Archive of Our Own ^beta

The card arrives without announcement, slipped beneath the door to Seible’s inn. Heavy-stock parchment, unsealed, unbranded that’s plain in design. Its edges are gilded with fine gold leaf that catches in the lamplight. At the center, written in neat calligraphy, inked also in gold is one name: Kaelix Debonair. No signature after, no emblem pressed into wax. Only that single name, resting alone on one side.

Freodore doesn’t react visibly when Seible whistles low through his teeth, spinning the card between his fingers.

“Oh, wow. They’re kidding. They’ve got to be kidding, Furi-chan. They’re seriously making you go for the prince?”

Freodore adjusts the cuffs of his coat, not looking up. “We’ve accepted commissions that were more… out there, I think.”

“But… but this one’s more than out there, though? He’s…” Seible waves vaguely. “…high up. Shiny. All the guards. I heard he was taller than the average man in this place. You don’t think this feels a little, I don’t know—”

“Like a setup? Possibly.” Freodore shrugs. “But nobles turning on each other is a time-honored tradition.” Freodore folds the card and tucks it into his inner pocket.

“That’s what you say every time, but then you end up saving a cat or carrying someone’s grandma across a burning bridge or—”

Freodore gives him a look.

Seible stops for a moment, but barrels on anyway after Freodore doesn’t say something immediately. “Okay, not literally… all the time, but you get the point.” He rubs the back of his neck, fidgeting. “Seriously though, you don’t have to do this one.”

Freodore stares past him. “No one’s forcing me. And you saw the price tag yourself in the last card they sent.” A pause. “Besides. It’s just one more. And then we can go.”

Seible clicks his tongue. “Famous last words.”

They meet again in a shuttered dry goods store behind the old aqueduct wall, nearer to the palace—a place that couldn’t sustain itself because the rent had shot up so much closer to the castle. The shelves still line the walls, half-collapsed, full of unlabeled jars and stiff bundles of old rope. Seible is already there, crouched beside a crate and opening the heavy trunk next to it with the careful expression of someone trying not to say “don’t be mad” out loud.

“Okay, okay, so,” he starts, hands raised after he lets go of the top half of the trunk, “we had a small mix-up, nothing major, but—”

“Where’s the uniform?” Freodore cuts in, voice even.

“Right, so, uh, funny story about that…” Seible starts to says, backing up and holding the clothes like a peace offering, although it looks anything but. “The guard outfit was uh... borrowed by a different guy I owed a favor to, but—but good news! This is just as good. Better, even! See, nobody questions a pretty noble at a ball. Look at this embroidery, Furi-chan.”

“I’m not wearing that.”

“Too late,” Seible grins, “I already told the entrance guards there’s a Lord Freodore from—uh—actually, I don’t even remember if I specifically said where you were from, but they know someone vaguely in your shape is attending tonight. Nobility from the south, something like that. Very, very reclusive. So, just…play the part, yeah?”

Freodore looks at the clothes again. “Nobility… from the south?”

“Yeah. You don’t like sweets, hate dancing. You’re not used to loud gatherings. Your resting face is a bit of glare… super convincing.” Seible grins. “You’ll be the most believable one there.”

Freodore sighs. Fifteen minutes later, he steps out from behind a folding screen. The coat, in deep, dark wine-red velvet fits perfectly, snug at the waist, shoulders sharp. The jacket’s high collar stands firm at his neck but soft enough to cradle the shape of it perfectly without cutting into his skin uncomfortably, black embroidery curcls across the chest like wrought iron in ornamental shapes. The sleeves end in a fine taper at the wrist, where his hands peek out covered in real leather. It isn’t the kind of garment made for travel or combat.

His hair is brushed and tied back low, loose strands curled near his cheek (“—you know, for the drama,” Seible had insisted). Seible helps him clasp a red earring on, something he says Freodore can keep after they’re done. The boots he’s made to wear add half an inch to his height—not that it helps much.

Seible spins him around from the mirror to face him this time, and then: “Oh no. Oh, this is… this is worse than I thought.”

Freodore tugs at his sleeves, pulling buttons into holes with a slight frown. “What?”

“You look—” Seible clears his throat. “Fine. You look great. You look like you’re about to be someone’s problem and they’re going to like it. Or like you’re about to be offered twelve dowries and turn down every one of them.”

Freodore deadpans. “…should I change?”

“No!” Seible cries. “We are not wasting that silhouette. Now, come on.”

Freodore doesn’t dignify that. He steps around the crates, moving to test the boots. The heel clicks sharp on the floorboards. Outside, the sky’s turning dark.

He draws the glove tighter over his wrist, testing its shape against his hand.

He slips a blade into the lining of his coat, his smallest one, runs his hand down the front to check the fall of the fabric. Everything’s in place.

Seible whistles again, lower this time. “Maybe we should re-think the strategy. I feel like you could get away with charming the target to death, actually.”

Freodore just sighs, choosing to just make for the door instead of bothering with an answer to that.

The carriage rolls to a smooth stop just beyond the palace’s eastern gate, quiet under a wide-canopied tree that spills moonlight across its roof. Seible gives the reins a flick of nothing, purely for show, then he climbs down first and rounds the side, coat flapping. He swings the carriage door open with an elaborate little bow.

“Lord Freodore,” he intones, in a voice just shy of playful mockery. Also, Freodore can tell he’s trying very, very hard not to laugh. “We’ve arrived.”

Freodore steps down, one gloved hand braced briefly on Seible’s arm. His boots land soft on the gravel. The palace towers ahead, all white stone and pointed arches, lit up bright like beacons for the whole kingdom to announce to today’s grand event. Music is already threading out into the night, notes from a distant quartet floating above the swell of low conversation.

“You’ll be alright…?” Freodore murmurs, low.

“Of course,” Seible says. “I’m your attendant too, remember? I’ve got to act busy. Loiter around here with intent. I’ll loop back around once I’ve parked our noble steed somewhere convincing.”

Freodore shoots him a dry look.

“Hey,” Seible adds, brushing a bit of dust from Freodore’s shoulder with exaggerated care. “I’ll find you. You’re hard to miss dressed like… that.”

Then he’s gone with a wink and a flick of a reins, slipping off down a side lane as the footmen usher Freodore toward the main steps. No one stops him. No one questions him… much. They didn’t require his full name at the gate and the look seemed to be doing its job on top of the groundwork Seible’s already laid for his identity tonight.

The ballroom looms just past the rand vestibule, framed by tall mirrored columns and chandeliers like inverted glass thrones. Marble tiles gleam underfoot, catching fragments of gold and candlelight. People are already spinning across the floor—gowns fanning out, coattails swirling, jewels glittering from every angle.

Freodore moves along the perimeter at first. Every few steps, someone peels off from their party to intercept him.

“You simply must tell me—who does your tailoring?”

“Would you allow me the next dance?”

“Are you spoken for?”

“Can I be?”

He answers little. He nods sometimes, gives a half-smile when needed, sips once from a flute of something he doesn’t like and doesn’t care to identify. The compliments feel like darts thrown too lightly to land on anywhere meaningful. The small talk smears together. Someone grabs his wrist, which he twists himself smoothly out of, feigning a polite cough.

Still no sign of the prince.

He circles the ballroom twice, once clockwise and again counter. Nothing. Too many people. Too many mirrors.

He catches a glimpse of himself in one—his red coat, the shape of his hair, his brows slightly drawn, the pink of his lips more prominent after Seible had taken the time to dab something that didn’t really change its color, just enhanced it, right before he stepped into the carriage. He really doesn’t look out of place here, but he’s also acutely aware that he’s not getting anywhere either.

So when the music swells again, when the crowd thickens around the orchestra’s tier and the dance floor fills up once more, he takes the opportunity to slip through the far doors to the garden.

The air outside is cleaner, fragrant from the flowers, but not cloying like all the perfume he left behind with the people inside. He sees this season’s blooms edge the flagstones, hedges groomed into narrow mazes. The moon cutting silver along the tops of arbor walls. There’s laughter in the distance, behind him, but blessedly doesn’t reach him out here.

