Oh la la.
That was the only thought, coherent or otherwise, that managed to crawl through the thick, syrupy fog of Cherionâs half-awake brain. Not exactly the deep, poetic inner monologue youâd expect from someone who had successfully dodged death for... some time now. But honestly, the view was doing him zero favors.
Cherion didnât move. He didnât even think he was breathing properly. He just lay there under the heavy charcoal-colored blankets, watching Zariusâs face. The Duke was close like, illegally close. It wasnât like this was the first time theyâd shared a breathing space.
But this morning? Yeah, it was different...
His mind, usually his most reliable weapon, decided to betray him by playing a highlight reel of the last few days. He remembered the lingering heat of Zariusâs hand on his back. He remembered the suffocating silence when they were half-naked in the cave, hearts hammering in a rhythm that had nothing to do with fear. And then, last night...
The "blood." The panic. The way his own soul had tried to exit his body the second he thought Zarius was fading.
Cherion wanted to laugh at his own stupidity. It was almost funny, really. Heâd spent months slapping the "business partner" label on everything. Itâs a transaction, heâd told himself. Protection for presence. It was a tidy little lie that kept his heart behind a high, stone wall. But as he watched Zariusâs chest rise and fall, it hit him. While heâd been busy trying to survive the "plot" of this world, his heart had quietly gone rogue and rewritten the script without his permission.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"Your Grace? My Lord?"
His voice sounded like he was trying really hard to stay professional while also internally screaming. "The Royal guests... They are preparing for departure. His Highness is demanding a final audience. He says he cannot leave the North in good conscience without âverifyingâ the Dukeâs stability."
Wow. Romance to survival mode in under three seconds. New record.
Blankets gone. Warmth gone. Reality back.
And somehow, here they were.
Cold air. Horses snorting clouds of frost. Fancy royal carriages sitting there like they owned the place.
Yerel and Philia were already there, draped in furs that probably cost more than a small village. They looked like walking portraits of fake concern.
Yerel stepped toward Zarius, who was currently leaning heavily on Cherionâs shoulder. The Princeâs voice went all low and sorrowful that made the hair on the back of Cherionâs neck stand up.
"Zarius... truly, my heart bleeds to see you in such a state," Yerel said, his eyes scanning the Dukeâs "corpse-like" face with a hunger he couldnât quite hide. "You must prioritize your health. The Crown needs the North to be stable, but we cannot have you pushing yourself into an early grave for the sake of duty."
It took everything in Cherion not to roll his eyes. Where was all this sympathy last night? What, did he wake up on the wrong side of the bed and suddenly grow a conscience? Ugh.
His performance was so shallow a toddler could have seen the bottom. The sigh? Overdone. The head tilt? Please. Amateur hour. Cherion glanced at Zarius, who was currently doing a masterful job of looking like he was about to faint, and thought,
You should really take notes, Your Highness. Youâre losing the lead role in your own drama, and you donât even know it.
Zarius didnât even blink, mostly because he looked like he lacked the physical strength to move an eyelid, but his voice came out as a fragile, papery rasp.
"Your Highness is too kind," Zarius wheezed, the sound so pathetic it was practically a work of art. "But please... donât trouble your heart. This âstateâ is an old friend of mine. Weâve been acquainted for a while now. Iâm quite used to the company."
Cherion bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting. Old friend? More like a bitter roommate.
Before stepping away, the "Gentle Protagonist" turned to Cherion with that soft, saintly expression that screamed danger.
"Itâs such a shame, Lord Cherion," Philia murmured, stepping close enough that Cherion could smell the annoying, sweet scent of his perfume. Of course, he wasnât going to stay quiet. "We didnât get nearly enough time to âreconnectâ properly. The North is so... isolating. I truly hope youâll be more social once you return to the Capital. Our old friends are all dying to see how much youâve changed. They talk about you constantly, you know."
It wasnât a friendly invitation. It was a veiled threat. A sharp reminder that in the Capital, Cherion wouldnât have the rugged walls of the North or the Dukeâs private army to hide behind. He was telling him:
I know who you were, and I can make you that person again.
Cherion didnât flinch. He didnât even blink. He matched Philiaâs fake sweetness with the same fake smile
"Oh, Iâm sure they are, Lord Philia," Cherion answered. "And I simply canât wait to see them too. Iâve learned so many new... skills... here in the North. It would be a tragedy not to share them at the upcoming royal parties."
Polite. Friendly.
Also:
Try me.
Zarius, who had been playing the "dying" part to perfection, suddenly shifted. He didnât speak, but his hand moved, resting on Cherionâs shoulder with a dark, heavy intensity. It was a silent, possessive gesture. It said, quite clearly:
Touch him, and you wonât live to see the next season.
Philiaâs smile faltered for a fraction of a second, just for a second, before he climbed into his carriage.
The doors slammed shut. The drivers cracked their whips. The wheels began to churn through the slush and mud, and finally, the Royal procession began to crawl away from the manor gates.
The silence that followed was glorious.
Cherion let out a huge, genuine breath of relief that seemed to rattle his entire frame. He turned to Zarius, his face splitting into a bright, triumphant smile that he didnât even try to hide.
"Theyâre gone," Cherion laughed, feeling a surge of invincibility. "Finally! We actually did it, Your Grace! We won this round!"
He leaned into Zariusâs side as they began to walk back toward the warmth of the manor, his mind already spinning with the next set of plans. He was feeling bold, reckless, and incredibly happy. He was already thinking about what they would do with the rest of the day, perhaps a real lunch, a quiet moment by the fire, a chance to explore this new "partner" dynamic?
He was so caught up in the victory, so busy watching the snow-capped roof of his new home, that he didnât look back.
He didnât see the Royal carriage slow down as it reached the bend in the road. He didnât see the heavy velvet curtain being pulled back just a fraction of an inch.
And he definitely didnât see Yerel.
Inside the carriage, the Prince wasnât resting. He wasnât mourning his "dying" friend. He was sitting in the shadows, his face cold and stripped of all its fake sorrow. His eyes were fixed intently on the window, watching the distant, tiny figure of Cherion, who was currently laughing and leaning into the Duke with a vibrant, glowing energy that Yerel had never seen before.
Yerel didnât look angry. He looked... focused. He watched the way Cherionâs smile caught the morning light, his gaze a little too intense to be casual. He watched until the carriage rounded the corner and the manor disappeared from view, but the look in his eyes said he wasnât finished.
Not even close.