Chapter Text
“My lord, His Majesty requests your presence for morning breakfast,” announced the young chamberlain, bowing with practiced grace.
Flins placed the final vial of medicine into its wooden case before lifting his cup and swallowing what remained of his own dose. For as long as his memory served—six twenty years of it—this strange draught had been his constant companion, prescribed by the royal physicians to temper an illness whose true nature remained shrouded in mystery.
He turned to the boy, a faint smile softening the edges of his usual composure. “Thank you, Illuga. Pray, inform His Majesty that I shall attend him shortly.”
The young man departed, leaving the prince alone within the quiet of his modest manor. It was not the kind of residence one might expect for a royal heir—humble in both breadth and splendor, though lined with the few things Flins held dear: his library and a modest corner devoted to his collection of ancient coins and gems.
Flins stood before the mirror, gazing at the pale ghost reflected there. The hollows beneath his eyes had deepened and his frame seemed finer, frailer. Still, he smoothed his collar, straightened his cuffs, and exhaled quietly. The royal’s physicians had assured him of his health; surely, he would be fine.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted upon entering the Great Hall, bowing his head low before meeting the King’s gaze. “I was told you summoned me.”
The King sat before an abundant spread of the royal breakfast, the scent of roasted meats and bread filling the air. To Flins, however, the feast had long lost its appeal; no delicacy ever seemed kind to his appetite.
“Come, my son,” the King said, gesturing to the seat beside him. “Let us dine, and speak awhile.”
Flins obeyed, though the motion of lifting his utensils felt more an obligation than pleasure. “Is it regarding the commission, Your Majesty?”
“Your health, my son,” The King’s tone shifted, solemn and deliberate. “It has become a matter of grave concern. I believe the time has come for you to be courted and marked, without further delay.”
At this, Flins set his utensils aside, his composure unshaken though his heart gave a faint stir. As an alpha, such bonds were not ordinarily his burden; yet his case was unlike others. The fae blood that ran within him demanded a bond, a mark to still the madness that slept beneath his ribs. The medicine dulled it, but only a matter of time it would be a bomb for him. At least, that was his father and physician told him all this time.
“I am afraid,” he said carefully, “that I have no one to court me, nor to mark me in such a manner. If you might allow me a little more ti—”
“There is no need,” the King interjected with the weight of command. “The Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius is soon to arrive. He shall court you. You will receive him graciously and you will not let him know you’re a fae.”
“Your Majesty, I do not think—”
“You have heard my decision,” the King cut him off, his tone final. “And you will oblige.”
The morning sun had risen higher, spilling gold across the floorboards. Yet he felt no warmth in it. Such was the rhythm of his life—each command obeyed, each choice already spoken for. He had long ceased to wonder whether obedience was a virtue or a curse. For the King, it was love; for the kingdom and its people, necessity.
For Flins, it was simply fate.
I know I am on carousel spinning around, floating up and down. Nowhere to go, will you break the spell?
The first time in his life, Flins began to think that perhaps fate was not something to be merely endured. He did not dream of rebellion, nor of escape. He simply longed for some quiet assurance — that he would be well, that his life was still his own to breathe.
“Illuga,” he said, setting aside the half-read page before him, “do you know when the knights of Mondstadt are expected to arrive?”
The young chamberlain unfolded a small leather-bound note, scanning the scribbles within. Between master and servant, their bond had long softened into something warmer than duty. Flins often permitted the boy to read from his private collection, excused him from strict formality, and sometimes even granted him idle hours by the fire — kindnesses rare within palace walls.
“I’ve heard they will arrive this evening,” Illuga replied, “and make their rest in Nod Krai.”
“Nod Krai?” Flins frowned slightly, curiosity flickering through the fatigue in his voice. “I had thought His Majesty would grant them quarters in the palace.”
Nod Krai was a modest town not far from the royal gates, a haven for travelers and wanderers who traded laughter for coin and stayed only long enough to catch the next road. It was said to be full of life — the kind of place Flins had never known. Nobles had no business there; royals even less. Yet now, the thought of that noisy, free-spirited town stirred something unspoken in him.
