Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do you, Tyler Hernandez of the great Savlon Empire, take Logan Fields from the Caethia kingdom, to have and to hold dearly in your arms, to protect and cherish him, for all of your waking moments from now till the day of your last breath?”

Tyler sat at the altar, patiently—or at least what he pretended to have, waiting for the old priest to finish his sermon. Leg bounced, eyebrows twitched; anger barely concealed, you are doing this for Taylor, he reminded himself.

Taylor, the beloved princess of the great Savlon empire, his twin sister, was born for a better future. Not to act as an object to be handed over to appease their homeland. So, reluctantly Tyler bit the inside of his cheek hard. Holding back his remark, as the priest he had known as a young lad continued to spout false promises of love and loyalty. And after what seemed like ions, the man turned to him. Expectantly. 

“I do.” The words scraped past his teeth like splinters.

“May the gods tie Your Majesty to his beloved bride for all eternity.” The priest bowed but was ignored by the soon-to-be-titled emperor, who draped his eyes toward the boy who’d been sitting on the altar beside him. Both of them dressed in finely cut outfits, designed for one another. Ruffles and silk peeking out from beneath the white robes they bore. only meant to be removed by one another at the end of the ceremony, signifying a new beginning under their goddess's eye.

A veil cascaded over the others face, not being able to see what his bride looked like, Tyler assumed the man he was to marry was close to an abomination, whom people had to cover, or else the groom, Tyler, would’ve run out of the church.

Once again the priest had restated his speech like a bird trained to do one trick, perfect. Gives me time to figure this guy out.

Tyler glanced at the person beside him. Hatred crawled up his back, but to anyone else, it looked as if he lovingly gazed at the pile of silk before him.

When the priest finally concluded his speech everyone anticipating to hear what the veiled man next to their crown prince would say.

“I do not.” They heard a concealed whisper throughout the cathedral.

Silence echoed through the crowd.

Tyler’s heart sank, glancing over his shoulder to his people and the few guests of the Caethia kingdom. Tyler's eyes caught an equally horrified look from Taylor as she bore holes into her brother's head, what is happening! I thought you said you handled it. He could practically read her face. The premature emperor clenched his fist, stomach churned at the way his people began to whisper.

A silent prayer of rebellion could lead to his demise or freedom, and in all honesty, Logan did not care which. 

The man beside him had been peering into his soul, attempting to gouge his spirit and his words. A surge of hatred bubbled up in the back of Logan’s throat, before he spoke out his refusal.

The silence between breaths felt louder than the priest’s rambling ever did. He felt the weight of centuries pressing down on his ribs—the pressure to obey, to bow, to belong. But not today.
“I do not.”

May his goddess save him from his destiny.

Tyler looked back at the prince beside him, eyes plodding down to Logan’s nimble hands.

He quickly clasped them between his own larger hands.

“My love, what do you speak of?” Tyler asked, speaking loud enough for his people to hear.

“I know you may think you aren’t good enough to stand before our ceremony, but believe me, you are. I would love nothing more than to have your hand.” Lies slipped out of the taller man’s mouth as if it were second nature, face contorting into something soft for his little speech. Words oozing in honey for his bees to lick up and harvest into their colony, he can fix this. He will.

Tyler wrapped his arms around the little prince, pulling him close, and causing Logan to tense up.

Why was the crown prince hugging him? Why was he trying so hard to keep this Scharade going? By gods, they don’t even know each other!

“If you don’t agree, I’ll personally ensure to make you suffer for the rest of your days, little prince.” A threat; silent, only meant for Logan’s ears. 

Although covered with layers of veils, Logan’s face paled, breath hitching when the crowned prince squeezed him. It was a promise, a silent yet prominent threat.

Tyler let go, causing Logan to stumble back a bit. The veil tussled around enough to expose Logan's face to the crown prince. In that split second, blue flashed into Tyler's vision, he flinched, blinking at the Caethian prince as if what he saw wasn’t real.

A sea of blue.

Logan hurriedly readjusted his veil and covered his face once more. The silks moved along with Logan’s movements.

The Caethian prince trembled, he couldn't breathe as he turned to the crowd of people. The few familiar faces began to blur together.

“I ask forgiveness from the people of the great empire of Savlon, for I had doubted myself in being here today, in front of your beloved crowned prince,” Logan darted out, shakily. 

A few murmurs of condolences and soft words were spoken from the people of Savlon. They seemed to pity the frail prince of Caethia. Tyler looked over his subjects, whose faces once sour, now glowing with sweet, sugary endorsement.

"The crown prince is marvelous at comforting his betrothed! They’ll make exceptional rulers," cried out a woman from the back of the grand cathedral. A few more gushed and cooed at the two boys at the altar.

The priest smiled, pleased as he glanced between the two princes, and nodded. He then turned to Logan and repeated his question, "Do you accept the crown prince of Savlon, Tyler Hernandez, as your beloved husband?"

This time, Logan brought his hands up to the front of his chest, interlocking his fingers, closing his eyes as if scared of what he would say.

In the end, he couldn't avoid this blasted fate.

“I do.” 

“Then, with my word and the power given to me by our goddess, I declare you both husband and bride,” the priest smiled at the two young men before him. “You may lift the veil, Your Majesty.” Motioning for the dark haired boy to step closer to the timid prince. 

Tyler blinked, body moving to the other, bringing his hands to touch the soft, silky veil. Rough hands quickly lifted all the thin layers of fabric. Underneath the fluttering silks were two blue gems.

A gasp was torn out of Tyler.

"May our goddess bestow a long, happy life upon you both," the priest concluded with a bow to them.

The cathedral reverberated with cheers, and echoes of excitement and laughter filled the air around the two princes. The empire celebrated the newest arrival of royal blood without concern for the inner turmoil of the people at the altar.

To the people of Savlon, it was the merriest day. The wars between the two powers would stop, and peace would be brought forth. 

Yet to the two men, covered in fine silk robes, an ominous hell was promised for them.

Summer that year had been one of the most brutal Savlon had ever known—not for the heat, but for the weight it dropped on the royal family’s shoulders.

Tyler sat alone in his study, ink-stained fingers trembling, furiously scribbling down trade reports from Ovrorid, one of the few remaining allies with a working port. Every letter, every shipment-delayed, intercepted, or lost to enemy hands. with war creeping closer and his father gone, it was Tyler who now had to lead.

When the late king died mid-war, grief consumes the empress, until she no longer could rise from her bed. The court declared her unfit quickly demanding for Tyler to prematurely take the crown. Their mother, once a pillar of strength, crumbled under grief. With the empress unfit to rule, only one twin remained to bear the weight of a crown still stained with their father's blood. Who better than the crown prince to handle the growing issue between Caethia and their empire?

Tyler hadn't been ready. Hell, he hadn't even had his crown made for ascension, but he'd taken the throne anyways, because someone had to.

In the months that followed, condolences from distant relatives arrived dressed in polite ink and thinly veiled insults. they questioned his decisions. His abilities. His rights.

They grieved the king but mourned the crown not falling into their own hands.

some demanded pieces of the will; others sent offers disguised as advice. And when the weight of it all became too much for one boy to handle, Tyler did what no ruler dared: he cut them off. All the ties. Everyone of them.

The backlash was immediate. He remembers when the letters turned venomous. When allies became strangers. When his own blood grew poisonous to the touch.

Still. Tyler didn't falter. He used it as fuel. He had to. Because the was did not wait for grief.

That had been three months ago.

And still. The war dragged on.

Issues in his own court and a great decline in his health, Taylor was bound to notice-of course she did. His twin always noticed. 

Having her twin ascend the throne without proper training or lessons was concerning, especially since Tyler had begun to stretch himself thin.

Watching her brother decline beneath the pressure, Taylor went to the court in secret. She didn't cry nor did she beg. She demanded for help.

The high jury listened, reviewed, And gave their answer.

They would help Tyler.

But only if Taylor agreed to marry the crown prince of the opposing kingdom.

Taylor attempted to argue for another solution. Begged for another way. But the court wouldn't have it. They had consulted with the Caethian royal family-and both sides had agreed. Taylor was to marry.

One of the royal Savlon twins would marry into Caethia to merge the bloodline, ease tension, and unite their war driven kingdoms.

She couldn’t bear it, she just couldn’t. Not when her heart already belonged to another.

Taylor had long promised herself to the Grand Duke Ben of Savlon. They had dreamed together, whispered about a quiet, cozy future beyond the throne, one built on love rather than politics. Yet, in a moment of desperation-for her brother, for her crumbling home-she agreed, not once consulting with Tyler. She had signed her freedom away without so much at a glance in Ben's direction.

When he found out, Tyler stormed to the court injury. The premature emperors rage echoed through the halls. When he did finally make to the court he nearly shredded the state documents in his hands as he shouted down at his advisors.

How dare the court men offer up his sister as a lamb to slaughter?

Enraged, he ordered the engagement to be called off. To send out a letter to the Kingdom of Caethia call off the blasted wedding. The court refused. Calling it diplomacy, a good way of intertwining both sides into one giant empire: a rebirth. Tyler called it bullshit and would've strangled one of his court's men, had Taylor not intervened.

Taylor had done it for him. Given up her future so he could bear a lighter crown. And the knowledge of it stung worse than any wound he bore while practicing his swordplay.

Their goddess only knows how much Tyler thanked Taylor.

But still, Tyler was never one to act as a damsel in distress and he wouldn't start now.

so he made a proposal of his own.

He offered his own hand in marriage instead.

The grand court, ever scheming, agreed-only under one condition: The marriage was to be presented under the guise of a secret love affair, not political strategy.

Tyler would’ve strangled all the men on the court floor had his sister not intervened again and reminded that it would be wise to keep the marriage under the discretion of hidden love rather than a political marriage. After all, the High Priest of Savlon, devout and immovable, would only bless a union born of love, never politics.

Tyler could feel a headache coming along.

Once again, another controversial decision was made. The Crown Prince of Savlon would marry the First Prince of Caethia, in a union whispered as forbidden, divine, romantic.

When this news reached the press, the people of the empire looked to their future emperor in awe. He had hidden his relationship with his lover even though war had been raging on. The people rejoiced, believing their future emperor had defied war for love. That he had kept a secret lover during the bloodshed, and now—at last—they were to be united under the eyes of their goddess.

And so the story spread. A tale of star-crossed princes. A sacred sign of peace.

"That had been three months ago."

It had been a long three months. Everything had to be perfect for the arranged marriage to work.

Tyler pushed his chair back with a groan, stretching his stiff limbs. Eight hours in one chair was bad enough, but to do it while studying and writing felt like pure torture. Would future generations of rulers be taught better methods? he wondered. He shook his head and stood, deciding to take a short break. His eyes skimmed his bookshelf, searching for something to distract him. They landed on his father’s journal.

The journal. His only tie to the man who had once ruled so effortlessly. Tyler had poured over it more times than he could count, memorizing every word, every decision his father had made in his quest for peace. Tyler had followed in his footsteps as best as he could, but the weight of the crown was heavy, and he feared he might have to rule with a much harder hand than his father ever did.

The people of Savlon didn’t believe he was fit to rule. They longed for the empress, for the familiar presence of their queen. But after her breakdown, the throne had fallen to him, the reluctant prince. And now, it seemed the only way forward was through this marriage. Would his kingdom ever accept him?

With a sigh, he set the journal down and rubbed his temples. He’d already memorized every page, every passage. And yet, he still couldn’t shake the fear that he wasn’t enough.

A knock at the door broke the silence.

Tyler’s gaze flicked up toward the door, waiting. But then, another, much quieter knock followed. His mind began to unwind.

“Come in, Taylor,” he said, his voice soft.

The door creaked open, revealing the princess. Tyler had asked her to use a signal when she wanted to enter, some code to give him a moment to prepare.

“Hey,” she said, offering a small smile as she entered. Her gown was a pale yellow, simple but elegant, adorned with lace and small gems that caught the light. Her hair was styled in a loose updo, and it was clear her personal assistant had spent time making sure every strand was perfect. It reminded him so much of their mother.

Taylor’s gaze softened as she looked at him.

“Hey,” Tyler replied, raising a brow. “I’m fine, Taylor. Just stressed is all.” He quickly gathered up a stack of papers, covering the journal before she could see it. She would want him to rest. She always did. But he couldn’t rest—not now. He didn’t want to worry her, not when there was so much at stake. So, he pretended everything was fine.

Taylor didn’t buy it for a second. She sighed softly.

“I came up here to see if you wanted to join me for lunch,” she said. Tyler perked up at the offer.

“What time is it?”

“A quarter past noon,” she replied. “I was thinking it might be nice to have lunch in the queen’s garden, by the patio.” She hesitated, her gaze flickering to the door before quickly returning to him. “Mother always loved it there, and I thought we could go.”

Tyler looked at her, his heart tugging. He hated that she carried this burden alone, trying to keep everything together, even when he couldn’t.

“You’re not bothering me,” he said, rolling his eyes with a small smile. Then, turning back to his desk, he started straightening up. He couldn’t avoid her forever. Not when she was the sole person who knew him, who read him, who understood him.

“Right. I see, but—!”

“Your Highness!” An older, frantic voice called from the halls, just outside Tyler’s study. The twins blinked, one more startled than the other.

“Shit!” Taylor hissed under her breath.

Tyler barely contained his grin, leaning back in his chair. Brow raised, he shot a teasing look at his sister.

“What the hell did you do this time? Don’t tell me you’ve been experimenting with the metals again.” He crossed his arms, stifling a laugh. “You know how the knights get distressed when their equipment goes missing.”

Taylor shot him a deadpan look, arms crossed. “I only took some scraps—!”

“Your Highness! Where are you!” The voice came again, louder now.

Taylor snapped her head to the door and back to Tyler, eyes wide with panic.

“Why are you looking at me?” he said innocently, whistling as he casually glanced at the wall. “I didn’t do anything.”

The princess groaned, face flushing with frustration. A knock came at the door before it was swung open—violently. A woman in her late forties, panic painted across her face, stormed into the room.

“Your Majesty! The princess is missing!” Her eyes locked on Tyler standing in the middle of the room, whistling suspiciously.

The older woman paused, her brow furrowing as she narrowed her gaze at the prince.

“Your Majesty, your sister, the princess, has gone missing. Would you happen to know where she resides?” Taylor’s instructor stood tall, hands firmly resting on her hips, her eyes sharp.

Tyler didn’t speak, but his gaze shifted toward the spot behind his desk, and the older woman immediately caught on.

In the next moment, Taylor was being dragged out of the room by her instructor, her protests ringing down the hall.

“Traitor!” she hollered in mock outrage. Tyler couldn’t help but burst into laughter, a couple of wheezing chuckles escaping him as he watched them go.

From the hallway, Mrs. Saint shot Tyler a knowing look, her lips curled into a smile. And shook her head.

“She’s your instructor. You should listen to her,” Tyler managed to gasp between laughs. “I’ll see you on the patio!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Taylor called back, still pouting.

Tyler wiped a tear from his eye, taking a deep breath as he calmed himself. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Just what am I going to do with her?

With a final sigh, he composed himself, straightened his shirt, and muttered, “Alright, back to business.”

"Considering what happened half an hour ago, I didn’t think you’d make it," Tyler teased, chuckling at his twin, who huffed in annoyance.

"I took so long because Mrs. Saint insisted I wear a sundress. And while it’s beautiful, my yellow one would’ve sufficed," Taylor muttered, picking up a sandwich and taking a bite.

"I know. Mr. Saint does the same to me. They love making us match, don’t they?" Tyler said, hiding a smile behind his teacup.

Taylor laughed. It was something they'd grown used to—the matching outfits, the fine embroidery, the little traditions born of royal routine. And though they’d grumbled about it as kids, it had become one of the few constants in their shifting world.

Tyler recalled a ball from their youth. Taylor had worn a white dress adorned with waves of sapphire along the hem, delicate jewels stitched into the sweetheart collar. Tyler’s shirt had echoed those same waves, tucked into navy slacks that matched her earrings. It was a moment of harmony—back when things still felt whole.

"I just wish they’d ease up on the jewels," Taylor sighed, glancing at the gems woven into the hem of her sleeves. "Is this really what nobles wear?"

"You’re the only princess of Savlon," Tyler replied. "It’s natural that our people want to dress you like a treasure."

They continued snacking on sandwiches and sipping fresh juice, the light chatter drifting between court gossip and study sessions. At some point, Tyler’s gaze wandered toward the garden. The sunlight filtered through the treetops, painting everything in a golden hue.

He sighed. "How’s Mother?"

Taylor’s eyes lit up. "She’s doing better! She’s taking her medicine again and going outside more often." She brightened even further at the chance to share. Tyler rarely asked. His days were consumed by councils, coronations, and compromises. It meant the world when he made space for moments like these.

“She’s also asked for you,” Taylor added, her voice quieter now, eyes flicking down to her lap.

Tyler blinked. "She has? When can I see her?"

"Her condition’s still... fragile. The doctor says her body’s growing weaker. But yes, she asked for you. You remember those first few weeks, don’t you?"

Of course he did. He remembered everything. The hollow echo of the emperor’s chambers. His mother’s screams. The way her grief had broken her down to someone unrecognizable. He remembered standing in front of Taylor, shielding her from the sight, pretending he wasn’t afraid. And then the burden had fallen on him—grieving, leading, enduring.

"Alright," he said, drawing in a slow breath. He turned back to Taylor—just in time to catch the flicker in her expression.

A hesitation. Something unreadable.

He blinked. “Did you want to talk about something?”

Taylor froze.

She had been doing that lately—stiffening, withdrawing. He was about to comment on it when she abruptly stood, palms slamming onto the table. Her chair screeched across the patio tiles.

“I—well, yes,” she said, voice stumbling before catching on conviction. “I was wondering if you want to go through with the marriage. I know what you’re going to say, and I know you’re trying to do what’s best for the empire—but is it best for you?”

Tyler stared at her, stunned into silence.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he swallowed and looked away. The best?

"Taylor, what are you talking about? We already discussed this with the court. You agreed." His voice was sharp, hurt threading its way into the words. "You’re getting engaged to the Grand Duke soon. Isn’t that what you wanted?"

“Not like this!” she snapped, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her brows furrowed, matching his. And suddenly, she wasn’t the princess anymore. She was just his sister. The same girl who once hid frogs in his bed and helped him sneak pies from the kitchen. The same girl who watched her brother vanish under the weight of a crown. Who still watched as the boy who, only months ago, concerned himself with whether or not his sword could cut through stone. Not with the greater good of the kingdom or the war raging outside their borders, threatening to take away everything they cherished.

She shook her head. “If I had known you were going to be engaged to the enemy, I wouldn’t have agreed to let you go—”

“And then what?” Tyler cut in, standing now too. “You’d rather I watch you marry a man I know would hurt you?”

“You’re in love with Ben, Taylor. He’s a good man. I trust him to keep you safe. Why would I let you throw that away for me?”