Freodore moves along a path until he finds it: an alcove half-swallowed by trailing vines, climbing hydrangeas, a bit by time. There are two sections of small benches built into it and a table in between them, all stone. He steps in, exhaling once, letting the weight of the coat settle, and just as he means to sit—

He hears the rustle of fabric.

Freodore goes still. His hand immediately goes to the side of his coat where he’d kept his dagger.

His eyes drag towards the seat on the other side of the alcove.

Freodore blinks.

Kaelix Debonair blinks back.

He’s taller than he expected, even when seated. His white hair’s swept back from his face loosely, like he’d just ran his hand through it, one side is tucked behind his ear. The moonlight makes his skin look like it’s been borrowed from a marble sculpture. The collar of his shirt is slightly open, silk creased at his throat, his jacket for the evening, ornate and heavy-looking is discarded over the side of the bench. His eyes are are a startlingly shade of blue-green, like sea glass almost.

Freodore had caught him lounging back on the bench with one knee pulled up, a lacquered chocolate box open in his lap. One bare hand was delicately mid-lift, about to get a truffle into his mouth.

Freodore’s eyes catch on that hand, too. Left glove off, bare from the wrist down, pale and smooth too under the light of the moon. Freodore does not know why this detail sticks like a burr behind his ribs. It’s not something he usually cares much for, but the sight makes his clench slightly.

The prince coughing makes time start turning again.

“My apologies,” Freodore straightens, voice clipped. “I… didn’t realize this spot was taken. I should—”

“You don’t have to go,” Kaelix says quickly, words easy, if a little rushed. He shifts and sets the box aside, brushing chocolate dust from his fingertips—not a speck on his clothes, somehow. “I wouldn’t have stayed either, if I thought someone was already here. But I don’t mind company. Please, sit.”

Freodore hesitates. Kaelix tilts his head.

“Unless you’ve been running from someone through the maze,” the prince adds, “and I’ve just ruined your game of hide and seek for you.”

Freodore doesn’t respond at once. The answer is not quite yes, but also no, and in any case, the space at the edge of the bench looks like it had been waiting for him. He nods once and steps forward despite his misgivings, movements measured.

He sits.

Kaelix smiles.

“I had three more appearances in there,” Kaelix says after a moment, gesturing to the grand ballroom just beyond the gardens. Freodore notices he hasn’t really bothered to explain himself. Maybe he figured Kaelix knew he knew. “But if one more person asked about my prospects and what I thought about the crowd tonight in that room, I might’ve had to bite them. Not in a cute, fun way too.” He nudges the box of chocolates towards Freodore. “Want one?”

Freodore glances down at the offered box. Most of the center row is gone. A few still gleam with brushed gold. He does not answer.

Kaelix’s glove still rests on the stone bench’s rest behind him. He hasn’t reached for it. The moonlight continues to cast soft lines along his handsome profile—his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the crease at his brow where he’s watching for a response.

Freodore stares.

This is the prince. The target. His target.

And he’s sitting ten inches from him, offering him sweets with one un-gloved hand.

Freodore’s mouth feels dry and his pulse ticks faster. The plan—right, there was a plan. He had a timing in mind depending on when he’d find the prince in that ballroom, escape routes, cover stories, but none of it had accounted for… well, this.

Kaelix raises his brows. “Is that a no, then?”

Freodore forces himself to blink. His voice, when it comes, is quiet, but at least level. “I don’t like sweets.”

“Tragic,” Kaelix sighs, and takes another one for himself.

His teeth sink through the shell, making only the slightest sound as he bites into it.

He chews once, then tilts his head. “Oh. Here—this one isn’t sweet.”

Before Freodore can make sense of that, Kaelix turns slightly and presses the other half directly into his mouth.

Freodore goes rigid. His lips had been just slightly parted, breath caught mid-thought. The chocolate meets his tongue without resistance.

Kaelix beams.

Freodore doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stab him in the throat, although maybe he should have.

Instead, he chews.

It really isn’t sweet, just like Kaelix said.

The chocolate is dark and dry, a bit bitter in the corners of his mouth—it’s mild, creamy, not at all sickeningly sweet. He licks his lips and feels Kaelix’s gaze follow the motion.

Kaelix doesn’t comment. He just leans slightly closer, nudging the box forward again with a hopeful tilt of his wrist.

“Another?” he asks, too casual for it to be completely innocent.

“No,” Freodore says, making the decision out of survival instinct, and then, he remembers who he’s sitting in front of, “no, thank you.”

Kaelix hums and retracts the box.

The silence hangs briefly between them, lasting long enough for Freodore to register the weight of it. The kind of quiet that’s used to measure someone.

“So,” Kaelix says, after a moment. “What house are you with?”

Freodore doesn’t answer immediately. He leans back against the bench and exhales. “You’re the fifth person to ask that tonight.

Kaelix makes a face like he expected worse.

“Better than the third person to ask about my hair though,” Freodore adds, trying to deflect from saying too much about where he’s from and who he is by filling their conversation in with useless details. “One of them tried to touch it.”

“Oohh, scandalous.”

Freodore glances sidelong at him. “It’s exhausting.”

That, apparently, is funny. Kaelix grins. “You say that like you’re not one of them.”

“I’m not,” Freodore huffs.

Kaelix’s grin doesn’t fade. “I know what you mean,” he tells him, sympathetic almost.

Freodore doesn’t respond. He watches the trailing vines, the summer blooms stir in the wind.

Kaelix rests a hand on his edge of the bench, thoughtful. “You’re aware of why this ball is being held in the first place, right?”

Freodore pauses. Seible hadn’t mentioned it—Freodore had assumed it was another one of those vanity events, something nobles did when they had too much coin and too few tires to put out. But apparently, it had a purpose. He doesn’t answer.

Kaelix turns slightly and rests his arm along the back of the bench now. “It’s for me,” he says. “To find a suitable partner, I suppose.”

Freodore blinks. “Ah. I see. And… did you?”

The wind moves through the arbor again, brushing the vines and rustling the leaves overhead. The moonlight cuts along the curve of Kaelix’s jaw, streaks white across Freodore’s sleeve. Kaelix’s hair lifts slightly in the breeze.

Kaelix looks at him, eyes bright. “I think yes,” he says. “I have.”

Freodore really doesn’t want to ask. His mouth is dry, his jaw set. The prince’s eyes haven’t left his face. The question is forming, rising up from his throat like a mistake anyway. But just as he means to ask, the prince moves first.

Without any ceremony, no warning at all, Kaelix reaches out and takes Freodore’s hands into his own.

Freodore startles, tensing, but Kaelix’s grip is gentle. His thumbs brush lightly against the backs of Freodore’s knuckles. There’s no force in it. He could pull away right now, but he doesn’t.

He remembers, too, it might look like slight, so he doesn’t. For all Freodore has ever done—he’s never disrespected the crown in open daylight before.

Kaelix says, voice even and absurdly soft. “If I may be so forward, I’d like to ask for your hand in marriage.”

Freodore balks. He accidentally holds onto the prince’s hands tighter.

“…Me?” He asks, incredulous. “Why?”

Kaelix grins. His answer sounds like something he’s been ready for a long while, not as if they’d just met tonight. “Because you’re not like anyone else back in that room.”

But Freodore sees more to that. He sees the glint in his eyes, just under the surface. Not the usual bright charm or soft princely grace—it’s something sly, almost sharp. Maybe mischievous.

Freodore feels himself straighten under that gaze. It’s a look he didn’t think the guileless prince had ever worn, not even in rumors, and now it’s here, aimed at him.

His blood chills.

He stammers something half-formed, trying to step back—but Kaelix’s grip is more firm now. He kneels down in front of Freodore, still holding onto his hands, smiling.

“I know you want something from me,” Kaelix says, the words not matching how the scene and its backdrop look so tender from afar. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Freodore doesn’t speak, his pulse audible in his ears.

