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Chapter Text

Roland felt like nothing more than an embellishment as he was standing by his father’s side, of the same importance as the pristine rug rolled out to their feet, perhaps the dazzling chandelier that adorned the high ceiling of the throne room. It was the only use Roland’s presence could have to the king here, placed to his father’s left like a portrait of himself. His brother Frani, of course, was ever his father’s right hand.

They were about to discuss the terms and current progress of the new mining venture. It was a topic which Roland and his father notoriously disagreed on. The king was trying to calm the waves between the three nations, as the early discussions had been fierce, especially regarding the role Hyzante played. Roland, in sharp contrast to his father’s more accommodating approach, was of the thought they were indulging the Holy State’s sensibilities too much, making concessions where none were due.

His father certainly didn’t appreciate his input on the matter, much less in front of their esteemed guests. The king simply wanted to keep up appearances and have both of his sons by his side for the occasion.

Roland craved for a more productive – leave alone enjoyable – use of his time. He could be training right now or pay the city and his people a visit. Instead, he was scheduled to stand about and look pleasant for the foreseeable future. Roland began to shift from foot to foot as his agitation simmered.

The heavy door to the throne room swung open with a subtle creak, the servant’s hasty steps echoing in the large, quiet room.

“Your Highness, Lord Svarog and Lord Dragan of Aesfrost have arrived,” the man spoke up into the silence.

“Pray, show them in,” the king ordered. The servant bowed and complied – how pleasant.

Shortly, he returned with the two foreign lords. First was Lord Svarog, who Roland had already met once in the past. He had left an impression on Roland back then. The man appeared just as tall as Roland remembered him and ever as imposing in presence. His stature was hardly the only thing grand about the foreign lord. His straight stance, cutting gaze and powerful voice perfectly completed the picture.

Roland would have called him intimidating at first glance, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that one wouldn’t want to get on the Aesfrosti’s bad side. However, Lord Svarog had quickly revealed himself to be much more pleasant company than the first impression would imply. He hadn’t seen it as beneath him to chat the princeling up. On the contrary, Lord Svarog had even had some words of encouragement to spare for Roland.

After Lord Svarog hurried a – by comparison – much slighter, younger man. He must have been a little shorter than Roland but still appeared stalky in stature. The young lord was exceptionally pale, a feature only accentuated by the dark-brown, wavy hair that framed his features. Neither his steps nor his looks carried the same gravitas as Lord Svarog’s, though the sharp look in his eyes and self-assured posture did give just a tinge of that presence. He must have been Lord Svarog’s son after all.

“Lord Svarog, I am grateful you were able to make it here in person, as I am sure you are ever a busy man” the king greeted the other nobles, his voice carrying though the whole hall.

“The pleasure is mine, Your Highness,” Svarog returned the pleasantry, his gravitas not paling against the King of Glenbrook in the slightest, “I hope my son’s presence is of no inconvenience to you. I’m aware I brought him along on short notice.”

“On the contrary, I have heard much about Lord Dragan’s contribution to the joined mining venture. It is a shame we did not have the pleasure of meeting thus far,” the king reasoned.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I am grateful that you would lend me your valuable time,” Dragan finally spoke up. His voice was much softer than his father’s, but he carried himself with such confidence that he hardly stood out. The young lord must have only been about Roland’s age. Roland wondered whether he would have the courage to carry such a stark presence if he were to meet the Archduke, for example.

“Please, I am just as thankful for your time, Lord Dragan. You must be ever busy with your studies,” the king assured. Roland could have sworn Dragan beamed a little at the acknowledgement.

“Allow me to introduce you to my sons as well,” his father continued, “To my right-hand side stands Frani, our crown prince. The boy on my left is Roland, my younger son.”

His father motioned to introduce them both. While Frani only gave a short bow, Roland quickly greeted the diplomats, “It’s pleasure to meet the both of you in person.”

Dragan’s eyes scanned across Roland swiftly as he spoke. He had such an attentive gaze; Roland assumed he must be quite sharp – and critical.

“Pray tell, how are your studies treating you, Lord Dragan?” the king inquired, “I would love to hear more about it from your person, now that the chance presents.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Dragan started explaining, “I’m pleased to report that I’m progressing swiftly. I was able to run tests with the first prototype but days ago. Of course, some adjustments will have to be made… However, I’m certain I’ll have the explosives fully realized in due time.”

“Ah, what pleasant news!” Roland’s father expressed eagerly, a tinge of a laugh swinging beneath his tone.

“Indeed, it is heartening to see hard work pay off,” Lord Svarog agreed, his booming voice carrying a cheerful edge, “The start of our joined venture is close at hand now; the only liability remaining is the contribution of the Holy State.”

“I have arranged further negotiations with Hyzantian representatives. Minister Sorsley will most likely be the one attending,” the king explained, “It is clear that the Holy State is considering our terms honestly, a fact which fills me with hope for a timely resolution.”

As the men settled into a steady pace of exchanging pleasantries, Roland’s attention started to slip. He had to fight the urge to muse about something else; the slight missteps he had made in the last training session came to mind.

“Of course, Hyzante would do poor in declining our offer,” Lord Svarog reasoned, “They must be aware that all our nations will benefit from the new mine.”

“Your Highness, if I may…” Dragan interjected. It was a little startling – to Roland, at least, as the bold remark succeeded in popping his imaginary bubble.

There was a short pause, further demonstrating that Dragan had spoken out of line. Roland wondered whether he was waiting for permission to speak. Dragan was doing no such thing; the moment he had caught everyone’s attention, he spoke up again, “I quite frankly don’t see a point in involving Hyzante at all – leave alone as an equal partner.”

Roland tensed just thinking about having this discussion again. He couldn’t help but wonder if Dragan’s daring fashion of speaking would melt away once he would meet with backlash.

“Your Highness, pray forgive my son…” Svarog tried to mitigate the discussion.

“For what good reason? I was asking in earnest,” Dragan swiftly complained, negating whatever efforts his father could make to wave off the inquiry.

Dragan truly was a strange fellow, speaking so foolhardily in front of the king of all people. Not a piece of his presentation betrayed him. His posture remained steadfast, and his gaze was sharp as ever when it shifted from Lord Svarog directly to the king.

Actually, Roland wasn’t so much appalled as he was impressed, perhaps slightly envious. He hoped to possess at least a piece of that attitude himself.

“It’s all right, Lord Svarog. The boy wasn’t present during any of our prior exchanges,” the king waved off, “He must not be aware of the assets we could gain from Hyzante’s contribution.”

Dragan’s eyes flicked between the two men as if disbelief had taken hold of him. The fact that he had been passed over didn’t stop Dragan, as he was the one to answer the king again, “Of course I’m aware. I wouldn’t just attend without doing my due research.”

Dragan didn’t leave room for replies this time, swiftly laying out his point, “Glenbrook and Aesfrost have the means and the estate to operate the mines by themselves. Whatever Hyzante may offer in coin is not worth involving them.”

“With all due respect, Lord Dragan,” Frani finally joined the discussion. The disdain in his voice spoke of anything but respect. “The sums under debate are more than notable. Clearly, Hyzante will make their contribution like any of us if they are to profit off the accord.”

“That notable amount will barely make a dent in their holy coffer,” Dragan argued, “The fact that the Holy State is even debating on terms this ludicrous speaks of their hubris.”

Roland could imagine the indignation that stirred in his brother at Dragan’s choice of words. Surely, Frani was wearing a proper affronted expression. The sight was enough to paint an involuntary smirk on Roland’s lips, a reaction he quickly tried to suppress by clearing his throat, covering his mouth both to save face and out of courtesy – but mostly to save face.

“Setting aside the monetary gain associated with securing Hyzante for our cause, uniting the continent under a common goal can only benefit each and every one of us,” the king reasoned, his calm tone masking the cutting edge underneath, “Surely you will come to understand this for yourself once you gain the necessary experience to make judgment such as this.”

“If you simply must involve Hyzante, please, at least reconsider the terms on which you do so,” Dragan explained, his tone growing more agitated, “As things stand currently, I’m simply of the belief that we won’t be making a fair exchange.”

“Very well, what do you propose as a fair exchange then, Lord Dragan?” the king asked straight away. Roland hoped that his father was genuinely interested in discussing opinions. However, his own experience on the matter left him presuming that the king was simply trying to suffocate any spark of opposition.

“Considering that Hyzante will have partial rights to an iron mine if this trade goes through, I’d argue that they’d need to make their salt more readily available in turn,” Dragan reasoned without hesitation, “At the very least, a lowering of the preposterous salt tax they claim should be on the table.”

“It is within the Holy State’s right to tax their salt as they please,” Frani just about sighed, “The word of the Goddess wills it so.”

“Her word according to whom – Hyzante?” Dragan scoffed. He was clearly passionate about the subject matter; it was a shame all that passion was about to go to waste.

“The fact of the matter is that the Holy State won’t make any concessions on their teachings,” King Regna stated, “If we were to ask too much of them, we would only succeed in straining our relationship with Hyzante – and we are all keenly aware just how significant the trade with Hyzante is to our nations, are we not?”

“Certainly, it’s in no one’s interest to complicate the salt trade any further,” Lord Svarog agreed, a strained laugh swinging in his voice. He must be awfully pressed to deflect from Dragan’s continuous affronts. Was Dragan not growing uncomfortable to disappoint his father at all? Surely, he was going to catch hell for an attitude like this.

“Nothing is going to change at this rate, and the status quo is not cutting it,” Dragan insisted, clearly not tired of arguing yet, “I believe we indulged Hyzante long enough. In the end, they need to trade their salt as badly as we need to buy it, do they not?”

“So, your proposal is to escalate the situation?” King Regna scoffed, now finally properly indignant.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it an escalation. It’s just…” Dragan replied. For a split moment, his gaze turned downward. He didn’t sound quite as fierce anymore when he continued making his point. “I’ve seen good people suffer from the scarcity of salt. Surely, there must be a way to alleviate their hardship.”