“Because I don’t want you to throw yourself away!” she cried, voice breaking. “Not for the sake of a kingdom. Not for anyone.”

“This isn’t your decision to make anymore,” Tyler said, quieter now, but with steel in his voice.

Silence.

Heavy, aching silence.

Taylor’s voice broke it first.

“Tyler... I miss what we once called our childhood.”

Her words hung between them like a ghost. Tyler’s throat tightened. He felt it too—the ache of it. The longing for a time before war, before grief, before thrones and kingdoms and sacrifice.

Without a word, he stepped toward her and pulled her into his arms. As if hoping to shield his twin from the cruel reality that fate had bestowed upon them.

For a moment, they were just two kids again.

“Me too,” he whispered.

“Today! At this very moment!” a man cried from the center of the capital, arms flung wide, voice booming like a festival bell. “The Savlon Empire was expected to attack Caethia’s southern ports—snowy borderlands, bitter winds, all that doom and gloom! But no more!”

He twirled, coat flaring dramatically. “Ever since our glorious, not-yet-crowned emperor announced his divine love for the Caetheian prince, we’ve had no need for war! No need for bloodshed!”

Some passersby paused, laughing or nodding, while others just kept walking—unbothered, unimpressed, or simply used to the theatrics. The man didn’t care. He kept dancing, voice rising over the capital square.

“Our emperor, young though he may be, shall lead us into an era of abundance! Of peace! Of—fashionably dressed unity!”

He gestured wildly toward the cheering crowd now forming a small parade around him. Even a few off-duty guards had joined in, clapping and grinning as the crowd surged with joy. Spring bled into summer, and it finally felt like a moment to breathe—like maybe, just maybe, their grief over the late emperor could start to heal.

“His Majesty will rule above all other nations, with his beloved prince at his side!” the man shouted, spinning until his hat flew clean off. It didn’t matter. The sun was out, the breeze soft, and for once, the empire was humming with celebration.

Meanwhile, from a quiet balcony above the chaos, two figures watched the scene unfold.

“Well, the people sure are excited, don’t cha think?” Aiden said, grinning as he elbowed the tall man beside him.

Ben didn’t respond right away. He just watched, eyes flicking over the dancing crowd below. His cousin’s energy practically vibrated beside him.

Aiden leaned out dangerously far over the balcony rail, arms spread like wings. “Woooooah—whoops, guess I might fall! Guess I might die for the empire!” he cackled, head hanging upside down as he looked at the bustling street below.

Ben didn’t even flinch. Just raised an eyebrow like he’d seen this a hundred times—which, he had.

Aiden tilted his head back upright, grin slipping into something more thoughtful. “How d’you think our little half-wit emperor’s holdin’ up?”

Still no answer. Just the faintest shift in Ben’s posture.

“I know, I know, he needs time,” Aiden continued, waving a hand dramatically. “But time’s a luxury, and empires? They bill by the second. People are already whispering about whether he’s fit to rule.”

He shot his cousin a look. “Your lady’s hand has been promised, hasn’t it?”

Ben gave a small, embarrassed nod.

“How fortunate you,” Aiden said with a smug smirk, clearly poking fun. “Favored by the emperor, engaged to the princess. Meanwhile, I’m stuck as captain of the guard, getting stabbed in places I didn’t even know I had!”

Ben swatted the back of his cousin’s head.

“Hey! Watch the brain cells!” Aiden cried, flailing. “I’m working with limited stock!”

A bark of laughter ripped out of him, startling a few servants walking below the balcony. One of them nearly dropped a tray. Aiden waved down. “SORRY! Occupational hazard—insufferable charm!”

Ben just shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Aiden leaned against the railing again, that sly grin returning. “Maybe we should drop by the twins. Help cheer ‘em up a little. You know—remind our emperor that he’s still human and can, in fact, lose at card games.”

Ben gave him a flat look.

“Or hey,” Aiden added, waggling his eyebrows, “you could bring your fiancée something sweet. Gotta butter her up before she realizes you’re an emotionally constipated war hero with the romantic range of a rock.”

Before he could finish the sentence, Ben’s palm landed square on his face, pushing him back like an unruly cat.

“Mmmpph—rude!” Aiden yelped into his cousin’s hand.

Sunlight streamed through the towering stained glass windows of the cathedral, casting jewel-toned ribbons of light across the white marble floors. The high ceilings echoed with the distant hush of footsteps and the soft flutter of doves roosting overhead. Gold filigree caught the light, gilding the altar with a holy sheen. It was sacred ground—priceless not only in material, but in memory. 

Tyler’s parents had wed here, bound by a love so strong it could hollow the other if one were lost. That was the kind of love people wrote epics about—searched mountains and oceans to find. The kind Tyler would never have. The kind he’d traded away.

Tyler had heard stories from his father. About his engagement, the smiles plastered on both his parents' faces as they waited and listened to the priests sermon on their sacred wedding day. The story involved cheers and applause for their unity. Something Tyler will never get to experience. Something he would be cursed to yearn for many, many years to come. A pitiful life he is willing to live for his sister: for his nation's peace.

He stood silently as the High Priest, old and sprightly, bustled about the altar behind him.

“Your Highness, you’ll stand here—on this side of the dais,” the priest instructed, voice bright with the sort of joy only age could carry. “From here, you’ll greet your beloved as he walks the aisle. A perfect view, I’d say.”

"I'm sure to make any changes His Majesty desires to be done before the ceremony." The old man continued to muse at the marbled altar as he picked at the already-prepared candlestick meant to be lit up as the couple exited the grand cathedral.

Tyler’s gaze drifted across the great entry doors. Gold-threaded drapes shimmered in the stained light, and the aisle was already scattered with petals from some earlier ceremony. The old man kept talking—details about the order of vows, seating for nobles, placement of ceremonial candles—but it all melted into background noise.

“I imagine it must be a dream,” the priest continued, “to stand here at last with the one you’ve loved in secret all this time. It must have been difficult, keeping such a bond hidden for so long.”

Tyler turned toward the altar, letting his face fall out of the old man’s line of sight. His stomach churned.

"But it brings me joy to see love win, even now." The priest looked at the soon-to-be emperor. Hidden sorrow lay behind kind brown eyes.

This man was beyond Tyler's years, and most likely knew better than him. But his pride refused to see him as a man with probity. The holy priest only knew his parents, not him. Not the one who is willingly giving up his future in the name of protecting his empire.

"Your majesty, are you perhaps ill?" The priest's eye was on him, listening attentively to his response.

Tyler’s voice came out smooth, practiced. “Ah. I suppose my thoughts are simply... occupied. The days ahead are long, and rest is a scarce thing lately.” smiling back at the man, he stepped forward, brushing a hand over the polished edge of the altar. It was cold. His head hurt.

The priest offered a gentle nod, setting down a candle. “Then please, Your Majesty—do rest. You wouldn’t want your young prince to worry. He’ll need you strong on your wedding day.”

At that, Tyler’s hand curled into a fist at his side. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“I won’t have him worry,” he said through gritted teeth. “His concern is..unnecessary.”

He wouldn't wish to receive anything from the adversary, let alone his worry. His family can do that.

Tyler winced at that thought.

The priest, unfazed, chuckled. “Ah, but such devotion! Prince Logan must hold a beauty of its own to earn the heart of our crowned prince.”

Tyler froze.

The prince's eyes widened.

The priest had said his name.

Logan.

A wave of shock came over his body, Logan? He snapped his head back at the elder. How does he know his betrothed name?

How did he, the groom, not know his own bride's name? Did he know anything about the person he'll marry? Sweat began to gather at Tylers temple.

The holy man took note of his behavior but said nothing. Only when Tyler raised a brow at him-expectantly- did he speak. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, I was out of turn." He bowed his head apologetically.

"Don't fret, but refrain from speaking of my promised name so carelessly," he said, voice sharp. “Not when I have not.” Eyebrows knitted together, his gaze pierced through the priest's head. 

The silence that followed was brittle.

"Of course, Your Highness." The priest murmured, but Tyler didn’t let it drop. “And yet, you knew it.” It wasn't a question, but rather a demand. 

A pause. Then: “Would Your Majesty believe me if I said my family was once of Caethia?” The man hesitated in response. Eyeing the prince.

Tyler studied him now—truly studied him.

He said nothing.

“My mother fled their capital when the current king came to power,” the priest explained. “She believed him cruel beyond words. We made our lives here, and I served your parents until their final days.”

“I see.” Tyler’s voice was even, but his chest tightened.

The old man folded his hands. “I only wished to ensure our future emperor understands the weight of his union. The king of Caethia is not a man easily trusted.”

The prince only gave a curt nod.  Of course he knew, everyone knew. The tyrannic king and his way of asserting rule in the north. It had not affected Salvon up until Caethian troops were placed in the border of Salvons trading port causing the initial conflict to unravel into a war. During this period a rumor spread of a group of underground bandits rising up to the Caethian family.

“I’m aware,” Tyler said shortly. “The entire empire is aware.”

He didn’t want to talk about Logan’s father. He didn’t want to think about the war, the border raids, the rumors of Caethian rebellion. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he was sacrificing.

The older one only smiled. “I didn't mean to discourage our young prince, only to ensure our future emperor knows of the king and his tendencies to rule.”

“You’ve yet to tell me how you know his name.” The prince prodded further. 

The priest gave a tired laugh.

“The king made a public proclamation when his children were born. The name of the youngest prince—Logan—was meant to be a sign of peace.”

He looked at Tyler, eyes kinder than they should be. “I mean no harm, Your Majesty.”

Tyler said nothing.

And just like that the conversation about the tyrant king had ended.

“The prince is said to be... quite charming,” the old man added carefully.

That startled Tyler. Is this some kind of joke? Was the whole empire more informed about his own betrothed than he was?

The priest bowed his head again. “Forgive me. I forget myself. I remember blessing you and your sister when you were children. It brings me joy to know I will be here again—to see you bound to your beloved.”

“It's truly an honor to join Your Majesty with his beloved. I'm sure you've been dying to officialize your love.” That statement annoys the prince.

Tyler’s expression didn’t waver. But his voice dripped with sarcasm. “Yes. Love.”

“I’m sorry?” The priest asked gently. Crap. He needs to stop letting his mouth get the better of his judgment.

He sighed. “Nothing. Only thinking of how best to meet my subjects’ expectations.” 

This man does not know about the arrangement. No one other than Taylor and a handful of government officials knew of his marriage to be a political agreement rather than a secret paramour. He continued with the previous conversation. “The wedding should be a way my people can disperse their worries. We do not mind how the wedding goes, as long as we both know what to do.” 

Tyler hesitated with his words, not that the priest could see his face as they walked out the cathedral. 

“I see. Your majesty must feel strongly of the Caethian prince if he chooses the wedding coordinations all by himself.” the priest says. Tyler scoffs softly. 

Tyler snorted under his breath. “It’ll hardly be intimate—half the empire will be present.” Tyler stopped walking in order for the older man to catch up. 

“Do you believe he’ll like it?” He questioned. 

They are half way down the aisle.

The priest jumped at the question. “Oh, but of course! I'm sure the Caethian prince will love anything Our Majesty prepares.” The older man fumbles to catch up to the crowned prince. Once the man is next to the prince he grins confidently. “In fact-he may wish to marry Our majesty twice!”

Tyler only shakes his head at the priest's enthusiastic comment. How foolish to think such a thing. Yet he’s unable to prevent a small smile from cracking on his mouth as they finally walk out the cathedral.

“Once upon a time…”

There was a lonely prince who dreamed of marrying a beautiful princess. But she came from a foreign land—one that despised his own. The two were different in every way, and yet they loved each other without hesitation. So they became engaged. When their people learned of the romance, they were outraged. They demanded the couple separate, to protect their honor and pride. But the lovers refused. Their love was too strong.

With sorrow in their hearts, they fled. They left behind their titles, their palaces, their families. All for the sake of love. They lived quietly as commoners, and in time, were married beneath the stars, swearing their vows in the name of the goddess.

Together, they built a good life. A simple life. A life cradled in the arms of love.

They lived a good life, a simple life in between the arms they loved. 

“Did they ever become royals again?” a small voice piped up from the circle of children.

The story room was soft with candlelight. Pillows scattered the floor, silk banners hung like streamers across the beams, and the air smelled of honey and smoke—perfect for fairy tales.

“No,” Logan replied, eyes landing on the girl who asked. “They chose each other over crowns.”

“But that’s kind of sad…”

“Yeah! I’d never leave my coastal chocolate for anyone!”

Laughter bubbled up all around him—sweet and infectious. The children’s eyes were wide, their cheeks flushed with excitement.

Logan smiled.

“I don’t think it’s sad,” he said gently. “They gave up power, but they gained freedom. Sometimes, that’s the better trade.” He closed the old book resting in his lap and set it aside. The children, heirs of noble houses, didn’t live under the weight of a throne—but they were still tethered to legacies not yet their own.

Logan dusted his lap and stood.

The protests began immediately.

“Prince Logan, one more story!”

“I want the one about the frog princess!”

“No, tell the one with the girl in the mirror world!”

“What about the fish girl?”

Logan laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. I know story time’s your favorite—but I hear your parents’ meeting ended a few minutes ago. Time to head back to the entrance.”

Groans filled the room. A few children dragged their feet, some complained about going back to their tutors, others pouted dramatically.

Logan watched them with sympathy. Born into privilege—but not into peace.

Just like him.

Once the last of them had been escorted out by the knights stationed at the door, Logan exhaled. Finally. Silence.

“You handled them well.”

Logan jumped, whipping around with a hand pressed over his chest. “Ash! Goddess above, you scared the life out of me!”

Ashlyn stood near the shelves, arms folded, lips twitching. “Your Majesty,” she said, bowing her head. 

Logan scowled. “Ash—don’t do that.”

Ashlyn only stared off to the side as if pretending to not know what happened. 

Her expression sobered. “I came to report: the Salvon troops stationed near our southern border have withdrawn.”

He blinked. “So soon?”

She nodded. “Our frontline scouts have returned, too. They... heard of your engagement. They want to celebrate.”

A pause.

“Does your highness wish to—“ 

“How did they find out about that?” Logan interjected. Eyes meeting her gaze, tense. 

Ashlyn glanced to the side, it was her turn to not meet his gaze.

She stared off to where Logan had previously been sitting with the children.

Ashlyn looked away. “Rumors. Salvon’s soldiers spoke of it. Word spread.”

Logan closed his eyes. “Of course it did.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She bowed her head once more. Which made Logan uneasy.

He waved her off. “Ashlyn. No formalities, not when it’s just us.” He gave her a faint smile. “You’re still my best friend.” He whispered, reaching out to stop Ashlyn from being in such a position.

“Besides, it’s good that our people have a fair warning before the news in a fortnight.” Logan dragged himself towards his chair, plopping down on the comfortable cushion made especially for the Caethian prince. 

He let out a loud sigh.

She nodded and joined him, settling on the floor amid the pillows while he slumped back into his oversized chair, exhausted. The candle lights burned brightly in the dim room. Comforting. Sleepy. Logan closed his eyes, feeling himself starting to doze off.

Ashlyn's voice broke the stillness.

“How do you feel about the wedding?” 

He didn’t answer at first.

How did he feel?

He felt rather calm about the whole ordeal. Strangely enough he didn’t feel any different after his father had betrothed him to the crowned prince of Salvon. Just a quiet bitterness. His father had traded him away like a coin for peace. And he’d never even met the prince he was to marry. Rumor painted the man as sharp-tempered, cold, ruthless. Logan was timid by nature but he knew he owed not one bit of himself to the other royal blood. Just like the other didn’t owe anything to him.

Logan had no expectations. Why should he?

He only huffed, dipping his head back onto the cushion of his chair, tired from thinking. He missed the countryside. The quiet summers. The way time slowed down when you were nowhere important.

Simpler times.

“Logan, Get off that tree you still have to practice your ballroom dancing!” An elderly voice rang out below. Logan peeked down from the high branches, giggling.

Giggles echoed from up above as the woman placed both her hands on her hips. 

“Grand-grand! Look at this bird! Its feathers are blue!" The youthful boy showed the woman a little blue bird he’d managed to cage between his hands, the bird itself hadn’t scrawled or even reacted to being forcefully grabbed. It just laid between Logan’s hands. 

“What did I say about grabbing wildlife, young man?” She said as Logan had begun to inch down the tree. 

“Not to force it to be, but to let it be.” Logan said as he jumped down from the branch closest to the ground. Giving his grandmother a heart attack in the process.

“Exactly—don’t go scaring me like that, boy.” She ruffled his hair and kneeled to the ground, leveling herself to Logan’s eyes. 

“He let you catch him?” She nodded towards the bird, body still limp in her grandson's hands, even when Logan opened his hand. The bird rested on them.

“Yes, he seems to enjoy being held.” 

The woman gave him a smile, “yes, it seems that way.” 

Logan then gently laid the bird on the ground and stepped back, signaling for his grandmother to do the same. When they both were a fair distance from the sapphire bird, only then did it fly away. 

Logan turned to his grandmother, a grin spread across his cheeks. She couldn’t help but return the smile.

They returned inside where they met up with Logan's grandfather, who was skimming over documents. 

When he finally noticed their presence he stood up from his chair, jogging towards them.

“Ah! There they are, my favorite people in the whole wide world.” He picked up Logan and slung him over his hip.

“What ever have you been up to, young man? I heard grandma hollering for ya’ to get down the tree!” He said, animatedly. Grin widening.

“Oh, you’ll never believe what he managed to catch this time. A little blue bird, the frail thing, didn't want to leave his hands!” She smiled teasingly as Logan, as she pinched his round cheeks. Logan huffed at the action.

This grandfather only kicked back his head and laughed. “Did he? How strange we don’t usually get blue birds in the north. They mainly come from the south!” The old man brought his wife by her shoulder, giving her a tight side hug before gently kissing her cheek.

“It was so cute though! Couldn’t we keep it, grandpa?” Logan looked between his grandparents. Eyes wide with curiosity.

Their hearts melted at the sigh of their grandson. Despite being a cheeky kid he managed to always haul them back in with his actions. 

“No we couldn’t. This isn’t his home dear.” His grandmother spoke with care. Running a hand through his hair. “Just like we want to keep you here forever and ever, we can’t, you have a whole kingdom to learn how to rule, dear.” 

Logan pouted. Hugging at his grandfather's neck and hiding between his shoulders as the elder woman spoke. It was upsetting having to leave the countryside at the end of summer. He hated it.

“Don’t worry kiddo, we'll keep stealing you from the palace every summer till you find someone you love that’ll whisk you away from us.” His grandfather reassured the small prince. 

At his words Logan grew angry. 

“I don’t want to find someone like that!” He burst into tears.“I want to stay here with you forever.” His grandparents cooed at him. The little prince's face soon became red and wet from tears.

So the elderly couple decided to take him to their lounging area, they passed the corridors and kitchen staff who glanced at the prince and whispered condolences. 