“The offer was made,” Illuga answered, “however, the knights declined. They said they were fond of Nod Krai, that it suited them better.”
“So it did,” Flins murmured, shutting the book in his lap with a soft thud. He cast the boy a narrowed glance that was more play than rebuke. “Do you, by any chance, know anything about their Grand Master?”
Illuga hesitated, lowering his voice as though the very walls might listen. “Rumors said… that he is broad of build and fond of challenges. I’ve heard he has been a knight since he was 12”
Flins let out a soft chuckle, though it soon dissolved into a sigh of disbelief. “How old is he?” he asked at last — a question, he realized, that no sensible person should ever need to ask about their intended. How could one be bound to another in marriage and yet remain unknown of so simple a truth?
Illuga, looking slightly abashed, flipped open his small paper once more. “Pardon me, my lord,” he began carefully, scratching at his neck, “however, the reports I’ve gathered are… inconsistent. Some say he is in his late thirties, others insist upon his early thirties, and one, rather confidently, swore he was nearing fifty.”
Flins pressed his fingertips to his temple, the dull ache behind his eyes deepening with every word. So even his age is a mystery to him, he thought. With quiet resignation, he replaced the book he had been holding back upon the shelf and turned toward his bed.
“I shall take a some nap,” he murmured, lowering himself onto the coverlet. “Please wake me up before the sun goes down.”
The young chamberlain bowed and slipped silently from the room, leaving Flins to the stillness — and to the faint. As a fae, he didn’t need sleep like human did. But his head has been so heavy and lying down on his bed would not be a problem since he didn’t have any duty to attend this afternoon.
But eventually he fell asleep.
*****
That night, Flins told Illuga that he didn’t want to be disturbed and will not receive any visitors. The boy had sighed — as he always did when his master’s mischief showed itself — and muttered softly, “Please, my lord, return before the clock strikes twelve.”
That made Flins laugh quietly. Twelve, he thought. How very much like those popular tales of glass slippers and spells that fade away. As a fae, he could disguise himself for a while. However, the magic wouldn’t last if he stayed out too long—it weakened every time he lied or stretched the truth. Midnight wasn’t just a warning. It was the limit.
He closed his eyes and opened again, a cold blue flame glowed from his eyes, curled around him, reshaping his fine clothes into a simple merchant’s coat and trousers. His hair shortened, his features softened. When the glow faded, no trace of the prince remained. Perfect, he thought. Leaving the palace unnoticed wasn’t a new trick for him. He did it plenty of times when he was younger, slipping past guards and courtiers to explore the city beyond the gates. The palace was full of secret passages, and he knew them better than most.
He opened a hidden panel behind one of the old tapestries—a narrow stairwell that led deep beneath the royal wing. The stone steps were cold and uneven, and his hand brushed the damp walls as he moved quietly down. At the end of the stairs was a side door that opened into the inner courtyard, well out of sight of the night patrols. The courtyard was still, lit only by pale moonlight. He kept to the shadows along the wall and moved toward the mews. The faint smell of hay and leather told him he was close. No guards stood nearby; no one ever expected the prince to come this way.
He reached his horse—a sleek, dark stallion—and patted its neck. “Forgive me for one more night, old friend,” he murmured, placing a simple silence spell over it. The animal snorted softly but obeyed. He led the horse through the narrow service gate, slipping out just as the last torchlight from the palace faded behind him. Only then did he mount up, urging the horse into a quiet run through the empty road. Nod Krai wasn’t far—an hour’s ride, maybe less. He’d never been there before, not even on official duty visits. But tonight, he had his reasons.
The road to Nod Krai was quiet at night, the kind of quiet that made every hoofstep sound louder than it was. Flins kept his hood up and his thoughts low, the wind cold against his disguised face. The blue flame of his magic flickered faintly beneath his skin, reminding him that every passing hour brought him closer to midnight. When he reached Nasha town, the air was thick with noise and warmth. Laughter spilled from open doors, music drifted out into the street, and the scent of ale and roasted meat lingered everywhere. Nod Krai wasn’t grand, but it was alive.
