Chapter 195: A Hand That Should Not Be Let Go

"You’ve been staring at that wall for five minutes, Lord Cherion. Are you okay?"

"Is that your favorite hobby now? Checking in on me? Because it’s getting about as repetitive as a broken drive-thru speaker."

"First off, what in the name of God is a ’drive-thru speaker’? And second, you’ve been acting weird all day."

"I’m fine. Just a little tired."

Reiner’s expression softened into something genuinely concerned, which was somehow even more annoying. "I’ll go tell His Grace right now that you’re staying behind to rest."

"No!" Cherion snapped, reaching out to grab Reiner’s sleeve before he could make it two steps toward the door. "Don’t. I... I already feel better. Seriously. Remember who has the healing power here? Not that I’m trying to show off. But if I were actually sick, I’d have fixed it by now."

Reiner didn’t look convinced at all, but after a few rounds of "I’m fine, seriously" and "what, you want me to show up like this?", he let out a long sigh and went back to fixing the layers of formal wear.

As Reiner worked, Cherion tried to focus, but getting dressed felt like running a marathon. He’d spent the last hour being poked, prodded, and wrapped like a very unwilling gift. This wasn’t just putting on clothes, it was a full-on engineering project.

The silk of the inner tunic felt like it was woven from sandpaper and stinging nettles. It was wrong. Everything was just... fundamentally off. Cherion sat on the edge of the velvet stool, hunched forward like a guy reconsidering every life choice that had led him here, while his entire body buzzed with this weird, itchy, restless energy that made him want to unzip his skin and step out of it.

He stared at his reflection, seeing a flush on his cheekbones that looked less like a healthy glow and more like a blooming bruise. He pressed a hand to his temple, where a dull pulse was starting to hammer.

Great. Just great.

He was a guy who’d spent years standing behind a grease-slicked counter at Taco Hell, pulling twelve-hour shifts while his joints felt like they were being eaten by acid and his head was a foggy mess of flu symptoms. He’d survived the lunch rush from hell with a 101-degree fever and a line of angry customers out the door, he knew what a fever felt like. This? This was nothing. It was the stress of everything finally crashing down on his nervous system.

"Lord Cherion, if you move one more time, I’m going to accidentally pin your ear to this collar," Reiner grumbled, his fingers working with uncharacteristic clumsiness around a set of tiny silver buttons.

"It’s too tight," Cherion snapped. It came out sharper than he planned, with this odd tension he couldn’t hide. He winced, rubbing his forehead. "Everything is too tight, Reiner. And why is it so hot in here? Did Marielle order the servants to turn the fireplace into a crematorium?"

Reiner paused. His nose twitched before he shook his head. "It’s actually quite drafty today." He leaned in, peering at Cherion’s face with narrowed eyes. "You’re acting... different today. Not quite yourself. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a lovesick bride waiting for her groom to return from the war."

"I am not lovesick," Cherion muttered, though he immediately followed it with a desperate, "Is the Duke ready? Where is he? He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Is he avoiding me?"

Reiner let out a soft, teasing chuckle. "You saw him earlier, My Lord. And yesterday, and the day before that. You’re practically his shadow at this point. Do you really miss him that much? It’s been, what, four hours?"

"I just... everything feels annoying when he’s not around," Cherion finally admitted. His voice was small, uncharacteristically vulnerable, stripped of its usual armor.

The noise of the servants, the harsh spill of light from the windows, even the way the shirt kept rubbing against his neck, all of it felt too much. Everything was loud in a way that made his thoughts feel scattered, unable to settle. What he needed wasn’t silence exactly, but presence. If only he were here, things might stop feeling so overwhelming, so relentlessly loud.

Reiner’s expression softened. He saw the way Cherion’s hands were restless on his lap, the fingers picking at the hem of his tunic. He reached for the formal outer vest, but before he could even lift it, the doors at the end of the suite creaked open.

Zarius stepped into the room.

He was a vision of Northern iron and shadow. He wore a high-collared black tunic under a cloak of midnight-blue fur, the silver embroidery of the Valtrane crest shimmering like moonlight against the dark fabric. He looked lethal, regal, and entirely untouchable. To any normal person, the Duke looked like a wall of ice. To Cherion, he looked like a bucket of cold water in the middle of a desert.