“Such a pretty prince shouldn’t cry!” 

“Whatever happens to make our cheery prince be full of sorrow?”

“Let’s make him some desert for later this evening.” 

He heard his grandparents hushed amusement while he hid his face in embarrassment between the crook of his grandfather's neck. 

“Don’t be so glum my darling, you’re bound to find someone, a good person who will live and care for you unconditionally. Until then, we’ll always be here for you.” She shuffled Logan into her hold, gently patting the back of his hair. Eyes drifting from the small prince to the man in front of her, she smiled. Sharing a knowing smile with her husband.  

“But, what if they don’t love me like you both do?” Logan babbled, holding back a wet sob.

“That’s nonsense, my boy! Who wouldn’t like you for you, our little prince?”

Logan blinked back to the present, to the flickering candlelight, to the weight in his chest. His throat tightened. In the following two weeks he’ll be betrothed to a man he knows nothing of. 

He scoffs at his naivety.

This got a look from his general.

She clears her throat. “My liege, in the following weeks you’ll be sailing to Salvon, a trip I won’t be able to accompany you on.” She squeezed with the soft rug beneath her fingers, sighing. 

When Ashlyn looks up at Logan she freezes for a moment. Logan’s eyes were glossed.

“What?” 

His eyebrows are knitted together and lips tremble so faintly she almost missed it. Keyword, almost. Of course this announcement would affect Logan, they practically grew up together. Being the squire of the previous general, her father. Ashlyn spent her years in the palace with Logan.

Ashlyn sat up taller, scooting towards him. 

“I know,” she began. “But our kingdom needs me here. Please forgive me Logan.”

“Ashlyn, it’s my wedding day—you’re my best friend!” His voice cracked a bit. “Why does my father need you here?”

“I am not sure of the details just yet, but I promise once I find out I’ll write to you. I swear on my life I’ll write.” She said, eyes searching for Logan’s answer. 

The disheartened prince merely nodded to her. Ashlyn’s brows knit together in worry, she never was good with this kind of stuff. It’s a miracle her prince gave her the time of day when they were younger. 

“Hey, don’t be too nervous around your future husband, I bet he’ll be too cranky with his attendees to even give you any jarring words.” She joked, a shy smile displayed on her freckled face. Soft, she wanted to be comforting for her best friend. 

At her words Logan only snorted. A slow, soft grin broke into his face. Making Ashlyn’s heart melt by its warmth. 

“You’re crazy! But do you really think so? I feel like I’ll be the first to be executed when his temper blows up.” Logan threw his head back, laughing.

Ashlyn gasped dramatically. “Over my dead body!” Slowly she began to stand on her feet. Stretching whatever muscles had cooled down when resting. “He’ll be beheaded by yours truly if he ever brings you harm.” She muttered, barely audible. 

Logan snorted. “I heard that.”

“Nothing, nothing, my prince,” she said, bringing her arms to meet at her back, and pulling. Loud cracks and pops echoed through the cozy room. 

Logan cringed. 

“I don’t know how you do it!” He shrieked.

Ashlyn merely shrugged at his reaction, a smile painted her face.

“You know I only stretch—“

A loud knock shattered the calm.

“Your Highness! Under attack—move now!”

The door flew open. Three knights burst in, swords drawn.

A group of royal guards barged into the comforting room, interrupting the general. The one leading the three was a tall man carrying his unsheathed sword, as if ready to behead anyone who caused harm to the prince. 

Ashlyn was up in an instant, blade already out at the suddenness burst of the royal guards. An arm shielding logan where he sat, yet once she identified them to be friendly she lowered her sword. But never once lowering her shielding arm.

Ashlyns eyes widened, “where is this attack coming from?” She now stood taller, eyebrows knitting together in accusation.

“One of the night tower watchers spotted a maid being attacked by a group of bandits.” The knight explained quickly, fetching a coat the others had brought with them, he gently handed the clothing to Logan, as if not to trigger their general.

"Please, hurry and put this on I'll get you a cloak in a moment, My prince." Logan could only nod as he shimmied into the warmth of the fabric.

Ashlyn watched as this happened, once deeming it safe she demanded answers.

“They’ve breached the west wing,” one knight said. “You’re to be escorted through the eastern tunnels. A ship waits to take you to Salvon.”

The second knight, who’d been guarding the door, grimaced. “General Banner, we received orders for you to escort our prince down to the hidden tunnels.”

“Already on it soldiers,” she replied, helping Logan adjust his cloak, pulling the hood up. They hoped the navy floor length cloak would hide their crowned jewels face as they hauled him to the east side. “Will you three be accompanying us?”

The third knight nodded at her words, “we were sent by his royal highness, the king. We will get both of you to the ship, there prince Logan will be on his way to Salvon.” The knight said, motioning for their prince to be ushered through the doors.

“Wait—please. What of my family?” Logan panicked, he couldn’t possibly be the only one to make it out of this attack.

“Your highness, they’ve already exited towards the South Gate, they are on their way to the Northern villa.” One of the men responded with worry, as they witnessed their prince crumble before them. "You’ll be safer on the water, Your Highness.”

He nodded slowly, dread clawing at his ribs.

Everything was happening too fast.

Logan was being dragged through the palace halls. Turn after turn, room after room—it felt endless, like a twisted maze with no exit. Screams echoed down the corridors. The sharp sounds of metal clashing and doors slamming unsettled him further.

Finally, they reached the east wing.

The room they entered was nothing special: a single bed, two bland bookshelves, and a bear fur rug laid before the fireplace. It looked harmless. Ordinary.

But behind the bed was a hidden latch on the wall.

Ashlyn pulled a thin chain from inside her shirt, revealing a key. With practiced ease, she unlocked the hidden door, revealing a narrow opening just big enough for one person at a time.

Before Logan could react, Ashlyn placed a firm hand on his back and pushed him forward.

“Go.”

He stumbled through the tight space, hands brushing against cold stone as he squeezed inside. The tunnel opened into a narrow corridor, barely lit, stretching endlessly forward.

A scream echoed through the wall.

Logan froze.

Were they really that close?

He turned his head but kept moving, legs trembling beneath him. At the far end of the tunnel, a stairwell led downward.

“Soldiers, our prince has gone through. Inform the king once we reach the ship,” Ashlyn’s voice called behind him.

A chorus of “Yes, ma’am!” echoed through the secret passage.

A few minutes later, Ashlyn popped her head through the tunnel entrance, catching Logan standing frozen at the stairwell.

She offered a small, hesitant smile.

“We’re going to be okay. The knights are coming through now—we should get moving to the port.” Her voice was low and cautious, mindful of the danger still nearby.

Logan nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

“Alright,” he croaked.

They waited as the knights squeezed through the narrow entrance behind her. Logan couldn't help but be amused—it was a ridiculous sight, watching three burly men attempt to fit into a space built for one.

Once all five were finally together, the last knight turned and shut the latch behind them. He drove a metal rod through the handle to lock it tight from the inside.

They all took a moment to breathe—just a second of relief.

But the mood quickly shifted. The knights straightened up in the presence of their prince.

“Our prince,” one of them said, stepping forward, “we’ll escort you to the port. We’ll cover you and General Ashlyn until you’re aboard.”

He took Logan’s hand gently, bowing his head.

Logan froze.

This wasn’t necessary.

“This isn’t about me. We’re all escaping tonight,” he muttered, voice shaking.

Ashlyn stepped beside him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Soldiers, straighten up,” she commanded. “Our prince needs to make it to that port without getting caught. Stay sharp.”

The knight who’d taken Logan’s hand stepped back, cheeks flushed, and quickly fell into formation.

Two of the knights led the way with swords drawn, while Ashlyn and the third knight flanked Logan from behind. The tunnel was narrow and cold, every footstep echoing through the stone walls. More screams echoed from above.

Logan clenched his fists.

The fear was settling in his chest like a storm.

Eventually, they reached the stairwell. Ashlyn ordered the doors opened, and with effort, the heavy stone gave way to the outside. The salty scent of sea air hit Logan’s face like a wave.

They scanned the area.

Clear.

They moved.

A group of soldiers hidden near the docks emerged to assist. One, an older woman in her early forties with a sharp gaze and an air of command, approached first.

“Your Highness, you’ve made it out—thank the Goddess,” she said, her expression softening as she studied him. “Even on a night like this, you look glorious.”

Logan flinched.

How could she say that?

Now?

He pulled his cloak tighter, lowering his gaze. Ashlyn, thankfully, noticed.

She stepped in immediately.

“General Banner,” the woman greeted her. “You were with our prince when the attack began?”

“We were in the east wing when we received the news,” Ashlyn replied coolly, voice clipped. “There’s no time to waste. The prince is departing for Salvon tonight. On direct orders from His Majesty.”

“I see,” the woman nodded. “Then we’ll see to it he’s aboard safely. Our prince is the kingdom’s top priority.”

She turned away and barked orders to the soldiers.

Logan remained still.

This was really happening.

He was leaving. Heading to Salvon.

In weeks, he would be married to its emperor.

Everything felt too real now.

Too final.

He turned to Ashlyn, trying to meet her eyes—to say something, anything, to her before they parted.

When his gaze met hers, his vision blurred.

“Ashlyn—”

“I know,” she whispered, pulling him into a fierce hug. “I know.”

He sobbed into her shoulder, arms clinging to her tightly.

“Can’t you come with me?” he asked, voice breaking.

“You know I can’t, Logan,” she whispered back, smoothing his hair. “The king needs me here. He said so himself.”

She paused, her voice trembling.

“But you’ll have a good life. An easy life. You’ll marry an emperor-hell, you’ll be an empress in less than two weeks. Don’t let me hold you back. I—”

“I wanted you to walk me down the aisle,” he interrupted, eyes shut tightly against the sting.

Silence.

When he opened his eyes, he saw tears rolling down Ashlyn’s cheeks.

A sob racked her chest.

She hadn’t expected that.

She couldn’t let go either.

“You...” she laughed through her tears. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, trying to smile despite the snot and emotion.

Screw the crown. The orders. Her duty. Ashlyn will protect her dearest friend.

Then, with sudden resolve, she grabbed his hand.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Logan blinked. “Go where?”

Ashlyn grinned at him, eyes still wet. “To Savlon, my prince.”

He barely had time to react as she tugged him toward the ramp. The sound of waves crashing against the ship grew louder. Men were shouting, pulling ropes, setting sails.

But Logan saw none of it.

Only Ashlyn, his best friend, leading him onto the ship.

The clock struck midnight, but sleep remained a stranger.

Tyler sat slouched in his velvet armchair near the hearth, bathed in amber firelight that flickered against the dark wood walls. Nights like these were always endless—spent reading, thinking, pretending to unwind while his mind kept working.

He was sick of it.
Sick of the silence.
Sick of the performance.
Sick of the weight he wore like a second skin.

His nerves coiled under his skin like wire, always on edge, always vigilant. Sleep, when it came at all, never stayed long. Six hours, if he was lucky. But lately, even that felt like a dream.

He glanced at the gilded clock again. Ten minutes gone, lost to nothing.

His brow twitched in quiet frustration. Why couldn’t he rest?

A low groan escaped him as he tipped his head back against the plush upholstery, eyes fluttering shut in reluctant surrender. And just as the warmth of slumber dared to approach—

A knock.

His eyes snapped open, jaw tightening with exhaustion.

“Come in,” he said, voice rough.

The door creaked open to reveal Mr. Saint, cloaked in midnight hues and formality, his apron still tied from the evening’s duties. His presence in this hour was unusual—intentional.

“My emperor,” the man said softly, guilt lining his features. “Forgive the intrusion. Did I wake you?”

“No,” Tyler lied, with a lazy smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t even touched the bed. What brings the elusive Mr. Saint to grace me so late?”

The older man raised a brow, unimpressed by the charm. He said nothing of the impropriety. The boy was to be emperor—better he have a little fire in him than none at all.

“I bring news,” Saint said carefully. “Of your bride.”

Tyler said nothing, but the air shifted.

“He’s en route. The ship departed at dusk. Six days from now, he’ll arrive in Savlon.”

A pause. Tyler’s gaze darkened just slightly, but he nodded.

“Thank you,” he murmured, standing slowly. “Please inform the interior staff to finalize preparations for the following week.”

Saint bowed. “Of course, Your Highness. Sleep well.”

When the door clicked shut, the silence returned—too loud to ignore. Tyler’s eyes drifted once more to the golden face of the clock. Nearly one.

He exhaled, slow and weary, then crossed the room to the arched window. From there, the palace's west wing stretched out before him, overlooking the port where the sea whispered secrets to the shore. Tonight it was quiet. But in less than a week. The stillness would break.

A ship would arrive. And with it, a stranger he was bound to. A future that hadn’t belonged to him since the moment he put on that crown.

Tyler’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

So the little prince dares to come.

Let him.

Let him walk sweet, unassuming, unprepared.

Let him try to survive it.

Tyler turned from the window, shadows trailing him like a cloak as he disappeared into the dark of the room.

Chapter Text

Two days in a boat can do a lot to a person. Especially one as frail as the prince of Caethia. 

Life at sea is no easy feat. Logan never put too much thought on it before. Not when all those sailors and tailors alike would come swarming to the palace, eager to win the young prince over with wealth and jewels. He’d always kindly turn them away, urged only to keep the finely cut clothes and glittering tokens they left behind.

Right now. Still within the range of Caethias brutal winter. Logan yearned for his home.

“My prince, are you feeling alright? You look rather pale." Ashlyn’s voice cut clean through his thoughts.

“Ah, I’m feeling rather worn out is all,” Logan said, looking out the window from the main room of the ship. “Perchance, do you think we’ll make a stop at one of the nearby islands?” Asked the prince, a dazed look on his face. The air was softer here—less bite, more hum. It clung to his skin like a second layer.

Ashlyn grimaced at the question. “I’m afraid we’re long past any stretch of land, my prince,” she said, her voice gentle but honest. A worried look flickered over her face. “If you'll like, My Prince. I could make the captain reroute to the nearest shore–”

No,” Logan said, shaking his head before she could finish. “It wouldn’t be right to trouble the people on my behalf.”

Ashlyn hesitated, then bowed her head. “Yes, as you wish, my prince.”

 With that the silence enveloped the room. Logan could hear waves crashing against the ship, the voices of the few men who managed to get them out of the castle with ease. 

Oh, the castle. His parents. His grandparents.

His eyes once held the vast blue sea, now drained from the wonder, tranquility the waves in those eyes possessed. His gaze drifts downwards, into his lap, his pale hands. He imagined the cold stones of home, now stained with soot and blood. Did the wind still blow through the corridors? Was his mother still in her chambers at their villa, unaware he was gone? His father—who ordered him to leave his home instead of being brought before him. That evil man.

Right now, he has no weight. No crown. No certainty. The sea he’d dreamt of sailing now felt like a void. 

Logan exhaled through his nose, the breath fogging the glass. He drew a little shape absently with one fingertip—a little crown. He stared at it for a moment more before swiping it away. His gesture didn't go unnoticed by Ashlyn.

It never did.

Ashlyn stepped closer. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “You should rest while you can.”

Logan glanced over his shoulder. Her eyes were on him—soft, searching.

He offered a brittle smile. “I’m afraid if I do, I’ll wake up in Savlon.”

The silence that followed sat heavy between them.

Ash looked away, one hand resting on the back of Logan’s seat. Her fingers curled tightly around the wood.

He could fool a kingdom.

He could fool his family.

But he could never fool her.

Because she already knew. The princes thoughts were like her own, yet in the end, sha remained quiet. She bowed her head and stepped back, excusing herself. Logan watched her reflection in the glass as she turned to leave.

“Thank you,” he said, grateful for the silence—for not being pushed, not today.

Ash paused at the doorway, hand on the frame. “Six days. Thats all we have left.” She said, without turning.

Logan didn’t look up. He didn’t have to.

“And then the rest of my life begins.”

It was late afternoon when Logan received word of their ship finally nearing the shores of Savlon. A day left to go.

The sun hung low in the sky like a heavy gold coin, spilling its light across the sea in waves of glittering brightness. Everything shimmered. Everything was too bright.

The Caethian prince squinted against the glare, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. His fingers were long and delicate, pale from a life lived indoors— protected . The fine chill of the north still clung to his clothing, thick layers and high collars made for mountain air, not sun. Here, the heat pressed in close. The breeze that rolled over the water was warm, heavy, and persistent, curling into his sleeves and tickling the nape of his neck.

He leaned against the ship’s railing, watching the water stretch endlessly ahead, jaw clenched, lips dry. The sea no longer made him ill—but everything else did. His skin prickled with sweat beneath clothes too rich, too stiff. He regretted not shedding a layer earlier in his cabin.

Overhead, gulls wheeled and screamed, circling the mast like vultures with wings tipped in gold. They were now closer than ever to Savlon shores.

And then came the boots.

The prince internally groaned. Spending a week confined to a ship had been a trial in itself—but enduring it with a thorn at his side felt like an insult to his good nature. It was taking all his restraint not to behead the man himself.

Heavy steps, purposeful and slow, thudding over the sun-baked deck. The captain emerged like a character from a poorly written play—shirt open well past propriety, linen fluttering in the breeze, a faded red sash tied at his waist. He smelled like citrus and sea salt, with an undertone of rum that clung to him the way stories clung to legends.

A long scar cut across the bridge of his nose, and his grin was the type that made Ashlyn curse under her breath.

The man leaned casually against the railing beside Logan, folding his arms across his broad chest like they were old friends.

“Your Highness looks a touch moody. Cabin not to your liking? Or are we brooding for effect today?” he teased—young, maybe no older than Ashlyn or Logan himself. A sly fox with too much time and charm on his hands.

Logan didn’t turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon—not in awe, but in thinly veiled irritation. He had no desire to indulge a bored man looking to prod at his thoughts.

“I didn’t ask for company,” the prince said coolly.

The captain threw his head back and barked a laugh. “That’s what makes it fun!”

He pulled a flask from his coat pocket, popped the cap, and took a slow swig. Then, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, he held it out to Logan.

The prince turned just enough to regard him, eyes narrowing. He didn’t take the flask.

“…If I accept, will you leave?” Logan asked.

“Nope. But you might enjoy the drink,” the man replied with a grin that practically dripped salt and mischief.

Logan gave him a flat look. That only made the captain laugh harder.

“You know,” he said, settling more comfortably beside Logan, “when I heard I’d be assisting a Caethian prince on his voyage, I imagined someone dainty. Porcelain skin. Soft hands. A bit of weeping, maybe.”

He gave Logan a slow once-over, still grinning. “And here you are. Seasick, pale, and still prettier than half the women I’ve ever met.”

Logan narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. “Is this how you treat all your royal passengers?”

That seemed to amuse the captain even more. “Only the clever, sharp-tongued ones. The ones with eyes like storms and tempers to match.”

Logan sighed and closed his eyes, already regretting having left his room.