Flins had no knowledge of where the famed Grand Master might be, but he knew enough of the Mondstat knights to wager that wherever the wine was richest, they would not be far. So, he made for the tavern known as The Flagship—a place of loud laughter, bright lamps, and smoke curling lazily above crowded tables.
He took a seat by the counter and ordered his favorite drink; the fire water. “That’s quite the fancy for a merchant,” remarked the bartender, a stout man whose name, as Flins later learned, was Daymond.
Flins tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I’ve just sold one of my finest treasures. Seems a fitting time to grant myself a small indulgence, don’t you think?”
One lie.
He had no time for more. “These knights,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “They’re from Mondstat, are they not? I’ve heard they came on the King’s invitation. Some business with the palace, perhaps?”
Daymond gave him a sideways glance as he poured the drink. “Couldn’t say for certain. They’ve been here before, that much I know. Seem to enjoy Nod Krai more than most folk from the big cities.”
Flins accepted the glass with a courteous nod and took a slow sip. The burn spread pleasantly down his throat. Around him, the tavern pulsed with warmth and noise, knights laughing in their cups, clapping one another on the back, sharing stories in that easy camaraderie he’d only ever watched from afar. Something stirred quietly in his chest. Was it envy? Or something softer, something like longing? For all his years in gilded halls, he had never known such ease, such belonging.
He ordered another. Then another. And as the night wore on, he pieced together fragments of story about the man. Varka, they said, was near thirty-six—though Flins, in human age, was older still. He favored Dandelion Wine from Mondstat, had aided the local guards in their battles against thieves, led countless expeditions, and was loved by his men with a loyalty that bordered on reverence.
But for Flins, it wasn’t enough. He needed to know more.
“Does he have spouse? I mean his career is as charm as the person. Might have someone in his mind,” Flins said idly, swirling the Fire Water in his glass. It was a bait, cast as casually as a passing thought.
“Yes, he will.”
The answer was something he anticipated. His bait was finally reaching to him. Though, it was a little bit weird that the bartender voice suddenly sounded so deep, a little bit playful like an old ma—
Flins froze, his hand stilling on the rim of his glass.
“Tell me,” the voice continued, “why take such interest in my affairs, dear Mr. Stranger?”
He turned and there he was. Blond hair falling loosely to his shoulders, eyes the shade of a summer sea, no armor yet the unmistakable bearing of a knight. Flins met his gaze and smiled, though his pulse quickened. “My apologies, Grand Master,” he said smoothly, laid one of his hand on his chest. “It was nothing more than curiosity. I’ve always enjoyed hearing people’s stories.”
Varka chuckled, moving to the counter to order his own drink. “Stories told by others, hmm? Those often sound a lot like gossip to me.”
Flins glanced at Daymond with a hint of teasing in his eyes. “Sir, have you been gossiping?”
The poor bartender threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I swear, sir, I only said the good things about you, Mr. Varka!”
Flins set his glass down and smiled faintly. “If I’d known where to find you, Grand Master, I would have asked you myself. And now that you stand before me, I can’t help thinking—it must be the right time.”
Varka leaned closer, eyes bright with quiet amusement. “I don’t tell my stories for free to a stranger whose the name keeps remain unknown to me.”
Flins cleared his throat and forced a polite smile, pressing a hand to his chest as he offered a small bow toward the Grand Master. “The name is Chudomir, sir.”
He half-expected a raised brow, perhaps even a hint of suspicion, but Varka only chuckled. The sound was low and good-natured, the kind that filled the quiet air between them instead of cutting through it. And truly, it wasn’t a lie—Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins was his name, though few were allowed to say it whole.
“Chudomir, huh?” Varka repeated, lips curling into a faint grin as he gestured to the bartender for another round. “That’s quite a common name in Snezhnaya, isn’t it?” He leaned his chin into his palm, studying Flins with a curious glint. Whether it was teasing or simply conversation, Flins couldn’t tell.
