Cherion scoffed, shifting his weight and accidentally bumping back into Zarius’s chest. The heat coming off the Duke was like a furnace. "Right, fine. But I saw other carriages in the supply line. I can squeeze. I’m small. I can be a very compact passenger, I promise."

"They’re full," Zarius rumbled. The sound vibrated through Cherion’s spine, a deep, resonant hum that made his skin prickle.

"I can squeeze myself!"

Suddenly, Zarius’s hand left the rein. He didn’t grab Cherion, but his fingers hooked under Cherion’s jaw, tilting his face upward. The Duke was looking at him way too intensely and way too up close for anyone’s emotional stability.

"Why is it," Zarius asked, his voice dropping into that dangerous, velvety register, "that you look like you’d be infinitely happier sitting in a cramped, smelling carriage than sitting here? With me? On my horse?"

His brain tapped out. Fully. He broke eye contact like it was illegal and stared at the horse like, yes, this is safe, this is normal. His ears felt like they were on fire.

Why? Because you’re a walking cardiac arrest, that’s why!

He was shy, he was embarrassed, and he was currently hyper-aware of the fact that Zarius’s thighs were framing his own. It was a lot of "man" to handle before breakfast.

And the worst part? They absolutely looked like one of those main couples riding into the sunset. Cherion was not okay with that.

"I just... I like my personal space," Cherion muttered, which was a blatant lie considering he’d been clinging to this man for dear life hours ago. He tried a different tactic. "Even Reiner got his own horse! Look at him over there, trotting along like a free man. Why can’t I have a pony? Or a mule? I’d take a very sturdy goat at this point."

Zarius let out a dry, rasping sound that might have been a laugh if the man actually knew how to enjoy life. "You’re welcome to try riding a Northern stallion alone, little Omega. But don’t expect me to play ’safety net’ when you inevitably lose your grip and slide off an icy mountain pass. I have better things to do than fish you out of snowdrifts every twenty minutes."

Cherion turned his head just enough to give the Duke a sharp, snarky grin. "Oh, that’s funny. Because I seem to recall that the last time I took a tumble off a cliff, someone literally threw their entire life away to jump after me. I wonder who that was? Some handsome idiot with a hero complex, maybe?"

Zarius went dead silent.

Cherion peeked over his shoulder. The Duke kept staring forward like nothing happened, full stone statue mode, but his ears? Bright red. Betrayed. Completely.

Cherion bit his inner lip, his cheeks puffing as he held back a triumphant laugh. Aha! Points for Cherion! That silence was the ultimate "win." He settled back into the saddle, or rather, back against Zarius, with a newfound sense of smugness. The Duke’s arms didn’t loosen, but the iron grip felt a little less like a prison and a little more like... well, something else.

The journey was long and grueling. They made a brief stop to water the horses, but even then, Zarius seemed to have developed a temporary case of being "glued" to Cherion. He stayed within arm’s length, a dark, protective shadow that refused to allow a single inch of space between them.

As the sun started dipping behind the mountains, turning the snow all moody purple and orange, the Duchy finally showed up in the distance like a long-overdue save point. They were almost home. The tension should’ve gone away by now... but nope. It actually got worse. Amazing.

Elios rode up looking way more frazzled than usual, like a man who had been holding in a secret so big it was giving him an ulcer.

"My Lord," Elios started, his voice hushed. "I... I forgot to mention this earlier. With the chaos of the blizzard and the, ah, cliff-diving... it slipped my mind. But since we’re nearly at the gates, I just remembered."

Zarius didn’t take his eyes off the road. "What is it?"

Elios glanced nervously between Zarius and the back of Cherion’s head. "Actually, sir... it’s about a guest. Flio sent a message while we were busy running around like headless chickens looking for you two. Apparently... we’ve got a visitor."

"A visitor?" Zarius’s voice sharpened.

Elios rubbed the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet. "Um. How do I put this?" He glanced at Cherion again, his expression a mix of pity and confusion. "The guest is actually here for... Lord Cherion. And he’s been sticking around like he’s got nowhere else to be."

Cherion felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "For me? I don’t know anyone besides people who want to stab me or study me."

"Well," Elios said, his tone turning into a hesitant riddle. "Based on my understanding of your history, Lord Cherion... this person is someone who is, supposedly... your enemy? Or a rival? It’s hard to tell."

Zarius and Cherion shared a look. Zarius’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the reins tightening until his knuckles turned white. Cherion opened his mouth to tell Elios to stop playing "Guess the Villain" and just say the damn name, his brain didn’t have the capacity for riddles after a night of pheromone-induced trauma, but the words died in his throat.

They had reached the main gate.

The heavy iron doors groaned open, revealing a courtyard flooded with a sea of faces waiting to welcome the Duke home. It should have been a relief. It should have been the end of the nightmare.

But as the horse trotted into the light, Cherion’s eyes locked onto a figure standing right next to Flio.

It was Philia.

Philia, the "kind" snake, the smiling assassin of reputations was standing there, waving a dainty hand as if they were long-lost brothers.

Cherion felt his eyeballs nearly pop out of their sockets.

You have got to be kidding me

, he thought, his breath catching. Of all the people who could make it to the North...

Why is the toothpaste model standing in the driveway?!