The captain tilted his head slightly, something more thoughtful flickering behind the mirth in his eyes. A brief hush settled between them, the mood shifting with the wind.

“Salvon’s a different beast,” he said more quietly. “Loud. Bright. Fast. But I think you’ll manage.” He glanced over. “You’ve got the look of someone who survives things.”

The words hung in the air, unexpected and oddly sincere—so unlike his usual flirtatious jabs that Logan almost didn’t know how to respond.

It caught Logan off guard. His jaw relaxed slightly. Shifting, uncomfortably, like someone had touched a bruise too gently.

“I suppose I’ve had practice.” logan answered, all too quietly. There was a moment then. The wind filled the sails above, snapping linen, as the waves hissed and fell below. The captains men were speaking to one another. Their voices carries through the wind and logan found it in himself to relax. Just a little.

“Well, if all else fails—smile pretty. That emperor of yours won’t know what hit him.”

Logan groaned softly, one hand rising to his temple. “Goddess save me.”

The captain nudged his side. “Can’t help you there. But I will make sure you arrive in one piece. Hair windswept, ego bruised, and all.” he chuckled, throwing a wink at logan who seems like a second away from strangling him.

With the flirtation back in the air—Logan, annoyed but holding his composure, turns to walk off with the sea breeze rustling through his coat. 

The captain watches him with an exaggerated sigh, hand over his heart. “Can’t blame me for trying. Beauty and brains? He’ll be the talk of Salvon before we even dock.”

“Captain.” Ashlyn called from behind, sharp as a blade.

The man turns— too slowly —grinning before he even sees her face.

The captain tilted his head playfully. “Well, well. Speak of the war goddess. Come to sweep me off my feet yet?” His voice light, no real intentions behind his words. Ash knew him well, but still wanted to give the man a reminder.

Ashlyn stalked toward him with boots hitting the deck like war drums. “No. I’ve come to remind you that you’re flirting with a married man.”

The Captain raising a brow at that. Then offered her a doopey smile. “Married? Doesn’t look like it. No ring, no scowl.”

The general gritting her teeth. “He’s engaged. Betrothed. Promised. Whatever term makes it through your thick skull—he’s off-limits.”

Captain placed a hand dramatically on his chest. “You wound me, General. I wasn’t flirting. I was motivating. ”

Ash stops in front of him, a breath away from shoving him off the railing. Then she hissed. “Motivate your crew. Not my prince.” 

“Is that jealousy I hear?” the captain teased, a playful lilt in his voice as he sauntered behind Ashlyn, hands tucked behind his back like a boy caught misbehaving.

Ashlyn didn’t even bother to turn around. “It’s irritation,” she snapped. “The next time your mouth moves faster than your brain, I’ll let you swim the rest of the way to Salvon.”

He grinned, unfazed, stepping back with exaggerated care and raising both hands in mock surrender. “Understood, my deadly lady. No more winks, no more lines, no more sea-born charm. Just honest sailing from here on out. Promise.”

“Thank the goddess,” Ashlyn muttered under her breath, already turning on her heel.

She stomped off with the determined gait of a woman one second away from flinging someone overboard. The captain watched her go, still grinning, arms crossed now as he leaned lazily against the railing.

“She totally wants me,” he said under his breath, far too proud of himself.

From below deck, Logan’s tired voice floated up through the open hatch, deadpan and muffled. “She really doesn’t.”

The captain straightened up with a bark of laughter, calling back down, “Still married, are we?”

Ashlyn’s voice rang out clear and sharp before Logan could answer—she didn’t even turn back: “And armed!”

There was a long pause.

The captain gave a low whistle, still smiling to himself as he turned to look out at the waves. “Goddess help whoever she does want,” he murmured.

The wind had calmed, the sails slack in the morning lull, and the sky above was shifting from steel blue to watercolor gold. The captain stayed where he was on deck, arms crossed over the railing, eyes still fixed on where Logan had disappeared below.

For all his bravado, the man looked thoughtful.

“Eyes like that don’t belong to royalty. They belong to someone who still thinks the world can be kind.” The man whispered to himself, voice low and almost reverent.
Then he pauses enjoying as the breeze tousles his hair.
“Kid’s got more weight on his shoulders than a crown could hold.” His fox-like smile fades, lips pressed tight. In thought. “Brains and beauty? Sure. He’s got that in spades. But it’s that look in his eyes like he still hopes, even now.”
The captain sighs, tapping the railing with his fingers. As if waiting for a response. “Hope like that’ll get eaten alive if your emperor ain’t careful.”

The final flicks of sunlight finally crested over the horizon, catching on the faint trail of tears Logan hadn’t managed to wipe away earlier. The memory of them shimmered behind the captain’s eyes like sea spray catching dawnlight—brilliant and fleeting.

“You listening, ashlyn? ”

Then, just as quickly, the captain shook the moment off with a scoff and shoved away from the rail. He mutters as he heads toward the helm. “Should’ve let me flirt a little longer. Would’ve made the kid smile.”

As he leaves, on the opposite side of the railing, the general stands. Waiting for the night to envelope the ship before going back down to her prince. 

Of course I'm listening you fool.

The heat hit Logan like a slap.

The Caethian ship rocked softly, its sails catching the wind with ease as the port of Salvon finally came into view—lush green cliffs sprawling around the coastline like a welcoming arm. Logan stood at the edge of the main deck, cloaked in fine but weather-wrinkled velvet, his pale fingers curled around the wooden railing. The salt air had warmed, and the breeze that once bit at his cheeks now carried the scent of citrus and heat. Logan had felt the difference before he saw it. 

The sky here was clearer, more golden than gray, and the air was thick with the scent of citrus and brine. He stood at the bow of the ship, hands gripping the polished wood, his posture straight despite the exhaustion in his bones.

“Looks like paradise, doesn't it?” Came the smooth voice of the captain.

Logan turned slightly, offering the man a tired smile. “That depends on what awaits me inland.” 

The captain chuckled, brushing windblown hair from his sun-darkened face.

Ashlyn was beside him, arms crossed, boots scuffed from too much pacing. She squinted at the port as the ship slowly docked. “This place reeks of arrogance already,” she muttered.

A trumpet blared.

Logan tensed.

At the end of the dock stood a man in all black leather and gleaming steel, arms spread like he was welcoming old friends to a masquerade. He had sun-kissed skin, a cocky tilt to his mouth, and enough swagger to power a warship. Two guards flanked him, though clearly more for decoration than protection.

The gangplank was lowered.

Ashlyn went first.

As he stepped off the ship and onto Salvonian soil, it was as if the sun decided to press its entire weight against his chest. His first breath of land air was thick with warmth, humid and cloying, saturated with scents: the salty bite of the sea, sun-warmed citrus peel, the perfume of flowering vines baking in the sun. Beneath that, the faintest traces of spice drifted on the breeze—pepper, clove, something sharp that made his nose itch.

He faltered a step. 

The dock’s wooden planks, sun-bleached and golden, radiated warmth through the soles of his boots. Around him, the world moved quickly. Soldiers in pale armor—looser and lighter than the full steel suits he was used to lounged with the casual arrogance of men too used to the heat. Market bells clanged. Bright fabrics swayed in the wind. Children’s laughter carried from somewhere unseen, loud and joyous.

And then barely a moment her hand touched the small of his back.

A light, grounding pressure. Gone before anyone could see.

Logan didn’t flinch.

He didn’t thank her.

He simply breathed in the heat, and tasted dust and salt on his tongue.

And for the first time since leaving home, the thought hit him hard:

This was really happening.

“Welcome to Savlon,” he purred, bowing dramatically. “I’m Aiden Clerk, Captain of the Royal Guard to His Majesty, our newly crowned emperor.” 

His red eyes immediately landing on the Caethian prince. “Might I say you’re a delicacy to the eye—” 

Ashlyn stepped inbetween, one hand subtly on the hilt of her sword, the other raised in a cautious greeting, not allowing the man touch her prince.

Aiden didn’t flinch at her tension. In fact, his grin stretched wider. “And you must be the lovely escort I’ve heard so much about.” He said, tone smooth. 

Ashlyn’s eyes narrowed. “I am the general of the Caethian army. I demand you speak of my title before addressing me.”

That earned her a laugh. Aiden gave a mock bow, hand sweeping to his chest with exaggerated grace. “My apologies, General . I see the stories didn’t exaggerate.”

Ashlyn raised her chin in response, but Logan stepped between them with a calm, practiced expression—despite being overwhelmed by the exchange. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well… perhaps refrain from flirting with my general in front of me?”

Ashlyn looked scandalized. “Log—My prince! We’re not—”

“Oh my,” Aiden faked a gasp. The sly thing. “My sincerest apologies, your highness. Consider my tongue restrained. Though, I can’t promise my admiration won’t slip through the cracks.”

Before more could be said, the captain approached from behind. “Prince Logan.”

Logan turned, startled by the sudden shift in mood. The captain, ever the gentleman beneath the mischief, knelt slightly in a sailor’s bow. His expression, usually all smirks and lazy retorts, had shifted into something quieter. Sharper. He looked up at Logan, eyes softening slightly.

“My prince,” he said, “if ever you wish to leave this place... if you ever need to leave— I will come for you. I’ll sail through fire and blades if I must, should your royal highness ever require a swift exit from these golden shores. my ship is yours. No questions. No judgments. Just give the word.”

Logan stilled.

Ashlyn turned to look, lips parting, but said nothing.

She stepped beside Logan just as the captain finished his vow. Her expression was tight.

“Captain.” Her voice cut like drawn steel. “He’s a married prince.”

The Captain raised a brow, feigning a wound to the heart. “And I’ve never been more professionally respectful in my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Ash muttered, crossing her arms with a sharp look. “Next time try not offering an escape plan before he even sets foot in the empire.”

Logan stifled a laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “It's alright, Ash. He means no harm.”

“Im well aware of his theatrics, my prince.” Ashlyn huffed, yet a smile in full display as the caethian captain stood.

The captain gave a mock salute to the both of them. “Well, if my general ever learns how to take a joke, do send word to sea.” Then his eyes softened slightly as he looked at Logan. “Take care, my prince.”

As Ashlyn and Logan made their way down the plank to the docks, he watched them go—his lighthearted air never wavering. But he glanced one more time toward the dock’s edge.

A figure stood waiting.

Aiden Clark.

The Salvonian captain had a very different face now. Gone was the grin, the teasing sparkle. He watched the Caethian captain with narrow eyes, posture straight and hands behind his back in a perfect soldier’s stance.

Dressed in imperial guard regalia, dark blues and golds glinting in the sun. But his eyes…

His eyes were locked on him.

Unblinking. Measuring.

Not with suspicion, but with a practiced, cold calculation.

The captain blinked and gave the man a small curt two-fingered salute. Aiden didn’t return it. He simply tilted his head, like a man marking down the date and time of a weather shift.

As Logan and Ash approached, he bowed slightly, but his gaze flicked once again to the man retreating toward the ship. That face. That tone. That bow. He committed them to memory.

“Welcome to Salvon, my prince,” Aiden said with a smile. “My general.”

Ash rolled her eyes before Logan could say a word. “Don’t.” 

Then he smiled again, wider this time.

“Shall we head to the palace?” he asked. “The emperor awaits.”

But beneath the grin, his thoughts were already turning. He’d seen the way the captain looked at Savlon’s newest guest. And he would report everything.

Not as a jester.

But as the emperor’s chosen eyes.

And Savlon’s sharpest blade.

Aiden’s boots clicked softly against the stone dock as he turned back toward them, hands still behind his back like he wasn’t a man trained to kill. “Will the prince of Caethia allow me to walk with him?” he asked, tone light and teasing, the corners of his mouth curled like a cat who’d found a curious mouse.

Logan, still slightly dazed from the emotional exchange with the captain, gave a polite smile. “Please, do guide us—”

But when Logan looked up at Aiden—really looked—the world tilted for a heartbeat.

Aiden’s eyes weren’t just red. Not the warm, fire-lit kind that melted a Caethian winter. No, this was something darker—wetter. A deep, smoldering crimson that clung to the edges of his irises like oozing blood. And for a single breathless moment, they weren’t in Salvon.

Logan saw a battlefield.

He flinched back instinctively.

Ashlyn was at his side in an instant, her hand settling at the small of his back. Protective, but subtle. Her eyes snapped to Aiden—sharp now, calculating.

“What did you do?” she hissed.

“Nothing to bring harm to our new royal blood, I assure you,” Aiden said smoothly. He dropped into a crouch with practiced ease, checking Logan over with a soldier’s precision—head, torso, legs. He even took Logan’s hands, examining his nailbeds. All while he still wore that manic smile.

Then, Aiden snickered. “Perhaps the voyage was too rough on our sweet prince?” he said, lips curling with amusement.

Logan flushed, mortified.

“Don’t mock the Prince of Caethia, imbecile,” Ash snapped. “Are you feeling alright, my prince?”

“Yes. Sorry,” Logan murmured, blinking hard. He shook the image from his mind, though the heat of it still lingered behind his eyes.

Aiden raised both hands in mock surrender, but the glint in his eye remained sharp—too sharp.

“My apologies,” he said, voice lazy but precise. “No offense meant, Your Highness. I only tease the ones who matter.”

Logan straightened, smoothing his coat with trembling fingers, jaw tight. “How generous of you,” he muttered, avoiding Aiden’s gaze. His heart still beat a little too fast in his chest. Not from fear, exactly. From something else. Something heavier.

Aiden stood, brushing imaginary dust from his knees. He didn’t look away from Logan, studying him now with something more akin to curiosity than mockery.

“You flinched,” he said, not cruelly—just observant. “Do I frighten you?”

“ Captain ,” Ash warned, stepping between them. Her voice dropped, a low growl of authority. “That’s enough.”

But Logan didn’t step back.

“No,” he said quietly. “You reminded me of someone.”

That stilled Aiden. Just for a second.

A beat passed. Then Aiden gave a single, slow nod—as if to say, Fair. And just like that, the sharpness in his posture faded.

“Well,” Aiden said, clapping his hands once. “This is all very touching, but I believe there’s a certain emperor waiting to greet his husband-to-be. And I’ve been instructed not to keep him waiting.”

Ashlyn turned to Logan, her voice softening. “Can you walk?”

Logan nodded, cheeks still pink. He didn’t look at Aiden again.

As they made their way toward the carriage, the warm sun pressing against their backs, Logan whispered to Ashlyn, “ who is he?”

Ash didn’t answer at first. She kept her eyes forward, one hand near her blade and the other ghosting over Logan’s back.

Then, under her breath: “Savlon’s favorite sword.”

The Caethian prince turned, glancing one last time toward the ship—the sea, the sails billowing in the breeze like silent flags. His stomach churned with something that wasn’t seasickness.

“I want to bathe now,” he said abruptly. “Do Savlons have bath houses? Is that custom here too?”

Aiden’s grin widened again, the edge gone from his expression, or at least buried deeper. “I’m afraid not, your highness. No private bath houses on this side of the empire.” He leaned in slightly, voice conspiratorial. “But we’re not far from an estate. A friend of mine. He won’t mind if we drop in. The water is heated, the sheets are clean, and the doors are open to royalty.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “A friend?”

“Very good friend,” Aiden said. “A man of great patience and a very sharp sword.”

Ash rolled her eyes but said nothing. 

Logan gave one last lingering glance to the waves, then nodded. “Alright then. Shall we go?”

“Let’s.” The Captain of the guard mused.

And with that, they moved toward the waiting carriage, the scent of hibiscus and salt clinging to the wind, Aiden walking just behind them—cheerful, relaxed, every bit the clown.

But Logan didn’t look back this time. And Aiden never stopped watching.

The carriage ride was quiet at first. The kind of quiet that settles after too much has happened too fast. Outside, the lush Salvonian landscape blurred past in shades of green and gold, too bright for Logan’s tired eyes. Palm trees dotted the roadside, their leaves swaying in the breeze like dancers he had no energy to watch.

Inside, the air was cooler, but not by much. Logan slouched back against the velvet cushion, head tilted toward the window, cheek pressed against his knuckles. He hadn’t even bothered to remove the traveling cloak draped around his shoulders, though sweat clung to the back of his neck.

He was uncomfortable.

Ashlyn, seated across from him, watched quietly. Her arms were crossed, one boot tapping faintly against the carriage floor in a rhythm she likely didn’t notice. She was scanning him. Not just for illness—but for something deeper.

“You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out, your highness,” she finally said, voice low.

Logan didn’t even open his eyes. “That’s because I have been. Repeatedly. By the sea. By fate. By him. ”

Ash gave a quiet snort. “You can’t mean that clown.”

“I saw his eyes,” Logan muttered. “There’s something off about him.”

Ash leaned forward slightly. “He’s the Captain of the Royal Guard. If there’s anything ‘off’ about him, it’s because he’s trained to see things before you do.” She gently explained.

“That’s not comforting,” Logan mumbled, dragging a hand down his face. “Ash, I’m so tired. I want to go back to Caethia and sleep for… ions. Maybe longer.”

Ashlyn softened. She reached forward, rested her hand over his for a brief moment. “You’ll be alright,” she said gently. “This place is different, but you’re not alone.”

Logan peeked at her from under his lashes. “You’re being nice.”

“I always am.”

He huffed a little laugh. “No, you’re not.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe not. But you need it right now.”

The carriage hit a slight bump and rocked, and both of them jolted. From the rear compartment, they heard the faint clatter of hooves. Aiden must have felt it too.

Ash glanced toward the thin curtain and glass that separated them from the outside heat. Her voice dropped again. “We’re being watched.”

“I know.”

Ash shifted slightly, letting her hand fall to the hilt of the dagger hidden under her cloak. “Let him watch. Just don’t let him see you fall.”

Logan turned his head back to the window. The trees were thinning now. In the distance, a tall estate loomed on the horizon, sunlit and silent.

“I don’t plan to,” he whispered.

The road narrowed as they approached the estate, the palm trees thinning until they gave way to marble fencing laced with ivy. The warm air shifted too, heavy with the scent of tropical blossoms and something citrusy, like the trees bore fruit just to perfume the breeze. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the estate grounds. Everything shimmered gold. It was so like Savlon.

The carriage slowed to a stop before a grand stone estate—neat rows of white columns and a deep porch shaded by overhanging vines. The flag of Salvon whipped above them—crimson and gold against a clear, burning sky. Waiting at the top of the steps stood a figure dressed in pale military blues, hands folded behind his back. Tall. Unmoving. Watching.

A man.

He had been waiting.

Logan blinked, not quite ready for the intensity of the moment.

Behind them, Aiden reined in his horse with a sharp tug, the beast coming to a confident halt. The captain dismounted in one fluid motion, boots crunching against the gravel as he strode to the carriage door.

He swung it open with a dramatic flourish, gold-trimmed coat catching the light like fire. His red eyes gleamed—not malicious, just. Watchful .

Calculating, even when he smiled.

“Welcome to the estate of the Grand Duke of Salvon, Your Royal Highness,” Aiden said, dipping into a shallow bow as he extended a gloved hand. “Will His Grace permit me the honor of escorting him?”