Kaelix tilts his head up slightly. His expression, more knowing.

“You’re after something,” Kaelix says. “I don’t know what yet, but I’d like to find out.”

Freodore swallows. Hard. His mouth feels wrong. What does he know? How much?

Kaelix leans forward, almost resting his chin against Freodore’s knuckles. “So. Stay with me. Just until you’re ready to show me what it is you want from me. And in return, you’ll act as my betrothed.”

There are a lot of things at the tip of Freodore’s tongue, starting with: do you even know who I am? And ending with something close to do I actually have to marry you?

But Kaelix doesn’t seem to anticipate much more from him—just his yes or no. He lets the silence stretch a little longer, waiting.

Freodore tries to slow his breathing, every trick about calm in a social setting doing no favors for him right now. His heartbeat hammers steadily against his chest in betrayal.

He’ll never get this close again, he thinks. The opportunity, his access to the crown will be gone after tonight and won’t come back.

The bounty promised to him and Seible was enough for all their plans. Leave the kingdom and find a place where nobody’s going to come knocking at their doors looking for either of them to get blood on their hands, enough to make a decent, quiet living elsewhere. Maybe Seible can open a real inn, or Freodore could run the tavern within it.

Freodore swallows. He can’t let this moment pass.

His voice comes out softer than intended when he tells him, “Yes, sure. I’ll do it.”

Kaelix’s smile spreads. “Good.”

He stands, brushing off his knees with one hand, the other he keeps curled easy around Freodore’s wrist like he might run away otherwise and change his mind.

Once Freodore acquiesces, Kaelix moves like he’s rehearsed for the exact moment.

He gets Freodore’s name, then asks where he’s staying. Freodore tries to skirt around the finer details as best as he could. He doesn’t exactly come clean about not being nobility, but also, Kaelix doesn’t ask.

Still in the arbor, he stands and brushes invisible dust from his sleeves, hair shifting in the breeze. Then he gestures at the path ahead with the faintest flourish. “Let’s make arrangements, then. Where do you live, fiancé?”

Freodore hesitates. “I came with someone.”

Kaelix raises an eyebrow, something too amused behind it. “You brought a date to the ball and accepted the crown prince’s proposal in the same evening?”

“No—he’s…” Freodore swallows. “He’s my attendant.”

They walk the grounds back through the shadows of the garden wall, torchlight flickering against the flagstones. Kaelix steps lightly, occasionally glancing sideways at Freodore like he still expects him to start running. They loop past a small outbuilding, near where empty carriages are lined for retrieval.

They find Seible sitting on a stone step, elbows resting on his knees, spooning pudding from a silver cup with the quiet intensity of someone who’s already been through too much tonight.

He looks up.

Freezes.

Spoon still in his mouth.

Kaelix waves. “Evening.”

Seible yanks the spoon out and stands. “Why are you—what—”

“I’m escorting my betrothed home,” Kaelix says easily. “You wouldn’t happen to be his attendant?”

Seible blinks. “He said that?”

Kaelix smiles.

Seible laughs weakly. “Right. Sure. Yeah. I gotta return the carriage before sunrise anyway.”

Again, Kaelix doesn’t question it.

They walk toward the stables, the sounds of the palace fading behind them. The gravel crunches underfoot. Freodore, arms folded, glances sidelong. “Are you even allowed to do this?”

Kaelix hums. “The crown prince is allowed to do anything.” Then, with a grin over his shoulder, “provided no one finds out when he’s doing something he’s not supposed to.”

Freodore rolls his eyes. “Charming.”

Kaelix leads them down the outer path to where a stablehand is nodding off against a wall. Tucked in a clean stall is a tall roan mare with bright eyes and a long white mark down her face.

“This is Romani,” Kaelix says, untying her reins. “She can be a little temperamental.”

Freodore steps closer. Romani immediately leans forward and mouths at his hair, tugging gently with her lips.

“She takes after me,” Kaelix says.

Freodore glares at him.

The horse, at least, lets him mount without issue. He settles behind Kaelix, gloved hands hovering uncertainly.

“Hold on tight,” Kaelix says, voice light. “You have a look about you… like the wind might carry you off if I go too fast.”

Freodore says nothing, but his hands find Kaelix’s waist, begrudging.

The ride back to the inn is quiet except for the wind and the occasional clatter of hooves on cobblestone. Kaelix rides fast, the streets blurring past. The city opens beneath them in dark corners and shuttered lanes.

The inn is dark when they arrive. Kaelix dismounts first and holds the reins as Freodore slides down. He follows without asking, stepping inside like it’s expected of him.

Freodore unlocks the door and pushes it open. The common room is empty. No fire lit, no guests, no sign of life. Just the faint smell of old wood and the creak of floorboards.

Kaelix steps in behind him. He doesn’t ask why there’s no staff, no sign-in book, no sign it was ever a real inn. He just surveys the space with an approving nod.

“Cozy,” he says.

Freodore is halfway to the side cabinet, intent on producing something halfway respectable to offer the prince. An old deck of cards, maybe, or one of the unbroken wine glasses they keep wrapped in cloth, when the door to the back room slams open hard enough to rattle the wall.

Seible stands in the doorway, winded, eyes wide.

“I leave you for what, a little over an hour,” he says, pointing a finger at Freodore, “and you get engaged to the crown prince?!”

He freezes.

Kaelix, seated in the chair by the empty hearth, raises a brow, leaning back into his seat. “Still here, by the way,” he says.

Seible clears his throat, visibly trying to gather his bearings. “Oh. Uh. I thought you would've left by now.”

Kaelix smiles. “And leave my dear fiancé alone in an unfamiliar place? I would never.”

Freodore doesn’t respond. His face heats. He returns to the chair nearest Kaelix and lowers himself into it without a word.

Seible shuts the door, muttering something that sounds like a curse halfway into a laugh. He heads toward the shelf behind the counter and pulls a dusty bottle from the far end. He sets it down with a muted thump, followed by three mismatched glasses.

“It’s not top shelf,” he says, uncorking it, “but uh, I guess we should… celebrate?”

Kaelix leans forward to accept a glass. “We should, shouldn’t we?”

They toast, clumsily. Kaelix drinks with obvious enjoyment, and the talk turns, eventually, inevitably, to arrangements.

Freodore stays still through most of it, legs crossed, answering only when asked. Kaelix suggests guest accommodations in the east wing; Freodore suggests somewhere less visible. When it comes to Seible, though, Freodore straightens.

“He’s coming with me.”

Kaelix pauses, stopping just before he lifts the glass to his mouth again.

Freodore continues. “He stays. I won’t… move into the palace alone.”

There’s a beat. Kaelix’s head tilts, faint curiosity sharpening just slightly.

“This attendant of yours,” he says, tone light, “seems very important.”

But before either Freodore or Seible can say anything more, or try to explain away, Kaelix just takes another sip of his drink.

“Of course,” he says after a beat, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “We’ll have space arranged.”

“Thank you,” Is all Freodore says, the room quieting with his tone.

Kaelix finishes off the last of his drink.

“I should return before they start sending hounds after me. I’ll have a carriage and guards here by late morning,” he says, brushing his sleeves. “They’ll help you move what you need.”

He stands.

Seible lifts his glass in a lazy salute. “Pleasure meeting you, your princeliness.”

Kaelix bows, shallow but graceful. “Likewise.”

Then he turns to Freodore, stepping closer. Freodore rises out of habit or instinct, it’s unclear which. Kaelix doesn’t say anything.

He takes Freodore’s hand and presses a soft kiss to the back of it.

Freodore goes completely still.

Kaelix’s mouth curves into something just short of a smile. “I look forward to us getting to know each other better.”

Then he steps back, straightens his coat, and leaves out the back door.

The castle in the daytime looms overhead, both too large and too ornate in its vaulted ceilings, carved stone archways, and heavy banners inlaid with gold trimming. Every footstep Freodore makes is returned to him twice as loud. Sunlight pools in long strips across the floors, broken by high beams of the ceiling and the gleam of age-worn brass fixtures.

