Archive of Our Own

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

—Robert Frost

--

The brass knocker hammers out the servant’s pattern, heavy as the incense that drifts from a Fierzan censer in the corner—agarwood, patchouli, and clove that lingers in fabric for days. The spiced scent gives the welcome illusion of warmth and reminds Adrien of the boy who preoccupies his thoughts.

On the corner of a burgundy and marigold tapestry rug, a black panther rears his head and yawns. Adrien looks up too, chest fluttering with vain hope the way it does whenever someone comes to his royal quarters.

“Do you think it’s him?” Adrien rubs the warm spot between Plagg’s ears.

Rumbling out a purr, Plagg lowers his chin onto his forepaws, unconcerned with Adrien’s anxieties.

“You’re right, it can’t be him. Minstrels probably have a different knocking pattern.” Adrien sighs morosely, then gasps. “Unless! Maybe Viktor brought him.”

Plagg’s whiskers twitch.

“Yes, I know. Viktor isn’t a mind-reader.” Adrien lets out another heavy sigh and closes his book, setting it on the table beside the single solid-gold fountain pen that was his father’s birthday gift this morning… just like every year. An idea comes to him. “But what if I call for him? I’m allowed to do that now that I’m fifteen.”

Contemplating this idea with new excitement, Adrien crosses the room, robes dragging across the broad hardwood slats with a hiss that underlies the tap-tap of his jewelled slippers. He finds them ostentatious, but they’re warmer than only socks, so he wears them reluctantly.

A slight draft that finds its way into his clothes fans the permanent chill in his chest, like breathing in after eating peppermint chocolates. He pulls the cuffs of his sleeves over his palms in the way his father disapproves of, but it does little to warm him. He hates the cold.

Wrapping both hands around one of the ornate golden doorknobs rimmed with a relief of snowdrop blossoms, he twists and pulls. The thick, broad doors are more than twice Adrien’s height, giving the impression of the entire wall splitting as they open.

Viktor, his manservant, hunches his massive shoulders in a polite albeit brief bow. He’s holding a large, round tray covered with small dishes of various types of food.

As usual, Viktor’s gaze drifts to the small gong on the low table, near the divan. Adrien is supposed to strike that gong to grant visitors entrance after they knock. At least, that’s what the royals usually do. Even after all these years, Viktor hasn’t let go of his respect for rules and tradition, and the silent reminder that he disapproves of Adrien troubling himself to open the door doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m not weak,” Adrien grumbles as Viktor lumbers past him with the tray. “I beat Master D’Argencourt the other day in swordsmanship training. I think I can handle a door.”

Viktor grunts ambiguously and begins setting the dishes on the table.

Adrien leans over his shoulder and dips a finger in a bowl of soup. Cold, of course, according to Hivernan tradition. Just as he dreaded: not even a warm meal on his birthday. The only difference between today and any other is the golden pen, which is nothing special when he already has a surplus. He licks the soup off his finger, frowning.

Adrien has always wondered why Hivernans didn’t develop warm cuisine to offset the curse of the frigid magic that runs through their veins. Nathalie says it’s their way of celebrating the birthright of ice, but Adrien suspects that whoever decided on the tradition wasn’t a magic user and decided to inflict cold food on all of Hiverna out of envious spite.

Bending over, Viktor sets the final dish on the floor beside the rug with a clack—boneless chunks of stewed lamb in a bronze dish, with a few cubes of goat cheese on the side as a treat.

Recognizing the sound, Plagg lifts his head, huffs, and slinks over to the dish. His ears flatten slightly before he digs in.

“I bet he’d prefer his meat warm, too,” Adrien comments wistfully, stalling as he works up the courage to make his request.

“You know the cooks are set in their ways,” Viktor mutters in a thick Petrachian accent.

“I know… just stating my opinion,” Adrien sighs.

Tray now empty, Viktor tucks it under his arm and sets off toward the door.

“Viktor,” Adrien calls softly, half-hoping the servant won’t hear so he’ll have an excuse to abandon his half-baked idea. Jitters flare in his belly. When Viktor turns around, Adrien raises his voice to mask his nervousness: “Could you send someone to play while I eat?”

“As you wish, my prince,” Viktor grunts and moves to leave.

“Wait! The youngest minstrel. Please.” A blush prickles his cheeks like frostbite as Adrien adds the last instruction, but the orange and red lamplight conceals it.

Viktor’s brow crinkles in an obvious effort to figure out which minstrel Adrien means.

“The one with black hair and a snake tattoo,” Adrien says, hiking up the embroidered sleeve of his robe to point at the inside of his right wrist, indicating the spot where the minstrel boy has his snake. “I like how he plays.”

He lets his sleeve fall back into place, feeling shaky with embarrassment. Pointing out the tattoo feels like a confession of all the times he stared at the boy’s hands while he played the lute, mesmerized by his agile fingers, waiting for the black sliver of that snake to peek out at a fortuitous turn of his wrist: a glimpse of something secret and waiting to be explored, like a flame dancing between the delicate geometric cutouts of a Fierzan lamp.

Oblivious to Adrien’s agitation, Viktor nods and leaves.

Adrien nearly trips on his robes as he runs back to the divan and collapses onto it in an unceremonious heap of brocade, silk, and organza, burying his face into a cushion.

Was he too bold? Now that he’s fifteen, his words have the weight of commands—but power makes him uncomfortable, and using it to summon the boy he fancies feels shamefully manipulative.

Waiting grips his stomach like an icy fist. For years, the minstrel boy has been an almost mythical character inhabiting the periphery of Adrien’s life, close and intriguing but untouchable. Now, finally, there will be nothing and no one preventing Adrien from talking to him if he wants. The nearness of the potential suffocates Adrien. He can’t eat, so he languishes on the divan until the brass knocker sounds again. Plagg’s ears twitch, but he isn’t so easily distracted from his meal.

Anxiety has robbed Adrien of his strength, so this time, instead of going to the door, he reaches over to the table and rings the gong with the wooden mallet. Realizing he doesn’t want the minstrel to see him lying limp on the couch, he sits up at the last second and straightens his clothes.

The double doors lurch apart to reveal the minstrel boy, who looks small between them as he gives a deep ceremonial bow, courtly robes glittering in teal and cobalt, lute tucked under his arm. His head is bare, and raven bangs obscure his face in shadow.

