Chapter 169: A Smile That Cuts

"Help, I’m drowning!" Cherion wheezed, though most of his voice got swallowed by what felt like an avalanche of heavy, midnight-blue velvet that smelled faintly like cedar and very expensive, suffocating steam. "Reiner, tell them. I’m actually...hrgh...being buried alive."

He wasn’t exaggerating. Okay, maybe a little. The Valtrane estate’s drawing room had turned into a humid, chaotic war zone of high fashion, and Cherion was the unfortunate battlefield.

Marielle, who was usually calm, was currently in what Reiner called "Total War Mode." She had three pins between her lips and was wielding a measuring tape like a whip. Next to her, the head tailor from the city, a guy whose glasses were so thick his eyes looked like panicking goldfish, was darting around near Cherion’s feet, trying to tame the hem of his trousers.

"Stay still, Young Master," Marielle mumbled through the pins. She yanked a piece of silver-threaded silk across his chest so hard it almost knocked him off balance.

"I’ve done this four times today," Cherion protested, his fingers itching to scratch at a particularly stubborn bit of lace at his throat. "Why am I doing this again? I’m pretty sure the first three outfits didn’t suddenly shrink in the last hour."

Marielle removed the pins with a sharp click. "Because, Cherion, we are not just going to a party. We are going to the Capital. And those vultures, those skinny, perfumed nobles who think the North is nothing but ice and unwashed barbarians, need to be silenced." She stepped back, eyes narrowing as she surveyed her handiwork. "You carry the Valtrane name now. I won’t let you look just fine. I’m going to make you look so breathtaking that they’ll forget how to breathe. It’s a tactical necessity."

Cherion sighed. He felt less like a person and more like a very expensive doll someone kept redressing. He glanced over at the corner of the room where his "audience" was hanging out.

Ezek was leaning against the wall, looking intensely bored but keeping a sharp eye on the door. Reiner, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Every time Cherion emerged from behind the changing screen in a new explosion of fabric, Reiner would let out a low whistle or a dramatic gasp. "Magnificent! Truly, the jewel of the Valtrane!" Reiner declared, clapping here and there like he’d personally organized the whole thing.

And then there was Zarius.

The Duke was sitting on the couch, and hadn’t said much. In fact, he’d been so quiet that Cherion wondered if he was even paying attention. But Cherion noticed things. But he started noticing a pattern. Every time he showed up in a new color, Zarius would lift a brow, and his gaze would linger just a second too long on the line of Cherion’s jaw or the fit of the waist.

It was the only thing that kept Cherion from bolting out the door. That steady, grounding presence.

"Your Grace," Cherion called out, trying to sound casual but also a little desperate, needing a real opinion. "Please. Give me proper feedback. Marielle wants to add a cape next, and I think I’ve hit my limit for dramatic fashion choices."

Zarius lifted his gaze at last, those red eyes dragging slowly over Cherion like he was taking inventory. The air got weird. The tailor stopped moving. Reiner, tragically, stopped being happy about it.

Zarius got to his feet, towering without even trying, then walked over, stopping just inches away from Cherion. The warmth rolling off him was ridiculous...who even runs that hot? His hand came up, paused near Cherion’s shoulder... and stayed there, suspended like he forgot what hands are for.

"Everything... everything looks pretty on you. Happy?"

Cherion bit his lip, his face heating up instantly. "Tch. See? That wasn’t so hard to say," he mumbled, looking at the floor to hide a grin that was threatening to split his face.

He caught Reiner’s eye. Reiner was wearing a smile so knowing, so utterly smug, that Cherion wanted to throw a pincushion at him.

Then, the doors opened.

All the cozy heat of the room was sucked out into the hallway as Philia stepped inside.

Cherion’s smile vanished.

Philia looked... infuriatingly well. The pale, sickly look he had just days ago was completely gone, replaced with this glowing appearance that felt way too intentional. Dressed in soft cream and gold, he looked exactly like the pampered noble from the Capital.

