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The open window welcomed sunlight into the bedroom. A songbird perched on the windowsill now and then to share a song, then took flight. But between the bustle of personal attendants and the distant thrum of Oriflamme’s marketplace, Dion focused on something else that morning.
Muted battle cries reached his room. Dion cracked a smile; the dragoons-in-training rose early to fine-tune their skills. Once his attendants finished fastening his sparring armor, Dion would join them. Together, they could protect the Empire and its citizens.
His smile faltered to a solemn line. That was the intent, anyways.
“Your Highness?” one of the attendants piped up. “Is everything alright?”
Dion stood tall and nodded. “I am well, yes.”
The attendant bowed and resumed his work. But the truth, however, was quite the opposite. For the past month, Dion trained alongside others to become a proper dragoon. To earn such a title was akin to receiving Bahamut’s blessing.
And when the Warden of Light—the Dominant of Bahamut himself—showed up to train with mundane men? Dion’s so-called noble peers gave him a wide berth, either out of fear of harming the crown prince or... Greagor’s Breath, he didn’t know what invisible force repelled everyone.
Well, not quite everyone.
“All set, Your Highness.”
Dion rolled his shoulders, tugged on his gloves, and pivoted to a mirror. Perhaps the austere padded armor wasn’t suited for royalty, but he insisted on donning it. If we are to be one and the same, he mused, then nothing should set us apart, save for our skills.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Dion thanked and dismissed his attendants, exited the room, and marched for the courtyard.
Few roamed the hallways that morning. Those who did cross paths with Dion scurried aside to bow and address him. Some offered blessings from Greagor or even praised his promising future as a dragoon. Had any of them seen those practice sessions? Or were they all conditioned to wax poetics the moment he stepped into view? Dion sighed and pressed on. Best not to read into the implications, if any. Besides, he required a clear head when preparing for combat.
And yet his head was anything but that upon reaching his destination.
Squires leaned into their wooden halberds from the sidelines. Two men sparred in the center, nothing but blurs as they circled one another. A few shouted in support, but most held their tongues to watch the spectacle. Dion certainly did, even as every fiber of his being cheered for Terence.
Since day one, Terence treated each session like an actual battle. Nothing restrained him and thus he never tasted defeat in a one-on-one spar. A single look at him mid-battle conveyed plenty; such finesse and prowess exemplified what it meant to be a dragoon. And Dion longed to watch him, to memorize the details better than any of their instructions.
It was in his intricate footwork, always parrying with precise timing. It was in his posture, simultaneously unyielding and fluid as he shifted from defensive to offensive. It was in the elaborate twirls of his halberd and how that alone planted countless fantasies into Dion’s mind. It was in the way he licked his lips while waiting for an opening and how his dark hair fell into his eyes after landing a jump attack.
But the view of his childhood friend wasn’t the sole reason why Dion continued to arrive for practice.
“You mustn’t let their distance dissuade you,” Terence had said several weeks ago.
Dion had been in the middle of leaving the courtyard after yet another frustrating spar, where his partner treated him more like a ceramic relic than a combatant. He scoffed at Terence’s words and—regretfully, in hindsight—spun to unleash his ire onto him.
“Then humor me,” Dion had spat out, “as to how I can earn their trust?! We prepare for the likes of war and yet they tread the very ground I stand on like thin ice!”
To his credit, Terence never flinched; he met Dion’s livid glare. “Have patience, Dion. Flowers do not bloom overnight.”
He scoffed. “We are not flowers, but prospective dragoons.”
“And you are also far more than both of those. You....” Terence’s gaze swept over him. “Let them see you for who you truly are. Not as a prince nor as a Dominant, but as a fellow dragoon.”
How exactly was he to accomplish that? But when Terence walked away after that shred of insight, Dion returned to practice the following day. And the next. Again and again. The mutual hesitation around Dion persisted, though he recalled Terence’s words and the verity thrumming in each one.
Because if Terence believed in him, that eclipsed all of the Empire’s praise.