When he straightens up again, his intelligent blue eyes meet Adrien’s immediately, coaxing a blush to the prince’s cheeks—the minstrel’s angular, elfin face is even more handsome than he remembered.

“Your Highness” are the only words that escape from his lips, warm like a fire’s whisper.

Adrien relishes even such a short utterance—it’s the first he’s heard the boy speak. “H-hello,” he says with uncertainty, feeling like it’s a very unprince-like thing to say. Then again, he doesn’t want to remind them both of their difference in status, so maybe that’s fine.

“Hello.” Smiling to himself as if amused, the minstrel boy makes his way to the performance dais across from the table, furnished with opulent fabrics and cushions of woven textiles.

“Um, before you begin—what’s your name?” Adrien asks, pounding heart making his voice too loud.

The boy’s eyebrows lift, as if he’s surprised at the question, then he hurriedly looks down. He seems nervous. It’s probably the first time he’s been called to play alone—the king would never call for someone so young and lacking in prestige without the rest of the troupe.

“I’m Luka Couffaine,” he says, voice steady but soft, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Luka,” Adrien repeats, testing the way it feels in his mouth. He hates the way the other boy’s eyes avoid him. “You’re allowed to look at me.”

Luka raises his line of sight, his gaze unexpectedly steady. In those eyes, Adrien feels like an equal, and what he first read as nervousness seems to have been replaced by relief. Maybe it’s just that Luka isn’t comfortable with the rules of etiquette, Adrien reasons. Well, good. He isn’t fond of them either.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Luka says. “And happy birthday.”

The birthday wish warms Adrien’s heart. No one has ever told him ‘Happy birthday’ directly except Viktor—and Nathalie, but her greeting doesn’t count because she says it like an item on his list of daily tasks.

“Thank you!” The prince smiles. “Call me Adrien.”

Luka’s eyes widen and his mouth opens slightly.

“Please,” adds Adrien, realizing his words sounded like a command.

“I’m honored, Your—Adrien,” Luka says, correcting himself. He bows, then in the same fluid motion, folds his legs under him and settles onto a rust-colored cushion on the performance dais, lute propped on his lap. “I hope my playing will be to your liking while you eat.” He plays a series of doleful, meandering opening notes in the Phrygian mode.

Right, eat. Adrien had forgotten about his unappealing supper.

Moving from the divan to a firm burgundy floor cushion, Adrien surveys the spread—a bowl of pyramid-shaped dumplings, dipping sauces and pastes, spiced winter squash, vegetable soup, chickpeas, flatbread, clementines, almond cookies. All cold, of course.

Plagg has polished off his plate and is dozing on the rug beside the table.

Adrien spears a chunk of winter squash with a delicate golden fork and nibbles on a corner of it as he listens to the music. The aftertaste of cinnamon softens the mix of spices that saturate the tender morsel. Adrien likes the slight burn as he swallows. Hivernan dishes tend to be bland, but the cooks know that Adrien likes his meals cooked chock-full of Fierzan spices that make it seem warmer than it is.

Adrien has never had a minstrel play for his private supper before. It’s strikingly different from the rare dinner performance for the royal family. One-on-one, he feels much more guilty making someone work while he eats alone, and once again he wonders what possessed him to make the request. Not that he isn’t happy to have Luka here.

He eats slowly, taking miniature bites so as never to be caught with too much in his mouth at once, trying not to be too obvious as he steals glances at Luka.

Fortunately for Adrien, Luka’s eyes remain downcast, watching his fingers on the lute. Occasionally, he closes his eyes, as if carried away by the music.

Adrien admires the boy’s passion for his art. Once he realizes Luka isn’t going to make eye contact while playing, Adrien grows bolder and bolder in letting his gaze roam over the other boy’s face, admiring the confident poise of his shoulders, the rippling of tendons under the delicate skin of his hands as he plays.

The song is mysterious and enticing, like words spoken in another language Adrien can’t understand—not stiff and formal like the usual songs in the court minstrels’ repertoire. The meter is unpredictable, and the grace notes that connect the chords are playful, making Adrien feel like Luka is leading him in a dance.

Adrien is so entranced that the end of the song sneaks up on him: Luka’s eyes slide open as he plays the closing cadence, catching Adrien off guard.

In a moment of panic, Adrien’s gaze skitters down to the dishes in front of him. To distract Luka from the fact that he was obviously staring, he makes an exaggerated show of picking up the bowl of dumplings with both hands. One sleeve narrowly misses a dip into a saucer of green paste. Adrien winces.

“You’re allowed to look at me, too,” Luka says with a lilt.

When Adrien looks up to see the other boy smiling, he realizes he’s teasing. Cheeky, especially the implication that a minstrel is anyone to tell the prince what he’s allowed to do.

Adrien likes that; it makes him want to play along. An uncontrollable grin tugs at his lips and makes his cheeks dimple. “I’ve already done plenty of that,” he boasts, then blushes at his own forwardness. As a distraction, he lifts the bowl of pastries he’s holding toward Luka in invitation. “I can’t finish these myself. Would you like some?”

Luka laughs as if Adrien has told a joke. “Me, the lowest of minstrels, partake of your supper, my prince? I wouldn’t dare.”

The minstrel speaks the words— my prince —with the innocent reverence that any courtier would use, but the suggestion that he belongs to Luka makes Adrien’s heart race, even if it isn’t what the other boy meant. “And yet, you would dare turn down my invitation?” he challenges.

“Ah—never, Your Highness.” Chastened and serious now, Luka sets down his lute. He approaches the table slowly, as if he isn’t sure whether Adrien’s offer is serious and giving him a chance to take it back. Royalty does not share meals with minstrels.

“Please join me,” Adrien urges, noticing Luka’s hesitation. “Actually, I was hoping for a friend rather than music.”

Luka’s eyes soften as he kneels on the floor cushion. “I’m hardly worthy to be called a friend of Your Highness.”

“We call each other by name,” Adrien says, a gentle rebuke for slipping back into honorifics. “Isn’t that enough to make us friends?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Luka assures softly, then his lip quirks up in a smile as he adds, “Adrien.”

He doesn’t make any move to help himself to the proffered pastries, so Adrien picks one up in his fingers and holds it out. “You’re worthy,” he says, denying Luka’s earlier words. “I asked for you—specifically you. Did you know that?”