Kaelix walks ahead, gesturing here and there as they pass rooms with ancient names and long histories that he doesn’t bother explaining. “Don’t let your boot hit the third stair in that spiral—eats shoes,” he says, or, “That corridor leads to the old kitchens, which are mostly ghosts and pickled things now.”

Freodore listens in silence. Seible follows behind, hands behind his back, eyes flicking over everything like he’s already casing the place. Every few steps, he mutters under his breath.

“Place is a maze.”

“No one gets murdered in broad daylight here,” Kaelix says. “But it’s not for lack of effort.”

Freodore glances at him. Kaelix smiles like he’s joking.

They stop before a tall double door carved with coiling stag antlers and flowering vines—symbols of the old royal line, sanded down smooth with age. Kaelix pushes one side open.

“Your room,” he says.

The air inside is cool and faintly perfumed in lavender. The windows are arched, one standing open to let in the summer wind. A tapestry depicting some old battle hangs over the fireplace, and beside it, a neatly stacked wardrobe of garments in black, deep red, dark grey. There’s a desk too, with blank parchment and new ink. Someone has gone to the trouble of pretending Freodore might belong here

Freodore steps in. “You said Seible could stay with me…” he starts to say, noticing only the one bed inside the room.

Kaelix leans against the frame. “I said he could stay with you in the castle. It’s not standard practice for him to be in here with you.”

“I don’t care.”

Behind them, Seible coughs. Freodore knows he’s done scanning the corners of the ceiling, looking for structural faults or secret doors.

Kaelix straightens and walks further in. His fingers trail once along the edge of the desk before he turns back to face Freodore.

“This room’s just for your things,” he says, calm. “You’re not staying here.”

Freodore stiffens. “Then where am I sleeping?”

“With me.”

There’s a moment so quiet they could hear a pin drop. Seible, has thankfully chosen not to quip this time.

Kaelix watches his face carefully. “Look, if someone tries to come for you, I’d rather not have to run across two entire wings just to stop it. You’ll stay in my chambers.”

Freodore narrows his eyes. “To keep an eye on me.”

Kaelix huffs a quiet breath. “To keep you alive.”

He folds his arms, leans a hip against the side table, expression smoothing over. “You didn’t notice it. But half the courtiers last night were watching you. Not me. Not musicians. You.”

“I noticed,” Freodore, responds, indignant.

“Then you know,” Kaelix says. “There are people here who’ve waited years for a political match who have realized they’re not getting one. You show up with no title, no house name, and leave with a prince. Someone will want to fix that.”

Freodore looks to Seible. Seible braces himself against the backrest of a plush seat in the room, mouth pressed in a line. His fingers tap a slow rhythm against it. “Furi-chan, he’s right. I’ll manage in the attendant’s quarters.”

Freodore doesn’t reply. His fingers tighten slightly at his side, but he doesn’t move, stewing in his own thoughts about the arrangement. He’s not sure about how he feels with Seible out of his sight for too long, and it’s not so much the things he could get up to on his own, but more the wrong people who might come across him before Freodore can keep him safe.

Kaelix watches the exchange. The tension lingers a breath too long before he says, more subdued this time, “Alright, fine. I’ll arrange for a separate room. Not with the palace staff. It’ll be near.”

Seible raises a brow.

“You’ll be housed apart,” Kaelix explains, now looking directly at Freodore. “He’ll have his own private chambers. No one will question it. But you—” he nods toward Freodore—“will stay with me. That part isn’t negotiable.”

Freodore still doesn’t speak.

Kaelix doesn’t push, just waits.

Seible shifts his weight. “Come on,” he says, quieter now. “If you start making a fuss about my sleeping arrangements, I’m gonna start thinking you actually deeply enjoy having me around.”

Freodore glares at him, but it’s dulled. “Fine.”

Kaelix nods once, satisfied. “Good.”

Freodore doesn’t know what to expect.

He’s stood in mercenary group meetings under false names and waited in rafters for hours with a blade drawn close, but nothing quite prepares him for the quiet that comes with walking toward the prince’s chambers with no weapon drawn, no mask in place, and no solid plan beyond not embarrassing himself and look for windows to get the job done.

Kaelix had been swept off earlier by a cluster of stewards and a scroll long enough to trip over. “Matters of state,” he’d said, waving over his shoulder. So Freodore had dinner alone with Seible—well, as alone as you could be with Seible.

The meal had been passable. Root stew, some bread. Now, they walk together down one of the quieter corridors, torchlight pulling long shadows behind them.

Seible’s arm brushes his as they walk, and just as they near the grand doors flanked by two guards and a painted crest of the royal stag, he stops short and leans in.

“All right,” he says, dropping his voice like someone about to pass on contraband. “Listen. If this jester of a prince tries anything funny—”

Freodore raises an eyebrow. “He’s the crown prince.”

“Yes, and he’s got a face carved by gods with a generous sense of humor. Dangerous combo.” Seible lifts a finger. “You remember what to do if he tries something.”

Freodore’s expression softens faintly. The corners of his mouth twitch, something near a smile threatening to form.

Seible squints at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That face. You’re making a ‘maybe he’s not so bad’ face. Or a ‘Seible is saying something funny, ha-ha’ face.” Seible grabs his sleeve lightly. “Furi-chan, please. I am not worried about your ability to fend off a threat. You’ve killed a man with a curtain rod. I am worried that this threat has great teeth and excellent posture.”

Freodore exhales—something halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

Seible points at him again, stepping back. “Just. Don’t make it easy for him.”

Then, with the tragic air of a father watching his only son head off to get seduced by royalty, he turns and disappears back down the corridor.

The room is quiet. Wide and warm, too warm really—palatial heat clinging to heavy curtains and the woven canopy over the bed. Freodore stands in the center, fresh from dinner, unsure where to put himself.

Kaelix still hasn’t returned.

Several palace attendants arrive not long after with quiet steps and practiced smiles. They make vague, polite sounds about the late hour and draw him toward the adjoining bathing room with the insistence of people who are very used to being obeyed. He follows. Not because he wants help, but because it seems easier to get there first before they start unfastening his robe on his behalf.

Once inside the marble-clad chamber—gold fixtures, sunken tub, piles of towels woven thicker than anything he’s owned—he turns and meets the gaze of the nearest one with flat, unimpressed eyes.

“I’ll handle it alone.”

There’s a bit of shuffling. Some nodding. One of them mutters something about orders, but eventually, they all file out. Freodore locks the door behind them and lets out a breath.

The bath is hot, far too scented, but at least it’s quiet. He doesn’t linger in there for very long.

By the time he steps out again, a robe belted loosely around his waist and hair still damp at the edges, the main chamber is lit by a few standing lamps, low and golden. The doors to the hall are shut.

Kaelix is inside. Alone.

He’s standing at the writing desk, leaning with one hip braced against it, flipping through a bound journal. His sleeves are rolled, crown discarded on the table beside him. He looks relaxed, half-concentrated, the pages rustling softly under his hand.

Freodore freezes just beyond the threshold.

Kaelix looks up and grins. “Oh wow. I would've thought you were the type to want to save it for our wedding night.”

Freodore flushes immediately, jaw tightening.

“If you would be so kind as to turn around,” he grinds out, already moving toward the folding screen near the wardrobe. The attendants had left a set of sleeping clothes draped neatly over the top—soft fabric, unfamiliar cut, clearly not something he'd packed himself.

Kaelix chuckles behind him but obliges.

By the time Freodore steps out, the shirt loosely buttoned and sleeves pushed up to his elbows, Kaelix has already taken over the lounge. He pats the cushion next to him.

“Come sit.”

Freodore says nothing but joins him.

Kaelix reaches out and brushes a strand of damp hair behind his ear. “They gave you the mint soap. That means they like you.”

Freodore eyes the desk, where the letter opener sits glinting beside the open book. Close. Reachable.

His posture tilts slightly toward it.