Applause jerked Dion back to the present. Terence won his match, pinning a foot upon his opponent’s chest. Squires rushed to congratulate him along with taunting the poor loser. Dion strolled into the courtyard unnoticed during the revelry. Mostly.
“Dion!”
Terence broke away from the group to greet him. Another time, perhaps Terence would’ve corrected himself by formally addressing his prince and bowing before Bahamut’s chosen one. Dion cherished those moments, though. It was like they were still children, frolicking before afternoon tea without a care in the world. But they weren’t kids anymore. They were almost of age to be deemed adults. Furthermore, they were dragoons-in-training, equals on the battlefield.
If only the feeling was mutual with the remaining squires.
“Barely past sunrise and you’ve already swept someone onto their back,” Dion teased.
Terence let out a nervous laugh. “Just honoring a bet from earlier this week.”
“Oh? Dare I ask what the wager was?”
“Nothing lucrative, I assure you. Simply enough gil to bruise one’s pride.”
Dion wished to inquire as to what Terence planned to do with his extra gil, aside from using it for bragging rights. Their instructor, however, called out and dissolved every conversation in the courtyard.
Everyone filed into formation for their morning lecture. The day’s lesson involved a new jumping technique—something more advanced, yet key to their dragoon arsenal. After several demonstrations, their instructor dismissed them to test it on their own.
The squires grabbed sparring halberds, yet circumvented Dion, as always. He tried to engage in idle conversation while they stretched. By then, everyone dispersed.
Dion sighed and claimed a vacant corner to practice.
Dragoons were renowned for their jump ability, but it was the double jump that separated the seasoned combatants from the novices. Perfect that and a squire secured his place in earning the title of dragoon. Otherwise, the imperial army always welcomed more foot soldiers. But Dion wasn’t keen on staying earthbound; he yearned to fly without Bahamut’s aid.
And thus he repeated the footwork a dozen times until he launched himself skywards.
Dion cleared the first jump, but stumbled and crashed on the second. In his peripheral vision, he spotted their instructor; intrigue colored that man’s face, as if regarding him as one did with their child taking its first steps unaided. So Dion rose and tried again.
And again and again and again.
The tenth time he botched his landing, a chuckle graced the air.
Terence loomed over him. “Enjoying the view from down there?”
Hopefully, the blush swelling on his cheeks wasn’t noticeable. “I assure you this wasn’t intentional.”
“You say that, but you’ve done nothing to correct your mistakes.”
Dion squinted. “And you’re here to rub salt in my wounds?”
Terence smirked and extended a hand. “May I show you, Your Highness?”
Had someone else teased him with that title in that tone, Dion would’ve reprimanded them. But Terence wasn’t just anyone and he rather enjoyed how he purred that question. It was enough to elicit pleasant chills. Definitely enough to accept Terence’s aid—both with rising and practicing.
“You must relax your posture,” he instructed Dion. “Every part of you stiffens when performing the second jump.”
Dion struggled to maintain eye contact. Not just at the implications of Terence’s remark, but also the notion that he was watching him so intently to discern the nuances.
“When you strike,” Terence continued, “remember to curl into your target—” He struck the earth and demonstrated against the halberd’s shaft. “—and spring back.” He performed the steps with exaggerated poses. “Imagine you’re uncoiling yourself, like a dragon taking flight. It will add height to your jump and weight to your dive. Simple enough.”
“Explained like that? Yes, quite so.”
Terence averted his gaze. “Being fluid and pliable makes for less resistance when you land. Move with your weapon, not against it. The latter is akin to hitting a stone wall.” A pause, then, “Here. Like this.”
He demonstrated what he preached, but Dion could only marvel at the sublime grace Terence exhibited. If he hadn’t known better, Dion would’ve assumed Bahamut blessed him as Dominant. And when Terence nailed that second jump, he continued the momentum to somersault off his invisible target and land on his feet.
“See?” He pivoted to Dion. “Simple enough.”