"Oh, am I interrupting?" Philia asked sweetly. He walked further into the room, eyes sweeping over the mess of fabric before landing on Zarius. "I saw all the activity and couldn’t help but stop by. I feel absolutely terrible for being such a... burden recently."

Ugh, he’s already better?

Why? No, I mean, why so fast?

"Everyone has been so kind, looking after me while I was unwell," Philia continued, clasping his hands together. "I truly am sorry for the trouble."

Cherion didn’t buy a single syllable of it. He stepped forward, still pinned into his half-finished suit, tilting his head with exaggerated concern.

"You should still be very careful, Lord Philia," Cherion said, his voice a perfect mirror of Philia’s fake politeness. "Recovery is a fickle thing. We wouldn’t want you to trip again. Who knows? You might fall and hit your head on this sharp table edge." He pointed a finger at the desk’s corner. "Or perhaps your cheek might find its way to these scissors." He gestured toward the tailor’s massive, gleaming shears lying on the fabric. "I’d hate for you to go back to the Capital and tell everyone that somehow, the North is just making you all sick and injured. It would be such a shame for people to think you’re that... fragile."

The room went still. Reiner coughed into his hand.

Philia didn’t flinch. Instead, he let out a light, airy laugh that didn’t reach his eyes, eyes that remained as cold as a frozen pond. "You’ve certainly found your tongue, Lord Cherion. It’s... refreshing."

Philia didn’t retreat. If anything, he pressed the attack. He stepped into Cherion’s personal space, the scent of expensive lilies clashing with the room’s steam. He reached out, his cold, slender fingers brushing against the silk at Cherion’s throat, "adjusting" the collar that was already perfect.

"Now that I’m feeling better," Philia whispered, close enough for only Cherion to hear the venom beneath the honey, "perhaps I should guide you. The Capital is a cruel place for those who aren’t... prepared. I’d hate for you to embarrass the Valtrane name by looking like a country boy playing dress-up."

Cherion’s jaw tightened. He was about to snap back when a large, warm hand clamped firmly around Philia’s wrist.

Zarius effortlessly pulled Philia’s hand away like it was nothing. Then he stepped between them, completely blocking him.

"Rather than spending your energy here," Zarius said, his tone devoid of any warmth, "you should be packing. You’ll need to prepare to leave."

Philia blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Leave? You mean... go back?"

"Yes," Cherion cut in, stepping out from behind Zarius’s shoulder. "To your home. Where you belong. The air here might be a bit too much for you, don’t you think?"

Philia’s expression hardened. "Are you... chasing me out? After I traveled all this way?"

"Wow," Cherion said, popping the ’p’. "That’s such a strong word. ’Chasing away.’ I prefer to think of it as ’prioritizing your health.’ The Duke simply doesn’t want someone the King sent to wither away in a place that’s clearly too much for them to handle. He’s already spoken to the King about this. Right, Your Grace?"

Cherion looked up at the Duke, his eyes wide and challenging.

Zarius looked down at him, a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like amusement dancing in his dark eyes. He turned back to Philia, his face returning to stone.

"My Omega has already said it," Zarius stated, the word Omega hitting the room like a gavel. "So I’m sure you understand. Your purpose for being here is no longer necessary. He is well taken care of."

Philia stood there, his expression tight, controlled, but barely. He looked between the two of them like something had just completely shifted under his feet.

"I understand," Philia finally said. He bowed his head, a gesture that felt more like a threat than a courtesy. "If that is the Duke’s wish. I shall excuse myself to prepare for the journey."

He spun around so fast it almost felt aggressive.

Cherion stood his ground, watching him go. He watched the way Philia’s back remained perfectly straight, the way he walked toward the door. But right before he stepped out, Cherion noticed it.

Philia’s hands, hidden partially by his long sleeves, were balled into such tight fists that his knuckles were white as bone.