“Perhaps,” Flins answered, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip while keeping a glance at Varka. The drink burned faintly at the back of his throat, grounding him. “You seem rather familiar with this town. I take it you’ve been here for some time?”
A simple question, but a deliberate one. It was his first bait—testing how much this foreign knight might reveal about his dealings with the palace… or with the King himself. As far as Flins could remember, he had never once seen this man’s face at court. Varka let out a warm chuckle, lifting his glass. “I’ve been around for a while, yes. Though not much to boast about, I suppose.”
A humble reply, but Nod Krai folks knew better. The Grand Master’s work had reached farther than any royal decree. The palace gave Nod Krai its name; Varka gave it its heart. The townsfolk spoke of his knights with gratitude, not obligation. It was a kind of devotion Flins had never known—one earned, not inherited.
The clock ticked clearly in Flins’ head. He needed to move faster.
“Must be why the palace holds you in such regard,” Flins remarked lightly, swirling the drink in his glass. Flins leaned slightly closer over the counter, his tone casual yet his eyes sharp beneath the tavern’s dim light. “Tell me, Mr. Varka… do you know much about the prince?”
The knight paused mid-drink, raising an eyebrow. “The prince?” he echoed.
“As one of his people,” Flins went on, swirling the Fire Water in his cup, “I suppose I ought to know more about our majesty. He rarely steps beyond the palace walls. To most, he’s only a name.”
Varka chuckled, swirling his drink before taking a sip of his drink. “That’s news to me. But I’m certain the prince holds great love for his people,” he said, tone sincere yet faintly wistful. “Perhaps he simply bears too many duties within the palace walls. A man of crown rarely belongs to himself, after all.”
Flins raised an eyebrow, hiding his smirk behind the rim of his glass. “You speak as though you’ve known him for years, Mr. Varka.”
A soft laugh rumbled in Varka’s chest. “Oh, hardly,” he said. “I’ve only seen him once. We were children then, but some faces stay with you, don’t they?”
That pulled Flins’ attention. Just as Varka mentioned, they had met before, yet it didn’t flick his memories at all. Did Varka change really much? Was he mistaken Flins with the others? Flins needed to know. Though, the clock kept ticking. He wanted to run before it gets too late. In his mind now there’s Illuga telling him to go back before twelve. The alcohol didn’t get into him, he swore. Fae has high tolerance when we speak about alcohol, much higher than any human, but his head was spinning.
“How so?”
Varka’s gaze drifted, as if peering back through time. “It was during a grand banquet at the palace. I remember him standing by the servants’ line, thanking them for their work. A small thing, really—but none of the other young nobles bothered to do the same. He seemed… different. Solitary, yet calm about it,” He paused, realizing the weight of his words, and gave a soft chuckle. “Though perhaps it isn’t proper to speak so freely about him. I’d rather not sound as if I’m gossiping about the royals.”
For a heartbeat, Flins forgot to breathe.
The image Varka described—the banquet, the servants, the quiet corners of the ballroom—he remembered it. He was that boy. The one who smiled politely, who kept to the edges while pretending not to mind the solitude. Yet he couldn’t remember Varka’s face among the crowd that night. The clock was ticking closer to midnight; the faint hum of magic beneath his skin warned him it was nearly time.
He stood abruptly, giving Varka a quick polite smile. “That was… a beautiful answer, Mr. Varka,” he said, slipping the mora onto the counter. “I’m afraid I must take my leave. I have duties that can’t wait.”
He turned to the bartender with a small nod. “Daymond, the Grand Master’s drinks, please put them on my tab.”
***
He was running—surely, breath shallow and heart drumming fast—until it struck him with dreadful clarity: he had forgotten to undo the spell on the horse, and worse, he had forgotten to tether it. Now he was stranded, no way to return, and his disguise had long faded before he even noticed. He stood there, dumbfounded beneath the night’s pale light, caught between panic and disbelief.
“Need a ride, little merchant?”