“Simple, indeed,” he chuckled out. “You’ve taken to this role quite well.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Come now, Terence; no need to be modest,” Dion teased. “You’re on your way to becoming a great knight. Perhaps even one of the greatest. The Empire is fortunate to have you.”
Pink bloomed on his cheeks as he struggled to meet Dion’s gaze. “I... only wish to do my best.”
“That you have.” He nudged Terence’s shin with the butt of his halberd. “It suits you, really.”
He managed to smile. That also suited his flushed features. “Thank you.”
For a moment, Dion envisioned their future together. With both royal blood and Bahamut’s blessing flowing in his veins, there was no doubt that Dion would be viewed as a leader amongst the dragoons. It was only a matter of adequate training to fit the role—and gaining the trust of his peers. But if anyone is to be at my side, at my every beck and call... I pray Greagor is kind enough to save that spot for you, dear Terence.
“Now then, shall we give it a try?”
Dion blinked out of his reverie. “Give what a try?”
“Your double jump. I’ve given you tips, so let us see you implement them.”
Right. Of course. Their training. Dion twirled his halberd and assumed the starting stance. Deep breaths coursed through him. Terence’s insights echoed within. Be fluid. Flow with the motions. Don’t seize up. Mimic a dragon and so on and so forth.
The first jump was easy. It always was. Dion could’ve done just that in his sleep, but that wasn’t the assignment. And once he struck his imaginary mark, he applied Terence’s advice. Dion uncoiled himself and soared above once more. He tumbled and flourished his halberd before descending. It almost reminded him of a cat correcting its posture midair before landing gracefully. And that time? Dion did land with grace, skewering the earth and never faltering.
He grinned at his success. Even Terence applauded his improvement.
“Well done, Dion!” he said. “You’re a fast learner.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, perching his halberd upon his shoulder. “I’m in debt to an excellent teacher, after all.”
There was that blush again. Dion never tired of that sight.
As much as he longed to tease Terence some more—just to see how deep the crimson would burn—their instructor called out.
“Now find a sparring partner,” he said, “and see how you fare against another jumping opponent!”
Mild chuckles rolled through the group. Some squires immediately paired off with friends. Others hesitated before turning to a nearby man to inquire about practice. No one glanced in Dion’s direction, though. Or Terence’s, for that matter.
“I’m afraid I set an example,” Terence sighed out. “Not that I fault anyone for avoiding a spar with me, but....”
“This isn’t a gamble,” Dion said. “What is there to lose?”
“Pride, for one.” He glanced at him. “A good night’s sleep, depending on the bruises.”
Dion snickered. So did Terence after a spell.
“You are well-versed in sweeping folks onto their backs,” Dion noted.
Terence scoffed. “I try to avoid striking them down face-first. It’s the least I can offer.”
Not where Dion’s mind gravitated towards, but he bit his tongue, nonetheless. Both scanned the area. Of course no one wished to challenge the recent victor. Per usual, everyone shied away from the crown prince. But Terence lingered by his side.
And a new idea struck him.
“Then it’s good to know I won’t receive a broken nose by your hand,” Dion said.
Terence flinched. “What are you... Dion, I—”
“You require a sparring partner, yes?” He brandished his halberd. “As do I, it seems.”
“And you wish to choose me?”
I’d always choose you, Greagor as my witness. “Care to suggest an alternative, then?”
Terence opened and closed his mouth. Any attempt to dissuade Dion fizzled out. In the end, he shook his head, scoffed, then readied his halberd.
“Don’t think I’ll go easy on you,” Terence grumbled.
The determination in his eyes brought a skip in Dion’s chest. “Trust me. I was under no such delusions.”
And before Terence could retort, Dion charged ahead.
A flourish, then a strike. Terence blocked the attack, inches from Dion.
“Like old times, hmm?” Dion smirked. “I must say... I missed this.”
Terence gritted his teeth and shoved him away. “This isn’t a pretend game of war with tree branches.”