Logan hesitated for a breath. Then, careful and composed, he reached forward—not for the hand, but for Aiden’s wrist. A firm grip. Controlled. No more contact than necessary. The prince steadied himself as he stepped down onto warm, unfamiliar earth, the sun pressing on his shoulders like judgment.

Aiden’s grin didn’t waver. “Timid, I see,” he murmured, just loud enough for Logan to catch.

Ashlyn followed closely, hopping down before Aiden could offer assistance. She landed lightly, brushing imaginary dust from her armor. Aiden watched her with a grin. “One day, General, I’ll catch you mid-leap.”

“In your dreams, Captain,” she muttered, eyes already scanning the estate grounds for threats.

She didn’t so much as look at Aiden.

He watched her anyway. Eyes trailing after her like a cat watching a hawk. His lips curled into a slow, lopsided smile. “Graceful as ever, General,” he mused, voice velvet over steel.

“Try that again,” she said, eyes like drawn blades, “and I’ll show you what Caethian grace looks like with a sword.”

Aiden chuckled—quiet, pleased. “Duly noted.”

Logan, standing just ahead of them, didn’t speak. He was staring at the man on the steps.

Ben had not moved. But now, slowly, the Grand Duke descended the stairs, eyes steady on Logan. Not cold, but unreadable. “Duke Ben,” Aiden said with a tilt of his head, his tone dropping into respectful sincerity, “the prince is here for a bath.”

Ben gave a quiet bow toward Logan.

The gesture startled the prince. “Oh, please! It’s okay—thank you for opening your lovely home to us,” Logan said quickly, ducking his head in an almost shy response.

Ben straightened, saying nothing. His expression unreadable, his gaze steady.

There was a beat of silence.

Logan’s brows knit together, lips parting slightly as confusion crept in. “Did I—?”

“No, no,” Aiden cut in smoothly. “Duke Ben here is mute, my prince. But he communicates with signs. I can translate for him if needed.”

Ben gave Aiden a side glance, lifting one brow ever so slightly before gesturing with quick, fluid fingers.

“Hes signing.. ‘You’re welcome in my home. I will have the baths prepared immediately,’” Aiden translated, voice softened from his usual theatrics.

Logan turned his gaze back to Ben, this time slower, more thoughtful. “Thank you, Duke Ben.”

Ben inclined his head again. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. Seeming pleased with the Caethian.

Then the man turned heel, instructing his guest to follow along.

Behind them, Aiden gave a low whistle and followed, always the last one through the door—but not before casting one last look to the carriage. His expression shifted, just for a second. No more grin. No more glint.

Just something sharp. Measuring.

A face only a few ever got to see.

The guard captain of the Savlonian crown.

The room smelled of lavender water and polished cedarwood, a far cry from the salty tang of sea air. Heavy curtains were drawn aside, letting in the soft light of a setting sun that bathed everything in amber gold. The walls were a pale cream, hung with handwoven tapestries that told stories Logan was far too tired to decipher. Everything about the room screamed warmth and comfort.

The moment Logan saw the feather-stuffed mattress and silk sheets, he didn’t hesitate.

He collapsed .

Face-first.

A muffled groan echoed against the pillow. “Goddess,” he said, voice thick with fatigue. “Why has everything felt like a slap to the face?”

Ashlyn stood by the vanity, her long ginger hair finally freed from its braids, brushing it out in slow, even strokes. She glanced over her shoulder, lips curling with mild amusement.

“I agree with you,” she said, flicking a loose lock from her brow. “Everything’s been pretty damn crappy so far.”

Logan rolled onto his back, arms flopping out to the sides like a stranded starfish. “I feel like I’ve aged forty years. Do I look older?”

Ash turned slightly, gave him a mock-serious once over. “Honestly? You look like someone wrung you out and tried to hang you to dry.”

“Comforting.”

“I aim to please.”

A beat passed, quiet but not uncomfortable. The bath had helped—but exhaustion still clung to Logan like wet cloth. He stared up at the carved ceiling beams, thinking of home. Of his mother’s soft humming. Of the way the light filtered through his old bedroom’s frost-laced windows.

This place felt like the other side of the world.

“Ash,” he murmured.

“Hm?”

“Do you think... he’s going to hate me?”

She didn’t answer right away. The rhythmic sound of her brushing continued. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer.

“I don’t think he’ll have the luxury to,” she said, gently. “And even if he did you, my prince. Are impossible to hate. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Logan snorted, curling into himself slightly. “Remind me to write you a very passive-aggressive poem about all this someday.”

Ashlyn smiled to herself, brushing slower now. “Looking forward to it, Your Highness.”

They sat in silence, basking the opportunity to decompress from their week of travel.

The warmth of the room dulled, somehow.

The soft rustle of Ash’s brush against her hair slowed until it stopped completely. Logan had started to drift—eyes half-lidded, body finally sinking into the plush bed—but the stillness dragged him back.

“My prince,” Ashlyn said quietly, her voice more measured than usual. “It’s... it’s never too late to turn back.”

Logan’s eyes fluttered open.

He blinked once. Twice. “Huh?”

Ash had turned to face him fully now. No teasing in her expression. No smirk on her lips. Just that quiet, unshakable concern that came when she let herself be Ash—not the general, not the protector, just the girl who’d known him since he was young and foolish and full of dreams.

He sat up slowly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” she hesitated, as if weighing her words. Her hands clenched the brush tighter. “If this arrangement doesn’t end well—if this wedding and marriage turn out to be hell for you—I’ll take you away from here.”

Logan froze.

Ash stepped closer, her tone low but firm. “I’ll call in that idiot sailor. I’ll drag him from whatever tavern he’s drinking in, and we’ll be on that ship by sunrise. I swear it.”

He stared at her.

“Ash...”

“I’m serious, Logan.” She crossed her arms. “You’re not just royalty. You’re my best friend. And if Salvon becomes a gilded cage, I will break you out.”

For a moment, all he could do was look at her. At the way her brows furrowed, the way her throat bobbed with emotion she refused to show. And it hit him—this wasn’t an empty offer. She meant it. All of it.

He looked down at his hands.

“I don’t want to run,” he said quietly. “But... knowing I could, if it got bad that is—means everything.”

Ash gave a single, small nod. “Then let that be your last thought tonight, not all the questions.”

And then, because she was still Ashlyn, she flicked his forehead lightly. “Now go to sleep, you delicate little prince.”

He smiled faintly, rubbing his head. “ Bossy .”

“ Survivor .”

The same moonlight that cradled Logan in a foreign bed now spilled through the high-arched windows of the emperor’s private study. The fire in the hearth had long burned down to embers, but Tyler still hadn’t moved.

His hand hovered over the letter on the desk, fingers taut like they might snap. The wax seal had long been cracked. The words inside— diplomatic, hollow, sweet with the rot of power —had been read and reread until the ink etched itself into his skull. His fingers twitched, resisting the growing urge to rip the paper apart.

Abruptly, Tyler stood.

He was still barefoot. Still in the royal tunic from earlier in the evening, the collar tugged open like it had been clawed at in frustration. He stalked across the room, long strides full of restless anger. Past the shelves. Past the maps marred by pins and ink. Past the shadow of a sword mounted high on the wall—his father’s blade. The steel caught the firelight, silent and accusing.

He stopped at the tall window. The same one he’d stared through nights ago when the decision had sealed itself around his throat like a noose.

The port lights in the distance flickered faintly, soft against the dark swell of the sea.

Logan’s ship is here.

He could see it in his mind. Fine leather boots daintily touching Salvonian soil. A foreign prince with too-soft hands and the scent of Caethian coin on his clothes. Velvet smiles, all diplomatic polish, hiding teeth sharpened by a tyrant’s legacy.

Tyler exhaled, the sound sharp. Like a blade being drawn. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers dragging through his hair as if to dig out the tension burrowed deep in his spine.

He should be sleeping. But sleep no longer came— not with the weight of the crown grafted into his bones, not with his father’s ghost breathing venom in his ears, not with the knowledge that somewhere beneath his sky, a stranger had arrived to rewrite his fate.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

He didn’t fear the boy.

He feared what would follow in his wake.

Silk-covered lies. Political infection. The quiet unraveling of everything his bloodline had bled to protect. A Caethian seed in Salvonian soil.

And yet—it had been his decision.

He turned from the window, breath harsh, dragging a hand over his face like he could wipe the disgust away. His steps were measured now, cold and deliberate, as he crossed to the corner table.

His fathers journal laid there untouched for days. The sight alone reminded him of his father’s voice. Commanding. Disappointed. Gone.

In the silence, the wind outside howled like it knew something was coming.

Ashlyn opened the door with careful steps, mindful of the prince sleeping soundly behind her. The hallway outside was bathed in soft candlelight, shadows flickering against the stone walls of Ben’s estate.

Aiden stood there—no longer in his uniform, but in loose black sleeves and a soft gray cloak slung over one shoulder. His hair was less styled, slightly tousled from wind or sleep—or lack thereof. But that damned smirk remained.

“The captain of the ship,” he began casually, as if talking about the weather. “Will he be staying in Salvon long?”

Ashlyn’s eyes narrowed before she even realized it. Her body leaned into the frame of the door, one foot braced in front of the other.

“Why?” she asked, voice flat, unreadable.

“Just curious, is all, General,” Aiden replied, folding his arms across his chest. The light from the sconces made his red eyes glow—less like a flame, more like coals still burning.

Ashlyn tilted her head, letting the silence linger.

“Who knows,” she said slowly, with an edge of teasing that didn’t quite hide the bite. “He might stick around. Keep both my prince and I company.”

Aiden’s smile faltered—not fully, but enough for her to see the tension beneath. His jaw twitched.

“The Caethian prince,” he said, tone still soft, but now with a weight behind it, “is a married man.”

“I know.” She pushed off the doorframe, arms crossing now. “He’s also someone of free will.”

A beat.

Aiden’s gaze sharpened.

“He’s the emperor’s betrothed.”

There was a pause that felt like it echoed down the stone hall.

Ashlyn blinked. Once. Her expression didn’t shift, but her throat tightened. She hated that he was right—hated more that he knew he was right.

Her voice dropped to a hush. “He never chose this.”

Aiden looked at her, and for once, there was no grin. No glimmer of mischief. Just a man with blood on his hands and loyalty etched into his bones.

“Neither did the emperor.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his cloak rustling against the floor, shadows swallowing his steps.

Ashlyn stood there a while longer, heart pounding, the flame in the sconce next to her flickering like it, too, was uncertain.

She quietly closed the door, the soft click echoing louder than it should have. The room was dimly lit by a single oil lamp on the bedside table. Logan was still asleep, curled beneath thick sheets far too extravagant for his taste. And as someone who barely slept on silken pillows at home she felt out of place. 

She looked down at his face, usually so poised, was creased slightly at the brow—even in sleep, he looked troubled.

Ashlyn stood there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his breath.

Then slowly, silently, she moved to the side of his bed. She dropped to one knee, her cloak whispering against itself, and bowed her head low—her hands flat against the polished floor.

A breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t from fear. It wasn’t from doubt.

“My prince,” she whispered, voice barely audible in the hush of the room. “Whatever storm this becomes. I will shield you.”

She didn’t ask for forgiveness. She didn’t ask for strength.

She simply made a promise.

After a long moment, she rose back to her feet, quietly brushing the hem of her uniform back into place. She glanced one more time at Logan, who mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep.

Ashlyn gave him a small, tired smile and sat herself down in the corner of the room, sword resting by her side, eyes on the door.

The prince could rest.

She would watch

The sun crept lazily over the horizon, casting golden light through the tall windows of the estate. Birds chirped somewhere in the trees outside, and the scent of warm bread and lavender drifted through the halls.

Inside the guest room, Logan stirred.

His lashes fluttered open slowly. Then fully.

He blinked at the high ceilings, the foreign curtains, the soft silks wrapping around him like unfamiliar arms.

“This isn’t my room,” he whispered.

Then, with full-body panic: “THIS ISN’T MY ROOM!”

The shriek echoed off the walls.

At that exact moment, the door slammed open and Ashlyn all but crashed into the room, tray of breakfast in hand, hair half-pulled up, eyes wild.
“LOGAN?!”
She was already halfway to unsheathing her blade with one hand and balancing a tray with two glasses of juice with the other.

Logan was sitting straight up in bed, eyes wide, hair a glorious mess of light brown tangles. “I didn’t know where I was! I woke up and everything smelled like herbs and last time I checked we’d been sleeping on a ship that reeked of salt water!”

Ashlyn let out a very loud sigh, setting the tray down with a thump. “Goddess above, Logan.”

“I panicked!”

“You panicked and screamed like a banshee being stabbed.”

“Well—!”

Ashlyn pointed at him with a fork. “Eat. You’re going to need energy for the carriage ride to the palace. And next time you wake up in luxury, maybe just enjoy it for five seconds before summoning the spirits of the entire household.”

Logan flopped back into the pillows, groaning. “I miss my own royal bed.”

Ashlyn snorted. “That’s the most royal thing I’ve ever heard.”

The sun cast a warm glow over the small terrace where Ashlyn sat, halfway through her plate of food. Logan, wrapped in a too-soft robe and sleep still clinging to his lashes, sat stiffly beside her, poking at a slice of fruit like it had personally wronged him.

Ash glanced at him mid-chew. “You know the bread’s not trying to poison you, right? I personally checked. You can eat without suspicion.”

Logan looked up slowly. “I’m not suspicious.”

She snorted. “You’re anxious.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes flicked toward the hallway like it might offer an escape route. 

Ash smirked.“You screamed like a banshee this morning. Nearly gave the duke a heart attack, and he doesn't even talk.”

“I didn't scream,” Logan murmured.

“Oh no, of course not,” Ash said, shrugging. “That high-pitched shriek was clearly a battle cry. My mistake. You’re lucky I didn’t run in there sword-first.”

Logan groaned, slumping in his chair and dragging his hands down his face. “I recall your sword being out , yes.”

“And yet you live.” She rolled her eyes.

Logan let out a reluctant laugh, finally digging into his breakfast—until his fork paused dramatically halfway through chewing.

“Oh my god— what is that spicy? ” he choked, grabbing for his juice with wide eyes.

Ash reached over to pat his back, grinning with zero sympathy. “Welcome to Salvon, Your Highness.”

Later, Logan retreated to his room to change into more appropriate travel attire. As he folded up the soft robe Ben’s staff had lent him, then looked over at his own cloak. Fingers brushing something stiff tucked into the inner lining of his Caethian cloak.

He paused, then pulled it free.

A small strip of faded navy cloth. Embroidered by hand with golden thread in the shape of Caethia’s old crest—his grandmothers stitching. From when he was a child. Tucked into the cloak as if someone hoped it might bring him comfort on this journey.

He sat at the edge of the bed, pressing the cloth to his lips.

Ashlyn watched from the doorframe, her voice low and calm. “You okay?”

Logan didn’t look at her. “It smells like home.”

She stepped in quietly, leaning against the bedpost, arms crossed.

“You don’t have to forget Caethia to live here, you know.”

His thumb moved slowly over the crest. “No. But sometimes it feels like I’ll have to forget myself.”

Ash was quiet for a moment. Then, softly—

“Then let’s make sure you don’t.”

He didn’t speak right away.

The cloth trembled faintly in his hands.

Then, barely audible—
“I used to think I’d leave Caethia one day. Travel. See other kingdoms. I just… never thought it would be like this. Not like this.”

Ashlyn moved closer, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. She crouched in front of him, her eyes level with his.

“Not being given a choice changes everything,” she said. “I know.”

Logan blinked down at her. “You?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I was born with a sword in my hand and orders in my ears. I didn’t choose war. I didn’t choose exile, either.”
A pause.
“But I did choose you.”

His breath caught.

“I mean that,” she added, softer now. “You’re not alone in this. And you’re not some sacrificial pawn sent to Savlon. You’re here . You breathe. You bleed. And I will make damn sure no one forgets that—including you.”

Logan looked at her for a long time, eyes glassy but holding.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Ash gave him a crooked smile, then stood with a huff. “Now if you start crying, I’ll pretend I didn’t see it. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

He laughed—just a little—and tucked the cloth carefully into his sleeve.

Ash and Logan walked side by side down the stone path toward the estate’s front gates, where the carriage waited, its dark frame gleaming in the early light. Logan had tucked the cloth away again, shoulders held a little higher now, though the lines of anxiety still clung to the corners of his mouth.

Aiden, perched atop a sleek black stallion, caught sight of them and swung down with a dramatic flourish. His boots landed on the gravel with a sharp, theatrical thud, a grin already tugging at his mouth.

“Your Highness!” He greeted, spreading his arms like he’d been waiting days.“If I’d known Salvonian water could polish you up like that, I would’ve offered mine personally.”

Ashlyn stepped between them in a heartbeat, a dagger already half-pulled from some hidden seam in her cloak.

“And I’d have drowned you in it,” she said coolly.

Aiden pressed a hand to his heart like she’d mortally wounded him. “Cruel. No love for the man risking his life to keep your little prince safe?”

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll escort you out of this timeline.”

Logan blinked. “Do you have to do this every time we meet?”

“Only when we have charming company,” Aiden said with a wink.

Ash rolled her eyes so hard they might’ve fallen out. “Get in the carriage, your highness,” she muttered. “Before I do something unwise.”

As Logan stepped into the carriage, Ben stood quietly at the estate’s stone threshold, the morning sun gleaming off his high windows. His hands were clasped in front of him, posture straight and regal despite the softness in his eyes.

Logan caught sight of him through the window and gave a small wave, a genuine one, paired with a grateful smile. Ben nodded once, then lifted a hand in a gentle wave of his own.

Ash watched the exchange silently, heart a little less heavy.

Aiden, still standing beside the horse he hadn’t bothered to re-mount, lingered as the carriage began to pull away. His usual flair dimmed, just slightly, like a curtain being drawn.

He turned toward Ben, something quieter settling in his posture.

“One more thing before I go,” he said.

Ben tilted his head, questioning.

“There’s a man docked at the capital shore. Caethian ship captain. Smiles too much. Knows the prince and the general a little too well.” Aiden shifted his weight, arms folding neatly across his chest. “Look into him. Make sure he’s not here to cause our half-wit emperor any trouble.”

Ben raised a brow at the insult.

Aiden offered a half-shrug, lips twitching. “Said it with love.”

Ben signed something slowly, deliberately.

And if he does?

Aiden’s grin returned—but this one didn’t reach his eyes. “Then I’ll make sure he’s smiling from the bottom of the sea.”

Ben simply nodded, expression unreadable, and turned back toward the estate as Aiden finally swung back into the saddle.

The emperor stood on the palace balcony, his royal robes unfastened at the collar, the deep crimson fabric lined with gold embroidery that caught the light like flame. His crown—crafted of obsidian and moonstone—rested carelessly on a nearby marble table, untouched for two days. It gleamed in the late afternoon sun, a silent reminder of a burden he hadn’t been able to shed, but refused to wear.