“He’s speaking truth, father,” Roland spoke up on a whim, “Common folk can’t keep up with the steep prices. That simply cannot be right.”

“Lashing out at the Holy State will not alleviate anyone’s suffering,” his father reasoned, a tired sigh slipping past his lips. Roland wondered whether their guests could even catch the slight sound. “If we want to make progress, we must do so with patience and careful mediation.”

Roland didn’t want to believe matters were quite that rigid and slow. People were suffering for any day they let pass. Having someone else finally acknowledge it was like a breath of fresh air.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Lord Svarog was the first to answer the king this time, “The boy can be a little overzealous at times. I assure you his words – if abrasive – come with good intentions.”

“Of course, I suppose it’s only natural for someone so young,” Regna waved off. Roland suddenly wondered if Dragan was younger than him – or whether his father was including him into the generalization.

For a moment, the agitated twinkle in Dragan’s eyes foretold another protest. A frown crossed his features as he spoke up, “Apologies for any offense my words may have caused, Your Highness. However, I won’t back down on the points I made as I was only speaking what was truly on my mind.”

“Sometimes, it is most appropriate to keep your thoughts to yourself, Lord Dragan,” Frani proposed. The glance he shot Roland revealed that he wasn’t just scolding Dragan with his words. Roland had barely spoken up and yet his brother still seemed displeased.

Dragan haltered after all, giving his father a swift glance. His look spoke of utter defiance still, glaring at Frani as if he hoped he could rebut him without speaking a word.

“Dragan, how about you get some fresh air and accustom yourself with our hosts’ homeland?” Svarog hushed his son before anything else could arise, putting on a more easygoing tone as he spoke, “Surely you are bored with all the politics at this point.”

“Not at all, father. Actually…” Dragan started up. His words faltered, a moment of hesitation passing before he continued in a more stilted fashion, “…Fresh air does sound like a fine idea. If you will excuse me, Your Highness.”

“Of course,” King Regna affirmed with a slight nod.

Dragan gave a stiff bow. The frown on his face still bespoke his agitation, making the courteous gesture appear hollow. Dragan was clearly about to hurry off when Roland decided to interject, “Father, may I join Lord Dragan? I believe he could use a guide and – speaking frankly – I will be of little help here regardless.”

Dragan stopped in his movement as Roland spoke up and – without fail – there was that piercingly attentive gaze again.

“You may,” Roland’s father affirmed. Roland could feel all the little, subtle tensions soothe at the prospect of leaving the throne room behind. Maybe he could even light some excitement in his stern guest.

“Please, do refrain from causing any trouble,” Frani urged him with his usual dismissive attitude. Roland wondered if the comment was directed as much towards Dragan as himself.

Roland was already crossing the hall as he replied, “Don’t worry yourself, brother. I’ll even have our guest back in time for dinner.”

Roland’s steps fell a little more hasty than usual as he was driven by the need for open skies above his head. He closed the distance between him and the Aesfrosti lord with a couple of wide strides, finally meeting Dragan eye to eye. Dragan really was shorter than Roland if only by a little; the comparison to Lord Svarog hadn’t flattered him.

Dragan seemed to shift back lightly once Roland came close. Roland wondered if there was a hint of uncertainty in the foreign lord after all – or perhaps he was simply imagining things; Dragan’s posture remained steady and his eyes keenly on Roland.

“Please, Lord Dragan, if you were so kind as to follow step,” Roland chimed. He caught himself trying to put on a pleasant demeanor, keeping his voice soft and a light smile on his face.

Dragan only gave him a slight nod in return. Roland assumed the whole situation must be rather uncomfortable for Dragan. At that, Roland wasted no further time seeing them out, swapping the oppressive atmosphere of the throne room for the bustle of the city.

Dragan’s legs were shaking ever so lightly as he left the throne room behind, hurrying after the prince who apparently wished to leave rather hastily. It was a little infuriating; the fact that Dragan didn’t regret a single word he had spoken didn’t fully alleviate the fright he was feeling. He wondered what his father would have to say about this once they returned home.

“Pray tell, Dragan,” Prince Roland spoke up once they exited the palace, “Do politics tire you as they tire me?”

The prince only seemed to notice that Dragan was lagging behind when he addressed him. He came to a halt on cue, waiting for Dragan to catch up before falling into step again. Prince Roland looked at him attentively as he waited for his answer.

“Not quite,” Dragan replied, still turning his answer over, “I believe it is vital that we engage in open discussions, and the matters at hand tend to be rather gripping as well.”

Dragan paused for a moment, catching Prince Roland’s curious gaze. He seemed so much more carefree than back in the throne room; Prince Roland must have been serious about his distaste for politics.

“It’s the people who tire me,” Dragan finally finished his assertion.

Prince Roland gave a sudden, heavy laugh at his reply, as if Dragan’s words had caught him off guard.

“I suppose if you put it like that… I’d be hard pressed to disagree,” the prince responded. His voice almost seemed to chime as he spoke. His lips curled into a bright smile, his gaze wandering skyward. All in all, Prince Roland seemed to be in quite the light-hearted mood. Dragan had been speaking in earnest…

“As I mentioned before, I found your points to be rather sensible,” Prince Roland continued. The smile didn’t quite leave his face, though it didn’t seem as genuine anymore. It probably was his thoughtful gaze that betrayed him. His voice sounded more subdued as well.

“I probably should have backed you up more,” Prince Roland explained, “However, I already knew of my father’s stance on the matter – leave alone his insistency.”

“Truly, you should have spoken up,” Dragan urged right away, “Your king father’s opinion shouldn’t matter when it comes to voicing your own.”

“Ah, I did have a rather similar discussion with my father before,” Prince Roland explained, fortunately appearing more intrigued than offended, “It turned out just as fruitless though.”

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” Dragan questioned, mustering the prince’s features to search for signs of approval, “Sometimes it’s like they can’t see beyond what they have come to know at all.”

He did have Prince Roland’s full attention now. On one hand, it was pleasant to finally talk about something like this so openly. On the other, Dragan couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t used to simply chatting with someone at all.

He found himself wondering what the appropriate time to hold eye contact was; trying to maintain it for long enough to show his interest until some mild discomfort down his neck would force him to look at anything else. Prince Roland’s bright gaze seemed so attentive. It was quite frustrating. Dragan wasn’t one to get shy at all. It was simply the damned loneliness he had been forced into taking its toll on him.

“Quite so,” Prince Roland affirmed his point, “You’d think we’d at least be able to find a middle ground, look for the best in both our points of view… Sometimes, I believe that he hardly even listens to a single word I speak.”

The prince’s look turned so downcast as he spoke that it almost made Dragan regret starting this topic in the first place.

“Perhaps they do listen – and simply judge that their opinion is what’s best for us in the end,” Dragan shared his thoughts, “That shouldn’t stop us from continuously challenging them; I’d say it’s our responsibility, even. If we don’t, how are we to change our realm for the better?”

“I’d like to look at it like you do, Dragan…” Prince Roland mused, “Perhaps we can shape the future together one day.”

Somehow, despite the remaining gloom the prince was sporting, the smile he shot Dragan seemed like the most genuine one yet. Dragan’s steps fell lighter as cheer overtook him.

“I’d much appreciate that,” Dragan cheered. He did feel much more at ease now that he could get some of the frustration off his chest. Dragan only now realized that he was starting to pay more attention to his surroundings instead of turning his thoughts inside. The sunlight that was bright enough to be unfamiliar but warm enough to be comforting, the temperate wind against his skin, the fresh air that just ever so lightly carried a tinge of mineral taste from the river below. The chattering around them had picked up now that they had made it to Whiteholm Bridge as well.

“What do you say I show you the city now?” Prince Roland suggested, “We have quite the busy marketplace going, especially this time of year.”

The prince’s apparent anticipation only kindled Dragan’s excitement further. For a moment, he was reminded of how awe-struck he had been when he had first caught eye of Glenbrook’s green fields from the Aesfrosti ship, and how impatient he had grown to explore the new sights himself. Dragan would have been grateful that he was allowed to see the heart of the city proper – if the cause wouldn’t bring him such bitterness.

“Of course, I’d love to see for myself, Your Highness!” Dragan exclaimed, his excitement getting the better of him.

Prince Roland’s answer carried the pleasant liveliness from before, “As you wish. Please, do follow my lead.”

As they got closer and closer to the marketplace, the flow of people swelled. Dragan had to practically weave past them whenever an especially large group crossed. The background noise picked up as well, as people were chatting and laughing between themselves.

Dragan wondered if there was an event that caused such a commotion, or if Glenbrook was just naturally this crowded. There seemed to be so many people around – at the very least, more than Dragan would have expected the streets to fit comfortably.

The noise around them alone was so unusual to Dragan that it rung in his ears. He had to focus to not lose track of the prince he was trying to follow – or the people around him, he noticed, as he quickly sidestepped a couple of running children that clearly didn’t concern themselves with that. Prince Roland seemed unfazed by the crowd, so something like this must have been normal to him.

Even when the new sensations that showered Dragan were borderline overwhelming, he started to envy the prince. The people in this city seemed so lively. It was a little contagious; actually, it left Dragan aching to soak up as much of the feeling as he could while the chance presented.

It turned out he would be getting more than his fair share when the pair walked out into the wide-open plaza. The market was absolutely brimming with people. As passersby and merchants alike tried to talk over each other, the background noise picked up into an overpowering buzz. If Dragan focused hard enough, he believed he got close to making out some of the things people were saying, but then there were too many words tumbling over each other.

The market itself spanned multiple, cobblestone islands that were connected by bridges wherever the river divided them. The picture reminded Dragan of Ironstone with its burning canals for just a moment. He almost felt like he was looking into a mirror version of his home. The image caused Dragan quite the whiplash; Aesfrost’s capital suddenly felt unbearably desolate by comparison.

Desolate and dreary, Dragan added begrudgingly, as he continued to take in his surroundings. The plaza was close to unbearably bright, from the people to the sky above them. Not to mention the abundance of colorful adornments all over the city – garlands, flowers, balloons, even confetti was floating through the air.