“No.” He spun his halberd single-handedly, then beckoned for Terence. “But it is a game to be won—”
Dion barely finished that sentence. Wooden blades clashed. He staggered against Terence’s onslaught. His dear friend took to the skies and executed a flawless double jump. However, he missed Dion both times.
“What remarkable form!” he said. “If only you were to strike true—”
“Oh, shut up.”
And Dion beamed as Terence bolted towards him, unhindered by the fact he was royalty or his childhood friend.
This was what he wanted—a fair fight with a peer. Whatever reservations Terence harbored initially melted, as if keen on wiping the smirk off the prince’s face.
But Dion discerned Terence’s predictable steps and aimed for his calves. Terence yelped. His weapon flung free. A distinct thud burst into the courtyard, followed by gasps.
Dion picked up the fallen weapon and loomed over Terence. “I must say.... You do look remarkable on your back.”
Those stunning eyes bore into him, but more than frustration burned there. Was it excitement, perhaps? Or maybe Dion assumed too much.
He extended the halberd to Terence. “Best of three?”
A laugh escaped him as he grasped the shaft and hoisted himself onto his feet. “Best of three, but need I remind you what today’s lesson involved?”
Ah, yes. Double jumps. Terence executed plenty while Dion remained on the ground. Time to change up his tactics.
Their next round commenced. Dion gasped for air while keeping his sights on Terence. He embodied dexterity and brute strength in perfect balance. A worthy adversary, for certain, but Dion refused to go easy on his friend. Thankfully, Terence reciprocated that sentiment.
To Dion’s credit, he pulled off two double jumps during that round. None of them connected, though. And when Terence vaulted high above, the sun crested over the buildings and blinded Dion for but a second.
That was all Terence needed to pin Dion to the earth.
He blinked the stars out of his eyes. Great Greagor, he’d feel that come the following morning. But for now, Dion stared at the grinning man extending a hand to him.
“See?” Terence purred. “No broken noses, as promised.”
“Right you are.” Dion grasped his forearm and hauled himself upright. “Once more, then?”
But Terence’s focus drifted. Following his line of sight, Dion held his breath. Almost everyone stopped their training to witness them. Even their instructor stood in the rear, arms crossed while appraising his students. Nothing but awe swelled in each face. Dion couldn’t help but chuckle.
“It appears we’ve gained an audience,” he murmured.
“Seems so,” Terence said for his ears only. “Best we give them a performance, yes?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The distance between them grew. Whispers from the bystanders taunted Dion. Maybe they placed bets. And maybe, if he was lucky, he could finally gain their respect.
Silence loomed in the courtyard as they stared each other down. Dion flexed his hands against the halberd’s shaft. Terence stood motionless, save for moistening his lips.
Then they bolted for one another in a blink of an eye.
Feet shuffled. Halberds twirled and clashed. The occasional grunt surfaced, sometimes a battle cry. Neither yielded, though. Simply caught in an intricate dance to seize victory.
Dion stumbled when a shout pierced the heavens. One of the squires emboldened him. Then another yelled for Terence. More voices joined the fray as the two sparred. A smile flashed across Dion’s face; if Terence wasn’t keeping him on his toes, he might have remarked on the cheers. Good. That’s what he wanted. A month into their training and Dion finally relished a proper fight.
And Terence fought with the same fervor from his earlier match. This time, however, money wasn’t involved. This time, they were two young men, vying to become dragoons on their own merit. A far cry from their days of playing make-believe, especially when neither had yet to land a blow.
Dion caught his breath after evading another attack. The boom of cheers deafened him, but he pinpointed a vulnerability from sight alone. Terence’s moves never strayed from what was instructed; he was a model knight in every sense of the word. If Dion was to gain an advantage, he needed to improvise.
Terence dove faster on the second jump, as if to catch him off guard. But Dion used that against him. He tumbled in his descent, as if to bait Terence in that feint, then sprung back up—at him. Curling into himself, then retracting, much like that double jump. And when he collided with Terence midair, Dion coiled around him, flipped his body, and slammed Terence into the ground upon his descent.