“I—” If Luka wasn’t flustered before, he looks slightly so now. Pink dusts the ridge of his cheekbones. “I’ve had no greater honor in my life.” As he reaches out to accept the pastry, his fingers brush Adrien’s, warm as a candle’s breath.

Adrien’s smile fades slightly. “You don’t have to say flowery things like that just because I’m a prince.”

“I wouldn’t do that. My words are my own, flowery or not.” He dips a corner of the savory pastry into a sweet brown dipping sauce and takes a bite. “Thank you for sharing your meal with me, Adrien.”

They eat in tentative silence, both acutely aware that they are pioneering a new dynamic. There are no social mores that dictate the words they should speak, the way they should act.

For Adrien, it’s a dream. Eating with a companion makes the food taste different. Luka’s proximity ignites the spices in his belly, and he feels warmer than he ever has before. He decides he likes his new power if it allows him to wave away social conventions.

“What kind of music was that?” Adrien asks shyly, spreading chestnut paste on a piece of flatbread. “It sounded… different.”

Luka pauses with the potato-filled dumpling en route to his mouth then answers in a hushed tone, “It’s fire nomad music.”

Adrien gasps in wonder. “Really! I’ve never heard their music before. Where did you learn it?”

Luka glances around, as if wary that someone might overhear—but even Plagg is asleep, and if anyone can hear him whisper, they’ve definitely already heard him playing. “From my family in Fierza—they’re part of a nomad band. But it would be great if you could keep all this to yourself. The other minstrels think I’m from a noble family, and I’m not allowed to play our music on palace grounds. I thought you might like it, though.”

Luka’s appearance is enough of a giveaway that he isn’t a Hivernan native: black hair instead of fair, slanted eyes with irises blue as the heart of a flame instead of the forest tones usual in Hiverna. But the fact that he says ‘our’ instead of ‘their’ reminds Adrien more sharply that Luka left behind a home to join the royal court. The realization that Luka has had to keep details about his family secret pinches Adrien’s heart.

“What gave you the confidence to play forbidden music for me?” Adrien asks.

“Your room,” Luka says, meeting Adrien’s eyes. “It’s different from any other room in the palace. The incense, the textiles, the colors—I feel like I’m back in Fierza.”

Adrien’s breath freezes in his chest, flatbread forgotten. He’s spent his life being watched, but not the way Luka is watching him now: for the first time, he feels utterly vulnerable. No one ever questioned his interior design requests, although the king—who prefers minimalism and sleek lines, and thinks the incense stinks—makes a point never to visit his room.

All these years, and the one person whose eye Adrien hoped to catch finally noticed what he’s been doing. Calling it a plan would attribute too much cunning to his actions, but perhaps wishfully, Adrien hoped the things from Luka’s home country would lure him closer, like milkweed for butterflies.

Unexpectedly, however, the feeling that fills him upon Luka noticing is shame rather than pleasure. The walls seem to scream accusations at Adrien: What gall he has, dressing his room in Fierzan goods while Luka isn’t allowed to even play the music from his own home!

“Y-you noticed,” Adrien stutters out, bracing himself for a negative reaction.

“How could I not? You made it look Fierzan on purpose, didn’t you?” Luka asks, his tone devoid of judgment.

“How did you know?” Adrien asks, still too ashamed to say ‘yes’ directly.

Luka laughs as if the answer is so obvious he doesn’t consider it a real question. “It’s not a bad thing. I love it.”

“I see,” Adrien says awkwardly, the tips of his ears numbing with a blush. “I’m glad you’re not offended.”

“Why would I be offended?” Luka asks lightly. “Anyway, since you like Fierzan stuff, I figured you’d like the music, too.”

“I did—I do,” Adrien says, setting down his fork as the relief that floods his chest transforms into giddy zeal. “I like everything about Fierza. With my room like this, I used to pretend I’d been kidnapped by the fire nomads, and…” he trails off, realizing it probably sounds like all he knows about Fierza is what he’s read in children’s books. Which isn’t true—he’s studied about Fierzan culture and politics—but now Luka is laughing and Adrien is too bewildered to defend himself.

“If you want to see Fierza, a royal tour might be more comfortable than a kidnapping,” Luka suggests, still smiling.

Adrien frowns. “Father never lets me go anywhere.”

Luka’s expression sobers. “…Then I’ll tell you stories, if you’d like. Or play you other songs I know. I can’t practice them in the minstrels’ quarters, anyway, so that would benefit both of us.”

“I’d like that,” Adrien murmurs. The idea of Luka using his room as a safe haven to play his music further alleviates his guilt. “Do you miss your family?”

“Sometimes,” Luka answers. “But I’m happy here.”

“Why did you join the court?”

“Well, it wasn’t my choice.” Luka takes a modest bite of his dumpling then sets it down, staring thoughtfully across the room as he chews.

Adrien waits, hands under his chin, respectfully attentive.

Luka swallows and continues his explanation. “My father moved to Hiverna by the time I was three. I never really knew him, but he came back six years later and brought me here when he found out I had musical talent. I think the king gave him some land in exchange. At first, I was mad—I felt like he’d sold me, and resented my ma for not refusing to let him take me.”

“I’m sorry,” Adrien murmurs. Frosty guilt prickles in his chest at the thought of his own family’s role in stealing a child away from his home.

“—but I’m over that. Like I said before, I’m happy. I like playing for you, and I’m especially glad I’ve had a chance to talk to you now.” Luka smiles and points at the flatbread in Adrien’s hand. “Do you usually eat it that way?”

Tendrils of frost extend over the entire surface of the bread.

“Ah—” Adrien lets out a nervous laugh, dropping the bread onto a plate as if it’s poisoned. “That… was an accident. I prefer it warm, actually. Not really a fan of cold food.”

“Hmm.” Luka taps his chin as if pondering something.

“Wait.” Adrien squints. “You have magic too, don’t you? You could warm up the food!”

Luka’s eyes glitter with interest and the corners of his mouth pinch with a suppressed smile. “What makes you think I have magic?”

“I—” Adrien blinks, caught off-guard. The ‘fact’ has been filed away in his mind for years. What had given him that impression in the first place? Had he heard a rumor?

He starts counting reasons out loud on his fingers. “Well, one, you seemed suspicious just now. Two, you don’t have the binding bangles. And—” Adrien shrugs, giving up on listing reasons. At some point over the last seven years, he became certain Luka had magic. Now he can’t pinpoint exactly what cemented that idea in his head. “You feel warm, alive—I just had a feeling. I guess I assumed.”