Kaelix follows his glance. “Oh, that?” he says, lifting the journal. “It’s a storybook. Old collection of children’s tales from the coastal provinces. Pretty illustrations. I can read it to you sometime.”

Freodore’s face goes flat. “I can read.”

Kaelix beams. “Finally. That’s one real thing I’ve learned about you. Also, that means we can take turns.”

Freodore doesn’t answer. He folds his arms and leans back, eyes on the ceiling. Kaelix returns to reading, now aloud, something about a prince made of moonlight and a fox that couldn’t lie.

Later, when the lights are dimmed and the bed is turned down and they both lie beneath the canopy, Kaelix on his back, one arm behind his head, breathing slow, Freodore stares at the ceiling.

He thinks, quietly about whether it wouldn’t be too soon to try smothering him with a pillow.

But in the end, he ends up falling asleep.

Morning comes fast and hard.

Freodore wakes to someone knocking on the door, not loudly—but with the precision of someone used to waking up nobility who don't appreciate being touched. Kaelix, still face-down in the pillows, waves a hand lazily and mutters something about letting him sleep. But Freodore gets up.

He’s given a coat. Not the formal red from the ball, not casual either. This one’s cut high at the collar, double-breasted, black with sharp gold embroidery along the sleeves. It’s soft and tailored to fit him somehow. Ridiculously overbuilt for a day of walking through the palace, but clearly meant to suit his new station.

What follows is a blur. A palace steward walks him through a full schedule without asking if he wants one: etiquette drills, posture correction, appropriate expressions for appropriate occasions. How to walk half a step behind Kaelix but never slower. How to receive gifts from foreign dignitaries. How to nod to someone you’re secretly insulting. How to smile with your mouth and not your eyes.

Freodore does not smile well. This is noticed.

By late morning, he’s halfway through a lesson on appropriate silence when addressing the inner council when the instructor gently suggests he try not looking like he’s about to gut someone mid-bow.

It’s not personal. His face just… settles that way. Occupational hazard.

He’s too busy to slip away to find Seible.

By the afternoon, he’s summoned to one of the small salons off the east courtyard. The staff call it “taking tea,” but it’s another lesson. Everything is staged. Porcelain laid out, three kinds of finger food, a tiny cake he’s warned not to actually eat, and Kaelix waiting behind the table with a napkin folded over one knee and an unreadable expression.

Freodore remembers a little of this—Seible had made him practice once, years ago, in a half-burned inn with a chipped cup and an imaginary audience.

It helps a bit.

Still, by the time Freodore reaches for the wrong spoon or says something too concise to be polite, Kaelix dismisses the staff with a wave.

They file out. One shuts the door softly behind her.

“You’d think they were watching a play,” Kaelix says, sipping his tea. “Some of them think I’m trying to train a wolf to wear silk.”

Freodore picks up his cup but doesn’t drink. “You might be close.”

Kaelix doesn’t respond to that, but smiles, tilting his head slightly, opting to ask him something else. “Would you like to join me for dinner later?”

Freodore glances at him. “As if you don’t have complete control over my day-to-day here.”

Kaelix grins. “You’re not wrong. But hey, you have the option of declining. You could always eat in the west garden with Seible. In peace, too.”

Freodore sets his cup down. His voice softens, suddenly aware about his misplaced hostility towards the prince. “I’ll come. We’ll join you.”

Kaelix’s smile curves wider. “Good. I look forward to it.” He leans back in his seat and adds, “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

Freodore barely has time to change out of his tea-drinking clothes before he's ushered toward the private dining wing. He finds Seible waiting in one of the lower halls, lounging against a wall with a glass of something sharp-smelling already in hand.

“Find anything?” Freodore asks, quietly.

Seible tips his head back with a sigh. “Nothing. Unless you count some noble’s third cousin slipping on a stair as palace intrigue.”

Freodore lifts a brow.

“I also spent an hour talking about timber imports with three tradesmen who assumed I was some kind of expert,” Seible mutters. “How Kaelix knew I’d fake my way through that, I have no idea. But he was working me like a draft horse.” He takes another sip, then offers Freodore a look. “You?”

“Tea. Threat assessment dressed up as etiquette,” Freodore says. “Dinner with the prince. You’re coming.”

“Obviously.” Seible straightens his collar and offers a wry smile. “Let’s go charm a royal.”

The dining chamber is smaller than the banquet halls—stone walls, carved reliefs, and a long polished table set for four. Candlelight flickers gently in cut-crystal holders. Kaelix is already there, seated at the head, laughing softly at something said by the man at his right.

The man stands as they enter.

“Freo,” Kaelix says, rising as well. “Seible. This is Zeal—my friend and trusted advisor. He holds the title of Duke.”

Zeal inclines his head. “A pleasure.”

Seible halts.

It’s not much, maybe a half-second pause, the faintest hitch in his breath, but Freodore feels it.

He nearly asks. But instead, he gently tugs Seible forward and takes the seat opposite Zeal, left-hand side of the prince. Seible follows suit, dropping into the chair beside him with a smoothness that almost masks the way his jaw tightens.

Zeal watches them both with the easy stillness of someone used to rooms falling quiet when he enters them. His dark hair is tied back loosely, and his eyes rest on Seible for a moment too long.

They begin to eat.

The meal is rich, well-prepared, and wasted entirely on Freodore, who spends the first two courses watching Seible try to outpace Zeal’s casual, courteous probing.

“Have you traveled much, Seible?” Zeal asks, politely.

“A bit,” Seible says. “You know, here and there.”

“Ports, mostly, or inland routes?”

“Depends on the job,” Seible says, picking up his glass. “I’m an attendant, after all. Got to follow where my lord goes.”

Zeal nods. “Of course. Ever done business in the Eastern markets? Near the coast?”

“A little.” Seible sets down his fork too carefully. “Why?”

Zeal smiles, not unkind. “Just curious.”

Kaelix leans slightly toward Freodore, lowering his voice just enough to avoid carrying. “Don’t worry. That’s just how Zeal gets to know people.”

Freodore keeps his eyes on Seible, who hasn’t yet met his gaze. There’s something there. Familiar tension. Something unsaid.

Freodore turns back to his plate. His hand remains near his knife, just in case.

Dinner passes without much incident. It’s mostly a smooth, slow flow of food and conversation dressed in courtly polish. Zeal never raises his voice, but never loses his place. Seible keeps pace with increasing strain, responding with vague charm and sidelong smirks, but Freodore can tell he’s working for it.

Freodore finishes the last course with barely a taste, too aware of the flickers of tension beside him, too aware of Zeal’s quiet study.

He rises automatically when Kaelix does.

The prince brushes his hands on a napkin and turns toward the door. “That’s enough diplomacy for tonight,” he says cheerfully. “Come on, Freo. We have another long day tomorrow.”

Freodore casts a last look at Seible, who lifts his glass in a tired, if convincing, salute.

Kaelix claps Zeal on the shoulder with a parting goodnight and guides Freodore out before he can voice even a small protest. The hallway outside is too quiet, lit by tall candelabras and the distant click of patrolling boots.

The second night in Kaelix’s chambers is worse than the first.

Kaelix jokes, too comfortably, about sharing a bath. Freodore refuses, voice clipped. Kaelix concedes with a wink and instead stations himself on the bed while Freodore dries off and dresses. Then insists on brushing his hair, combing through with exaggerated care like he’s handling glass. Freodore endures it, barely moving.

“You’ve got good hair,” Kaelix murmurs, half-lost in thought. “Like you were drawn with too much effort.”

Freodore glares at the wall.

Kaelix hands him the storybook and curls under the covers, pointing to a chapter like a child requesting a favorite bedtime tale. “Your turn.”

Freodore reads in a flat voice, while his mind parses the room for new angles.

He thinks about the gold paperweight by the window, the marble washbasin, the stiletto shape of the pen Kaelix had been using earlier. None are ideal. Most would take too long. All would leave him exposed.

He imagines the aftermath. The weight of every witness who saw them together, the guards Kaelix’s word commands. He could end the job. Right here, but it would be loud, too bloody and too obvious.