Sweat beaded along Dion’s neck. He panted and steadied himself against his halberd. Their captive audience uttered nothing, not even a gasp.
Dion chuckled, a touch weary. “Seems the victor has been dethroned.”
He didn’t humor Dion with a response, though.
His heart skipped. “Terence?”
He sprawled out supine, eyes closed and mouth ajar. Dion shook his shoulders and smacked his cheek.
“Terence, say something,” he pleaded, his voice cracking near the end.
Still nothing.
Dion’s pride deteriorated and welcomed panic in its wake. “No. No no no no. Wake up. Wake up, Terence!” He scouted the perimeter. “Healer! We need a healer! Now!”
Squires scattered. Shouts reverberated past the courtyard. However long it took for help to arrive was beyond Dion. He knelt by his unconscious friend, clutched his gloved hand tighter than a weapon, and quietly begged Greagor to restore Terence.
He blinked and multiple people approached. Another blink and Dion marched alongside the Empire’s elite healers to the infirmary wing. Once more and he paced outside the private quarters reserved for Terence as healers worked what magic they possessed—literal and figurative—to tend to his injuries.
“Your Highness?”
Dion whipped around. How long had he waited for news? Seconds? Hours? It all felt the same, really.
The elder healer bowed before him. “The young squire—”
“Terence?” he asked. “Is he well? Will he live?”
“He is merely unconscious. A few ribs are fractured and he’s bruised all over, but it’s nothing that time won’t heal. The blow to his head, however, will require further monitoring—”
“So he’ll survive?”
“Yes, Your Highness. Nothing fatal. Just a rough day of training, I imagine.”
Dion cowered before that remark. “The fault is mine to bear, then.”
“Do not burden yourself with this, Your Highness. To confront a relentless foe now will prepare him for real combat.” She smiled at him. “And if the dragoons require a fearless leader, best to remind them now of your potential.”
The healer bowed once more and took her leave, but her words rang in Dion’s ears. All that time, he yearned to be treated as an equal, not a superior. And after his dear friend—his beloved Terence—agreed to spar with him and refused to hold back....
Dion scoffed, wiped away the tears swelling in his eyes, and entered the room.
The interior exemplified Oriflamme’s polished aesthetic, albeit more subdued and practical. Besides, why decorate a room when the sole occupant would likely spend their time asleep? Dion dragged a stool to the bedside and sat next to Terence. The healers had stripped him of his armor and undershirt, then swaddled him in bandages. Extra pillows propped up his head, which lolled to the left. Dion resisted the urge to sweep fallen hair out of his shut eyes.
“Forgive me, Terence,” he murmured, each word quivering on his tongue. “Had I known the outcome of our spar would....” Dion shook his head and stared out a window. “It was not my intention to harm you. I’d rather fight every army in Valisthea alone than ever bring you discomfort. I can only pray that you’ll allow me to stay by your side, despite this mishap, but... if you were to request I never share the same space as you again?”
Dion gingerly reached for Terence’s hand. It turned over, limp and cool to the touch. He tested the space between those long fingers. Heaving out a massive exhale, Dion interwove their hands and squeezed tight.
“Then I’ll honor it,” he pressed on. “For you. Always for you.”
Terence never answered; he slept soundly in the infirmary bed while Dion clung to him, to whatever remained of their frayed bond. Simply uttering what lingered in his soul for far too long eased his consciousness. Just a little bit. Enough to dry his eyes and soothe the erratic pounding in his chest. But he spoke the truth and treated it like an oath. Whenever Terence came to, Dion intended to follow his lead.
Until then, he waited.
The occasional healer visited to inspect Terence. The sun sank into the horizon, igniting the room in golden hues before cooling off. Moonlight spilled across Terence’s frozen form and Dion neglected meals and his own bed to keep watch over him. He wished to be there when Terence woke up, to ensure he did wake up.
But the perpetual dread weighed upon on Dion. Not even Bahamut’s light could invigorate him at midnight. His eyelids grew heavy, as did his limbs. Dion stifled multiple yawns before slumping forward. Terence’s lap proved to be a decent pillow. His breaths slowed, then deepened. Their locked hands slipped away as Dion drifted elsewhere.