“I didn’t know I’d be parting with all my secrets when I received the summons this evening,” Luka says with a smirk.

“So you do have magic?” A grin stretches across Adrien’s face.

Luka beckons him closer. “Our little secret,” he says, then cups one hand around two outstretched fingers.

“Do the others not know?” Adrien murmurs, huddling toward the other boy.

Luka shrugs. “I never use it, so I guess not. Or they don’t think I’m threatening enough to bind.”

“You do seem nonthreatening.” Adrien smiles.

He watches in awe as a scarlet glow appears, hardly discernible in Luka’s palm, then travels up the elegant lengths of his fingers, gaining in intensity until it peeks out from his fingertips as a flame.

“I’m amazed that it doesn’t burn you.” Adrien reaches toward the flame, stopping centimeters away, just close enough to feel the warmth.

“Technically, it’s not touching my skin,” Luka says, lifting his hand so Adrien can see the gap between the base of the flame and the curve of his fingertips. “But yeah, fire doesn’t burn me.”

Adrien pulls his hand away and snaps as if landing on an idea. “Hold on.”

Splaying his fingers, palm up, Adrien calls upon his own magic. With a frigid crackle, a stemless crystal goblet forms in his hand from the base up, cold to the touch but solid as glass, like the lanterns set into the walls of the palace halls. Steadying it between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand, he holds it out to Luka.

Luka drops the fledgling flame inside, and it keeps burning without a wick. The lantern doesn’t melt.

The boys share conspiratorial smiles—which turn to horror when the knocker pounds the servants’ pattern into the door again.

Adrien hastily blows out the flame and places the goblet on the table with a clatter that rouses Plagg from his sleep. Luka scrambles to his feet in a flurry of glittering aqua-hued fabrics and returns to his place on the performance dais.

When Luka begins to strum the lute again—this time in a structured court melody—Adrien strikes the gong.

The doors groan apart. From the threshold, Viktor’s gaze sweeps over the half-empty dishes and the crystal goblet that wasn’t on the table before, a thread of smoke trailing up from it like a fading line of chalk etched into the air.

Adrien winces but straightens his shoulders assertively. “We—I’d like a little more time, please, Viktor. Um… maybe an hour?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow but ducks his head in acquiescence and leaves without questions.

Now that the boys are alone again, Adrien wants nothing more than to continue their conversation, but Luka seems to have no plans to cut the song short.

Out of respect, Adrien restrains himself from showing outward signs of impatience as he watches and waits single-mindedly, not even bothering to pretend to eat. The court music sounds pleasant but predictable, and he’d much rather use the limited time to get to know his minstrel.

As soon as Luka finishes the song, Adrien speaks: “I liked your first song choice better. But your playing was very nice, of course.”

“I know one you’ll like.” Luka adjusts his fingers on the neck of the lute, ready to start again.

“Not another court song, right?” Adrien cocks his head and smirks. “If you’re courting me, a nomad song would be more effective.”

“Am I courting you?” Luka chuckles, a cayenne tinge rising to his cheeks.

“You are my minstrel,” Adrien says, in return for ‘my prince’—he wonders if Luka will notice.

Luka smiles and looks down at his instrument, his expression giving away nothing, and adjusts his finger placement as if changing which song he’s decided to play.  

“No—wait,” Adrien says hurriedly, getting to his feet and dragging his robes across the floor to the performance dais. Despite his flirting, he doesn’t actually want Luka to start playing and shut out conversation for another five minutes. He liked it much better when they were sitting together at the table, talking. Rather than wait for Luka to come back, Adrien closes the distance himself.

Disturbed from his slumber when Adrien brushed past, Plagg stretches, yawns, and follows after curiously.

When Luka glances warily at the panther, Adrien laughs. “Don’t worry. He just ate.”

Plagg’s nose bumps Luka’s shoulder as he learns the new boy’s scent.

“I suppose I shouldn’t visit when he’s hungry.” Luka offers his hand for a sniff. The snake tattoo peeks out as the silk of his cuff pulls back. “Or maybe I should nab a meat offering from the kitchens every time I come, just in case.”

The idea of future visits excites Adrien, and he has to control his smile. “If you want to bring a distracting snack, his favorite is cheese. Not too much, though, or it’ll make him sick—he doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Oh, really?” Luka arches an eyebrow. “I guess I do need to be careful, after all.”

Adrien blinks. “Why?”

“I can be very cheesy,” Luka says, flashing his teeth in a playful grin.

Adrien lets out a laugh, delighted that Luka has noticed his fondness for wordplay and is playing along.

“He’s not the only one who likes cheese. Watch out.” Adrien winks.

Luka laughs, but says nothing in response.

Self-conscious once again, Adrien clears his throat. “Anyway, I was joking. Plagg isn’t dangerous—he definitely won’t try to eat you. Besides, now that he’s met you, he knows you’re a friend.”

“His name is Plagg?” Luka asks, stroking the top of Plagg’s head. The panther lets out a deep purr that sounds like a growl and butts his head against Luka’s hand.

Adrien is almost jealous of how easily Plagg invades Luka’s space, touching and exploring with his senses. He wishes he could touch Luka’s hands, find out which parts are soft and which are calloused, feel how delicate the skin is under the snake tattoo. But humans aren’t allowed to do that.

And yet—hasn’t Luka already broken a rule for Adrien tonight?

Lowering himself onto his knees on a flat cushion and pulling his robes around him, Adrien reaches out toward Luka’s right hand. “May I?”

Luka’s mouth forms an ‘o,’ and he nods.

Plagg finds a comfortable spot among the cushions and textiles of the performance dais, his back pressing against both boys.

“See? He likes you,” Adrien mumbles absent-mindedly as he takes delicate hold of Luka’s palm and pulls it closer. He skims the fingertips of his free hand across the snake tattoo, tracing the coils from tail to head.

He feels a shudder run through Luka.

“Oh—sorry,” Adrien says, withdrawing his right hand without letting go with his left. “My touch is cold.”

“No,” Luka says, “I don’t mind. You can touch me if you want.” He pushes his hand closer to Adrien.

Adrien has never felt as warm in Hiverna as he does now, touching Luka’s skin that feels feverish against his own chilled fingertips. He traces the snake again, letting his fingers follow the line from the head to Luka’s palm. “Does this mean something to you?”