So, he does nothing, and several nights go on like this.

They eventually settle into a rhythm of absurd closeness—Kaelix talking idly about court, stories from his childhood, little jabs at other nobles that sound too informed to be jokes. He touches Freodore’s wrist when handing him things. Trails fingers along the curve of his ear when pushing hair aside. None of it lingers long, but none of it feels accidental.

At some point, Freodore finds himself reading with Kaelix’s head pillowed on his lap, the prince already half-asleep by the time he turns the page. Other times, Kaelix reads, voice soft, and Freodore leans into the crook of his shoulder, eyes closed, listening.

He doesn’t remember when that changed and supposes it doesn’t matter.

The rapport would be useful, Freodore thinks. He’ll find Kaelix’s blind spots easier this way. Definitely.

It starts when Kaelix finds out Freodore can’t dance.

The discovery happens in passing, a throwaway line during breakfast. Freodore, without thinking much, mutters something about dodging lessons as a child, that it had never been required of him. He doesn’t mean to say it aloud.

Kaelix, of course, latches onto it instantly. By the time the plates are cleared, Freodore’s entire schedule for the day has been upended. The talk of trade and noble protocol is postponed. A practice hall is requisitioned. Servants set up a space and then quietly excuse themselves before Kaelix can start assigning them roles.

Freodore stands in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by tall windows and pale sunlight, not quite glaring.

“You’re serious,” he says.

Kaelix is already removing his coat, laying it neatly across the side bench. “Obviously. You’re marrying into royalty. You’re going to have to waltz at least twice in public.”

Freodore mutters something Kaelix pretends not to hear.

There’s no music. Kaelix hums something steady, a soft pattern of notes, as he steps close and offers his hand. Freodore takes it reluctantly, placing the other on the prince’s shoulder.

They go once around the room. Kaelix guides them easily. Freodore, stiff at first, follows without stumbling, eyes fixed on the prince’s collarbone like the floor might vanish if he looks away.

When they come to a halt, Kaelix laughs lightly.

“It’s a bit stiff, but serviceable.”

Freodore, flushed faintly from the movement and the offhanded remark about his dancing skills (or lack thereof), says, “Seible taught me what he could. There wasn’t much space to practice.”

Kaelix tilts his head. “I suppose I should thank him, then, that my fiancé isn’t entirely hopeless on his feet.”

He doesn’t give Freodore time to respond before he changes their position, shifting into something less familiar. His steps quicken, hands adjusting their grip.

“We’ll try something a little more interesting.”

Freodore starts to speak, but Kaelix moves again. They go for a few more turns around a short distance, and then he dips Freodore suddenly without warning, one palm firm against his back, the other supporting his hand, their balance shifted low and smooth.

“Kaelix!” Freodore blurts, the name catching high in his throat.

The sound startles him more than the motion itself. His hands clutch at Kaelix’s coat, fingers fisting in the rich fabric. His chest is flush against the prince’s. Their faces are close—close enough to see the flicker of something deeper, searching in Kaelix’s eyes, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

Kaelix looks right at him.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are very blue and fixed on Freodore’s face. Freodore feels the warmth of him, the sharp rise and fall of breath between them. His own eyes are wide. He doesn’t pull away.

Kaelix doesn’t move, either.

When he speaks, his voice is quieter. “We may have to rethink dancing at the wedding.”

Freodore, inwardly, thinks they might need to rethink the wedding entirely. He doesn’t say it.

Kaelix lifts him back up slowly. The movement is steady and careful. Freodore lands on his feet again, though he doesn’t quite let go.

They’re standing close, held together by habit or inertia. Breath brushing breath. Neither of them moves.

After a beat, Kaelix tilts his head slightly. “I don’t suppose Seible taught you that too?”

Freodore blinks. “Taught me what?”

Kaelix just shakes his head and smiles, stepping back without explaining.

He resumes humming, slower this time, and pulls Freodore into another turn. The sun has shifted. Dust hangs in the air like fine thread. Freodore’s chest tightens with each pass. They circle once. Twice. Again.

By the fourth time, Freodore’s breath catches unevenly and he leans back, shaking his head slightly. “Enough, please. I don’t think I can take another turn without the threat of hurling.”

Kaelix’s hand lingers at his back as he slows them into a halt, rubbing soothing circles, murmuring something equal parts soothing, fond, but also amused. Their shadows stretch together across the polished floor.

The following morning, they’re both tired, both from hours of aimless dancing, and then falling back into court and Kaelix needing to catch up with his work. Light comes in through the high windows pale and unfocused, the soft gray of early morning settling into the room, adding to its stillness. Freodore stirs against something warm, something breathing.

He’s not buried in blankets, not sunk into pillows.

He’s in Kaelix’s arms.

The prince sleeps soundly, mouth slightly parted, one arm slung around Freodore’s waist, the other curled beneath him. Their legs are tangled. Kaelix’s breath ghosts across his neck, slow and steady. Freodore stays still for a long moment, weighing the comfort against the irrational sense that someone had crept into his defenses while he wasn’t looking.

Then, a knock at the chamber door.

Freodore untangles himself carefully and slips out of bed with quiet, practiced steps. He doesn’t bother with a robe. His sleep shirt is loose, hair still mussed from the pillow. He opens the door a fraction, just enough to look out.

A young attendant nearly jumps.

“Uhm—” they stammer, eyes darting briefly over Freodore’s sleep-rumpled state. “Apologies. There’s someone requesting the prince’s thoughts on the guest list for the midmonth ball and—”

“He’s resting,” Freodore says gently. “It can wait.”

The attendant swallows. “Yes. Of course.”

They bow. Freodore closes the door.

He pads back across the room, bare feet silent on the polished floor. The sheets rustle as he slides back in.

Kaelix, still half-asleep, shifts toward the warmth instinctively, arms curling around him again. His face finds the curve of Freodore’s shoulder, breath warm against skin. He murmurs something unintelligible.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he mumbles, words muffled.

“Do what?” Freodore asks.

“Open the door to just anyone.” Kaelix shifts closer. “Looking like that.”

Freodore blinks at the ceiling.

Kaelix yawns, then noses into his shoulder like a cat seeking warmth. His voice is quieter now. “I’ll let it pass because you didn’t know. But your husband’s the jealous type.”

Freodore snorts. “Not my husband.”

“Not yet,” Kaelix murmurs, and kisses the side of his temple with the clumsy accuracy of someone barely conscious.

Then he goes still again, breath evening out, already asleep.

Freodore lies still beneath the weight of Kaelix’s arm, the soft press of the prince’s breath against his temple.

He considers the pillow smothering again, briefly. It’s right there. Easy to reach and it’ll only take one firm push, just long enough.

Or the ropes—tied neatly above them, holding the canopy drapes. Something that could be done without a mark if he timed it right.

He stares at the pale fabric overhead. His hand twitches, then relaxes.

The warmth is distracting.

Kaelix exhales softly in his sleep, nuzzling further in, leg curling against Freodore’s.

Freodore sighs. Deep and tired, like something pulling loose from inside his chest.

The light shifts against the wall. The blankets are heavy but not unpleasant. He closes his eyes, breath slowing to match the rhythm beside him, and lets the thoughts fade, giving way to confusion he also doesn’t want to think too deeply about yet.

Sleep takes him again, steady and warm.

The castle feels quieter these days.

Not in the way of empty halls or hushed voices, but in the creeping sense that Freodore has somehow slipped into the role of a shadow. Something seen but separate, present in fine rooms and finer clothes, but never quite grounded.

The ball is tomorrow. It’s not the wedding yet, but the celebration of it, the court’s way of stretching the ceremony into as many events and dress fittings as possible. Freodore had lost count of how many times he’d been measured and remeasured, how many fabrics he’d been made to touch and approve. The whole palace pulsed with preparations. A dozen people reminded him every hour that he was at the center of it.