Nothing entertained him in his dreams, save for hazy images of the morning’s events. But no anxiety thrummed there. Only tranquility. Much like soaking in a hot bath after an arduous day. Perhaps he could linger there a bit—
“Dion?”
No, he misheard that. Something evoked from his dreams—to seduce him into staying longer.
“Dion, can you hear me?”
He stirred. Warmth swept around him in a tender embrace. Dion leaned into it, basked in it.
But it was the brush along his temple that rattled him awake.
He fluttered his eyes and froze. Dust motes floated in the pillars of sunlight. A warm meal sat on a nightstand. And Terence sat up in bed, stroking Dion’s head nestled in his—
Wait.
Terence was awake.
And he was—
Dion jerked away, sitting upright. “Terence?! When did you—” His jaw dropped. “Are you—” He scoffed at himself and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, I—”
Gentle laughter trickled into the room. Terence smiled at Dion.
“What ever are you so sorry for?” he asked.
“Surely you jest,” Dion coughed up. “It is because of my actions that you are here. You remember, yes?”
Those lovely eyes drifted to the bedside window. “I remember us sparring, remember jumping high, and... then I woke here.” He glanced at Dion. “With you in my lap.”
The heat blistering upon his cheeks rivaled the Dhalmekian deserts. “I couldn’t bring myself to leave you.”
“Am I more comfortable than your royal pillows?”
He was lucky there weren’t any pillows in reach to chuck at his stupid, handsome face. “I refused to abandon you until I knew you were well.”
“But why?”
Why the hell not? “Terence, I... I hurt you. And for that, I am truly sorry.”
Silence festered between them.
“I feared you’d never wake,” Dion murmured, swallowing the nausea tickling his throat. “I feared... I had done more damage than good.”
“Dion, we were sparring. If we are to become dragoons, we must acquaint ourselves with pain.”
“Not by your allies, I imagine.”
His lips twitched into a wry smile. “Our allies. You speak of how they avoid you. Out of reverence. Fear, perhaps. A valid reaction to the Dominant of Bahamut himself.”
Frustration boiled his blood. Dion tensed while untangling his thoughts to retort and—
“But.”
All of that ebbed elsewhere when Terence looked at him like that—like nothing else mattered.
“I pray that one day they understand,” he murmured, “that your greatest strength isn’t your magic or your Eikon or even your future reign of Sanbreque.”
Terence dared to reach for Dion. And he allowed him to draw close, to cup his cheek, to hold him.
“It’s your heart, Dion,” he said. “May it be your compassion or integrity, it bleeds you dry for the sake of everyone else. That’s why you yearn for the respect of our allies, is it not? You warm them with light, even if it means setting yourself ablaze.”
Dion bore into him, torn between sheer anger and genuine humiliation over being read like an open book. Then again, if anyone was to make such an observation, he was glad his dear friend noticed.
“Are you not cross with me, then?” Dion asked. “For bringing you here, of all places?”
A crass snort escaped Terence as he retracted, slamming a hand over his mouth.
“Well then,” Dion deadpanned, “I see those ribs healed with miraculous haste. What a relief.”
“It hurts to laugh, actually,” Terence squeezed out amidst his convulsions.
“Clearly.”
“Forgive me, I could hardly restrain myself.”
“Yes, at least we can agree on that.”
“It’s just—” Terence recomposed himself with steady breaths, but his grin remained, to Dion’s delight. “You believe I’d come to despise you? Over a spar?”
When he said it like that....
“Dion, no matter what you say or do, either today or decades to come... I could never hate you.”
His pulse stopped. He forgot to breathe, as well. Because he must have imagined that. For all Dion knew, he struck his own head and everything that transpired was a dream and—
“So please know,” Terence said, “that I’d relive that moment a thousand times over and change nothing.”
“You mean that?” Dion asked before he could bite his tongue.