There was enough to explore around them that Dragan didn’t know where to start. Most obviously, a crowd of people had gathered in the center of the plaza, cheering on whatever spectacle went down over there. There was an array of stands to choose from as well. They seemed to sell just about everything, starting with home appliances, to herbs and spices Dragan was wholly unfamiliar with, to fashionable attire and all kinds of knickknack that Dragan probably didn’t need – but then again, he had never even seen some of it, so how should he know?

Maybe he should try finding something his father would like; he probably wouldn’t be able to stay irritated at him if Dragan were to get him a souvenir. Then he caught an appetizing, faintly sweet smell and grew an inkling to follow that instead.

Finally, Dragan remembered that he had a guide – and that it was rather rude to simply take off without bestowing him as much as a glance. Dragan promptly looked around for any glimpse of the prince. He luckily didn’t have to search for long as Prince Roland had just moved aside; Dragan really had just halted in the middle of the street, hadn’t he?

Dragan hastened to Prince Roland’s side. Upon his arrival, the prince swiftly glanced him up and down as a slight, perky smile settled on his features.

“Is something the matter?” Dragan questioned. He got the impression his behavior was peculiar to the prince for some odd reason.

“Oh, apologies, it’s quite all right,” Prince Roland swiftly waved off, his smirk only growing more stubborn, “You just looked so awe-struck. It’s…” the prince turned his gaze towards the crowd on cue, “…heartening.”

Heartening… Dragan would let that suit him.

“Well… I’m glad to see some of that spirit rub off on you, Your Highness. It befits you much more than the drab attitude you held inside the castle walls.”

“Ah, does it now?” Prince Roland chuckled. It appeared the prince would let that suit him as well; actually, he beamed at the sentiment.

Bright, Dragan reiterated his impression from before. For a moment, Dragan truly felt as if he had never beheld anything quite so bright before.

“Pray tell…” Prince Roland let his gaze wander across the plaza. “Where shall we go first? Is there anything in particular that has caught your interest?”

Of course, Dragan had been so excited to explore the market in the first place. He should finally take his pick. As Dragan began to assess his options once over, he started to feel faintly lightheaded, perhaps even fluttery.

“What do you say you simply take the first step and see where that leads us?” the prince advised. So, Dragan’s indecision had been that apparent.

“That sounds like a plan,” Dragan affirmed gladly. He finally decided on finding the source of that delectable smell after all.

“Careful, you’re bound to get your gloves dirty like this,” Roland tried to warn Dragan. His guest had made his way to the next bakery with swift focus after the encouragement. Dragan evoked the picture of a child in a candy store once he found himself in front of a wide selections of pastries. Roland assumed that the goods must be rather atypical to Aesfrost; he never considered that they most likely had vastly different eating habits.

In the end, Dragan had settled for about the sugariest pastry on the counter: a Lightning Bolt. The dough was rich and dense, the filling creamy and to top it all off the little backed good was glanced with a syrupy layer of sugarcoating.

“There’s no need for the fuss. They’ll just need some cleaning,” Dragan insisted, already taking an eager first bite.

“You know that leather is a hassle to clean, right?” Roland reasoned. He called to mind how bothersome his riding boots were to clean – and through the indignation of the maid who insisted on doing the task as well.

Dragan waved off instead of humoring Roland this time. He had appeared so strict on first impression. Roland would have taken him to be acute to a perfectionistic degree. Seeing the foreign lord’s demeanor switch into something so easy-going was quite refreshing. Truly, Roland did feel like Dragan’s attitude was rubbing off on him.

Just then, something new seemed to catch Dragan’s interest. Roland could pinpoint the moment his gaze turned starry-eyed. Following Dragan’s line of sight, Roland found a pair of jugglers performing in the center of the plaza.

“What do you say we watch the performance for a little while, Your Highness?” Dragan proposed, still trailing the balls the entertainers were whirling through the air with his gaze.

“Of course, don’t stop yourself on my account,” Roland insisted once over. Upon that answer, Dragan shot him a hasty, excited gaze. It was peculiar how much more vivid Dragan’s eyes seemed to be in the new light.

“Is there an occasion for such merriments, Your Highness?” Dragan questioned as they joined the crowd.

“No, entertainers perform at this spot regularly,” Roland explained, “Many townsfolks have a coin or two to spare for the amusement. They can turn quite the profit given the sheer volume of people.”

“Is that so?” Dragan mused absentmindedly. Roland shot his guest a glance, confirming that his gaze had grown more distant again, as if his thoughts had turned a step inward. He would have liked to think he had a passable read on Dragan by now. Then again, maybe Dragan was much too sincere for that to be noteworthy.

“Does Aesfrost not have performances like this?” Roland questioned.

Dragan looked at him with a bemused expression for a moment before answering, “No, nothing of the like.”

Dragan focused on the performance once over as he explained, “You would be hard pressed to find the stray merchant trying his luck. Most have caught note that one will struggle to turn a profit in our capital.”

“Do people not spare coin for pleasantries in Aesfrost?” Roland continued his inquiry. He was aware that the Aesfrosti were known for their industriousness, but he wouldn’t have imagined them to be this particular.

“They can’t afford to, Your Highness,” Dragan explained straight to the point. Oh dear, Roland’s comment appeared so inconsiderate in hindsight.

“My apologies, I should have known better than to –”

“Nonsense, you couldn’t have,” Dragan cut him short, “Father told me our city changed after the war, that she was quite cozy and spirited once. I’m certain things will start looking up again if we stay diligent.”

Dragan gave a bothered sigh as he finished his line of thought, “Correcting that preposterous salt tax would have been a monumental step, but alas…”

“Apologies,” Roland reiterated.

“Oh, don’t concern yourself, Prince Roland. The fault doesn’t lie with you in the slightest,” Dragan insisted, “In actuality, being able to meet someone like you – someone of like mind – has me feeling hopeful.”

“There’s no need for flattery,” Roland waved off. It would be lost on the glorified spare prince he presented anyways.

“I was speaking in earnest, Your Highness,” Dragan insisted. Indeed, he appeared perfectly genuine. His gaze was as direct and intense as when he was making debate; Roland felt like melting under it any moment.

Luckily, Dragan seemed content at that. As he turned his attention to the spectacle once more, Roland followed suit. Roland hadn’t paid the entertainers much mind since he had grown past childhood. Which – as he now realized – was a shame. The jugglers had a way to make their act appear whimsical.

The clubs and balls almost seemed weightless as they soared through the air. Each movement of the performers themselves was precisely executed. How long did they have to train to reach that level of body control?

It became apparent that that precision was direly needed when the performers added torches spurred with fire magic to the mix. A murmur went through the crowd of spectators, rising as they cheered the jugglers on in their daring feat.

“Do you deem I could achieve something like that with fire magic?” Dragan pondered, a spark of impishness in his gaze.

“I believe you need a fair deal of dexterity to go along.” Roland couldn’t help but chuckle. “Maybe we could make a team effort, you and I.”

“Wager your luck?” Dragan jested – at least Roland assumed so.

“Let’s keep studious attention for now. What do you say?” Roland quipped.

“Of course, how ever prudent, Your Highness.”

Roland truly wished he could stay like this a while longer.

As the day grew older, the bustle didn’t seem to ebb off in the slightest. Dragan was starting to tire from the array of impressions he was wholly unfamiliar with. There was no need to pay it any mind; he could rest another time.

Prince Roland seemed to be ever spirited. His posture remained steadfast, and his movement flowed smoothly. He could weave through the crowd perfectly, returning any salutations he received in the most pleasant manner. It felt noteworthy somehow; perhaps Dragan was experiencing a tinge of envy? Not that it was much his style to emulate another – except the prince’s grace, perhaps, considering how tiresome it was growing to bump into passersby.

“Careful!”

Dragan’s chest tightened as he was pulled aside, the abrupt motion turning him a little disoriented. Dragan whirled his head around, spotting a cart full to the brim with cargo squeezing its way through the crowd right behind him. As his breath evened out, he turned back around, confirming that Prince Roland had been the one to pull him out of harm’s way. The prince didn’t let go of Dragan’s arm yet, neither did he step back. Dragan had never been quite this aware of his own personal space. It was a peculiar sensation.

“Are you all right?” Prince Roland questioned.

Dragan turned the thought over for a moment which quickly revealed that he had trouble focusing. His heart was pounding out of his chest, and he felt slightly out of breath, as if he had exerted himself. Dragan hadn’t even noticed how badly that had startled him.

“Of course… much appreciated,” Dragan stumbled out. He had never gotten that easily frightened when he was younger. Surely, his nerves would die down soon.

“No need to mention it,” Prince Roland assured him. His gaze drifted across the market for some heartbeats before continuing, “I’m afraid we must make our way back if we want to return on time. I assume we’d rather not be unfashionably late to top the day off.”

“No, I’d rather not…” Dragan agreed. He had finally bought a rather delicate quill for his father after much consideration. He’d rather not dampen the goodwill the souvenir would gain him with bad manners.

“All right, after me if you will,” Prince Roland replied.

Dragan expected the prince to let go of him on that note. Instead, Prince Roland’s touch trailed down Dragan’s arm to grab hold of his hand. The phantom of the gesture left Dragan feeling lightly ticklish as the prince set off with him in tow.

Dragan would have thought that the prince’s touch would be barely noticeable through his leather gloves in the first place. And yet, he became keenly aware of the little shifts and light pressure. With how much was going on around him, it seemed silly to be mindful of something so miniscule.

“Apologies, I didn’t want to lose you in the crowd, what with the hurry,” Prince Roland stated, snapping Dragan out of his train of thought.

“It’s quite all right,” he replied on cue.

Prince Roland didn’t lead them across the main street this time, stepping off into a narrower passage instead. Luckily, people didn’t seem too keen on using the side-paths, as the crowd around them thinned out noticeably. The tight alleyway carried sound rather poorly, the buzz from the plaza drowning out already.