“My ma used to call me her little snake,” Luka says. “I know that’s not a very sweet nickname, but my ma is—” He snorts out a laugh. “—different.”

“Why snake?” Adrien wonders.

“She said it’s because I’m smart and patient.” His lips tug upward and fondness softens his eyes. “Not sure how true that is, though. She is my own ma after all.”

Adrien nods. “Well, I believe her. And I like snakes—they seem dangerous, like panthers, but I don’t think you’re dangerous.”

“How can you be sure?” Luka peers at him through narrowed eyes, brows raised testily. “Fire can kill.”

“I trust you,” Adrien says without hesitation.

Luka doesn’t answer, watching Adrien trace the tattoo again. Adrien feels warmth race under Luka’s skin, but he isn’t afraid of the fire—instead, he covets that vitality.

“I’ve been curious about you,” Adrien confesses. “For years, since I saw you join the court.”

“Why me?” Luka asks. His hand is limp, surrendered completely to Adrien’s curiosity. “Because I’m Fierzan?”

“Well… no, not really,” Adrien hedges. He can’t deny that Luka’s dark hair and electric blue eyes made him curious at first. The fact that he’s around Adrien’s age, and the tattoo that reminded Adrien this was a boy whose story he had yet to learn—these things all attracted the prince’s attention early on, but they were not the reasons he kept paying attention. The reason for that is something deeper that Adrien can’t quite explain. Instead, he answers vaguely, “You seemed like someone who knows things.”

“I’ve only taken basic subjects,” Luka says, confused. “You surely know much more than I do.”

Adrien shakes his head—he didn’t mean academics. “You seemed like someone who could know me… if we had a chance to talk.”

Unlike his father, who seems to see Adrien as a chore he can’t be bothered with. Unlike Nathalie, who only pays attention to whether he’s advancing in his lessons. Unlike Viktor, who is friendly but aloof. No matter how close to him they are, they only ever see ‘Prince Adrien’—the person Adrien is supposed to be in society. He’s given up trying to let them know him. He’s given into the act.

There’s something in the way Luka looks at Adrien that makes all the sumptuous fabrics, the embellishments, the jewels, the golden circlet in his hair, not matter—they don’t distract Luka from the boy underneath it all.

Luka’s hand, pliant in Adrien’s, turns over, fingernails raking upward against Adrien’s palm until their fingers interweave, palm pressed against palm, cool against warm. “That’s easy,” Luka says. “I’m at your service. We can talk as much as you want.”

“It’s not that easy,” Adrien protests.

“Oh? Why not?”

The barriers dissipate in Adrien’s mind like phantasms as he considers the question. “… Or maybe it is.”

Luka grins.

Maybe it is, indeed. Adrien can summon Luka whenever he wants—there’s nothing that prevents him from doing so.

“I’ll confess, I was curious about you, too,” Luka says quietly. “Not just because you’re the prince.”

—Except, especially when Luka says things like that in a soft, earnest tone, something in Adrien tells him that he won’t be satisfied just to have Luka nearby, even if they talk every day. For years, he’s craved to know Luka, longed for him. He feels like he’s standing on a thin patch of topsoil covering a gaping sinkhole of want, ready to swallow him as soon as he steps too hard.

Adrien pulls back his hand, feeling a hollow in his stomach as he does so.

“What’s wrong?” Luka asks.

Adrien sighs, toying with the sleeve of his robe. “Five years ago, my father made a law because of me.”

“What kind of law?”

Adrien bites his lip, looking down. “A law stating that the prince has to marry a noblewoman, if not a princess.”

“Because of you…?”

Adrien bites his lip. “He learned something about me that he didn’t like.”

“Ah,” Luka sighs. The silence that slips between is one of understanding and mutual disappointment.

Finally, Adrien speaks again, smiling faintly but cheerfully, as if to wipe clean the memory of the moment that just passed. “Could you play me another song? Please?”

Luka lifts the lute. “A nomad song?”

Adrien nods. Instead of going back to his divan, he reclines against Plagg’s back, lingering on the performance dais, close enough to touch Luka if he wanted to.

“Don’t you want to finish your supper?” Luka prods.

“No,” Adrien says. “I’d rather stay here with you.”

Luka presses his lips together. “I could heat up the food if you’d like it better that way.”

Adrien likes to have Luka fussing over him, concerned about whether he’ll eat. That’s better than any food. He pulls over a cushion to rest his arm on, to make himself look more settled. “Next time. It’s comfortable here, and I don’t feel like getting up.”

“… All right,” Luka agrees reluctantly.

As Luka plays, Adrien tries to comfort himself with the joy of the moment, to distract himself from the sense of their precious time together crumbling to dust like a stick of spent incense.

--

“I can’t do this, Plagg,” Adrien sighs.

The attendants have just left the room with a message for Luka Couffaine, head minstrel.

Come immediately, Adrien requested. Very urgent instructions for the wedding.

Adrien’s wedding to a golden-haired duchess he’s only met twice. He doesn’t feel ready, but he’s twenty years old—marrying age—and he has no choice in the matter.

Waiting is agony, and Adrien does his best not to taint his clothing with Plagg’s fur as he strokes him to settle his anxiety.

Finally, Luka knocks his own special rhythm-code against the door.

Impatient, Adrien rings the gong before rushing to meet him.

As soon as the double doors are shut, Adrien presses Luka’s back into them, bracketing him with his arms. The voluminous sleeves on his outer robe gather at his elbows, revealing the finely embroidered white silk of his undergarment and the thin, jeweled bangles that clatter at his wrists.

Adrien traces Luka’s cheekbone, touches the black opal earrings glittering at his lobes as if there are stars trapped inside.

“I would kiss you,” Adrien murmurs, “but Nathalie would kill me if they had to redo my makeup and set back the schedule.” His face is painted the color of milk for the ceremony, lips a stark black.

“This is unexpected,” Luka breathes, watching Adrien continue his study of the contours of his face. “I thought I was supposed to stop pretending you’re mine, as of today.”

“There was never any pretending. I am yours, absolutely,” Adrien protests. “You know I don’t want to marry her. I don’t know how I’m going to survive without going crazy.”

“I’ll still be nearby,” Luka soothes, stroking Adrien’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Adrien huffs. “That’ll just torture me more.”