He turns another page of the book in his lap. One of Kaelix’s favorites. A thin volume with delicate illustrations and winding sentences that twist halfway through with little moral barbs hidden in the prose. Tonight’s story is about a princess in a gilded tower, surrounded by everything except what she actually wants.

Freodore shuts the book and exhales slowly.

He hates how easy it feels like he's being mirrored in that metaphor.

He’s barely seen Seible these past days, except in passing—a flash of brown hair disappearing into a corridor, the brush of a hand on his arm as they cross paths outside the stables. Each time, Seible had smiled and said he was fine.

This time, working closely Zeal and still under the instruction of the prince, though, for reasons Seible refused to elaborate on. Every time Freodore asked, Seible would roll his eyes, offer something like, "It’s fine, don’t look at me like that, he hasn’t turned me into a toad yet," and would then vanish again.

Freodore wasn’t the type to press.

But the isolation was beginning to seep into his skin.

He flips the book open again, but doesn’t read. Just stares at the illustration. The princess, leaning from a high balcony, hands grasping the golden railing. The window too narrow to climb out.

Kaelix’s terms come back to him. Stay, and act the part. Keep close, until the prince figures out what it is Freodore wants or Freodore tells him first.

But he still hasn’t told him, and he’s starting to doubt the prince has an inkling. That or it was just too easy to get lost in the 500 other things that seemed to demand his attention everyday.

Freodore, for his part, still hasn’t figured it out himself either.

It had seemed to deceptively simple at first. A card, a name, a price. Nothing more, nothing less. Freodore had taken it without question, as he’s always done. It was a big job, but it was one that would net them both enough to disappear. Far out of the kingdom, away from names still chasing them or beating down at their doors unexpectedly.

Perhaps, Freodore thinks, they’d gotten close enough for him to come clean about the card.

Would the prince believe him? Even if he didn’t know who the noble was? What if they did find the person who sent it, but they spilled the beans about everything else anyway? Paint him and Seible as the criminals the kingdom believed them to be years ago.

Would Kaelix keep him then?

And why, exactly, was that question lodged in Freodore’s chest like a needle in the first place?

He presses his fingers to his temple. His head was starting to hurt.

In the adjacent room, fire crackles. Voices rise faintly down the hall—laughter, distant and bright as the castle bustles as it does as usual.

Freodore sits in silence, caught between the pages of a story he’s no longer sure he wants to finish.

For the ball tonight, his coat is deep wine red again, but finer than the last. Velvet lined in soft gold thread, it fits him exactly, cinched at the waist, shoulders clean and sharp, the sleeves flaring just slightly at the wrist. His shirt beneath is a pale shade, almost ivory, with a delicate pin tucked into the high collar. His gloves are a shade darker than his coat. His hair has been pinned up for the occasion, not entirely swept back, but arranged in soft waves that crown his head before trailing low against the nape of his neck.

He feels dressed for something sacred.

In the chamber before the grand hall, Freodore waits. The room smells faintly of wax and crushed petals. The music behind the doors is quiet still, only murmuring through the thick walls. When Kaelix enters, it’s without fanfare.

He sees Freodore and draws in a breath.

It’s not loud but it’s enough of a pause in his step, a brief stillness in the air. He closes the distance slowly, looking up at Freodore like he’s not quite convinced he’s real.

Freodore’s eyes flick to him once. “Where’s Seible?”

Kaelix’s gaze lingers a moment longer before he answers. “Working. Still with Zeal. Something about reorganizing trade proposals.”

Freodore lifts a brow. “At this point I would think he was your attendant, not mine.”

Kaelix smiles, brushing something invisible from his sleeve. “He didn’t seem to mind.”

Freodore, once again, doesn’t press.

After a brief ceremony, the announcements and formalities, Kaelix does his part. One circuit through the throng of nobles, their names, their jewelry, their questions. Freodore remains at his side through most of it, nodding at the right times, keeping his expressions neutral. He says little. His posture speaks for him. Kaelix, to his credit, lets him be.

Soon enough, the prince dances. First with a cousin, then with a minor lady of one of the summer houses, then another, then another. Freodore watches from the edge of the floor, glass untouched in his hand.

He wonders if Kaelix had decided their practice wasn’t worth repeating. That his steps were too mechanical, his presence too stiff. He doesn’t blame him.

Laughter fills the hall like sugar dust, clinging, cloying.

Freodore stares at the butter knife on the table to his side, blunt and glinting. It would never be enough. He sighs, places the glass down, and slips from the room.

He doesn’t realize he’s being followed. Not until he’s already passed the second gate in the garden, already turned the corner of the hedge wall. He doesn’t hear footsteps when he should have, and realizes with a start that he might actually be getting rusty.

He only notices when a voice, close behind, breaks the quiet.

“You are so fast.”

Freodore turns, startled. Kaelix is catching his breath, coat half-off his shoulders.

“I didn’t know I was being followed,” Freodore says.

“You might as well have been,” Kaelix replies, straightening. “The way you vanished so quickly like that.”

Freodore glances away. His own coat is already draped over the bench in the arbor ahead, abandoned when he passed here earlier, hoping the air might strip the press of the ballroom from his skin.

Kaelix looks at it, then back to him.

“I didn’t think you’d run off,” he says.

“I didn’t,” Freodore replies, evenly. “I walked. Briskly.”

“Sure,” Kaelix says again, the word curling with disbelief. He steps forward and glances once toward the dark sky above them. The stars are faint against the light haze of the palace behind. The sound of the quartet is still audible, a polite waltz drifting through the garden walls, softened by ivy and stone.

“I’d like to dance with you,” he says. “No escape route for you this time though.”

Freodore doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales slowly and offers his hand.

Kaelix takes it with a smile that doesn’t press the advantage.

They fall into rhythm easily now, the movements better remembered than rehearsed. Kaelix begins to hum softly again, not the same melody from before. Something slower, the rhythm less defined. Freodore doesn't ask what it is.

“You want to know why I didn’t ask you to dance earlier?” Kaelix says, voice low.

“No,” Freodore says at first, glancing up, and then, “because I’m a terrible dancer?”

“Because I was being greedy.”

Kaelix shifts closer, his hand steady at Freodore’s back. “I didn’t want anyone else to see it. The way you looked last time. All flushed and trying not to look at me. It was—” He smiles. “So adorable.”

Freodore stiffens, face scrunching in distate. “Don’t call me that.”

Kaelix’s grin deepens. “There it is.”

Their steps falter slightly, the path underneath them uneven, but Kaelix adjusts their hold. He lifts Freodore’s arms gently and sets them around his neck. His own hands slide to Freodore’s waist. They sway now, no real steps, just the slow pull of movement in sync.

It’s quiet for a while.

Then Freodore’s fingers rise to Kaelix’s hair, brushing it back behind his ear gently. His eyes are fixed on Kaelix’s collar, and then he looks up.

He leans in.

Kaelix blinks.

Freodore kisses him.

It’s light, almost cautious, the press of his lips soft and unsure, the contact brief enough to end if it needs to. But it doesn’t end. Kaelix doesn’t move at first, but he doesn’t draw back either. The stillness only lasts a second.

Then his hand tightens slightly at Freodore’s waist. His mouth finds Freodore’s again, surer this time, drawing him closer with a low exhale that barely escapes his throat. The second kiss is fuller, not urgent but completely unguarded, like he’s startled by how much he wants it now that it’s here.

Freodore doesn’t pull away.

Kaelix leans into it, warmth blooming where their chests meet. There’s no one watching. The stars blink out behind the clouds overhead. The music swells again faintly in the background, but here in the arbor, it’s all quiet. All still.

Kaelix’s eyes are closed. Freodore’s hand stays curled behind his neck.

When they part for breath, still swaying slightly in the quiet of the arbor, Kaelix rests his forehead against Freodore’s.

“A shame we’re not sleeping in the same room tonight,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “Palace customs and all.”

Freodore breathes evenly, even as his heart scrapes behind his ribs. “Right. Customs.”