The moment they were out of the thick of it, Prince Roland let go of Dragan for good. Once Dragan caught up to him properly, the prince spoke up, “Apologies, the commotion can get a bit much… I hope you could enjoy your stay here anyhow, Dragan.”

“Most definitely, Your Highness,” Dragan assured the prince “I didn’t mind at all. In fact, the experience has been rather refreshing.”

Maybe not physically – or mentally, as of this moment, but making this new experience had been a sheer delight. Dragan already grew impatient to repeat something like this in the future, and he hadn’t even started his track home yet.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Prince Roland replied, “To be honest, I envy you somewhat. I’d love a chance to go out on ventures like this, experiencing new places… Perhaps you can show me Aesfrost one of these days if that’s not asking too much.”

“Not at all! I’d be honored to, Your Highness,” Dragan agreed, not bothering to hide the fit of excitement that caught hold of him.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Prince Roland said, “Then… May I make one more demand, Dragan?”

“Speak it.”

“I’m not too fond of the honorifics,” the prince explained, “I’d rather just be Roland when speaking to my peers.”

Dragan hadn’t expected that. His hesitation apparently lasted long enough for Prince Roland to add, “Of course, you mustn’t mind it if you’re not comfortable with it yourself.”

“Far from it,” Dragan swiftly waved off, “If that’s what you wish for, I’ll gladly keep it in mind… Roland.”

How peculiar, his heart almost seemed to feel like quickening its pace as he finally said that. Roland beamed that instant, only aggravating the sensation. Dragan could barely gulp the flutters down. Well, this was new. Dragan couldn’t say the nerves were suiting him.

“I appreciate that,” Roland replied. He did look genuinely happy. Dragan was glad it wasn’t just him.

He would have to consider how to best present his home. It was his duty after all. More than that, Dragan wanted to return Roland’s hospitality, making him feel just as welcome in Aesfrost as Roland had made him feel in the lively city of Glenbrook. Dragan found himself praying Roland was a man of his word from that day on.

Chapter Text

“Eat, drink, and be merry. It shall not be long until final preparations are complete.”

As Patriatte finished, a rapturous rumble went through the crowd. Dragan felt jittery in the most exhilarating way, like he was coming down from a high. The King of Glenbrook hadn’t just acknowledged but outright acclaimed him. This, Dragan could get used to.

“Lord Dragan.”

He turned to face who had addressed him and quickly came eye to eye with Minister Lyla. Dragan hesitated for a moment. He had been thinking about joining Frederica and Lord Serenoa. His gaze swiftly checked the group, confirming that Roland had joined them as well. He didn’t have a chance to speak with the prince since his last visit to Glenbrook a couple moons ago.

Reluctantly deciding that pushing the minister aside in favor of them would be too insulting, Dragan opted to greet her instead, “Good day, Minister Lyla. How may I be of help?”

“I simply wanted to congratulate you,” she explained smoothly, “I can only imagine how much work you must have poured into accomplishing this. You must be ever excited to see it pay off.”

The smile she gave didn’t quite reach her eyes. With every word she spoke, Dragan found himself wondering if Minister Lyla truly meant what she was saying. The impression was peculiar; she had appeared perfectly genuine in their debate yesterday. At the very least, Dragan had been surprised that a member of the Saintly Seven would so openly voice her distaste on her own country’s practices.

“That’s very kind of you,” Dragan replied, shaking off the aftertaste of a worry, “I’d imagine a fellow scholar like you would understand all too well.”

“Oh, I do indeed,” she confirmed, “I also understand that your findings are quite substantial – for one so young as yourself.”

Dragan would take that as a compliment. Minister Lyla paused for a moment, motivating Dragan to check what Roland and the Wolfforts were up to. They were quite the group, with all their entourage as well. Dragan caught Roland laughing, then shaking his head as he spoke to Lord Serenoa.

“I must admit,” Minister Lyla reclaimed his attention, “The subject of your studies fascinates me. I would gladly listen to the tale of your discovery if you would be so kind to tell it.”

Dragan had a little trouble holding the conversation. He felt like he was just slightly off balance. Perhaps he had really overdone it with the wine yesterday as Frederica had warned him… Ironstone’s forges would freeze over before Dragan would admit to that.

“Your curiosity honors me,” Dragan replied, “Still, I’m afraid I must treat these matters as… confidential.”

Surely, Minister Lyla didn’t expect him to spill any valuable information just like that. When she scoffed a laugh under her breath, Dragan was sure of it. She tried to play the inquiry off with her usual over-sweetened tone, “Why, of course. I’m afraid my curiosity has gotten the better of me.”

“It’s all right; I believe I relate quite well,” Dragan assured her absentmindedly. Roland and his company – a woman with short, brown hair that seemed ever attentive at his side – appeared to be taking their leave now. Before doing so, the prince shot Dragan a glance and a familiarly bright smile. The moment their eyes met, Dragan felt like he had just been caught. He had to fight the reflex to break eye-contact immediately.

When he remained attentive, Roland pointed somewhere across the courtyard. Dragan trailed the direction with his gaze and derived that Roland most likely meant to point out the huge tree overseeing the area. The landmark simply had to catch his eye; it seemed to be towering over them even with how far off it stood. Peculiar enough, it was perfectly barren. The only thing giving it an impression of being alive were clusters of dim light collected on its branches – lights that very much seemed animated and moving.

The moment Dragan looked back at Roland, the prince took off with a short wave.

“…what drives us in our doing, wouldn’t you agree?” Minister Lyla was still talking to him. Oh stars, Dragan hadn’t caught that all.

“Um, why, of course.” Dragan tried to overplay that he had no clue what he was agreeing with as smoothly as possible.

Minister Lyla mustered him skeptically, before voicing, “Lord Dragan, perhaps you look forward to conversing with your… younger peers.”

She had not forgotten that remark. Dragan wondered why she seemed so bothered by that when she was the one who raised the subject of age in the first place.

“In that case, I’d better let you off,” she continued.

“Well, King Regna has gathered so many esteemed guests… I’m sure you must want to engage with them yourself.” Dragan tried to somehow end this conversation without outright stating that he would indeed prefer someone else’s company right now.

“Quite so,” she confirmed, already turning the slightest bit before giving her farewell, “I bid you a merry day.”

“Likewise,” Dragan affirmed.

He would be making his way across the courtyard now if he wasn’t mistaken.

Reaching the back of the gardens took longer than Dragan had anticipated. He made sure to check his surroundings so that he wouldn’t miss the prince. The courtyard was open and expansive. The fountain at its heart alone probably spanned equal ground to the throne room. The patter of the fount added to the murmuring of the guests, creating a droning background noise. The greenery, flowers and adornments around reminded Dragan of the city. However, with the pompous yet regal architecture, the courtyard naturally felt grander.

Dragan would have made his way across by now if he could have done so uninterrupted. However, every now and then, he was addressed by one of the nobles. Most of them simply exchanged some pleasantries. Any word of endorsement soothed a little of Dragan’s remaining grogginess, even when the intent behind them was most likely hollow. Their thoughts didn’t matter; they still considered Dragan important enough to bother all the same. Dragan wondered how many of them didn’t even know of his existence just yesterday.

Dragan bid another royalist farewell and continued with swift steps. He found himself speeding up still, when he wondered how much time he had left before the tourney would begin.

The moment he caught a glimmer of bright blonde hair in the sunshine, Dragan’s train of thought froze briefly. He had found Roland after all, leaning against the towering tree just like he had implied earlier.

When Dragan hurried up the stairs, Roland finally seemed to notice him as well. The prince turned his attention away from his conversation partner to greet him, “Dragan, you did come all the way out here.” Pleasant and bright, Dragan called to mind. “I wasn’t sure you’d be.”

“Apologies, I got caught up in conversation,” Dragan replied.

“There’s no need for apologies. I should be the one asking pardon,” Roland waved off, “I’m aware I gave you quite the track.”

“If I may, what made you leave in such a hurry?” Dragan inquired.

Roland’s lips thinned the moment Dragan said that, his gaze falling to the ground. He spoke – much lighter than his expression telegraphed, “Oh, I simply craved some space and quiet. I’m not made out for such crowdy gatherings, I’m afraid.”

That didn’t seem right; Dragan knew for a fact the prince could handle large crowds just fine.

“Apologies, Dragan, I didn’t even greet you properly,” Roland continued. He had caught his expression by now, his smile pleasant as ever. Perhaps this wasn’t a matter Dragan should push.

“There’s no need to mention it,” Dragan waved off, “I was so busy, I didn’t even pay it any mind.”

Dragan wasn’t all sure how believable that sounded, considering that Roland had caught him – what, staring? What a strange way of thinking about the matter.

“I’d imagine you’re in high demand,” Roland replied, letting his gaze wander across the crowd as he would, “It’s been quite a while. It’s a shame I couldn’t pay you a visit either. I didn’t mean to break my promise.”

“Oh, there’s no need to worry.”

Had Dragan been worrying?

“I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated,” Dragan assured the prince. Of course, having a guest would have been a pleasant change of pace…

“I would have, had my King Father allowed it,” the prince explained earnestly, “I’d like to think I’ve made my request known quite clearly.”

So, Roland hadn’t made his promise lightly after all. Dragan was cheered to hear that the prince had simply considered him in the meantime. Because, well, he had considered Roland as well – occasionally.

“Oh, have you ever, Your Highness…” the woman beside him finally spoke up, “I was afraid you’d just take off either way.”

“Do you truly take me to be quite so reckless, my friend?” Roland chuckled.

He seemed to consider for a moment, a slight grin tugging on his lips as he paused. With a shrug, the prince added, “Then again… perhaps seeing if I could have made it all the way unspotted would have been fun.”

As he said that, Roland made eye-contact with Dragan. The prince gave him an impish look and a sheepish smile, only highlighting his light attitude.

“Ah, pray, forgive my inattentiveness,” Roland suddenly noted, “I didn’t even introduce the two of you.”