He’s about to go on, to spit out the words that have been battering in his mind for years: Having you nearby isn’t enough. It will never be enough until you’re mine and everyone knows it. Only you—only mine. But duty clamps down on that thought.

Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and denies himself. It would be better for both of them if the temptation were gone. “I won’t be able to bear it. You should go—find someone else. You could be with anyone you want, anyone but me—there are no rules trapping you. I release you from my service.”

“Screw the king for making that stupid law,” Luka growls, placing light fingers on the corner of Adrien’s jaw to steady it.

Adrien’s eyes slide open at his tone.

Ever so slowly, Luka grazes Adrien’s lips with his own, too softly to disturb the lip paint. “I don’t want anyone but you. Let me stay near you. I’ll play for you until we die—you can have me that way, if that’s all we’re allowed. Please don’t send me away.”

Facing Luka is too painful, especially when he says words like that. Vision blurring, Adrien turns around and wraps himself in Luka’s embrace like a warm blanket.

Luka rests his chin on Adrien’s shoulder, his presence calm and comforting despite his earlier flare of irritation toward the king.

Suddenly the solution seems obvious to Adrien, like frost melting from a pane of glass to reveal a clear picture.

“Don’t play for the wedding,” Adrien murmurs, the plan formulating in his head. “Wait behind the castle in a boat—I’ll ask Viktor to prepare one for you.”

“Behind the castle? What are you planning?” Dread colors Luka’s tone. The only doors that open on the river behind the castle, separating Hiverna from Fierza, are execution doors from which criminals are thrown. Some are already dead by that time, but some are alive, to leave it up to fate whether they survive or perish.

Adrien turns around in Luka’s arms and meets his eyes, his gaze bright with determination, as if he isn’t looking at Luka but through him, into a new realm of possibility. “Wait until daybreak. If nothing happens by then—well, that might be a good thing. But maybe…” Adrien trails off, hesitant to voice the thoughts that are still only half-formed in his head.

“You think your father’s going to have you executed,” Luka says, cutting to the point.

Adrien’s mouth opens, and a beat passes before he speaks. “He’s threatened before.”

“You’re going to tell him about us?” Luka probes. “How, exactly?”

Adrien shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. I just know I can’t go through with this wedding.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Figure out a plan?” Luka’s hold on Adrien’s waist tightens. “Let me help you. Maybe it doesn’t have to come to that.”

“I—no, it’s all right. I know what I’ll do. Sorry, it’s just—I don’t want you to be in trouble knowing too much, in case anything goes wrong.” Adrien’s tone is firmer. “Just meet Viktor behind the castle and bring whatever you don’t want to leave behind.”

“That would be you,” Luka says in a tense whisper.

“Don’t forget your lute,” Adrien hints. “Or that horrible poem I wrote for you after the first time you warmed my bath.”

“This isn’t the time to joke!” Luka scrunches his brow in indignation, though his face visibly warms at the memory. “You don’t have to do this, Adrien. It’s not worth risking your life.”

“Father wouldn’t hurt me,” Adrien scoffs.

Luka’s eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

“He wouldn’t want his son’s blood on his hands,” Adrien mutters, moisture pricking the corners of his eyes. “He’d leave that to the river.”

Anger darkens Luka’s face.

“Will you wait for me with the boat?” Adrien asks, almost a plea.

Ill at ease, Luka nods and ghosts a kiss on Adrien’s cheekbone. “Yes, my prince.”

--

The sun is beginning to sink low as the ceremony proceeds. Light slices through the prism-like panes of unmelting ice that stretch from floor to ceiling on either side of the great hall, making the jewels on the guests’ garments sparkle like morning frost.

Nobles from all across Hiverna have joined the royal court for this momentous occasion: the wedding of the king’s only son, and the rise of a well-regarded Hivernan duchess to royalty.

Adrien’s thumbnails dig into his index fingers as he stands facing the crowd. His face is composed, his gaze directed at no one in particular. All eyes are fixed on him. The pipe minstrels drone a chorale in a minor key that sounds more melancholy than festive, but the missing lute voice keeps the ember of strength and hope alive in his chest.

Now is the time, says the voice in his head as the music dies down and the presider announces the bride’s arrival. If you wait much longer, it’ll be too late.

A hush of anticipation sweeps through the hall, then a bell chimes, bright and clear. On cue, the double doors slide open like the majestic wings of a swan parting, to the steady knell of bells that bounces off the bas-relief contoured walls.

Adrien’s heart twists as he sees his pretty bride appear in the doorway across the hall, her face small under the elaborate headdress that frames her temples with dangling golden ornaments. Her cheeks are pink, lips painted bright vermillion for the ceremony.

Before she can begin her march toward the altar, Adrien steps up to the podium sooner than he is supposed to. Sweat coats his palms, and a tremor makes him clench his fingers into fists. His lips are cold. He tries to conceal the shudder that racks his chest.

Now is the time, repeats the voice in his mind.

Whispers ripple through the audience—everyone knows he’s broken his ceremonial position. The presiding priestess steps forward, appalled at the unexpected interruption to the ceremony. In her eyes is a question: What in the name of the gods are you doing?

Adrien stops her with a raised hand, refusing to look toward the area where his father is sitting.

“I have an announcement to make,” he says. The heads of the guests begin to turn as they ask one another what is going on.

Out of the corner of his eye, Adrien sees the king rise slowly from his prominent seat to the right of the altar.

“I… cannot go through with this marriage.” Adrien is unexpectedly calm as the words leave his mouth, as if he’s listening to someone else make the announcement. “I love someone else—I’ve loved him for years.”

At the word ‘him,’ the whispers intensify.

The bride is so far Adrien can barely see the details of her face, but she’s frozen, and her eyes are wide.

From their brief conversations on compulsory garden “dates,” she seems like a respectable girl. He doesn’t want to hurt her—but if he drags her into this life and traps her here, won’t she hurt even more later?

I’m setting you free, Adrien rationalizes to himself as he averts his eyes, unable to watch the effect of his words.

“To those of you who traveled far to join us today… I apologize sincerely,” Adrien says to the audience. “I hope you’ll stay and partake of the food, at least.” The acoustics of the hall carry his voice, but it’s almost drowned out by the sea of murmurs below.

There is a flurry of movement around the throne, and the head of the guard appears at Adrien’s side. Before the man can speak, Adrien turns and marches toward the curtained doorway that leads into the hall behind the altar.