Taylor stood beside him, arms folded across a velvet sash of Savlonian red. Her earrings shimmered with rubies the size of thumbprints, but her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon.

“They’ll be here soon,” Tyler said, though his voice carried a strange note—too sharp to be casual, too soft to be confident.

Taylor nodded. She signed with deliberate ease.

“Logan’s ship docked safely. He’s with Aiden.”

Tyler’s jaw tensed. He didn’t reply, but his fingers flexed—tight, then loose—like he was reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. Or something far less tangible.

Taylor watched him for a long moment. “You’re nervous.”

He exhaled sharply, a huff through his nose. “No, I’m not.”

Taylor raised a perfectly arched brow, unbothered.

“I’m not ,” he repeated. Firmer. Colder. “I’ve just had reports of a Caethian ship captain hanging around the capital. One with loose hands and a glint in his eyes.”

Taylor’s lips curved, slow and fond. “Oh. That’s what this is about.” She leaned her shoulder lightly against his. “So you are jealous.”

He turned to her then, finally meeting her eyes. “If that Caethian stirs trouble in my empire, I swear—”

Tyler finally looked at her. His stare was sharp, the kind he used on diplomats who tried to speak in riddles.

She raised a hand before he could finish. “Let me guess. You’ll bury him in the sea?”

His mouth pulled into a smile, but it was tight. “I won’t have to.”

Their silks fluttered, the royal insignia on Tyler’s cloak dancing like flame. 

“Aiden’s already volunteered,” he muttered. His eyes stayed fixed on the edge of the city, where sea met stone—where Logan had arrived.

The wind picked up, tugging at the gold trim on their robes, making the silk ripple like waves. Taylor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze softening as she studied her brother as the sunlight flared off the balcony’s gilded rail..

“I figured he would.”

And for a moment, they just stood there. The emperor and his twin. Two royal figures carved in sunlight, their grief too heavy for even gold to carry.

The road twisted gently along the coastline, sunlight gleaming off the waves. The trees swayed lazily in the warm breeze, so different from the biting winds of Caethia. Inside the carriage, Logan let out a soft, dramatic groan and flopped sideways onto Ashlyn’s shoulder.

"My stomach is eating itself," he muttered, eyes shut as though that might end his suffering.

Ashlyn didn't even flinch. She adjusted slightly to keep him from tipping over and replied dryly, "You had two sweet rolls and a peach before we left. How are you starving already?"

"That was an hour ago." He peeked up at her with big, pitiful eyes. "We're not in Caethia anymore. Maybe the heat increases metabolism or something?"

"That’s not how anything works."

Before she could continue, a sharp knock tapped against the carriage wall.

The little window above the latch slid open with a dramatic flick.

Aiden’s grinning face filled the space. “Did I hear the tragic wails of a starving prince?”

Logan, already sitting stiffly in his seat, straightened further, his spine going ramrod straight. “I wasn’t wailing.”

“You were absolutely wailing,” Ashlyn confirmed around a smirk, not bothering to hide her amusement.

Aiden ignored the protest entirely. With a flourish, he reached through the window and dropped a bundled cloth into Logan’s lap. The scent of warm bread and soft herbs filled the small space.

“Fresh bread and cheese,” Aiden said proudly. “Courtesy of the quiet duke who thinks your pout is…” He paused, then raised a finger as if quoting scripture. “What did he sign? Ah, yes—‘excessively princely.’”

Logan stared down at the bundle, then looked at Ashlyn with cautious disbelief, then back out toward the guard riding beside the carriage. “…He really said that?”

“No,” Aiden chirped without remorse. “But it sounded better than ‘adorably miserable.’”

Ashlyn rolled her eyes hard enough to shift her whole upper body. “You’re having way too much fun.”

“I always do, General.” Aiden tipped into a mock bow as his horse trotted beside them. His grin lingered like sunlight through stormclouds—too bright, too deliberate. Logan almost laughed. Almost.

Aiden kicked his horse gently and rode ahead, humming something off-key.

Logan exhaled, slouching just slightly as he unwrapped the bundle. The bread was still warm, the cheese firm and rich. His stomach growled with quiet betrayal.

“He’s such a menace,” he muttered, taking a grateful bite.

Ashlyn didn’t reply right away. Her gaze had shifted to the window, sharp and thoughtful. “He’s also watching us like a hawk,” she said under her breath. “He doesn’t trust easily.”

Logan chewed slowly, his eyes drawn to the shape of Aiden’s figure riding just ahead, glancing back far too often. He swallowed. “I’m not sure I do either.”

Ashlyn reached out and gently straightened the edge of his cloak, her knuckles brushing the soft fabric near his collarbone. Her voice was quiet.

“Then we’ll do what we always do,” she said. “One step at a time.”

Logan nodded, then looked out toward the rising rooftops of Salvon, the faint shimmer of palace domes in the distance.

One step at a time.

The carriage wheels clicked over the cobblestones, rhythmic and slow, as they rolled into the heart of a market town nestled between the sapphire coastline and the green hills that sloped toward the capital. Above, the sun hung like a brass coin in a sea of blue, painting everything in golden warmth and throwing long, dappled shadows behind the canopies.

Stalls lined the streets in a blaze of color—sun-bleached reds, deep jungle greens, bold saffron yellows. Banners fluttered overhead like birds in flight. Children ran barefoot through puddles left from early morning washings, their laughter trilling high over the chatter of vendors calling out over one another, trying to outshine the next.

The scent of the market was dizzying—salted fish sizzling on flat stones, meat skewers turning over crackling coals, cut citrus perfuming the air with sweet-sharp brightness. Every so often, a breeze would carry the scent of tropical flowers, sticky and heady, from a nearby cart.

Inside the carriage, Logan lifted the curtain with cautious fingers. His eyes squinted against the brightness, adjusting to the explosion of color and life. His Caethian palace felt a world away—walled gardens, marble corridors, whispered halls. This... this was loud. Alive. Unfamiliar.

Ashlyn sat beside him, arms crossed tightly, her posture stiff with tension. She watched the streets too, but her gaze flicked sharply from face to face, calculating. Guarding.

Outside, the whispers started like smoke—thin and curling between passing mouths, impossible to catch fully but easy to feel.

“A royal carriage…?” 

“That’s the general—look, the Caethian prince is inside—” 

“The emperor’s bride—”

“He’s so small… is he really a general?” 

“No, no, not him. The woman beside him—she’s the general. Look at the way she holds herself.”

“Caethians are odd like that, aren’t they?” 

Ashlyn tensed. Logan didn’t flinch. His eyes were on the people—not the ones whispering, but the ones who weren’t. A baker smudged flour on a child’s nose. A merchant tossing a slice of melon to a boy who’d been eyeing it too long. A couple in the shade of a fruit stall, leaning into one another, heads tilted close, laughing like they had nothing to mourn.

“They’re talking about us,” Ash said slowly, lips tight.

“Of course they are.” Logan’s fingers twisted together in his lap. “A stranger wrapped in silk, guarded with his war general at his side—it’s like something out of a fairy tale.”

He didn’t sound impressed. More like tired.

Ash looked at him. “You okay?”

He hesitated, then tilted his head toward the window again. “They don’t know me. They just know a crown. A price. A rumor.”

Just then, the side of the carriage creaked open again—Aiden, who had been riding ahead with the nonchalance of a man born in the saddle, had slowed to match their pace.

“We’re moving again soon,” he said, his grin easy and practiced. “If you’d like, we can stop by a merchant for sweets. Might as well sweeten the ride to your destiny.”

Logan arched an eyebrow, arms still folded as he leaned into the window’s edge. “Are you flirting again?”

Aiden gave him a look—half grin, half something unreadable, the kind of glance that lingered a second too long before it could be brushed off as casual. “Just trying to soften the edge, prince.”

Then he clicked his horse forward and was gone again, hooves thudding lightly against the road.

Ashlyn leaned toward the window, her voice dry. “I’d like to soften his edge—with a punch.”

Logan smiled, the expression creeping up on him before he could stop it. “He means well. For the most part at least. ”

Ash didn’t answer, but her gaze remained sharp, tension coiled in her shoulders like she expected trouble at any moment.

Outside, the market rolled by like a painting in motion—faces turning, heads tilting, whispers trailing behind them like ribbons on the wind.

And still, Logan could feel it: the weight of their eyes. Their wonder. Their judgment.

Not at him, but at the idea of him.

The cobblestone thinned into packed dirt. Green hills rose again, the road curling like a ribbon across the countryside. The market town faded behind them—its noise now a ghost in the distance, muffled by distance and carriage wood.

Logan rested his chin against the side of the window frame, watching as they passed a group of children chasing a wheel with a stick, their laughter still echoing.

He let out a slow breath, soft enough that Ashlyn, sitting quietly across from him, didn’t stir.

The sunlight caught on the gold threading of his cloak—his Caethian royal crest glittering like it was proud to be seen.

He didn’t feel proud. He felt… detached. Like someone dressed up in a story that belonged to someone else.

“What if I’d been born a farmer’s son,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Or the son of a blacksmith, or a baker. Someone normal. No titles, no treaties.”

His voice was fragile in space, like it didn’t want to be heard.

Ashlyn didn’t look up right away. She was sharpening a knife—slow, methodical. She paused, glanced at him, and then tucked the blade away.

“You wouldn’t have lasted a week,” she teased softly. “You’d have thrown a tantrum the moment your hands got dirty.”

Logan cracked a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Maybe.” A beat. “Maybe not.”

Outside the window, the road curved. Wildflowers sprouted along the edges, careless and free.

He watched them sway in the wind, fragile and beautiful and utterly indifferent to kings, emperors, and borders.

“I think I could’ve been happy,” he said, so softly it was almost a secret. “With a quiet life. A little house by the sea. Someone to love, someone to laugh with. Maybe that’s foolish.”

Ashlyn’s voice was gentle. “It’s not foolish.”

Logan finally turned away from the window. “It’s just not the life I got, is it?”

Ashlyn didn’t answer. She reached over, placed a hand briefly over his pale one.

They didn’t speak after that. The carriage continued down the winding road, carrying them toward the capital. Toward a throne. Toward a marriage. Toward everything Logan never asked for.

And the wildflowers kept swaying behind them, untouched.

The sun slanted golden over Salvon’s capital, painting the palace in streaks of amber light. Warm light spilled through arched windows, catching on silks and polished stone, turning the great halls into something dreamlike—almost tender. Courtiers moved like murmured thoughts outside the throne room, their footsteps soft against the marble, their voices hushed but buzzing with speculation.

Inside the emperor’s quarters, the world felt still.

Tyler stood before the tall mirror, shoulders squared, jaw set. His formal armor—half ceremonial, half battlefield—rested stiff across his frame, polished gold catching in the glow of the setting sun. His crown sat untouched on the table behind him, a silent weight in the corner of his vision.

He hadn’t worn it in two days.

“You look like our father.”

The voice came quietly from the doorway, and he didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Taylor. She stood with her arms loosely crossed, one shoulder leaning against the frame, her expression soft.

Tyler exhaled through his nose, the faintest scoff. “Tired, is that what you’re going to say next?”

Taylor pushed herself gently from the doorway, stepping into the room with measured grace. Her gown swept across the floor, silken navy trimmed with threads of silver—like stars trailing behind her. “Only because it’s true.”

He didn’t argue.

“You’re keeping too much to yourself,” she added after a pause, her voice warmer now, gentle in a way few ever got to hear.

“I don’t have the luxury of spilling things just because they’re heavy.” Tyler's eyes stayed on his reflection. “If I hesitate, the court senses it. If I blink wrong, the high priest will start whispering about omens. They don’t want peace. They want control.”

She moved toward the window, pulling the curtain slightly to peer out over the city below. The rooftops of Salvon shimmered beneath the falling sun. In the distance, small lights were beginning to flicker to life, a thousand warm glows against a cooling sky. The empire was holding its breath.

Tyler picked up a parchment from the desk. Logan’s name stood out—elegant, curved handwriting confirming his place on the guest list. A Caethian emblem was stamped at the bottom. No word had come since the messenger’s last pigeon two nights ago, and that silence pressed like a stone against his ribs.

Taylor glanced over her shoulder. “He’ll come.”

Tyler looked up at her then—really looked. Her face was tired too, but there was something else in it. A hope, quiet and tempered, but real.

“And if this marriage ends in tyranny?” he asked. His voice had a sharp edge to it, but there was fear under the steel. “If this boy means to take more than he offers, if this peace is just a prettier kind of war…”

“I’ll help you tear it down,” Taylor answered, simply. She stepped away from the window and came to stand beside him in the mirror. “But you won’t need to.”

He turned toward her, his brow still drawn. “You believe that?”

She smiled, faint but firm. “I believe in you.”

His chest rose, fell. His expression softened.

For a moment, they stood together in silence, side by side—mirror reflections of each other in posture and weight. Two halves of the same burden. The crownless ruler and the unsent bride.

Tyler’s eyes drifted to the window. “We need this marriage,” he said quietly. “The empire needs peace. Even if it costs comfort. Even if it costs parts of us.”

Taylor’s hand found his. A simple gesture, not royal, not grand. Just hers. “Then let’s not lose all of us to it.”

The candlelight flickered between them, casting their shadows across the stone.

A soft knock came at the door.

Mr. Saint stepped in with his usual quiet precision, and his silver hair was tied back neatly.

He bowed slightly. “Forgive the interruption, Your Majesties. But Prince Logan has arrived. He is waiting in the east reception hall.”

Tyler let out a long, steady breath.

Taylor gave his hand a squeeze. “One step at a time.”

And with that, the emperor turned, the crown still sitting untouched behind him—but his twin at his side.

Chapter Text

The throne room was quiet when they entered.

Not silent — Salvon’s palace was never silent — but quiet in the way a cathedral was quiet. Reverent. Still. The sound of Logan’s boots echoed softly on the gleaming floors, their click muffled by thick crimson runners and long stretches of velvet banners. The light, too, was strange. Warm. The setting sun poured through towering arched windows like molten gold, casting stained-glass reflections across the stone, catching in the bronze trims and framing Logan in a quiet sort of glow.

He looked celestial.

Slim and upright, nerves tucked beneath perfect posture, he moved like a candle flame — bright, flickering, contained. His pale hair caught the light and shimmered, almost translucent in the sun’s last reach. His features, always delicate, seemed softer still beneath the amber wash. He stood too still to be made of anything cruel. A Caethian prince, yes — but he might as well have stepped from a dream.

Ashlyn walked a half step behind him, no longer on edge like before. She wore her steel less like a weapon now and more like a crown — composed, watchful . Her arm hovered just behind his lower back in silent reassurance, her fingers twitching occasionally to ensure he was still there, still whole. 

Logan had noticed and he was grateful.

A court attendant bowed low as they entered. “Prince Logan of Caethia,” the boy announced, voice rising into the vaulted ceiling. “General Ashlyn.”

The court stirred with whispered breaths. Savlonian nobles, clergy, servants they all started. Some curious, others cold. But none dared speak aloud.

Logan didn’t flinch.

Instead, he looked up at the empty throne.

It was massive, carved from obsidian and threaded with veins of gold. Too large, too cold — like a monument more than a seat. A single shaft of light cut across the armrest, casting a sharp gleam onto the emperor’s sigil. It was empty, but not abandoned. Every part of the room held its breath, as though the weight of the crown lingered even in absence.

The throne yearned for its emperor.

Beside it sat another frame, much more delicate than the obsidian-laced throne that stood in splendor. The two thrones, placed side by side, were different in their own right, yet strikingly similar. While the emperor’s seat was adorned with obsidian, the empress’s throne bore the mother-of-pearl. Both were trimmed in gold—equal in purpose, yet distinct in character. 

Ultimately, they were made for the same reason: to rule.

“His Royal Highness will arrive shortly,” a servant said, bowing quickly and stepping aside.

Ashlyn touched Logan’s arm, a quiet question. 

He nodded. “We wait.”

They did.

And above them, someone watched.

From the upper gallery, a shadow leaned forward just enough to catch the light — Aiden Clerk, Captain of the Royal Guard. His elbows rested on the balcony rail, red eyes half-lidded with interest. He studied Logan with the slow intrigue of a man trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. The glow of the dimming sun made Logan seem carved from something far gentler than Savlon stone.

He tilted his head, curiosity flared Wanting to see what the Caethian prince would do, say, look at. The guard captain didn’t care though. Not when a certain red haired person accompanied the boy. Standing besides his future empress, stood the general. Draped in Caethian blues and crème cloak. The same one he’d first seen the general in two sunrises ago. 

Hair styled into two long, fiery braids on each side of her temple. Her emerald eyes hovered over the room, searching for threats, escapes, weapons. 

Their eyes met.

It was destiny. Aiden decided.

Ashlyns face twisted into something mean. Her scroll displayed only for the Caethian prince to see.

Logan noticed. “What's the matter?” 

“Don't look now but I believe our astray guide is above.” The general muttered. Turning her head to the side as if casting away the captain.

Logan only sighed as Aiden finally caught his stare, giving the prince a little childish wave.

Below, Logan’s gaze wandered. The stained-glass windows painted his cheeks in streaks of rose and gold. Ash beside him like a sentinel of dusk — dark where he was light, sharp where he was soft. But she glanced his way every few moments, as if to ground herself.

Then the air shifted.

Not a sound.

Not a herald.

Just a pull. A change in gravity. Away from Logan.

Logan felt it before he turned. Everyone did.

She didn’t need to be announced. The throne room simply recognized her presence. Right where it belonged

Princess Taylor of Savlon.

She entered through the upper doors like a storm wrapped in silk. Her gown flowed in layers of deep ruby and cream, adorned with Savlonian gold and threads so fine they seemed to whisper as she moved. Jewels adorned her neck, but it was her hair — voluminous, styled into glossy curls that crowned her like laurels that framed her face with something regal, almost mythic.

She was breathtaking. A monarch in every sense of the word.

But she didn’t smile.

Not yet.

Her eyes were searching.

Aiden straightened where he stood in the gallery. His bow was deep, polished. Nothing like the jester he prided himself in being. “Your Royal Highness.”

Taylor didn’t look at him at first. Her attention was elsewhere focused, expectant.

Only after a breath did she nod, acknowledging her captain with a quiet tilt of her chin.

“Where might our emperor be, Your Highness?” Aiden said gently, stepping forward, offering his palm.

She blinked, as if remembering herself, remembering the eyes on her. Her fingers slid into his, and he brought her hand to his lips with careful grace, pressing a kiss to her knuckles — chaste, weightless.

Courtesy. 

“My brother will be here soon,” she answered, though her eyes had already wandered — downward. 

Past the railing. To him. To Logan . 

Her breath caught.

There, below them, standing perfectly still in a halo of sunlight — was not the tyrant she had imagined. Not the looming shadow from her darkest anxieties.

It was a boy.