“I do nee—” Flins froze. He was no longer in disguise, he was, in fact, not a merchant. His words faltered as he lifted his gaze, only to meet the sight of the blond-haired man grinning from ear to ear upon his horse. The realization burned through him; every drop of blood rushed up his neck, his ears and cheeks in deep red. “Grand Master…”
In one smooth motion, Varka dismounted, hand steady on the reins, the other pressed to his chest in a formal gesture. “Your Highness,” he greeted, his tone even but carrying warmth. “So it was truly you, Prince Flins.”
Flins let out a quiet sigh of defeat before bowing slightly in return. “You caught me, Grand Master,” he admitted. “I beg your forgiveness, I meant no harm to anyone. Merely a curiosity.”
For a moment, the silence between them hung heavy. Flins wished for the ground to swallow him whole. However, to his surprise, Varka looked equally unsettled, though he hid it behind that the knight of his. His gloved hand rose to the back of his neck, rubbing once before he exhaled. “I owe you an apology as well, Your Highness.”
Flins’s brows furrowed, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Pardon me?”
Varka sighed, gaze breaking away for a moment. “I knew it was you from the very first moment we spoke.”
Flins blinked, lips parting slightly in surprise and embarrassment. He coughed softly, trying to compose himself. “You did? But I was in disguise… you couldn’t have possibly known.”
“Forgive me if this sounds strange,” Varka replied, still avoiding Flins’ eyes, “but I recognized you by your scent. I haven’t forgotten how you sme—”
He stopped mid-sentence, wincing at his own words. “I apologize, that must sound terribly inappropriate.”
Flins was silent for a heartbeat, caught between surprise and a flicker of curiosity. He did not know humans could recognize scents that vividly—let alone after so long. For him, as both an alpha and a fae, human scents had always blended into one another. He could never tell how was alpha, omega, or beta smell like; they were all simply human to him. That was why he hadn’t recognized Varka’s scent either now—the same faint blend of dandelion and pinewood he had smelled before in the tavern. Many could have shared that scent, and Flins would never have noticed it was Varka.
“That is quite fine to me,” Flins said after a moment, a faint smile curving his lips. “If anything, I am more curious how you could do that.”
Their gazes met under the dim wash of moonlight, and something unspoken passed between them—part respect, part something deeper neither dared to name. Varka let out a small chuckle, brushing off his embarrassment. “I would love to explain, Your Highness, but it is getting late. Your safety must come first.”
Flins tilted his head, humming mischievously. “If you truly wish to make amends, then I don’t mind having accompany to walk me back to the palace. Surely, two alphas walking together at midnight would stir no rumor.”
There was a brief silence before Varka smiled, warm and easy. “Then I shall take that risk, Your Highness.”
***
“I would have loved to escort you with the royal chariot, Your Highness,” Varka said, his voice low and apologetic, “but at this hour, I fear not a single one can be found in all of Nod Krai.”
Flins’s lips curved into a faint smile when Varka arrived instead with a horse-drawn dray—a modest thing, its wood worn by years of carrying the knights’ armaments. Yet under the lantern light, it held a certain rustic grace. It was far from the gold and marble of the palace, but to Flins, it felt strangely alive. He traced the edges of the dray with his gloved fingers and murmured, almost to himself, “Perhaps… I might prefer this to the chariot.”
“You jest, surely,” Varka replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Or perhaps Your Highness merely wishes to flatter me.” He extended a hand—roughened by the sword, warm from the reins.
Flins looked at it for a heartbeat longer than he should have before placing his own hand upon it. His fingers were cool, delicate against Varka’s palm. “Do I sound like a man who speaks only to please?” he said teasingly, stepping up onto the dray in one graceful motion.
Varka’s eyes softened crafting the crescent moon, his smile carried the faintest trace of mischief. “Then I shall take it as truth. However, if you continue speaking so sweetly, even the horse may lose his composure.” He flicked the reins lightly, and the dray began to move through the town.
