Chapter 156: The Next Headache

Cherion didn’t protest. He just let himself get dragged along, his wrist firmly caught in Zarius’s grip, feeling how tense he still was through the contact. It was... kind of weird, being hauled back into the castle like some prized dog while everything outside kept moving like nothing had happened.

The adrenaline that had been holding him together out there finally started to wear off. And in its place came this dangerously strong urge to laugh.

He had to press his lips together to stop it. If he actually laughed right now, Zarius would probably think he’d lost it. But honestly, the image was just too good.

Philia, the golden boy, the miracle child, the pride of wherever, flailing around in freezing water like a wet chicken. It was almost too perfect. The kind of scene that would feel fake if you read it in a novel.

Zarius, meanwhile, was not amused.

He stood by the desk, looking every bit as intense as usual, lit by the fire behind him. When he looked at Cherion, there was still something sharp in his eyes, leftover panic that hadn’t quite gone away.

"What really happened out there, Cherion?" Zarius asked. "Don’t give me that ’slippery stone’ nonsense you fed Marielle. He didn’t just stumble. Did he?"

Cherion stopped his pacing. The room went quiet, except for the fire crackling in the background. For a moment, he let himself go back there, to the edge of that grey, hungry fountain. He recalled the precise second the air had shifted. It wasn’t just a trip. He remembered the cold, clinical calculation in Philia’s eyes, the way Philia had braced his core and leaned his entire weight into a lunging shoulder-check.

It was a classic "Double-Fall" trope. Philia had intended to launch them both into the water, ensuring that even if he looked clumsy, Cherion would look pathetic.

Not this time, you beautiful fraud, Cherion thought, his eyes narrowing.

In his mind’s eye, he saw it again: the flowing robes, the frantic lunge, and then his own feet, light as a dancer’s, stepping sharply to the right. He had watched Philia’s momentum carry him past, watched the moment Philia’s eyes transitioned from triumph to absolute, soul-crushing realization of gravity.

There was no way in hell he was letting that man "push" him for a second time. Not today, not ever. It was so incredibly petty. Honestly, what was Philia’s obsession with dramatic falling scenes? And really, talk about a downgrade. First a balcony at the palace, now a fountain? The guy was running out of material.

Instead of recounting the gritty details of the "battle" to Zarius, Cherion opted for a soft, somewhat mysterious smile. He tilted his head, letting a stray lock of hair fall over his brow.

"Things don’t always go the way people plan, Your Grace," Cherion answered, with a hint of amusement in his voice. "He lost his balance. That’s all. He ended up exactly where he was meant to be, really. It’s entirely his own fault he ended up looking like a drowned rat."

Zarius let out a quiet breath, half scoff, half something else. Then he crossed the room in two long steps and stopped right in front of Cherion.

Cherion watched him for a moment after he stepped closer, his smile lingering just a little. There was still tension in Zarius’s shoulders, something tight that hadn’t quite eased yet, and it made something in Cherion pause. He hadn’t expected that. Not from him.

"You were in a hurry earlier," Cherion said lightly, though his voice softened at the end. "I didn’t think you’d worry that much."

Zarius didn’t answer right away. For a moment, he just looked at him, like he was checking for something he might’ve missed.

"I don’t like him," Zarius stated bluntly. No aristocratic fluff, just raw honesty. "I don’t like him near you. I don’t like the way he breathes the same air. From now on, you don’t need to entertain him. If he’s so ’frail’ and ’shaken’ by his bath, then he can stay in the guest wing under Flio’s watchful eye. You stay by my side."

Cherion blinked, surprised by the sheer intensity of the command. "But... he is a guest from the palace. Won’t that look..."

"I’ve already written a letter," Zarius interrupted, a grim satisfaction touching his lips. "I informed him that the subjugation was a resounding success and that, while we appreciate the visit, the North is far too harsh for someone of his... delicate constitution. I requested that the King send an escort to take him back to the capital immediately. I’ll have it sent soon."

Cherion’s eyebrows shot up. "You’re kicking him out?"

"I’m ’prioritizing his health,’" Zarius corrected dryly. "And the sooner he is out of my sight, the better for everyone’s longevity."

"Well," Cherion laughed, a genuine, light sound this time. "That’s certainly one way to handle him. I can’t say I’m disappointed."

The tension in the room eased a bit after that. Zarius moved to pour them both a drink and handed one over, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

"We have bigger things to deal with anyway," Zarius said, his tone shifting. "There’s going to be a celebration. A victory party for the subjugation. An official invitation should arrive a few days from now."

Cherion froze, the glass halfway to his lips. "A party?"

That word hit way harder than it should have. His mind immediately started digging through his memory, flipping through the mental pages of the original novel. His mind raced, scanning for the "Post-Subjugation Party" arc.

Oh, right. That party.

Cherion’s stomach did a slow, unpleasant flip. He couldn’t exactly say he was thrilled.

First and foremost, there was the nauseating certainty that he would have to see Yerel again. The very thought made a sour taste rise in the back of his throat. Huek. Facing the man who had discarded him like a piece of spoiled fruit while he was now arm-in-arm with the very person who had just tried to drown him? Yes, it was clearly a recipe for a very relaxing night.

But as he dug deeper into his memories of the text, a colder, more pressing fear began to take hold.

He remembered the Chapter titles for that arc. He remembered the foreshadowing. This wasn’t just a party for dancing and drinking wine. In the original story, that party? Yeah, it wasn’t just a party. It was basically a setup for something to go very wrong.

Cherion’s hand trembled slightly, the dark liquid in his glass rippling. He looked at Zarius, who was watching him with concern, oblivious to the fact that they were walking into a scripted catastrophe.

In the novel, someone had been hurt. Not just a bruised ego or a splash in a fountain, but something permanent.

Something bloody.