Two days of celebration. The ball before the wedding, the wedding, the ball in the evening after the wedding. He’s already tuckered out thinking about it, but even though he’s partly grateful he gets a reprieve from trying to figure out how to sleep next to the prince tonight, he’s also gotten so used to, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to fall asleep on his own.

They walk back through the garden in near silence, their hands brushing once, then not again. Attendants are waiting discreetly near the hall, pretending not to have noticed how long they were gone. The two are escorted to their separate ends of the wing. Kaelix kisses the back of his hand before they part, but once he starts down the hall, he doesn’t look back.

Hours later, when the castle has folded into nighttime quiet, a knock comes. It’ not at the door, but at the large windows of his chambers.

Freodore rises from the bed in silence, pulling the drapes aside with careful fingers. Kaelix is standing there on the outer ledge, hair slightly tousled, wearing nothing but soft trousers and an untied robe that hangs loose across his shoulders. He smiles when he sees Freodore’s expression.

“You’re supposed to be in your own room,” Freodore says, flat.

Kaelix gestures for the window to be opened. “Come on,” He says, voice a little muffled. “Do you want me to fall and break something?”

Freodore unlatches it and steps back, letting him in.

Kaelix climbs through with the ease of someone who’s done it before. His robe shifts with the movement. He straightens and gives Freodore a look, eyes bright with something half-mischievous, half-serious.

“Now, what did I tell you about opening the doors to strange men?”

“That was a window.” Freodore retorts, and then stares at him for a moment, before sighing. “Also, shoving you down that ledge can still be arranged.”

Kaelix just laughs, helping him shut the latch properly back in place.

It’s not long before they’re hand in hand, Kaelix leading him light-footed through the halls, down a narrow side passage, and into a room tucked into the southern edge of the residential wing. The door creaks softly as it closes behind them.

Kaelix doesn’t say more than this was his childhood bedroom.

It’s still large, by anyone else’s standard. High windows, a thick old rug, bookshelves and carved trunks. The bed takes up the far wall, canopied in dark cloth with gold trim. It’s clear someone still made use of the writing desk in here, and there were more volumes of those books Kaelix liked filling the shelves of one of the walls. Freodore has seen inside his study, and though very stately, did not look quite as lived-in as this.

Kaelix turns the lock behind them. The lock clicks.

And then he’s on him.

Their mouths meet hard, hands gripping at shoulders and fabric. Freodore pushes back once, but Kaelix only grabs him more tightly. Their coats come off in uneven jerks, Kaelix’s robe falling to the floor, Freodore’s shirt half-unbuttoned before Kaelix gets frustrated and just pulls it over his head.

They stumble backward into the bed, pants still mostly on, legs tangling, breath loud between them. Freodore’s hand curls into Kaelix’s back, Kaelix’s fingers press into his hips.

The sheets are cool. Their skin is warm. They don’t speak and they kiss like the night might never end.

Freodore’s lips are parted, his hands roaming Kaelix’s back, Kaelix’s mouth drags slow along his jaw, then lower, hot against his neck. Their breathing tangles in the hush of the room, the sheets twisting beneath them, Freodore’s pulse hammering under skin.

Kaelix shifts above him, pressing him further into the mattress, and Freodore, without thinking, lets his hand drift beneath the pillow behind him, searching for better leverage.

His fingers brush steel.

His breath catches, sharp in his throat.

The cool shape is unmistakable. It’s the hilt of a dagger, hidden deliberately, left behind by no accident. It’s not just any dagger either. It’s the one he keeps tucked at the bottom of his trunk in the room that had been assigned to him here, the one he never even got to sleep in once.

Kaelix kisses lower, mouthing along the side of his throat, none the wiser. Freodore’s hand closes around the blade’s grip before he even realizes he's moved. His chest tightens, every thought suddenly crashing into the next.

Freodore exhales for grounding.

And then, in a single breath, he twists.

Kaelix is caught in the movement before he can react. Freodore rolls them sharply, hand closing on Kaelix’s wrist to stop the reach, and presses the blade between them as he pushes the prince flat against the mattress. His engagement ring, which he wears on a long chain around his neck hangs between them, the inlaid ruby glinting bright against the sheen of the blade, the moonlight.

Freodore’s above him now, legs braced around Kaelix’s waist, one hand tight on the dagger, the other steadying himself on Kaelix’s chest.

Kaelix looks up at him, lips still parted, breath rushing, pupils blown wide.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Freodore's breath is shallow. The dagger shakes just slightly in his grip.

Freodore stares down at him, blade poised just above Kaelix’s throat, the weight of everything pressed into the moment.

“How long,” he asks quietly, not without the edge of frustrating hitching in his voice. “How long have you known?”

Kaelix doesn’t flinch. His chest rises once, slowly. “A while now.”

Freodore doesn’t move. His jaw ticks.

Kaelix’s voice stays even. “I started tracking the bounty months ago. I really thought it was a joke at first. Who’d put a price on my head from inside the court? But the longer I looked, the more I found. Eventually it pointed to you. And Seible.”

Freodore’s grip tightens on the dagger. “And you said nothing.”

“I was going to,” Kaelix says. “Zeal held me back from alerting the guards, the court, and he said he’d handle it. He said something about wanting to deal with Seible himself—your friend scammed him out of something some years ago, apparently. He still hasn’t said what, but he swore he’d be nice.”

Freodore huffs, barely a sound.

Kaelix continues, “As for me... I really wasn’t expecting you to show up at that ball. I thought you’d try to break in or something. Or maybe not even take it. But I had to think fast, and so I threw out the first thing I knew might tie you down to me long enough for you to either tell me or for me to get impatient and tell you. But I really thought, I’d maybe get the story out of you eventually. And… you and Seible—you’ve clearly lived more than most nobles ever will. I thought I’d hear all of it. All the sharp, wild parts. I was kind of excited about hearing that,” he admits.

He lifts his head just slightly, voice softening. “But then we... our quiet evenings were nice too and I figured I could wait around a little longer for you to come around to me.”

Freodore scowls. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Kaelix holds his gaze. “I’m saying,” he says, “I’m in love with you. And I think—maybe—you might be too.”

Freodore narrows his eyes. “You don’t know that.”

Kaelix’s expression doesn’t change. “Okay. Then go on, Freo.” He nods at the blade. “You know where it’s supposed to go.”

Freodore doesn’t move for a long moment. His hand presses the dagger in just slightly, enough for the weight of the threat to be real.

His anger simmers, low and sharp. But it doesn’t crest.

He exhales, slow.

Then he leans down and kisses him again.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s something half between punishment and surrender, pressed hard and close, with the dagger still in hand between them.

“I should’ve known better than to trust royalty,” Freodore mutters against his mouth.

Kaelix smiles into the kiss, a soft sound of breath against skin. “So you trust me,” he murmurs, almost fond.

Freodore pulls back enough to roll his eyes. He exhales, annoyed at himself more than anything.

“What now?” he asks, shifting back enough to ease the pressure off Kaelix’s chest. He sets the dagger down on the table beside the bed with a quiet clink and lets Kaelix’s hands slide up along his bare waist.

They’re cold, clammy. So he was scared.

Good, Freodore thinks, faintly satisfied. He lets Kaelix warm himself with his skin.

“We get married,” Kaelix says, like it’s obvious. “Duh.”

Freodore gives him a flat look.

Kaelix doesn’t let up. “Seible’s been on a wild goose chase with Zeal trying to track down whoever sent the card. They have leads. Names. But now that you know, and you’re not busy pretending not to be an assassin, we might actually catch him.”

“But?” Freodore asks, watching Kaelix shift beneath him.

Kaelix leans back into the pillows, pulling Freodore into his lap, arms loose around his hips.

“But,” he says, voice softer, “I have misgivings about my husband running off to enact justice on my behalf.”

“Not your husband,” Freodore mutters, though he doesn’t resist the way Kaelix draws him in.

He leans in for another kiss, this one slower. His hands settle at Kaelix’s shoulders.

Kaelix grins against his mouth, biting lightly at his bottom lip. “Not yet, anyway.”