Flins tilted his face upward, the moonlight spilling over him like liquid silver. His golden eyes caught its glow, soft and distant, as if holding a secret meant only for the stars. The wind brushed against him, carrying the scent of pine and rain. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the quiet freedom that the night offered—something he had long been denied within the palace walls. “We would not have seen the sky this vast from inside the chariot, would we?” he murmured.
Varka laughed softly, a sound that blended with the rhythm of the hooves. “No,” he said, his gaze lingering on the prince longer than propriety would allow. “And for that, I am grateful. Let us pray the sky does not envy us enough to weep tonight.”
Then came silence—gentle and undisturbed. Flins kept his gaze lifted toward the heavens, quietly marveling at the starlit sky, while Varka focused on guiding the dray through the dim path ahead, the faint lantern barely showing the road. Yet the stillness between them was not uneasy; rather, it felt calm and harmonious, as though the night itself wove a quiet understanding between the two. The wind brushed past softly, carrying with it the scent of alder wood and the distant hum of crickets, lulling them both into a momentary peace where the world felt far away.
It was Flins who first broke the silence. “Grand Master,” he began, his tone courteous but laced with hesitation, “I fear you might find me rather peculiar… for what I have done.” He cleared his throat lightly, lowering his voice. “It is not something any ordinary human could perform.”
Varka let out a gentle laugh, not one of mockery, but of reassurance. “Your Highness, I would never think so,” he replied with a smile that softened his expression. “Such things are hardly foreign to me. I have long been acquainted with the witches of Mondstadt.”
Flins turned to him slightly, his golden eyes reflecting both curiosity and faint disbelief. “Witches? But I am far from being one, Grand Master.”
Varka glanced at him briefly, the corners of his lips curving with quiet conviction. “No,” he agreed, voice deep yet tender. “You are not. But I believe there is reason behind all that you do, Your Highness.”
Then, silence again. The kind that stretched softly between them—neither heavy nor hollow, but almost tender. Flins did not know what to say, for everything that Varka had said earlier was undeniably true. He did have a reason for his actions, and his intentions had never been to harm anyone. Yet the words he wanted to speak rested quietly on his tongue. He still could not bring himself to tell Varka the truth—that he was a fae due to The King request.
A part of him feared that moment. What if Varka did not take kindly to the idea of him being a fae? What if the respect and warmth in the knight’s tone would fade once he knew? The thought lingered in his chest, heavy and uncertain, and it made his heart ache in a way he could not name. He had never cared so deeply about someone’s opinion before—and that was precisely what frightened him most.
“Lost in your thoughts again, aren’t you?”
The gentle humor in Varka’s voice startled him from his reverie. Flins blinked, turning to him with composed grace. “Pardon me, Grand Master?”
Varka’s eyes softened. “Did I bore you, Your Highness?”
Flins smiled faintly, shaking his head. “No, not in the slightest. I was merely thinking how generous you are, to place such trust in me so easily.”
“Well,” Varka replied, his tone kind yet assured, “I trust my instincts… and your scent. It tells me you mean no harm to me, or to anyone else.”
“Hm.” Flins tilted his head, curiosity glimmering behind his golden eyes. “That reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask. How did you manage to remember my scent after so long?”
It was a genuine question—one born of both fascination and disbelief. How could a mortal man recall something so delicate from more than fifteen years ago? They had only met once, fleetingly, and exchanged hardly more than a few words. Yet somehow, Varka had remembered.
The Grand Master let out a quiet chuckle, his gaze turning wistful. “I suppose it’s something I’ve had since I was a child. A gift, or perhaps a curse, depending on how you see it.” He paused, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he went on. “It wasn’t always pleasant. When I was younger, I could smell my mother from miles away and every time I did, I knew she was coming home to scold me. I used to dread it.”
Flins couldn’t help but laugh softly at the image—Varka, the formidable knight, once a little boy fretting over his mother’s scent. “I wonder why,” he teased gently.
Varka laughed in return, his tone light and fond. “I suppose I deserved it. I was always wandering too far from home, coming back covered in scrapes and mud. She called me reckless, though I think she secretly admired my spirit.”