“No, I should have, Your Highness,” the woman insisted, “Lord Dragan, correct? It’s an honor meeting you in person.”

A fit of delight rose in Dragan at the acknowledgement just on cue. It only served to heighten the cheer in his voice when he answered, “The pleasure is mine, um…”

“Hughette,” Roland finally introduced her, as promised, “A member of the Kingsguard and my personal bodyguard, if you will.”

Hughette straightened like an arrow as she was addressed. That would explain how eagerly she was glued to the prince’s side.

“I’m mostly tasked to protect His Highness from himself, as you could imagine,” she stated without dropping her uptight attitude one moment.

Dragan couldn’t help but chuckle. “Is that so?”

“She worries too much,” Roland insisted, earning a headshake from his companion, “Tell, how have things been fairing in the meantime anyhow?”

“Oh, quite well, thank you,” Dragan retold, “I was able to make progress quicker than anticipated. It’s one of the reasons we can celebrate today, is it not?”

“True, you have all reason to be proud of yourself,” Roland nodded. Dragan could have sworn the princes tone turned slightly downcast then, strangely enough.

“What about you, Roland?” Dragan diverted, “You earned a spot in the lineup for the tourney, have you not?”

“Well, only thanks to my good friend Serenoa having me,” Roland replied, “Be that as it may, I do look forward to trying my luck. I’d like to think we have a good shot at winning, between all our talents.”

“I’d like to share your optimism, Your Highness,” Hughette reasoned, “Considering that the Dawnspear is competing, however…”

“Avlora is vicious besides, from what I know of her,” Dragan added, “I can only wish you the best of luck.”

“Please, some encouragement wouldn’t hurt us,” Roland scolded them both playfully.

“No, I mean it,” Dragan insisted, “I’ll be cheering for you – my cousin and kin-to-be as well, naturally.”

“That’s appreciated; I’ll make sure to make it worth your while,” Roland replied.

The sentiment made Dragan’s excitement rise noticeably. His lingering grogginess regrettably made it harder to stomach. He was starting to feel a little light-headed.

“I’ll count on it,” Dragan said, haltering for just a moment before voicing his next question, “I’d like to take part in the festivity, actually. You wouldn’t care to join?”

Hughette turned to the prince immediately, apparently waiting for him to make the call. Roland haltered for a moment, tenser than before. Dragan hoped he hadn't just put the prince on the spot.

“Apologies, Dragan,” Roland waved off, “I’d rather enjoy some quiet while I can. I’ll have my fair share of excitement once the tourney commences.”

He turned towards his companion before finishing, “However, you are free to join, Hughette. I wouldn’t want to keep you from enjoying the occasion.”

“Don’t mention it, Your Highness,” she assured him.

For a moment, Dragan felt the strong pull to echo the sentiment and stay after all. He shook it off; Dragan wouldn’t want to miss a celebration like this for anything. Maybe he could get a couple of bites – or swigs – and see if that would ease his underlying nausea.

“In that case, I wish you both the best for the challenge ahead,” Dragan gave his goodbyes.

“Much appreciated. Until later,” Roland replied, his smile unwavering. The sentiment eased Dragan a little.

He gave an acknowledging nod to Hughette and made his way back towards the crowd with that.

Watching the combatants fight was a foreign experience. Dragan had never cared much for the art of battle. Sure, he had done his due diligence – whenever he could spare the time to do so. Yet, he had barely even sparred with anyone. Now that he thought about it, he had mostly done so to humor Frederica, who was much more invested into the subject of magic then he had been.

Studying the arcane was fun. However, Dragan had never valued it as anything more than that – simple fun. He didn’t really want to earnestly consider a future where battle prowess would be of any use to him.

Watching the spectacle was fascinating still. The crowd grew frenzied over time, cheering on their chosen representative. Dragan had joined in a while ago; of course, he had promised to. And as it stood, the Wolfforts held a fair chance of beating Hyzante’s combatants.

Dragan could barely make out his own voice when the rumble truly picked up. It felt strangely freeing. Most of his attention was on following the battle by now. His focus seemed to hone itself over time. Dragan felt like he could confidentially point out the quirks in battle stiles and spot the little slip-ups whenever they happened.

Lord Serenoa for one always seemed to attack directly and straight to the point. Roland appeared much more slippery, weaving through the skirmish smoothly. Both stood in stark contrast to Minister Exharme, who carried himself with an oppressive sense of power. His attack felt swift and heavy to a frightening degree. Dragan winced on instinct when Lord Serenoa just barely scraped by one of his blows. He'd rather not observe how the minister would conduct himself in a serious skirmish.

Frederica stood out especially to Dragan. She was fighting fiercely, her focus seemingly unbreakable. Her attention to the flow of battle was remarkable. Her tender flames hit delicately and precisely. Just then, she forced another soldier to back off, thus creating the perfect opening for Lord Serenoa to advance. It was strangely heartwarming. Frederica seemed so at place and present. The timid girl from back home seemed all but replaced.

Now that he paid attention, each of them appeared focused and confident. Dragan found himself wondering how much time he would have to make for training if he wanted to achieve a similar degree of precision.

For a moment, Dragan’s gaze got stuck on Roland. He had been thinking that the prince always moved with a certain elegance. Watching him fight completed the picture. Roland was weaving out of harm’s way as if it was his second nature. He didn’t falter for a moment, his stance remaining perfectly stable. His counter came quick and precise. Even with how focused he must have been and how perfectly he held the tension, Roland seemed completely at ease, as if his true place was right there with them.

A dull twinge gnawed at the pit of Dragan’s stomach, one he couldn’t place, considering the heartening display before him.

“Oh, please let the remaining battles be swifter,” it suddenly and heavily sighed besides him, “Else, I'm going to succumb to boredom!”

Dragan turned his attention to the speaker. Oh stars, Erika had decided to grace him with her presence – and her brother besides, naturally. Would these two ever grow tired of their own whining?

Whatever leftover illusion of peace Dragan could have held evaporated the moment Thalas opened his mouth, “Are you truly dimwitted enough to be entertained by this sorrow display, Dragan?” Thalas shook his head with a theatric, exasperated sigh. “You’re going to embarrass us all…!”

“Well, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Dragan responded, “Spewing such callous malice when the Archduke elected you to represent our nation?”

“Oh, because you are known to be ever the diplomat,” Thalas provoked further, “You would have run your own, dirty mouth if your favorite cousin hadn’t scolded you.”

“This doesn’t concern Frederica at all,” Dragan insisted without a second thought. And yet, he could hardly deny that Thalas had made his blood boil when he had insulted him – and that he had been tempted to wipe that condescending smirk off this dimwit’s face, had Frederica not washed his head.

“Perhaps he is just trying to spare poor, slight Frederica’s feelings,” Erika chuckled, lightly turning towards her brother, “If he won’t cheer her on, no one will.”

“Frederica is also here to represent Aesfrost and our growing bond with the Kingdom of Glenbrook besides,” Dragan retorted, “Participating in this tourney is a great honor. Clearly, neither of you possess the skills necessary to be entrusted with this.”

“Oh, I don’t see you boasting your battle prowess right now either, Dragan,” Thalas bit back. Even when his uncanny grin didn’t slip, his pressed tone of voice still bespoke him; Dragan was starting to get under his skin after all.

“Some of us possess talents elsewhere,” Dragan reasoned, “Of course, you wouldn’t know.”

Thalas let a laugh break through the tension. Whether amusement or indignation roused him wasn’t entirely clear. His voice sounded just as hysterical when he spoke, “Ooh, really…?! Last time I checked, Gustadolph thought me more competent than you, dear Dragan.”

Dragan tried swallowing down the venom that statement rose within him, even with how baseless it was. His voice was still dripping with it when he replied, “Last time I checked, you weren’t the one getting acknowledged by the King of Glenbrook, dear Thalas…”

Thalas slipped into a slight frown after all – just for a split second. Dragan would have almost missed it. What a shame that would have been.

 “Oh, perhaps you weren’t paying attention during His Highness’s speech?” Dragan added.

“Perhaps it is time you shut your mouth…!” Thalas all but threatened him, taking a step closer, just slightly too close for comfort. Dragan tensed on instinct. His thoughts were a little displaced; Dragan almost hoped Thalas would finally escalate this sorry excuse of a conversation.

“And here I was thinking I was dealing with grown men, not bickering children,” Erika cut in before either of them could double down; it was apparent that Thalas was seething to do so. She shot her brother a glance when she added, “That counts for the both of you.”

“He was the one provoking me…!” Thalas voiced his indignation the moment he could.

When Dragan grew the urge to accuse Thalas of starting this nonsense, he became aware that – however pretentious a person Erika was – this conversation was indeed becoming quite immature.

“Control yourself, brother,” Erika urged him. Her sharp gaze pierced Dragan as she finished her reasoning, “He’s not worth our efforts – leave alone the nerves.”

Dragan suppressed the urge to protest the disdainful demeanor. He forced his look towards the ground, digging it into the tiling instead of his cousins. Not running his mouth and ruining his chance at peace was costing him everything.

“Come, let’s see if some of that insipid wine can make this more bearable,” Erika finally proposed.

She was already turning to take her leave. Thalas’ gaze stuck to Dragan a moment longer. If looks could have killed, Dragan would surely to drop dead that instant. Thalas followed his sister after all and took a noticeable amount of tension with him.

Dragan still felt like his bile was going to boil over. He needn’t concern himself with these two dimwits. He had to remain collected. His moment would come – eventually.

“…the victor of the first match is House Wolffort!”

Dragan’s attention shifted back to the arena. How irksome; Thalas and Erika had made him miss the grand finale. Luckily, once he caught his friends’ thrilled expressions, most of his irritation seemed to melt away. Even with how spent Frederica looked, with how bruised up Lord Serenoa had gotten and with how unusually disheveled Roland appeared, they were celebrating themselves, laughing amongst each other.

Dragan found himself smiling along without thinking about it. Perhaps the impression right in front of his eyes was closer to his future than the spite; Dragan hoped so.