As soon as Adrien is alone in the empty hallway, lit only by crystal lanterns set into the walls, guards flank him and clamp onto his arms.

The chief guard cuts in front of him. “The king requests your audience in the throne room.”

“There’s no need to restrain me,” Adrien seethes. “I’ll go willingly.”

At a nod from their chief, the guards loosen their holds and let go, but they stay near enough to prevent Adrien from fleeing in case he tries.

As the procession begins to make its way toward the throne room, Adrien steels himself. At best, his father will tell him off and life will go on as usual. Yet, he can’t see that happening. He has publicly shamed the king before the eyes of the nation’s top officials and nobles. The wedding is off, and the news is sure to spread quickly, warning other nobles and kings against promising their daughters to Hiverna. There will be no ‘return to normal’ after this.

Realistically, the best he can hope for is that his father will want to keep his hands untarnished.

--

The small rowboat lurches, sloshing about in the narrow utility channel, as Luka turns three massive valve dials to the combination Viktor told him about. A whoosh sounds as water rushes down the pipes and the gate lifts.

He rows out into a body of water so vast it gives the impression of the sea, if not for the faint glittering of lights on the other bank—Fierza.

Somewhere in the castle, the wedding is underway, but no sound escapes. The river laps against the tightly fitted, smooth slabs of stone. Three gates, each twice as tall as the generous ceiling of Adrien’s bedroom, bar entrance to the tunnels for shipping barges. High above them, barely perceptible from the water level so close to the wall, smaller openings nestle among the tiles like gaps between teeth.

Luka pulls in the oars so the paddles are suspended, clear of the water. The plip-plop of falling droplets mixes with the sound of water lapping against the sides of the boat as it drifts slightly.

Luka’s stomach churns with dread—or maybe hunger. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and now the sun is low, throwing molten fire on the rippling surface of the river. The thought of feeding himself, already a low priority on the day his love was pledged to be wed to another, fled his mind the moment the prince asked him to wait in the gallows of Hiverna.

Wait until daybreak.

To pass the time and keep himself from going crazy with worry, Luka unties and sifts through the leather sack that Viktor sent him off with, taking inventory. Extra clothes and sandals, linen towels, bread, cheese and biscuits wrapped in cloth, clementines, a large flask heavy with drink. He unscrews the top to confirm that it’s water.

So Adrien was planning an escape. Most likely, Adrien intends for them to start a new life in Fierza. They’ve talked about it before, but always in a hypothetical sense—now, their vague plans are becoming a reality. Luka suspected as much, but it’s still chilling to find the confirmation.

--

A loud splash wakes Luka from a light slumber. The sun has set, and all he can see is spots of moonlight glimmering on the surface of the river.

Heart pounding, he flails out in search of the oars, which he fears in a split-second of panic have fallen into the river. Thankfully, they haven’t. He grips them, using them to anchor himself to conscious reality, and glances about as his eyes adjust.

In his left hand, he conjures a flame to see by—and notices the slightest of disturbances on the surface of the river. Bubbles breaking the surface maybe ten, twelve meters away.

Luka curses and paddles closer, clumsy in the darkness. Pulling in the oars, he strips off his jerkin and tunic and dives into the water.

Though the air is mild, the river is bracing as always on the Hivernan bank. The riverbed is deep near the castle wall, by design, to make it harder for criminals to make it out of the river alive. Fortunately, the depth and breadth of this segment of the river slows the current, so the boat shouldn’t drift too far.

Luka’s eyes burn as he opens them. Blurry masses of marine plants are barely distinct in the glow from the flame that continues to blaze in his hand even underwater. Not far off, Luka sees a figure writhing in the depths, kicking desperately to reverse their downward trajectory. White fabric billows around them—simple undergarments—but it’s still unmistakably the prince.

Navigating one-handed, placing most of the burden of propulsion on his legs, Luka swims toward Adrien and loops an arm around his waist. To free an arm for swimming, he lets the flame go out and kicks blindly toward oxygen.

They both gasp as they break the surface. The boat has drifted off several meters downstream. Letting his hold on Adrien shift to the crook of his elbow, Luka drags him over to the side of the boat and grasps the rope that skirts the outer lip.

“Hold this,” he tells Adrien, pulling the prince closer by the arm and guiding his hand to the rope. “Are you okay? Can you hold on?”

“I’m fine,” Adrien says breathlessly. “Thank you for coming—thank you for waiting.”

“Of course I came,” Luka says, spitting out water and hoisting himself into the boat. He reaches a hand down to help Adrien. “I hope you didn’t think I wouldn’t be here.”

Adrien bites his lip, enough of a sign of doubt for Luka to realize he wasn’t sure.

“Grab my hand,” Luka says through gritted teeth. When Adrien does, he pulls the prince up in a single impassioned surge of strength and gathers him into his arms, burying his face in Adrien’s neck. “As if I’d ever abandon you like that. I’m almost offended.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—I didn’t doubt—it’s just—”

“And don’t you dare say anything about how you didn’t think you were worth it. You’re everything to me, Adrien.”

Adrien clings to Luka, shaking, too cold to move from his position, too fatigued to argue or cry.

“Can you make an ice goblet?” Luka asks. “I’ll give you a flame to warm you up.”

Adrien shivers more vigorously as he pulls away from Luka and shows his wrists. Heavy bronze bangles encircle them, more like prisoners’ bonds than jewelry, welded too tightly to pull over his hands: his magic is bound.

“Ah—it’s okay,” Luka says hurriedly, swallowing the revulsion that rises in his throat at the sight. “Hold on.”

He fishes in the leather sack for a linen towel and throws it around Adrien’s shoulders. “Use that to soak up the excess water and take off your clothes.”

“What about you?” Adrien asks, picking at the knot on his top garment.

“I don’t need a towel. I’ll be dry soon,” Luka says, pointing at the steam rising from his trousers as his skin heats the fabric. “You’re not hurt, are you? Did they do anything to you?”

“No—I’m fine. Nothing happened. Father lectured me for hours and had me tossed in the river when he decided I was a lost cause.” Adrien laughs in a way that sounds worryingly hysterical.

Guessing that he’s omitting parts of the story, Luka makes a mental note to probe further under more comfortable circumstances.