Cherion didn’t think. He didn’t wait for Reiner to finish the vest. He didn’t even wait for Zarius to cross the threshold properly.

He bolted.

He was across the room in a blur of half-buttoned silk and messy hair, his feet nearly tangling in his own discarded trousers. He didn’t stop until he slammed into Zarius’s chest, his arms wrapping around the Duke’s waist with a force that sent a hollow thud through the room. He buried his face in the cool, scent-dampened fur of Zarius’s cloak, his fingers digging into the Duke’s back through the thick fabric.

The room went deathly silent.

The servants tidying the bedchamber froze with sheets still in their hands, suddenly looking like awkward museum statues that didn’t know where to look. Reiner stood by the stool, the outer vest hanging limp in his hands, his mouth slightly agape. Cherion was currently clinging to the Duke like a barnacle to a ship.

Zarius’s body went rigid for a heartbeat, his breath hitching audibly. His hands hovered in the air, trembling slightly, as if he were terrified that touching Cherion back would cause the boy to shatter or disappear. But then, slowly, the tension broke. His arms came down around Cherion, big hands settling firmly between his shoulder blades, pulling him in until there wasn’t even a breath of space left between them.

"Cherion?" Zarius’s voice was a low rumble, a bass note that Cherion felt vibrating deep in his own lungs. "What is this? What happened?"

"Nothing," Cherion mumbled into the Duke’s chest, his eyes fluttering shut as the world finally stopped spinning. "Just stay like this. Don’t move."

Zarius looked over Cherion’s head at Reiner, his expression a mix of profound confusion and a dawning, terrifying sort of tenderness. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned his chin against the top of Cherion’s head, his fingers tracing the line of the boy’s spine with a gentleness that was almost painful to watch. He gave a rare smile, the kind of look that made the servants immediately look away, feeling like they were witnessing something far too private for a dressing room.

"You haven’t finished dressing," Zarius whispered. "The party will start soon, Cherion."

"I know," Cherion grumbled, his grip tightening. He felt a sudden, irrational surge of protectiveness. "You look so handsome it’s actually annoying. How are you so calm? My brain feels like it’s being poked by a thousand needles, and you just stand there looking like a damn painting."

"Lord Cherion!" Reiner finally found his voice, hurrying over with the discarded vest. "You are literally in your undershirt! This is scandalous, even for you. And you know the Duke is right, we’re already behind schedule. Let go of him so I can at least make you look presentable before you cause an incident."

It took a genuine, physical effort for Reiner to peel Cherion away. Cherion was surprisingly strong when he was determined to be clingy, his fingers hooking into Zarius’s belt. Cherion let out a disgruntled huff, his lower lip jutting out in a pout that he would have been mortified by if his brain weren’t currently melting into a puddle. He kept his eyes fixed on Zarius the entire time Reiner was buckling the heavy vest over his shoulders, watching the way the Duke watched him.

"Better?" Zarius asked once the final silver buckle was snapped into place.

Cherion didn’t answer with words. He didn’t have any left. Instead, he reached out and grabbed Zarius’s hand, interlacing their fingers with a desperate, crushing grip.

"Don’t let go," Cherion said. His voice regained a sliver of its usual directness, though his eyes were still misty and unfocused.

Zarius tightened his grip, his thumb stroking over the back of Cherion’s hand in a slow, soothing rhythm. "I’m not letting go, Cherion. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I think we’re well past that point."

As they stepped out of the suite and began the long walk toward the Great Hall, the castle seemed to shift around them. Every step Cherion took felt like he was walking through thick, golden honey. He was leaning a bit too heavily on Zarius’s arm, his head tilted toward the Duke’s shoulder, seeking that cold fur collar.

But as they reached the massive double doors of the Great Hall, and the heavy scent of roasted meat, pine needles, and strong ale hit him like a physical blow, Cherion’s grip on Zarius became a literal lifeline.

He just knew that as long as Zarius was touching him, he wasn’t afraid of the fire.