The days spent in Glenbrook had been pleasant. Wherever Dragan turned, the kingdom was full of life, reaffirming the warm, bright, and welcoming impression he had gotten on his first visit. When he arrived at the mines, they almost felt oppressive in contrast, though his mood had quickly cleared up once he fell into a steady workflow.

The mines may have lacked the warm sunshine the rest of the kingdom offered, but the miners had made pleasant company. Some of them were more reserved than others but so far none had caused him any trouble. If anything, they seemed to look up to him, which made sense, considering that he was their overseer. Dragan was simply not accustomed to it yet. Despite that, it was refreshing, especially after working by himself for so long.

He had to concede that he had yet to grow habituated in his new role. He still carried the – admittedly rather poor – work-routine he had fallen into studying in the Archives. That was, getting overly focused on the task at hand until, inevitably, someone ripped him out of his concentration, he dozed off or got fierce head-aches – though, even those would not stop him with certainty. The fact that both the Archives and the mines were constantly lit in the same dim light did not help settle his daily rhythm at all.

Dragan had never exactly minded before, to be honest. He considered himself perfectly productive in the way he was running. But now it wasn’t just him anymore. The miners seemed to be under the impression that they should take Dragan as an example. Given the fact that most of them were hard-working, earnest men, they showed no intention of giving way regarding the matter either.

Dragan had tried being sterner in his appeal, though his authority was apparently overshadowed by their stubbornness or perhaps their admiration. The matter was starting to grow concerning, given that the miners were performing demanding labor and simply should not risk overstraining themselves. So, he began meticulously upholding a steady schedule for them to follow, which luckily caught on much easier. It wasn’t like he couldn’t just continue his calculations from the privacy of his quarters anyways.

“If the numbers are accurate… There, this should do the trick.”

They currently attempted to blast a way through some of the tougher bedrock. It was hard to predict the exact nature of the terrain behind the solid wall before them, so Dragan hoped that he had made adequate estimates on the matter. In theory, they should be fine either way, as he had sooner under- than overestimated the explosives needed to carve a way. They could always help matters along later; too much of the structure giving in would be much more troublesome, even dangerous, at worst.

Monitoring the satisfying blast from afar, things looked well enough, so he instructed the miners to inspect the results more closely, “That should be the end of that bothersome bedrock. Investigate it at once!”

He stretched his sore neck for a moment, when he got the chance to do so unattended, waiting for the workers to give their report. Did they give ever the response.

“…What in the name of iron?”

That did not sound all too promising.

“What is it? Do we require more explosives?” Dragan inquired, hopeful that the situation would not be too problematic. He had been exact in his prognosis, after all.

“No, Lord Dragan. You best come see for yourself!”, the worker urged him, clearly appalled at the present condition.

At that, Dragan grew both concerned and extremely curious, rushing off to indeed see for himself what had gotten the others so worked up. His mind was faster, running through what could have happened. The structure must be stable, otherwise they would surely not remain within so calmly. Had they only hit gravel on their way through the mountain? But that would not have been a sight grave enough to warrant that kind of reaction.

Dragan had barely made the turn into the new tunnel when he very much became familiar with the complete and utter disbelief the scouts had experienced. He haltered for a moment, his eyes darting around the cavern to take in the scene before him: the whole terrain was covered in mat, rose-colored crystals, some towering all the way up to – or down from – the high-hung ceiling.

“What the…!” he gave his bewilderment voice without thinking. Dragan had never seen such a mineral – or rather, he had, but that notion was truly ridiculous.

“It couldn’t be…” he continued thinking out loud, hastily stepping further into the space before him. He came to a halt right in front one of the massive crystals. Dragan reached out to touch the mineral, observing the little sparkles and shines it gave whenever he turned his head just right. For a moment, Dragan hesitated as his curiosity got overwhelmed with anticipation.

Upon further inspection, Dragan could slightly chip at the mineral with his nails. He felt the brittle traces between his fingertips. His thoughts flew by a little too fast to catch them properly. Without further consideration, he licked some of the gravel off his digits.

Salty.

They had – without a shred of doubt – just discovered salt.

Chapter Text

Salt

Dragan's blood was rushing in his ears. This changed everything. The deposit they had stumbled about was extensive, and there was no telling how much more was still hidden further within. If they would start going to work on it, Hyzante could shove their precious source and start groveling for charity. Norzelia wouldn’t be bound to their leash any longer. No more begging for scraps. The tides had just turned. When the others would hear of this…

No. That was not it; if the others would hear of this… Dragan’s thoughts stumbled at a rapid pace, a hot rush hitting him when realized that – now, finally – he was the one in control. Oh, the tides had just turned indeed!

Dragan had to think this through logically; he could absolutely not afford to make a misstep on this matter. Not letting Hyzante catch wind of his discovery was his utmost priority. The Holy State would surely move the earth and sky in order to seize control of any salt within Norzelia, and as it currently stood, they were a formidable threat. Dragan was dead certain Hyzante would abuse any power they could gain over this mine like they had with the source.

Bringing the salt to Aesfrost was the only right thing to do. His people were tired, defeated. They would be freed of their shackles; Dragan would see to it. Of course, it was only logical that Dragan had to be the one to see this through.

If he used his cards right, he could…

Dragan would be held back no longer. He had earned that much. Dragan ached to witness his opposers choke on their words. Maybe he could finally wipe that condescending sneer off Thalas’ face and replace it with something more pleasant.

After this development, Gustadolph had to see reason. What Dragan was offering was beyond price. He simply had to acknowledge his worth – finally. And if he remained stubborn, Dragan better make known that he didn’t intent to grovel for Gustadolph’s favor. With this fortune, Dragan could make his name elsewhere.

His chance was right in front of him, ripe for the taking. Dragan would only have to seize the opportunity.

Dragan paced around hastily – just as his thoughts were. He was beginning to overthink this. He had been dealt just the right hand; there was no chance his luck would fail him now of all times. In the absent of immediate results, the impulse to act still took hold of him, mingling with the remaining rush of the discovery and the rising anxiety into a bitter-sweet concoction that made his stomach turn.

If, for some reason, Gustadolph were to refuse his offer, Dragan would be in dire need of assistance; he would require his father's aid. Informing him should have taken precedence. Dragan better rectify that omission swiftly.

“Lord Dragan.” He had barely started moving when he was called. “Prince Roland is here from the crown city.”

Dragan froze in his track.

“What’s this!?”

A gut reaction. Dragan stopped in his track, startled. He was... unprepared. The thought of being confronted by anyone so soon hadn’t even crossed his mind. Dragan would have thought it flattering Roland had bothered if he weren’t so preoccupied worrying about his presence.

Already, he could make out a sizable group of people entering the mines. Dragan made haste to meet them at the entrance. He quickly assessed that Roland had brought Lord Serenoa along, as well as Frederica, and their whole entourage. He recognized quite some faces from the prior gathering – perhaps even their names if he reached far enough into his memory. Still, some appeared wholly unfamiliar.

“Roland! And my friends of House Wolffort…” Dragan felt his tone waver as he spoke. He had to battle the urge to clear his throat and draw more attention to the fact that he was – in all earnest – grasping. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Apologies for the sudden nature of our visit, Dragan,” Roland replied, “I have come on Father’s orders to offer our sincere gratitude, as well as to observe the mining operation.”

Roland sounded so natural then; of course, there was nothing out of the ordinary after all.

“Splendid!” Dragan exclaimed, “The miners will no doubt be heartened by your esteemed company.”

Truly, his speech refused to come to him naturally anymore as he weighed every word in salt before choosing it. Still, Dragan couldn’t let his guard down. One slip of the tongue could put his plan in jeopardy.

“Does the mining continue apace?” Lord Serenoa asked straight away.

“Indeed it does,” Dragan assured him, more truthful than Lord Serenoa could have known, “There are no problems to report.”

Speaking sparingly about the mining operation could only aid him. Dragan tried turning their minds elsewhere then. “And what of your trip abroad?”

Dragan had caught note of them making the journey to Hyzante. Perhaps he could gain valuable knowledge on that front while he was at it.

“It was most enlightening, indeed,” Lord Serenoa remarked, “It marked the first opportunity of experiencing a society so unlike my own.”

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” Dragan echoed the sentiment.

“I feel much the same; I’d say it was well worth the journey,” Roland added.

“Oh, I hadn’t been aware you were attending,” Dragan wondered outright.

“It was a rather… spontaneous decision,” Roland admitted. He must have taken matters into his own hands then. Dragan couldn’t help but wonder why the prince would take that step now, when he had hesitated to travel to Aesfrost during the months prior. Even when his rationale told him that it had everything to do with the added comfort of traveling in company – and most likely nothing to do with his destination – the thought left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“I’m glad to hear that. You must be ever excited,” Dragan said, hoping he sounded more genuine than he felt. Truly, he should have been heartened; Roland had been hoping for a chance to broaden his horizon. How could it be Dragan’s place to police him on the execution?

“Perhaps we can make the trip together some time,” Roland assured him. Dragan wondered whether the prince had caught his slightly off mood or whether he was speaking in earnest.

“In the meantime, we brought a souvenir for you; perhaps that shall tide you over,” Lord Serenoa said, “I do hope it’s to your liking.”

Dragan hadn’t expected them to consider him on their journey, feeling a spark of excitement. When Lord Serenoa took a step to present him the souvenir, Dragan hastily followed suit to meet him in the middle.

It was a small piece of artistry, easily able to fit into his hand. As Dragan eyed the delicate ornament, he slowly started to piece together why the depiction looked so familiar. “A portrait of the Goddess Herself. Drawn with… Is this dyed salt!?”

It was peculiar; Dragan had just beheld a colossal mass of crystalized salt. And yet, this slight piece still seemed to carry a grand value. It almost gave the illusion of possessing significant weight as he held it, despite the implausibility of the notion.

“It is,” Lord Serenoa confirmed his observation.

“In Hyzante, we use them as talismans,” an unfamiliar man cut in.