“To risk my well-being to stand by your side? I mean every last word.”
His entire body thrummed with delight. A part of him longed to jump out the window, prime himself, and fly around Valisthea to burn off the excess energy. Perhaps Terence didn’t intend the implications Dion yearned for, but it was better to gain his loyalty and respect than to lose him altoge—
“And I mean it,” Terence groaned, “when I say you must work on your technique.”
Dion cocked his head. “Beg your pardon?”
“I’ll commend you for improvising, but your landing leaves much to be desired. For someone who’s accustomed to soaring above, I’m genuinely shocked you haven’t crashed into a wall as a dragon. Though I suppose that would take the enemy forces by sur—”
Dion crawled halfway into bed with Terence to swipe a blasted pillow and pummel him with it. Thankfully, a healer walked in on their antics and shooed away the prince before he caused any actual damage.
“Ah, there he is!”
“Look who’s returned!”
Those comments caught Dion off-guard. He parried a jab, then glanced over his shoulder to inspect the commotion. Air hitched in his throat. Several squires abandoned their training to welcome back Terence.
Thank Greagor for your swift recovery. What a relief to have you—
Blunt force knocked him off his feet. Dion cried out and slammed flat on his back. His opponent towered over him while stifling his amusement.
“Didn’t take you to be so easily distracted,” he taunted, then extended a hand.
Dion chuckled with him, grasped his hand, and stood. “I assure you it won’t happen again.”
The squire nodded and thanked Dion for accepting the spar. I should be thanking you, truth be told. Weeks ago, no one dared to look at him, never mind offer to practice together. Now? Some squires held their own spars to narrow down who earned the honor of facing the crown prince.
For now, though, Dion rushed to Terence.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he teased.
Terence tore away from the young men he conversed with, turned to Dion, and... was he blushing just then? “Don’t get your hopes up for a rematch. I’m under strict orders to keep physical exertion to a minimum for the next week or two.” He patted his side. “The healers sped up my recovery, but I do not wish to test my luck.”
“Of course. No sense in undoing your progress. I gather you can spectate our sessions going forward?”
Terence tilted his head, flicked his eyes over him, and smirked. “Something like that, yes.”
Great Greagor, now he was blushing.
“And from the looks of it,” Terence added, “you’ve gotten on well without me.”
Before Dion could reply, their peers jumped in to answer. They mentioned how impressed they were from their last spar and that convinced them to approach Dion without hesitation. In that little time, they bonded, as allies should. And while Dion cowered slightly from the profuse praise, Terence shot him a knowing look.
Their instructor whistled sharply—a sign their next demonstration was underway. The crowd scattered, but Dion lingered.
Terence shuffled to Dion and dropped his voice to a murmur. “I told you they’d warm up to you.”
His lips quirked. “Only required a medical emergency, but yes, it seems they have.”
He breathed out a chuckle. “A worthy sacrifice.”
“You think that?”
Terence walked closer. Dangerously closer. His breath teased Dion’s lips. He swore heat radiated off him from the proximity alone.
“I know,” Terence murmured, “that I’d gladly put my life on the line, if it meant securing you peace of mind.”
Dion swallowed hard and lost himself in his gaze. “That’s hardly necessary.”
“No?”
“No. You... you by my side is enough, dear Terence.”
Under different circumstances—better ones, at least—Dion might have stepped into Terence and sealed that truth with a kiss. But their instructor scolded them from afar and some of his new friends taunted Dion for dallying. Thus he withdrew and bowed.
“I’d best be off, then,” Dion said.
Terence licked his lips and nodded. “I’ll be on the sidelines.”
“Then I’ll put on a good show for you.”
Terence smiled and walked past him. One more whisper reached Dion’s ears before he joined the others. It echoed in his mind throughout the remainder of practice and well into the night. And the way Terence said it? How the words rolled off his tongue like spun silk?
“You always do, my prince.”
Perhaps there was something more between them. And maybe when Terence fully recovered, Dion could find new excuses to sweep him off his feet and onto his back.