He dives back into the bag in search of a new set of clothes for Adrien. Brushing drops of water off the rowboat’s empty bench, he sets down the stack of linens then takes a seat beside Adrien, who is still wrestling with the knot. “I’ve got it.” He wraps his right arm around Adrien and reaches for the stubborn knot with his left hand, nudging Adrien’s icicle fingers aside.

Adrien snuggles into Luka’s side, giving in to the uncontrollable shuddering of his body.

Pulling the garment free from Adrien’s arms, Luka drapes it over the side of the boat then wraps his arms back around the towel-swaddled Adrien to share his warmth.  “Is that better?”

Adrien nods.

“Your trousers, too,” Luka says, averting his eyes and letting go so Adrien can wiggle out of his remaining wet garments, letting them fall to the floor. Meanwhile, he fetches a dry towel and change of clothes and hands them to Adrien when he’s done. “Here—you can change when you’re ready.”

Adrien doesn’t answer, and Luka notices in the moonlight that his face is turned upward. Luka follows his gaze and is surprised to find the castle farther off than he expected. The boat must have drifted while he was focused on helping Adrien.

It takes a moment of squinting for Luka to realize what the prince is looking at. One of the execution gates is illuminated slightly from deeper within the castle. In its mouth, a shadowy figure is barely visible against the glow. No, not one figure—two.

Holding the blanket together in one fist at the base of his neck, Adrien raises his other hand into the air, arm pale against the black sky and fingers still visibly trembling.

The guards raise their hands in return. It is then that Luka realizes: regardless of the king’s intentions, the guards who did his bidding weren’t sending Adrien to his death. They knew they were setting him free.

The light at the gate fades as they turn and head back inside the castle.

Luka helps Adrien hold up the linen sheets to cover himself as he pulls on dry clothing.

“Will you be okay going back to Fierza?” Adrien asks in a small voice. He wipes his face with the wetter towel, trying to remove the last traces of the thick ceremonial makeup. “It’s been a while since you left.”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” Luka soothes, using his thumb to remove a black smear from Adrien’s cheek, then another from his lip.

“Do you think your family will accept me?”

“Of course.” Luka lets out a chuckle. “If we ever find them. Which might be tough—they don’t exactly have a permanent address. But don’t worry! We’re adults. We’ll figure things out.”

Adrien tenses as cold realization washes over him. Of course he should have known better than to think Luka could easily go back home to the mother and sister he left when he was nine. Adrien is prepared to tough things out as long as he can get away from the castle, but he assumed Luka would be going back to something familiar and comfortable, not launching out into the unknown.

“I never asked you if you wanted to do this,” Adrien utters with horror. “I forced you into this. I’m as bad as my father, taking you away from your home, your life. Luka, I’m so sorry.”

“No, Adrien—you are my life,” Luka whispers, running his fingers through Adrien’s damp locks. The moonlight reveals faint steam rising upon contact. “You’re not ‘taking me away’ from anything important. If I valued my job more than you, I could have told Viktor no, and he would have gone to save you himself. You didn’t force me into anything.”

Adrien scans Luka’s face, seeming hesitant to believe him, then leans forward and lets his lips skim the other boy’s.

For once, they don’t have to strain their ears for signs of an intruder to their privacy. There’s no one on the river, and they’re as good as dead to Hiverna. They can do whatever they want.

Fingers still woven into Adrien’s hair, Luka pulls him closer, letting his lips part slightly to warm Adrien’s cold ones with his own.

The sound of a large splash, followed by a series of smaller ones, reminds them that they are still near the castle. Too near. Pulling apart, they go stock still, searching for the source of the noises. There’s a dark figure in the water swimming toward them.

After a moment of anxious hesitation, Luka lights a flame in his palm.

“Plagg!” Adrien cries, rushing to the edge of the boat.

Relaxing, Luka peers past Plagg, toward the castle. The shipping gates are still firmly shut, so his eyes find the utility channel he had used to bring out the rowboat. That gate is open, and a golem-like figure sits in a boat there, watching.

“Adrien,” Luka says, pointing.

Adrien raises his hand, no longer shivering this time, and Viktor’s silhouette bows in response.

Luka bows too and waves to Viktor. Both boys watch as he rows back through the small gate, disappearing from sight.

And now they need to figure out how to get a panther into a rowboat.

Luka removes an oar from the oarlock and plunges it into the water to see if Plagg can use it as a gangplank. It’s too narrow, but with Plagg digging his claws into the paddle and both Adrien and Luka pulling the handle, they manage to get the sopping cat inside without tipping the boat.

“We’ve got quite the party now,” Luka chuckles, ripping a splinter off the cosmetically damaged oar and tossing it to the floor before inserting the handle back into the oarlock.

Adrien goes to the leather sack to grab another towel for Plagg. “Now there’s really no reason to look back,” he says with a grin as he settles onto the bench across from Luka and starts rubbing Plagg down.

“Adrien.”

Adrien looks up in alarm at the somber tone in Luka’s voice.

“Before I start rowing… are you sure about this? I know you know this, but life will be different from what you’re used to. It might not be easy, especially if it takes us a while to find my family. We might have to get jobs.”

“Jobs?” Adrien gasps. “What an atrocity.”

Luka raises an eyebrow. “You joke, but I’m serious. You’ve never had a job before. Are you really ready for this?”

“Of course!” Adrien whaps Luka gently with Plagg’s towel. “I’ve already thought about that. I’m ready to face whatever we have to.”

Plagg huffs, bumping his damp head against Adrien’s hand.

“Adrien, let’s be serious for a moment. Whoever survives the river earns the right to start anew in Hiverna, right?” Luka asks. He doubts Adrien had enough time to fully consider their future in the moment of resolve before he asked Luka to meet him behind the castle.  “It’s not too late to go back. Maybe your father will change his mind and let you stay in the palace.”

“What is there to go back to? I ruined everything already.” Adrien grimaces. “Let Father believe I’m dead. He finally kicked me out—sweet freedom! There’s no way I’m passing up this long-awaited chance to tour Fierza.”

“It won’t be a royal tour,” Luka warns.

“I prefer a nomad minstrel tour,” Adrien says brightly, stretching out his bare foot to nudge Luka on the shin.

“In that case…” Luka turns the oars, letting them sweep the river water, and the boat begins to drift toward the glittering horizon.

Adrien resumes toweling off Plagg, then stops again as a thought strikes him. “You don’t want to go back, do you?”

“No,” Luka says, grinning. “I’d rather stay here with you.”