Dragan hadn’t paid the Wolffort’s extended convoy much mind thus far. Now that the man claimed his attention, Dragan had to admit that he looked distinctly foreign, mostly thanks to the flowing, veil-like quality of his robe. A Hyzantian had joined their ranks then?

“They enjoy great popularity with even the common folk,” the stranger explained further.

Artistry made from pure salt… Enjoyed even by Hyzante’s most humble citizens? Truly, something like this would be unimaginable in Aesfrost; or perhaps, it had been.

“This gift would fetch unfathomable value in the dutchy,” Dragan said. He felt strangely sobered, though he still tried to express his gratitude earnestly, “I… I cannot thank you enough.”

Dragan had settled into a more natural tone of voice after all. However, he couldn’t deny that it simply was because he was showing his emotions too clearly. The genuine smile Lord Serenoa gave him did not soothe him at all. Neither did the bright tone in which he continued, “It is enough to see you happy.”

“I am glad our deliberations were not in vain,” Frederica added. Dragan instinctively gripped the present a little tighter, as if to hold himself steady. Dragan’s stomach twinged at the sentiment. He could not place his mood entirely; actually, he was sure his feelings were pure nonsense.

Still, for a split second, a concept entered his mind. It was foggy, not really conceptualized. And yet, it almost made him content for a moment – comfortable. A little as if everything was just… enough for now.

The impression faded as quickly as it came. This was not the time nor place to brood. Now, of all times, Dragan needed to be diligent. He mustn’t falter.

“Dragan, if I remember correctly, you said it was our responsibility to bring change to this realm,” Roland tore him from his thoughts, “I have made up my mind; what do you say we shape this future together?”

Together…

“Indeed, I shall see to it,” Dragan affirmed, averting his gaze as if saying that to Roland’s face would bring too much disrespect. For a moment, Dragan wished he could be voicing this in earnest, despite his better judgment.

Roland gave him a nod before speaking on, “Now then, I was thinking I might examine the quarry.”

Roland made a move to look further within before receiving an answer – and swiftly as ever. Immediately, Dragan reached to stop the prince in his track, getting a hold of Roland’s arm before he could slip past him. Dragan’s annunciation probably came off with too much urgency, “Wait, Roland!”

The perplexed look Roland gave him made his heart sink. Dragan let off the prince hectically. He tried hurrying out an explanation without delay, “One of the tunnels caved in but a few days ago. I would advise against entering just now.”

Considering Dragan had no moment to think his reasoning through prior, he was rather pleased with the answer he came up with. However, his testimony seemed to do little to clear Roland’s doubts, as he now carried an examining look and investigated further, “Did you not assure us moments ago that the mining continues apace?”

Roland really was sharp for someone with an attitude this naturally laidback. Dragan quickly strung together the most logical scenario he could come up with, trying to deliver his words as unaffected as possible, “The miners are working to repair the damage as we speak. It is simply too soon to allow you inside.”

At that, the prince seemed to relax a little, which allowed Dragan to relax notably in turn.

“Was it caused by a blast?” Frederica wondered.

“It was, in fact. We were perhaps a bit overzealous in attempting to remove some of the bedrock,” he explained casually. Going with the flow was much easier now. Dragan was surprised with how effortless the falsities came to him; perhaps this would make for a useful skill if he could hone it.

“I’d no idea your explosives were so powerful,” Roland remarked clearly dazzled – how ever delightful. The prince wondered on, questioning Dragan directly and bluntly, “How do you make them, anyway?”

Dragan gave him a pleasant smile as he responded, “I would love to tell you, Roland, but I’m afraid we must keep some of our secrets,” shrugging slightly, he turned to the others to address the whole party, “What I can say is that salt is a vital ingredient.”

The first to react was Lord Serenoa, and how astonished he sounded. “Surely you jest!”

“I wasn’t aware salt possessed properties of the like,” the foreign man mused, his gaze distant as if deep in thought, “Truly fascinating…”

Dragan was delighted at the apparent interest he had sparked in the others. Forgetting his worries for the moment, he proudly explained his insight, “I thought you’d be surprised. I could scarcely believe it myself, at first. A gargantuan tome in the Archives opened my eyes to the many uses for salt, beyond seasoning our daily dishes.”

He hesitated for a moment before making his decision, reaching for his trusty record as he declared, “And now I pass what I’ve learned to you, Lord Serenoa, as a token of my gratitude for your visit.”

The Wolffort carefully took the book, reading the title out loud for the others, “The Power of Salt?”

Maybe giving the collection away so eagerly was a rash call. Though Dragan was sure that it was in good hands with the others. And, after all, his work would be of little use collecting dust in his quarters.

“‘Tis a compendium of my research on the uses of salt,” he explained, “I encourage you to pursue it at your leisure.”

His declaration appeared to leave an impression, as Lord Serenoa gladly accepted his offer, “I most certainly shall. ‘Tis a most valuable gift.”

“You would truly hand out your research so freely?” the Hyzantian wondered, mustering the book Lord Serenoa still held in his hands.

“Are you taking issue with that?” Dragan retaliated the question. If he was informed correctly, Aesfrost’s research culture was rather unique between their realms. However, he had never learned how exactly things were handled in the Holy State.

“On the contrary, it is delightful,” the foreign man chimed, “May I give it a read as well?”

“Of course, why would I take issue with that?” Dragan replied, still uncertain what exactly was going on in the other man’s head. The Hyzantian wasn’t even looking at him half the time he was speaking, as if his thoughts were stuck somewhere else.

“This is Corentin,” Lord Serenoa finally introduced the new face to him, “He joined us in Hyzante in order to further his research.”

“Is that so…” Dragan mumbled. The Hyzantian wasn’t simply nosy then; or, well, perhaps one needed to posses a certain deal of curiosity to make a fine researcher. Dragan shortly continued, “I look forward to hearing your impressions.”

Perhaps Corentin could bring some Hyzantian knowledge into the discussion if he so liked to share it.

“At any rate,” Lord Serenoa remarked, “I see the sun hangs low. Shall we save a tour of the mine for the morrow?”

“Yes, perhaps that would be best,” Roland agreed.

Dragan felt a slight bit of pressure lift off his shoulders at the notion. It had been an exhausting day and the surprise visit had just topped it all off. Fatigue was starting to settle in, leaving him slightly nauseated and regretting that he had worked through the past night instead of catching a proper rest. A change to gather his bearings was more than welcomed.

“Yes, of course,” he affirmed alleviated, “I shall prepare entertainment and lodgings for your party at once.”

Dragan would consider how to deal with them by the morrow.

Dragan made sure to cue in the workers about their surprise visitors first. None of his guests seemed interested in moving into the mines regardless. Still, Dragan had rather been safe than sorry. If need be, the miners had to stop anyone from moving further within – and with the proper reasoning as well.

“If any of this gets out, it will spell grave trouble,” Dragan insisted, “I’m sure we are all aware of that?”

“Of course, my lord!” one of them replied. The rest added to that agreement, either with nods or short sounds of affirmation.

“Good… I expect you to further look into how to operate the mining,” Dragan instructed, turning to a smaller group of workers, “Could you make sure our esteemed guests have a proper place to rest?”

“Right on it!” And they were.

Dragan hadn’t caught some of the workers yet. Which was good because – now that he thought it through – the young lord still had to consider a thing or two trying to make his visitors comfortable. Dragan tried to keep his thoughts together as best as he could. Really, he was only conducting orders to the miners. This shouldn’t have been a demanding task at all.

He would have to offer his guests a proper meal with the rations they had available, Dragan decided next. He only noticed how absorbed he was in his considerations when he barely stopped before running over the next best person.

“Apologies! How thoughtless…” Dragan excused himself even before taking note of who he was addressing. He tensed a little on instinct when he realized that Roland was standing before him. Dragan tried catching his surprise quickly – if probably not quickly enough for the prince to miss it.

“It’s all good, Dragan,” Roland assured, “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Why would you be a bother? You know I am ever heartened to see you,” Dragan replied. Perhaps he was overcompensating at that.

Luckily, he seemed to have struck the right chord instead, given that Roland’s attentive gaze mellowed out at his insistency. The prince’s pleased tone of voice underlined the impression when he spoke, “That is reassuring to know. You just appeared, well… you quite simply must be busy.”

“I have kept busy, one could say,” Dragan chatted back, “But the tales of dirty labor and calculations are stale ones to tell, don’t you agree? Would you mind telling me more of your time abroad? I must admit I remain quite intrigued.”

“As Serenoa has mentioned, the journey has been most enlightening,” Roland recalled, “The Holy State truly is unlike anything I have ever born witness to.”

Roland appeared in thought for a moment. The recount seemed to light a spark in his eyes. It was odd, Dragan thought to himself, that Hyzante could have swayed the prince so easily.

“Wherever I looked, people seemed content. They would always have a smile to share.” Roland paused his retelling for a moment. His gaze got more distant when he continued. “If only there was a way to spread that prosperity to all Norzelia… Perhaps we are due to learn a thing or two from Hyzante.”

Roland’s tone of voice cleared up as he finished. He ended his sentence so cheerily and quickly that the underlying content was hard to catch, or maybe he really was just hopeful to a naïve extent.

Dragan couldn’t say he shared the prince’s optimism. He was certain that for every one of Hyzante’s happy, nourished citizens, they must be exploiting another in turn. Whatever word of the Roselle’s treatment reached The Duchy was proof enough. And that wasn’t even considering how they wrung Aesfrost – or perhaps even Glenbrook – to the last drop.

“It is hard to believe that such prosperity comes without sacrifices…” Dragan voiced his doubts, “And I hardly feel like finding out whatever such a thorough façade might entail.”

“Don’t you think you are being a little pessimistic, my friend?” the prince questioned.

“Hardly,” Dragan replied without hesitation.

Roland appeared a bit taken aback by his snappy reply. For a moment, the prince just looked at him, eyes big and searching, before he fell back into his pleasant tone, “Perhaps we both still need to learn more about the world around us to come to any conclusions on the matter.”