Mother. Scolding. Love. The words echoed quietly within Flins’ heart, stirring something fragile inside him. He had never known what it felt like to be scolded with affection of a mother, to be loved so simply and fiercely. His smile faltered just slightly before he spoke, his tone softer now. “You are fortunate to have her, Mr. Varka.”
“I am,” Varka answered, a hint of warmth in his voice. “She’s grown old now, happily retired. Yet she still insists on scolding me whenever she can.”
Time slipped by unnoticed after that. The road stretched before them, dimly lit by the lantern, while Varka continued to share stories—about his youth, about Mondstadt, about his duty as a knight. His words carried the calm of someone who had lived fully and without regret. Flins listened intently, offering small stories—old tales—in return, the only ones he found beautiful enough to share.
He did not speak much of himself; there were few memories he found pleasant enough to tell. But in the quiet moments, as the wind brushed against his cheek and Varka’s laughter mingled with the sound of the horse’s steps, he found himself almost wishing the road would not end.
Eventually, the dray slowed before the back gate, the one near the mews, hidden from sight and guarded by shadows. They both dismounted, the night air wrapping gently around them. Flins smiled, offering a polite bow to the Grand Master. “I am deeply thankful for your company tonight, Grand Master. I must also apologize for the inconvenience I have caused you.”
Varka shook his head, his voice low but steady. “There is no need to thank me, Your Highness. I would say this was my way of making amends, would it not?”
Flins’ lips curved into a faint smile. “Then I would say it was a time well spent. Still, I must ask that we keep this evening between us. I would prefer that The King does not hear of it, if it is acceptable to you, of course.”
“Very well, Your Highness,” Varka replied, his tone respectful yet warm. “Your wishes shall remain in confidence. Your concern comes first.”
“Then, I shall await your arrival at the palace this evening,” Flins said softly, his cloak shifting as he turned toward the gate. “Let us meet again, in a more proper manner.”
The Grand Master bowed his head in agreement. “It would be my honor.”
And as Flins walked away beneath the soft glow of moonlight, neither of them spoke again.
***
It was a quiet banquet — small, refined, and intentionally modest. The prince had personally asked for it to be so; he wished for an evening of warmth rather than spectacle, sincerity rather than politics. And so the hall glowed with muted gold from the chandeliers, the air fragrant with wine and oak, and the gentle melody of a harp played softly in the corner. The Knights of Favonius stood among the royals, their presence dignified yet strangely grounding amid the silk and lace.
Varka had been speaking with the King, discussing matters of alliance and courtship, when the door opened and time seemed to still.
Flins entered.
The light caught him first — the way it folded across his dark blue tailcoat, accentuating his frame. His hair, usually free and soft as ink in water, was braided neatly for the occasion, the work of Illuga’s careful hands, tied at both ends with black ribbons that matched the deep hue of his trousers. The prince rarely wore restraint well, but tonight, the simplicity made him look all the more radiant.
For the briefest of moments, Varka forgot his mind. He froze mid-sentence, and something like awe — quiet and unwilling — flickered in his eyes.
Flins, graceful, walked through the room. His golden eyes swept over the guests until they found the Grand Master. A faint, polite smile curved his lips. “Father. Grand Master,” he greeted, placing one hand neatly behind his back and the other over his heart.
“My son,” the King replied proudly, “please, meet The Grand Master of The Knight Favonius, Varka of Mondstat.”
Their gazes met and the air seemed to thrum faintly between them. Neither allowed their expressions to falter; both were practiced in wearing civility like armor. Varka bowed, taking Flins’s gloved hand with the kind of reverence reserved for divine things, and pressed his lips against it.
“Your Highness,” he said, voice low, eyes lifting to meet the prince’s. “It is an honor.”
Flins’s smile didn’t waver, but his tone carried a quiet sincerity. “Grand Master, you must be weary from your travels. It is an honor to have you here. I hope our nation treat you and your knight well.”