Soft-featured. Wide-eyed. Dressed in Caethian silks of cream and seafoam. His expression wasn’t cold, or calculating. It was curious. Gentle.

That couldn’t be the blood of Caethia.

A boy she’d imagined a thousand different ways. Each vision worse than the last.

But none like this.

She had pictured a monster. A cold-eyed diplomat with a sharp tongue and a sharper smile. A weapon of Caethian bloodline—wrapped in silk and wielded like a dagger.

But standing below her, awash in Savlon’s light, was a boy.

This was not what she had braced herself for.

He stood on Savlonian gold, not like a prince, but a vision.

A boy sculpted from glass and morning light, too fragile for the weight of crowns.

Logan shifted under her gaze. His face tilted up toward her gallery perch, and for a moment — just one brief heartbeat — their eyes locked.

And Taylor froze.

His eyes were brilliant blue. Not like the ocean or sky, but diamonds . Sharp and impossibly bright. Curious. Almost apologetic.

Her throat tightened.

He looked like he was waiting to be punished.

Aiden, beside her, tilted his head slightly. “ Taylor , are you alright?” He whispered.

“Would that be…?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Our future empress?” Aiden quipped softly. “Perhaps.”

Taylor stepped closer to the edge of the balcony, gaze still locked on the prince. 

After a beat. 

“He’s a beauty,” she whispered.

Aiden glanced sideways, mildly amused. “Oh my, that's rather forward.”

Then her brow creased.

“But why isn’t he wearing a veil?”

Aiden blinked.

Then it struck him like a slap to the face.

The veil.

The wedding tradition. Savlon’s law. The bride — in this case, Logan — was meant to wear a ceremonial veil to remain unseen until the emperor lifted it. An honor. A symbol of trust. Of promise .

He hadn’t even noticed.

But the court had. Now that they were done ogling at the future of their empire.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. The priest’s reverence. The court’s whispers below. The audacity of showing the imperial bride bare-faced before the throne.

“Fuck,” Taylor hissed.

The voices started. Quiet. Sharp. The sound of the holy court turning in their pews. The High Priest shifting forward, frown already forming on his ancient face.

Panic coiled in Taylor’s chest.

Below, Logan stood radiant and bare-faced, haloed by sunlight.

No veil.

And those damn diamond eyes were still locked on hers.

She tried to breathe. Tried to smile.

But she couldn’t.

Her fingers curled into the folds of her skirt.

The weight of the court was turning.

She met Logan’s eyes — and this time, they were already on her.

He looked startled. Like he hadn’t expected her to be there, or maybe hadn’t expected her to look the way she did. Their gazes locked, and Taylor couldn’t move.

His eyes were impossibly blue. Not cruel. Not hungry.

Just… open.

For the briefest moment, she wondered if she had been wrong. If the monster she’d prepared herself for was nothing more than a boy trying to survive. But even then, she remembered the crown. The bloodline. And the war that came with both.

Taylor sucked in a breath, her hands tightening at her sides. “Get him a veil,” she said to Aiden, voice clipped, but not cruel. “Immediately.”

Aiden didn’t ask questions. He bowed and turned on his heel, the silk of his coat snapping with the motion.

Taylor remained frozen at the railing for just a moment longer, gaze still trained on Logan, as if searching for something she couldn’t name.

Nothing like the monster those noble women around high society swore he was. 

From the gallery, Taylor watched Aiden disappear through the corridor’s arch, the sweep of his red coat vanishing like a falling curtain.

She didn't move.

Not even to sit.

Her spine remained ramrod straight, hands neatly folded in her lap as though she were composed — but she wasn’t. Not truly. Not when the boy below remained so still , bathed in the last amber light of the sun like something conjured. The air felt thick. Honey-slow. Her thoughts faster than her breath.

Logan’s eyes hadn’t left her until Aiden vanished.

And then, almost shyly, he’d turned his gaze forward again — toward the throne. Toward Tyler’s throne.

It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

She’d imagined the Caethian prince would arrive arrogant. Stiff-backed and spoiled. Maybe even armed with a smile too sharp for its own good. But instead he looked like someone’s cherished son.

And that terrified her.

Because what if it was all a trick?

What if that softness was just another kind of armor? What if those eyes were trained to manipulate, and that tender expression was only a carefully crafted lie? His bloodline was Caethian. His crown was Caethian. And she had not forgotten what Caethia had done to their borders. To their people after her fathers passing. 

Still.

That look he’d given her — wide-eyed, curious, vulnerable — it didn’t feel like an act.

It felt like a boy thrown into a storm he didn’t ask for.

She pressed her lips together and offered a silent prayer.

Please, Great Mother, let him be kind. Let him be good. Let him not be like the men who rule his homeland with greed-stained fingers and wine-wet mouths.

Her stomach twisted.

Because if she was wrong, it wouldn’t just be her brother’s heart on the line.

It would be their kingdom.

Aiden was running. Or as close to running as a dignified officer in polished boots and royal crests could manage.

The veil.

The veil, the veil, the veil.

He was halfway to the ceremonial wardrobe chamber when the air shifted — just like it had moments ago when Taylor entered. 

And he knew. 

He knew even before he rounded the corner and nearly smacked face-first into him.

Emperor Tyler.

Wearing robes trimmed in black and gold, his crown still absent but the weight of it always present on his brow, he stood like a wall in the middle of the hall. Unmoved. Unamused.

Aiden skidded to a half-stop.

“Oh,” he said too casually, clutching the veil behind his back like it might disappear if Tyler didn’t see it. “Hello—”

“You didn’t send a messenger pigeon.” Tyler’s voice was flat, but the tension in his shoulders was coiled like a bowstring. “Or after Logan arrived .”

Aiden blinked. “I—”

“It takes half a day to get from the port to the palace. Half a day , Aiden. Yet, you’ve managed to delay to two. Where was the Caethian prince? ”

Aiden opened his mouth to answer.

“I swear to the gods,” Tyler cut in, jaw tightening as his voice dropped, “if you say he was sightseeing—”

“It was one night at Ben’s estate!”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed. “And the second?”

Aiden hesitated.

Tyler looked like he had just remembered something particularly vile. His arms crossed, and a new sharpness lined his mouth. “The ship captain.”

“Ah,” Aiden said, holding back a sigh.

“Where is he?”

“Oh, come on ,” Aiden groaned, too loud, too familiar. He rubbed his temples. “I swear to your imperial crown, ‘Your Highness,’ this is not the time to be jealous of a dirty sailor. I’ve got orders from Taylor .”

Tyler’s stern expression flickered. “Taylor? Is she alright?”

Before Aiden could answer, the emperor’s eyes dipped — and caught the edge of ivory lace dangling from Aiden’s clenched fist.

His brow twitched. “What is that?”

Aiden stared at the veil. Then at Tyler. Then back at the veil. He groaned again. Louder.

Tyler’s eyes locked on the veil, the delicate fabric now unmistakably clear in Aiden’s hand.

“Why do you have that?” he asked, his voice quiet, but not soft.

Aiden gave him a tight-lipped smile — the kind a man wore before walking into battle or trying to charm his way out of a very expensive supper bill.

“Well,” Aiden began with all the confidence of a man who absolutely did not want to answer that question, “it turns out our radiant bride-to-be walked into the throne room bare-faced. Scandalous, right? The high priest nearly fainted. Or maybe that was just the incense — hard to say.”

Tyler didn’t even blink.

Aiden cleared his throat. “Anyway. Taylor saw it. Froze like a statue in the gallery. It was very dramatic, very silent, very her —then she just whispered, ‘get him a veil’ like she was summoning ghosts. Whole room got so much heavier.”

Still, nothing from Tyler. No smirk. No scoff. Just that look .

Aiden sighed. “You know, I’m starting to think this is less about the veil and more about the fact that your pretty bride is being gawked at by noblemen and you want to hide him away in your chambers.”

That earned him a blink. Just one. And the same unimpressed glare Tyler had been perfecting since they were teenagers.

“Are you mental? ”

“Mayhems,” Aiden snickered, offering the veil like it might defuse the moment.

Tyler stepped closer, taking the soft cloth between two fingers. The lace caught the light from the nearby sconces, glowing like spun moonlight.

“He wasn’t supposed to be seen,” Tyler said, voice laced with irritation. “Not like this. Not yet.”

“He didn’t look unready,” Aiden offered carefully. “He looked… like a painting. Like someone dreamed him up.”

Tyler didn’t answer right away.

His grip on the veil tightened just slightly.

Then, with a breath: “Take it to him. Do it quickly. And tell Taylor—” he paused, eyes flicking toward the direction of the throne room. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

Aiden gave a dramatic bow, stepping backward like a stage actor at curtain call. “As you wish, oh glorious, sun-cursed ruler of my schedule.”

That finally earned him something — not a smile, but a sharper exhale from the emperor. Almost amused. Almost.

And then Tyler turned and walked away, cloak trailing behind him like smoke, leaving Aiden alone with the veil, the silence, and the weight of royal drama in his arms.

“Should’ve been a painter,” Aiden mumbled, adjusting his hair, “less running.”

The throne room was soaked in golden light. It filtered in through the towering windows, long and narrow, each one casting columns of amber across the marble floor. Dust danced in the beams like suspended stars. At the center of it all stood Logan, silhouetted by the last breath of daylight. He looked almost translucent in it — pale curls caught fire in the light, his sea-glass eyes wide as he took in the grandeur around him.

Ashlyn remained at his side, posture relaxed now, but watchful. Her arms were crossed behind her back, a soldier’s rest stance. The subtle tilt of her body still angled toward Logan, like a silent barrier.

The high priest, an older man wrapped in Savlonian golds and creams, stood nearby, hands clasped and expression reverent. He had not stopped watching the boy since he entered. As if he wanted to speak but mouth had been sewed shut.

Yet finally after a moment of contemplation the high priest took a step forward.

“Prince of Caethia,” the priest murmured, as if afraid to disturb the air, “you've let yourself become indecent.”

Logan blinked. “Pardon?” he shifted, visibly uncomfortable, but dipped his head politely.

“Here, let me assist your highness—”

But before the priest could continue.

The great doors to the throne room creaked open.

Every head turned.

Aiden strode in like he owned the marble under his boots — which, frankly, he half-believed he did. His coat fluttered behind him, dark against the light flooding in from the windows. In his hands, he held the veil, delicate and folded with reverence, though his expression betrayed how little reverence he actually had left for the situation.

Logan turned at the sound, startled.

Aiden’s gaze locked on him instantly. Of course he looked like that — like some fallen star washed ashore, too pretty for the weight this world was going to demand from him. 

It was almost unfair.

His half-wit emperor didn’t stand a chance. The captain would wager an entire month’s duty that Tyler would blow a fuse if he ever found out how close Logan had gotten to that Caethian captain

Ashlyn addressed Aiden before Logan did. She stepped slightly in front of the prince, casual but firm. Not aggressive, just a warning flick of posture.

“I’m not here to duel you, general,” Aiden said as he approached, holding up the veil between two fingers like a peace offering. “I’m just the courier. Don’t stab the messenger — especially when he’s handsome.”

Ashlyn’s brow arched. “Try less handsome. Maybe you’ll get stabbed slower.”

Aiden gave a dramatic sigh and turned to Logan. “Your Highness,” he said with exaggerated flair, “your presence is a scandal. The court is in a state. I’m here to restore your modesty.”

Logan blinked at him, confused. “My modesty?”

Aiden wiggled the veil slightly. “A little tradition we have. Savlonian imperial brides wear a veil the first time they enter the throne room. Keeps the nobles from losing their minds. Or their manners. Or both.”

Logan paled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

Ashlyn’s voice was low, sharp. “He was never told.”

Aiden’s theatrics softened. He took in Logan’s face again — the blush blooming there now, the fragile way his hands twitched slightly at his sides. He looked… ashamed.

“No one’s blaming you, prince,” Aiden said, more gently now. “It was an oversight. And Savlon loves a good fuss. This’ll smooth things over.”

He stepped forward and, with an unexpected tenderness, lifted the veil.

“May I?” he asked.

Logan hesitated, then nodded once.

Aiden placed the veil carefully over the prince’s head, letting the gauzy fabric fall around his face and shoulders like a second skin. In the evening light, the lace shimmered gold, the edges embroidered with tiny threads that caught the last rays of sun like wildfire.

And somehow, it didn’t hide him at all.

If anything, it made him look more unreal. Framed. Untouchable .

“Goddess help us,” Aiden muttered. “You’re going to start a war just by walking down a hall.”

Ashlyn shot him a look.

“What?” he whispered, stepping back. “That was a compliment.”

From above, Taylor watched it all — watched Aiden’s easy touch, Logan’s stillness, the soft fall of silk across his shoulders. The veil was in place now. The court would relax. But Taylor’s heart hadn’t. It beat harder now, louder.

The boy was beautiful — but beauty meant nothing in court.

Only time would tell if his softness was real, or if it was simply a trap wrapped in sea-foam silk.

The fabric was fine. Lighter than air. Logan couldn’t even feel it resting against his skin — but it was there, a ghost draped over him.

From the inside, he could still see the room. Hazy outlines, shadowed movement, muted colors filtered through the sheer lace. But from the outside, no one could see his face. Only the vague silhouette of his head, the pale line of his throat. He looked like a figure carved of mist.

He reached up, fingers brushing the edge of the veil where it tucked behind his ear.

Ashlyn’s voice came soft beside him. “You alright?”

He nodded. Then paused. “It’s… strange.” His voice was quiet, distant. “I feel like I’ve been turned into a symbol.”

Ash snorted gently, crossing her arms. “You were a symbol the moment we left Caethia.”

Her gaze flicked to the fabric. Then, carefully, she lifted a hand to touch it.

But before her fingers could brush the veil, another hand intercepted hers — gloved, warm, and steady.

Aiden.

He stood beside them again, expression softer than either expected. No booming entrance this time. Just a knowing smile as he held Ashlyn’s wrist, not hard, but firm.

“Careful, little General,” he murmured, tilting his head. “The veil is sacred. Not even you can touch it once it’s been placed.”

Ash’s brows raised, the beginnings of a protest on her lips — but Aiden gently let go of her hand, giving her a light tap on the wrist as if to say, I know, I know, but trust me on this one.

“I’m not trying to offend your traditions,” Ash muttered, “just checking on my prince.”

Aiden leaned in a little, grinning now, voice lowered like they were conspiring in a chapel. “He’s still in there. Just hidden from the hungry eyes of the court.”

Ash glanced at Logan, who hadn’t moved. His hands were folded neatly in front of him, head tilted toward the gallery windows. The final rays of sunlight had dipped low enough for the night to pour light across his shrouded frame, catching the veil’s embroidery, setting it aglow like it had been woven with starlight.

It was hard to breathe, suddenly.

“He looks like a ghost,” Ashlyn whispered, paying attention to logan.

Aiden’s smile faded just slightly, his eyes drifted to her now.

“No,” he said. “He looks like a blessing.”

Aiden didn’t pull his gaze from Ashlyn’s as he held her hands in his, gently but firmly, a soft grin curling on his lips. “He’ll be alright, my lady,” he said, and then, like a vow, he bent and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

Ashlyn’s expression twisted .

And it only made Aidens smile flare .

Her brows snapped down and her mouth curled into something grim, distrust flashing behind her eyes. She yanked her hand back like he’d burned her.

“You better swear it,” she snapped, voice low and sharp.

Aiden’s smile faded just slightly, something flickering in his eyes — not mockery, not amusement. Just understanding. And maybe something older. Wearier.

“I do,” he said, softer now. “I swear it.”

Then, he left.

Ashlyns eyes drifted with him, gaze soft almost understood.

The veil was heavier than it looked.

It hung from the delicate circlet like a curtain of gauze and silk, cloaking him in white and gold. Though he could make out the blurred outlines of the room through the fabric, no one could truly see him—not his face, not the flicker of nerves in his eyes. Just the vague shape of a prince.

A symbol. A sacrifice. A future he hadn’t asked for.

Logan didn’t move for a long time. He only stood there, still and small beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Savlonian palace, the dying sunlight—now moonlight—spilling through the tall glass windows behind him. It haloed him, lit the veil like it had been spun from the sky itself. His figure glowed, edges softened, made beautiful by circumstance.

He reached up, fingertips brushing the edge of the veil. Not to remove it—he wasn’t that brave—but just to feel it.

To remind himself it was real.

This was real.

Ashlyn hadn’t spoken since Aiden’s vow. She hadn’t moved from his side, either.

Logan swallowed hard. “Do you think they’ll like me?” he whispered, unsure if he meant the emperor, the court, or the country itself.

Ashlyn didn’t answer. Not right away.

And then—

A servant’s voice rang through the chamber.

“All rise for His Imperial Highness, Crowned Prince and Heir of Savlon—Emperor Tyler of the Savlon Empire.”

The doors to the throne room did not open.

They were dragged apart , inch by groaning inch, by two silent guards clad in obsidian armor, their heads bowed low. The sound was ancient. Weighty. Like the gods themselves had decided to make room.

A hush fell over the court.

The light in the room dimmed—not from the setting sun outside the high stained-glass windows, but from something heavier , something older , that walked alongside him.

And then he stepped into the light.

Tyler.

Emperor of Savlon.

He moved not like a man, but like a command . Like gravity bowed for him, and time paused to listen.

His robes rippled behind him like a banner in a silent war. The embroidery shimmered gold with every step, catching the flames from the sconces and bleeding it across the floor. The red of his mantle was no royal crimson—it was blood-wine, thick and ominous, trimmed with the fur of the white beasts only found in the northern cliffs. A living reminder of conquest.

On his shoulders sat a cape held by golden chains. Around his neck, the crest of Salvon burned like a brand. His crown wasn’t high, but it was heavy —a circlet of dark iron set with fire opals that glinted with each breath he took.

And yet it was his face that stopped the world.

Unreadable, his eyes scanned the room like a blade might skim a throat. Not hurried. Not loud. Simply certain. He didn’t speak, but the air felt full of him. Command leaked from the edges of his silence.

A man born for war. Bred for rulership. Carved from divine fury and royal obligation.

And every eye in the throne room bowed .

Even the shadows seemed to kneel.

He didn’t rush.

Tyler walked as if the world moved around him —as if his steps were not part of time, but the thing that created it . His stride was slow, steady, and unapologetically deliberate. A predator with no need to chase. Each step was a decree, echoing across the marble like drum beats before a storm.

His boots hit the polished floor with a heavy grace, each tap swallowed by the grandeur of the vaulted room. His cloak trailed behind him like a second shadow, longer than any mortal man, kissed by red and gold embroidery—Savlon’s colors, Savlon’s blood.

His hair was dark, freshly combed back but refusing to stay put. A few loose strands curled rebelliously near his temple, softening a face made of war-maps and marble. The imperial crown sat like a brand upon his head, but he carried its weight like it was simply another limb—something he’d been born with.