The King’s laughter burst between them, hearty and unrestrained. He clapped a broad hand on Varka’s arm, nearly making the man stumble half a step. Flins caught the faint tightening of the Grand Master’s jaw, amusement flickering in his own eyes. Anyone would flinch under his father’s sudden warmth, he thought. He had never known it himself and the realization came with a dull ache, like a bruise pressed too long beneath silk. He sniggered unpleasantly, turning his gaze elsewhere — to the dancers, the laughter, the low murmur of politics dressed as pleasantries. The music played, but it all felt far away. His eyes drifted across the room again, searching for something unspoken, until they found Varka’s summer blue eyes. The man was already watching him.
The faintest curve touched the Grand Master’s lips, steady and unreadable, but there was a politeness there.
“I am sure The Prince might have some thought of it,” Varka’s voice broke his mind.
Flins blinked. “Pardon me?”
“What do you think about the wedding being held next month?”
Flins grew still, not from the weight of the question itself, but from the astonishment that his opinion should be sought at all. Never, in all the years of his existence, had his voice been heard. From the hour of his birth, the course of his life had been charted by his father’s will, King’s decree standing as law, his command beyond question. Flins had learned obedience the way one learns to breathe. One simple question from Varka stirred something long dormant within him. It was as if a forgotten part of his soul—something small, neglected, and aching—had finally been brushed by warmth.
“That…” Flins couldn’t keep his eyes on Varka gaze, he looked at The King. “That would be fine with me, Father.”
Then the King snapped his fingers. “Then it’s settled! The wedding will take place next month. You two will make several public appearances together. I’ll inform the council and perhaps,” he added, turning to Varka, “you should remain in the palace for the time being.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Varka said, his tone measured. Yet his gaze remained fixed on Flins, soft but steady. “Ah, and before I forget,” he added, signaling his subordinate, “I brought a few gifts from Mondstat.”
“A… gift?” Flins echoed softly, one brow lifting in faint surprise. To a fae, a gift was no simple token—it was an offering, a pledge that bound giver and receiver in a delicate weave of favor and return. Such gestures carried weight, the giver would receive spring protection, guidance, or blessings unspoken. Yet Flins found himself at a loss. For the man in front of him, in his unknowing, could not have understood what it meant to offer something to a fae.
“I was told The Prince has a fondness for gems and ancient coins,” Varka replied, his lips curving in restrained humor. “I cannot say they compare to your royal treasures but these are among our finest, though I cannot promise they’ll meet your taste.”
The small box was opened, revealing a yellow gem that caught the light like captured morning sun, and an ancient coin weathered beautifully by time. They were modest, the kind of gifts that carried meaning rather than the value. Flins’s golden eyes widened slightly. He couldn’t help it, he always loved gems and ancient coin, no matter how shiny it is, he loved the stories they carried. For a brief moment, he looked like a boy who’d found a secret wonder.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a delicate blend of restraint and sincerity. Then, almost without thought, his gaze lingered on Varka’s face. “You have… remarkable eyes, Grand Master.”
The King’s laughter broke the spell—boisterous, unrestrained, echoing through the hall. Flins’s expression faltered for an instant, a quiet wince masked behind a polite smile.
“You are too kind, Grand Master,” the King declared, still chuckling. “Kyryll, do be good and accompany our guest around the palace.”
“Yes, Father,” came Flins’s reply. Perhaps that would be how he would repay the gift—this indirect offering that, by fate or folly, had been placed into his hands.
“Grand Master, it has been a delight speaking with you,” said the King, rising with regal ease. “But I must greet the other guests. Please, enjoy the evening.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Varka answered, bowing deeply, his voice touched with genuine respect.
As the King walked away, the room seemed to soften, the laughter and music fading into something gentler. Flins exhaled, and when their eyes met again, he found himself smiling — quietly, unknowingly.
Varka blinked, puzzled. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No…” Flins chuckled teasingly. “Once again, thank you for the gifts. Oh, they remind me of my own collection. Perhaps you’d like to see them, properly displayed, among their kind?”
The Grand Master’s lips lifted, the faintest warmth touching his eyes. “Then by all means, Your Highness… lead the way.”