His eyes didn’t scan the court. They devoured it. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just all-consuming. They were deep, smoldering pools—brown so dark they bordered on black.

Logan wanted to believe they were made of rich coffee.

He didn’t acknowledge the nobles. Didn’t glance at the high priest. Not even Taylor, perched above like a queen-in-waiting, received his full gaze.

Not yet.

Because the throne called him first.

The throne was carved from precious Savlon obsidian, veined with Savlonian gold. It was not a seat of comfort. It was a weapon. And Tyler fit in it like a blade returning to its sheath.

He ascended without looking down. One step. Then another.

And when he reached it—when the gilded steps loomed before him—Tyler stopped. The silence trembled. And then he turned, just slightly, giving the room his full profile.

It was like gravity snapped back into place .

The room exhaled. Slowly.

He leaned slightly to one side, resting his forearm on the armrest. His crown caught the light of the fiery sconces just enough to cast a flicker across the marble floor—almost as if licking at the stone.

Only then did his eyes lift — to find the shape in the veil.

The Caethian prince.

His bride.

His enemy.

His promised salvation.

The room was too still.

The warmth from the setting sun had faded, but Logan swore he could still feel it— see it—trapped in the silhouette that now sat upon the throne like it had been built for him and him alone.

It was him .

Tyler.

The Emperor.

The man he’d feared. The name whispered like a threat across Caethian walls.

And yet.

From behind the delicate lace of the veil, Logan couldn’t stop staring.

It wasn’t just the way the man looked . Though his skin held the echo of the sun, aglow like sun-warmed amber, and his hair—dark, defiant—refused to sit perfectly beneath his crown. He sat like a monarch. The throne looked different now with him in it, somehow more alive. More sacred. More terrifying.

But it was the way Tyler moved that froze Logan in place.

Measured. Weighted. Controlled not out of fear, but out of awareness. Like someone who knew just how much damage he could do if he let go.

And yet there had been no cruelty in his face when he looked up. No smirk. No triumph. Just eyes—deep, unreadable, and watching .

Logan’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening behind layers of silk and nerves. The veil blurred the world, muted it, but it didn’t dull him . Not Tyler. The man’s presence burned straight through.

He didn’t look like a monster.

He looked like a man standing at the edge of war and godhood, and Logan wasn’t sure if he should be frightened or in awe.

Ashlyn’s voice was a whisper near his ear, a tether to something softer. “Breathe, Lo.”

But he couldn’t—not fully.

Because for the first time since this all began, he felt the weight of what was truly coming. This wasn’t just politics. This wasn’t just an alliance stitched from desperation.

This was him and Tyler .

A Caethian prince and a Salvonian emperor.

And gods help them both.

Taylor had never seen anything so still. So terrifying.

Not Tyler.

Logan .

She couldn’t tear her gaze away—not even as Aiden slipped back into the gallery above. Not even as she clenched her fingers together in front of her, knuckles white beneath her jewelry. Not even as her heart whispered that this boy—this soft, angelic figure veiled in tradition—was not the creature she had conjured in her mind all these weeks.

He was not a monster.

He was light.

From behind that veil, he looked almost ethereal—glowing underneath the Savlon moonlight, the sheer fabric casting celestial shadows along his cheek and jaw. The way the veil cloaked his features from view only deepened the reverence, the mystery.

And gods, he looked afraid .

Taylor’s breath caught as she glanced toward her brother. Tyler stood tall, forged from heat and dusk, his crown glinting with a quiet warning. But it was the slight dip in his brow—the flicker of tension in his jaw—that made her ache.

She turned her eyes back to Logan.

He doesn’t know what he’s walking into , she thought. He’s just a boy.

A beautiful one.

She remembered what the old priests used to say when she was young— that beauty could be both a weapon and offering . That light could blind as easily as it could heal.

“Please,” she whispered to herself, more prayer than command. “Please let him be kind. Let him be nothing like the ones who came before.”

A footsteps echoed behind her.

“Princess Taylor,” came the voice, trembling with joy.

She turned just slightly, and there stood the High Priest, robed in layered silk and gold thread, his smile warm and brimming like he had just laid eyes on prophecy made flesh.

“Oh,” he said, breathless, clasping his hands. “Oh, how glorious he is. His Imperial Majesty.”

The High Priest didn’t bow. He looked straight ahead as if witnessing something holy. “He shines,” he said again, his voice reverent. “He shines like he was chosen.”

Logan’s veil trembled slightly—maybe a breath, maybe nerves.

“And our Caethian prince, how wonderful after that small hiccup, wouldn't you agree? Your Highness?” the priest asked, smiling with the fever of faith. 

“Your highness?”

Taylor stayed silent, only nodding her head. Eyes trained on her twin brother. 

Tyler didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, like a lion waking from slumber, he lifted his gaze fully to the veiled figure.

Silence pressed down again. Heavier this time.

And Taylor, watched her brother’s face, watching Logan’s stillness like he knew something had shifted.

Not just in this room.

But in the world.

Tyler rose from the throne like dusk rising over the world, slow and commanding. The embroidered cloak trailed behind him like a shadow of power.

His voice echoed across the chamber—measured, affectionate, and practiced for an audience.

"Prince Logan of Caethia. I’m pleased to see you’ve arrived safely. Salvon welcomes you not as a guest, but as one soon to be cherished as its own."

There was a beat of stillness before Logan moved, a soft rustle of fabric as he bowed his head—deep, respectful, veiled. 

"Your Majesty honors me. Salvon is... unlike anything I’ve ever seen." When he spoke, his voice was low, careful, the words tasting foreign in his mouth yet spoken with unwavering grace.

Suddenly something within Tyler flared. The reminder of Logan sleeping somewhere that wasn't on an imperial ship but rather on a certain Caethians sailors boat dragged his rationality into the ground. His chest ached. Heavy, mean, and burning.

He would not allow that to happen again. Not while he was present

With that final thought in mind, Tyler stepped down a single stair, a calculated display of closeness. Not too much. Just enough to draw eyes and set expectations.

"In time, you’ll see its heart. Soon, you will sit beside me—not as a stranger, not as a symbol, but as my bride and confidant." His voice dipped, almost intimate. "There is no need for shyness, beloved. Not between those destined to rule together."

The word beloved coiled through the air like smoke.

Gasps fluttered across the room like startled birds. Someone’s fan snapped open too quickly.

Ashlyn didn’t speak, didn’t move—but her eyes narrowed, just barely. A subtle flicker. Like a general reassessing the battlefield.

Logan didn’t lift his head. But his fingers twitched at his side.

"Of course," he said softly, voice catching just on the edge of breath. "If that is your wish, Your Majesty."

Tyler smiled but it was the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. The kind that kings wore when the whole world was watching.

The soon-to-be emperor took one final step down before pausing—his gaze sweeping the chamber with idle grandeur, then lifting subtly toward the gallery above. He found Aiden watching, expression unreadable.

Their eyes met.

And just as quickly, Aiden looked away.

As if he was hiding something.

Tyler's smile grew, not warm but knowing. His eyes dropped again to Logan—still bowed, veiled and reverent, unaware of the firestorm behind the crown.

“You must be exhausted,” Tyler said smoothly, almost too gently. “After all… two full days of travel can be so taxing.”

The words were honeyed, sweet to any listener. But beneath them was a slow, bitter knife. Logan heard it. Felt it.

Behind the veil, his breath caught—his heart lurching. He hadn’t expected this. Not like this . The emperor was speaking as if he’d done something unspeakable. As if his very presence was a transgression.

“Captain Aiden will see you to your chambers. General Ashlyn, I trust you’ll remain close.”
A slight pause.

“After all, you must be quite familiar with the prince’s accommodations by now.”

A ripple ran through the room—gasps like wind through reeds, hastily stifled. Ashlyn didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened. Just for a moment. As if she, too, had just been struck. The quiet swoons weren't making her now flourishing tension stifle.

Logan said nothing. Could say nothing.

The veil was his only shield, and silence his only dignity.

“Rest well, beloved,” Tyler added softly. “You’ll need your strength for the days ahead.”

And with that, he turned—returning to the throne with the same slow, deliberate grace with which he had risen. As if nothing at all had happened.

Logan didn’t speak again.

Not as Aiden guided them through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace.

Not when Ashlyn gently touched his arm, leading him toward the suite designated for visiting nobility.

Not when the door to the guest chambers closed with a soft click , but it may as well have slammed behind them.

Only when they were alone did Logan move. He walked numbly toward the nearest wall, pressing both hands against it, as if the stone might steady him. The world felt like it was spinning just out of reach.

He made it halfway across the room before turning back sharply. “He implied it,” he said, voice hot and cracking. “He implied—as if I were being unfaithful !”

Ashlyn blinked, keeping her posture loose, letting him come apart. He needed to.

“We aren’t even wedded yet!” Logan cried, arms flung out. “By the Goddess, we haven’t even stood before a priest! And even if we had—how would I know how to be a husband?! Let alone cheat ! What does that even mean here?!”

He laughed bitterly, then clenched his fists and dug his knuckles against his forehead.

Ashlyn took a slow breath, watching the light from the window catch on the fine gold thread of his sleeves. He looked like a doll made for a war he hadn’t agreed to fight.

“I’ve done everything they asked,” Logan said, his voice climbing. “I’ve worn their veils, I’ve paraded through their streets, I’ve bowed and smiled and kept my back straight even when I wanted to vomit from the heat—”

“I know,” Ashlyn said softly.

“I’ve let them—let him —speak about me like I’m some... object . Something breakable and useful and beautiful , maybe, if it behaves.” He barked a breathless laugh, high and glassy. “And now he looks at me like I’ve betrayed him.”

He turned to her suddenly, eyes wild. “And for what? A smile? A conversation in a hallway? Aiden and his snide little jokes? I don’t even know what Tyler’s accusing me of! I don’t even know him!”

Ashlyn stepped forward, calm but not cold. “You’re not being accused of anything real. He’s trying to get under your skin. He wants to know what cracks first—your pride or your patience.”

“Well, it’s working,” Logan muttered bitterly. He dropped onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands, breath ragged. “I don’t know how to do this. Any of it.”

She sat beside him, not touching, but close enough he could feel her steady presence.

Logan’s voice came again, small this time, like a boy in the dark. “Do you think he hates me already?”

Ashlyn hesitated, then said carefully, “I think... he’s afraid to like you. And trying very hard not to.”

Logan looked up slowly, confusion etched into his features.

Ashlyn gave him a sad little smile. “Because if he lets his guard down, this stops being a strategy and starts being a risk. And I think your emperor hates risks more than people.”

He blinked, and his throat bobbed with a swallow. “I’m not a risk.”

“No,” she said. “You’re a person. That’s what makes this harder for him.”

Logan curled slightly toward her, exhausted from the storm inside his chest. “What if I mess this up? What if I do everything wrong? What if he never—”

“Then I’ll be right here beside you when it falls apart,” she said, quiet but firm. “Helping you put the pieces back together. Like always.”

He leaned his shoulder into hers at last, breath shaky.

“You don’t have to know how to be a husband,” she murmured. “You just have to keep being you. That’s more than enough.”

They sat in silence then, the cool breeze through the window stirring the edges of his veil, his anger slowly ebbing into aching weariness.

“He knew,” Logan whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

“We don’t know how.”

“But he did,” Logan broke off, a frustrated sound escaping his lips. “He's watching us.”

“I know my prince.”

Silence sat like a ghost between the two Caethians, thick and suffocating, pressing down on their chests until it hurt to breathe. Neither dared speak, but the storm behind their eyes told stories louder than words ever could. Their blood roared in their ears, each heartbeat a thunderclap of fury and betrayal. 

It was deafening—this quiet, this aching stillness—as if the world itself was holding its breath, afraid to witness what might be said next. Rage simmered just beneath the surface, tangled with grief too raw to touch. 

Every second stretched like a blade between them, sharp and shaking, until the silence was no longer empty, but full—full of everything they couldn’t say.

The empire of Savlon will be their downfall.

Ashlyn eased the door shut behind her, leaving Logan curled on the window bench, his cheek pressed to the cool stone, veil loose and eyes puffy. He hadn’t asked for anything—but she knew the signs. He was running on an empty stomach and frayed nerves. The boy needed something warm and sweet in his hands.

The guest wing of the palace was quiet, halls softened with hanging silks and the occasional flicker of torchlight. Ashlyn moved swiftly, boots silent on the rugs. She found a servant near the kitchens, gave her clipped instructions, and within minutes had a tray in hand—biscuits still warm, thick with butter, glistening with dark jam, and a small pitcher of milk tucked to the side.

She turned the corner, almost home free—only to nearly collide with a broad chest and the familiar scent of smoke and expensive oil.

“General,” Aiden said, all too smug.

Ashlyn didn’t flinch, but she didn’t offer a bow either. “Captain.”

His eyes flicked to the tray. “Midnight cravings? I thought that was a Caethian honeymoon tradition.”

Her jaw clenched, but she kept her balance. “He hasn’t eaten since we've arrived at the palace.”

Aiden nodded. “No wonder. He’s so delicate.”

“Delicate doesn’t mean weak,” she said coolly, shifting the tray slightly higher.

“No,” Aiden allowed, stepping aside with exaggerated courtesy. “It just means breakable. And Salvon doesn’t do well with breakable things, General.”

Ashlyn stopped. Turned back. “You’re worried,” she said, studying him. “You hide it under flirtation and flair, but you’re afraid this marriage will collapse before it even begins.”

Aiden’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him shifted. A breath held. A heartbeat sharpened.

“I’m afraid,” he said slowly, “that your prince will smile at the wrong noble, say the wrong word in the wrong tongue, and get eaten alive before the wedding feast is cleared.”

Ashlyn raised a brow. “He’s not prey.”

“No,” Aiden said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “But this court doesn’t care. It chews up softer things for sport.”

They stood in tense silence for a beat. Then—

“He’s not ready,” Aiden said, more gently this time.

“Neither is your premature emperor,” Ashlyn replied, not missing a beat.

A pause. Then, to her surprise, Aiden laughed. A low, warm sound, genuine and laced with something like approval.

“Touché,” he said, with a little bow of his head. “I see why he clings to you.”

Ashlyn narrowed her eyes. “He doesn’t cling.”

“No. He survives,” Aiden said. “Let’s hope your prince teaches our emperor how to do the same.”

Ashlyn held his gaze a moment longer, then stepped past him.

“I bring my prince biscuits,” she said over her shoulder. “You bring your emperor answers.”

“There's a difference in our attendance to the crowns.” And with that, she disappeared down the corridor, the tray steady in her hands and the weight of Aiden’s words lingering like a record.

What did the captain mean by that?

Aiden watched Ashlyn leave, her steady steps growing quieter down the hallway. He was left standing alone in the dim corridor, the silence pressing in on him. The warmth of his lighthearted teasing melted away, replaced by the weight of responsibility he couldn’t easily shake off. The weight of this wedding. The weight of Logan.

The Caethian prince was an enigma. Vulnerable, yet poised. Timid, yet striking when he allowed himself to be seen. Aiden had seen the boy’s struggle. He’d watched how Logan had retreated, how his eyes, usually so open and clear, would shutter whenever anyone so much as breathed in his direction.

And now Tyler was tangled in the middle of it all.

Aiden turned on his heel, walking away with the rhythmic click of boots on stone. He’d never been one for loyalty to a cause. But loyalty to people? To those who had the guts to fight their own battles?

That was something else.

He crossed into the royal wing of the palace, nodding at the few guards stationed along the way, eyes flicking to the empty throne room doors. They still loomed large and imposing, the seat of power that Tyler had inherited at the expense of everything—family, duty, alliances.

And then there was Logan, the unspoken piece in this grand puzzle.

Aiden stepped into the darkened library where he knew Tyler would be, waiting—likely restless—having taken refuge in the quiet to nurse whatever frustrations had come from the earlier ceremony. Tyler had a tendency to lock himself away when things weren’t going his way.

He wasn’t surprised to find the emperor standing at the large window, his broad back silhouetted in the amber light of the setting sun.

“My half-wit emperor,” Aiden drawled as he entered.

Tyler’s shoulders stiffened but he didn’t turn around. “Not now, clown.”

“You know, if you want Logan to be as sharp as you, you should at least start with a little less rage and a little more patience,” Aiden said, his voice light, but sharp enough to cut if it needed to.

Tyler exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t have time for patience,” he muttered, voice tight. “We’re to be wedded in weeks’ time, Aiden.”

“Believe me, I know.” Aiden's words carried a dry groan, gesturing vaguely at the marble walls around them. “It’s all the kingdom’s been partaking in. Talk of the wedding. Silk orders. Gossip. A betting pool on who’s going to faint first—Logan, or you.”

Tyler finally turned, slowly, and gave Aiden a look—quiet, searching, weary. A look only Aiden could read.

“Right. Serious talk,” Aiden murmured, posture straightening, humor fading. “Yes, he’s settled. For the most part. Seems like the little general’s adamant about staying by the Caethian’s side.”

“I see,” Tyler said quietly. His eyes narrowed, not with anger but with thought. Focus. The sharp kind of calculation that usually came right before he moved a piece on the board.

Aiden stepped further into the room, letting the silence linger.

“He’s overwhelmed, Tyler,” Aiden said after a beat, his voice stripped of its usual flamboyance, unusually gentle. “You accused him of being unfaithful—publicly. Do you have any idea how that must’ve felt to someone like him? Standing there, already foreign, already watched, already judged. And then you, of all people—the one he was supposed to be able to trust—doubting him in front of the entire court.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Tyler snapped, his words sharp but thin, as if they'd been worn down by guilt. “I was angry.” He faltered, jaw clenched, the muscles twitching with the effort to stay composed. “He didn’t have a veil before I stepped into the throne room. It was protocol to have it on. He knows that. Everyone knows that.”

“He didn’t know,” Aiden shot back, stepping closer, a rare flash of seriousness tightening his face. “He’s not from here, Tyler. He didn’t grow up memorizing your customs. And instead of explaining it to him, you let your pride speak for you. Now he thinks you don’t trust him. Worse—he thinks you’re just like everyone else. Quick to strangle.”

Tyler looked away, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His eyes were burning now, not with anger but something far more dangerous—shame. He didn’t answer.

Aiden sighed, long and tired, and turned toward the door. “And next time, if you’re going to be jealous, try not to look so damn obvious about it.”

Tyler’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t jealous.”

“Sure, sure,” Aiden smirked, already vanishing down the corridor, his usual swagger returning with each step. “Keep telling yourself that, lover boy.”

“I’ll behead you,” the emperor muttered, low and venomous.

Aiden only chuckled, unfazed. “I’ll be waiting!”

Moments later, hysterical laughter echoed down the hall, bouncing off the stone walls and bleeding into the silence of the library.

Tyler didn’t follow. He stood alone, jaw clenched, fists balled at his sides, heart aching beneath all the anger. And in the wake of Aiden’s exit, he was left with nothing but the sound of his own mind playing with him.

little prince what are you thinking.