“There is no need to word matters so safely, Roland,” Dragan insisted, “I simply think it’s unfeasible that Hyzante’s methods could ever succeed in pleasing us all. What do you think The Holy State would do without the absurd funds they rob us of?”

“Perhaps, matters are more complex than that,” Roland replied. The prince seemed to waver at first, almost making Dragan feel guilty, before he settled into a more comfortable way of speaking again, “But I simply belief that happiness and prosperity must be achievable through careful governance. Perhaps we just need to find the right way.”

Or means, Dragan thought for a split moment.

“I would like to think so as well,” Dragan said, “It’s the how that remains evasive.”

And he was dead certain that Hyzante wasn’t presenting the right resolution.

“I’d hope to answer that eventually,” Roland said. Dragan wondered how the prince could remain so easy-going. The considerations they would have to make seemed so vast that it was starting to feel suffocating.

“Yes, of course… I suppose we all do,” Dragan simply made pleasantries when any proper answer evaded him. His drained tone appeared to catch Roland’s attention. The prince’s gaze was direct enough that it sent a row of light shivers down Dragan’s back when their eyes met. Dragan struggled not to tear his look to the ground. Hopefully the prince hadn’t noticed anything too off about his behavior. Making any of them doubt him was about the last thing Dragan needed.

“…Are you quite all right? You seem tired,” Roland finally voiced his concern.

Dragan turned the sentence over in his mind, trying to gauge how being tired could arise suspicions. Then he realized that Roland most likely wasn’t putting him on the spot. Rather, he must genuinely be asking about his wellbeing.

“Well, the past days have been rather busy. However, I’d like to think I’ve remained spirited,” Dragan waved off.

He was tired. Complaining about it would hardly net him anything but pity, though.

“I was thinking that you’ve made such swift progress, even with the setback of the cave-in. It’s quite impressive,” Roland replied.

Now that was a sentiment that Dragan was much more comfortable with. Even if he was tired, he could hardly imagine that being much of a nuisance if it meant he was being this productive.

“Still, you’d better not wear yourself too thin. I’d imagine you’d work much easier with a rested mind,” Roland went on. His gaze was still attentive on Dragan. Was he searching for a weak spot? Roland didn’t seem like the type for backhanded comments. Still, he was being so insistent. The prince was almost implying Dragan was too frail for the task he was given. Roland’s mellow expression didn’t match such implications at all.

“You needn’t worry yourself, Roland. I would never display such carelessness to my task,” Dragan assured him. Just as he voiced that, Dragan wondered if Roland truly and simply was worrying for him. It seemed silly at first, but like the most fitting explanation on second thought.

The sentiment left Dragan mixed up. On one hand, it was humiliating that he’d apparently made a sorrow enough sight to worry the prince in the first place. On the other, Roland caring enough to consider his wellbeing was heartening. The sensation was soft enough to make him feel a little warmer and strange enough to turn him fluttery. The mix of emotions could only be described as tasting sticky and pitch-saccharine, like over-sweetened medicine. On top of Dragan’s nerves in light of the grander situation and his – admitted – tiredness, he was starting to become nauseated. Dragan needed a break from it.

“I appreciate the concern however, Roland,” Dragan noted still.

At the very least, Roland wasn’t searching him so insistently anymore. The prince appeared much mellower when he replied this time, “There really is no need to mention it.”

He paused for a moment, before adding, “In any case, I’d better let you finish your duties in peace, least I prevent you from catching rest.”

“Of course, I’ll make sure to have your quarters ready in a moment as well,” Dragan assured.

“You have my gratitude.”

Dragan barely let the prince finish, only replying when he already was in motion to set off, “You’re welcome.”

Dragan tried to shake off the uneasiness at his own insincerity quickly. Hurrying to the next task turned out to make that much easier.

“No word from below, you say? They haven’t tried to flee, have they?” Dragan questioned. It had been a while since he had sent the group of workers deeper into the mines. And yet, not a single soul had received word from them, apparently.

“No, ser,” the worker assured him, and he seemed dutiful enough at that, “I’ve not seen a single soul emerge from the mine.”

Dragan struggled to hide his uneasiness. He was starting to shift, trying to resist easing his agitation by full on pacing instead. Finally, Dragan sighed almost inaudibly as he concluded, “Very well, then. I shall make contact with them myself.”

He had hardly finished his sentence when an ear-piercing scream echoed through the tunnels. Dragan’s blood froze in his veins, his thoughts crashing to a halt.

“Was that…?!” someone – Lord Serenoa – exclaimed, sounding similarly startled as Dragan was.

Someone must have gotten injured, that much was certain – and direly from the sounds of it. Dragan jumped into motion immediately at the thought. The sooner he would find the source of the turmoil, the better.

“It came from within!” Dragan exclaimed as he rushed ahead.

He took note of some hurried footsteps trailing after him, not bothering to check who was following. The noises ahead soon drowned them out – clattering, some yelling. Dragan scanned the dimly lit tunnels hectically, somehow both desperate and terrified to spot anything.

The sight he stumbled upon spoke of absolute chaos, one turmoil of people. Dragan caught a figure stumbling over first – one harsh thump as they hit the ground. That one wasn’t the first to fall; bodies were scattered everywhere. He recognized some of them, the very same faces he had seen every day working here.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Dragan exclaimed.

At last, Dragan caught eye of a heavily armored figure, then another; the tunnels were crowded with soldiers. Their armor was pitch-dark, almost blending them into the shadows. Were those… Blackirons!?

“Aesfrosti Soldiers!” Someone had caught up with Dragan. “Why are they at the mines?”

Dragan recognized Lord Serenoa’s voice after all. When one of the soldiers smashed his shield into the ground – and one of the miners with it – Dragan finally averted his gaze. The sickening crunch of a breaking body still rung in his ears as he stumbled back a step, then took another. Finally, he started to piece the scene together at full. If the Blackirons were here, then they must be so on Gustadolph’s orders.

“No…” he wondered out loud, “Did he see through my plot?!”

Finally, one of the Aesfrosti soldiers spoke up, voice echoing through the tunnels as he instructed his comrades, “Clear the mine. Leave no survivors.”

No survivors…

“So this is how they respond,” Dragan mumbled.

He expected Gustadolph to be a sly associate to deal with but this… Dragan had found the key to reshaping not only their nation but all of Norzelia to their liking; and he had presented it to Gustadolph of all people. Yet still, the Archduke would rather kill him than return the favor. And for what? His pride? His insufferable nitwit of a brother? Or was Dragan just that much of a nuisance to his high and mighty cousin? Dragan felt sick – no, that wasn’t exactly it. He could feel his unease, his shakes and nausea tip over into something much more manageable – fury.

“Those dogs!” Dragan growled. Indeed, he felt his temper rush to his head, a boiling hot sensation. It would be the first time Dragan would cast his spells against another, leave alone in earnest. He could feel the first sparks of magic sizzle through his fingertips out of instinct. Oh, if Gustadolph had expected him to just lay low and take it, he would be in for an unpleasant surprise!

Suddenly, Dragan was pulled back. He could hardly feel a jitter; was he getting numb?

“Protect Lord Dragan!”

Already, Lord Serenoa was drawing his weapon – and not a moment too soon as a few ticks later, the mines were drowned out by the shrill of battle.

Chapter Text

The mania was barely lasting Dragan a couple of minutes into the battle, leaving him frenzied to keep up the brutal pace. He felt himself getting desperate to stay in the heat of battle, least he started thinking about the situation he had found himself in.

When the final Blackiron fell to Hughette’s arrow, silence draped over the battlefield for a couple of seconds, just long enough for the scene before him to sink in – bodies and blood and burned flesh scattered across the ground.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Roland was the first to break the silence. Soon enough, he stepped besides Dragan, clearly showing who he was addressing that question to. Dragan caught the prince’s glare for a split second. Instantly, he was struck with a harsh pang to the very pit of his stomach, causing him to flick his gaze towards the ground. They had all just risked their lives; that none of them were taken almost seemed like a miracle.

Clearly, Roland’s exclamation had struck a chord with the others, as one after the other started raising their voice.

“Why is Aesfrost attackin’ the mines? Are they gonna melt down their own forges next!?”

It was hard for Dragan to follow the conversation, every word coming to him just a split second delayed.

“Incomprehensible. The miners have all been slain…”

The miners had trusted Dragan, had they not? None of them had made a move to cross him at all.

“How… How did it come to this?” Dragan’s voice wavered, struggling to carry. It hardly mattered; his contemplation was pointless as it stood. Dragan knew better than any of them what had led them here. And yet, he didn’t seem to connect with the situation properly, like some part of him didn’t grasp the full truth of it.

“Lord Dragan,” Lord Serenoa caught his attention. Dragan made sure to focus on the Wolffort’s words, though he still didn’t dare raising his gaze.

“You know something of this, do you not?” Lord Serenoa inquired. His earnest voice made Dragan feel off. It must be obvious to them all that he was at least partially to blame for this mess. Dragan wasn’t sure if he’d prefer Lord Serenoa’s sympathy to be genuine or a well put on veil of civility – or rather, which of the two options would unsettle him less.

“You’ve nothing left to hide. Talk.” Roland was much bolder than Lord Serenoa, both in tone and in his choice of words.

It was as if a fog lifted around Dragan then, instantly reconnecting him to the scene proper. The scratches across his skin started to burn. The air was dusty dry, making breathing just a little uncomfortable. Had he truly been this numb? How peculiar…

Dragan only now noticed that he was trembling; perhaps he had been all this time. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around himself, almost cramping up to steady himself. His nerves rung as his mind ran through what he was supposed to say. A shudder poured through his entire body as he started up, struggling to formulate his spinning thoughts into words, “I underestimated him. I never thought –“

“There are survivors!”

As Dragan turned to assess the situation for himself, he lost his footing entirely. For a heartbeat, he felt completely weightless. The sensation was quickly shattered as he made harsh contact with the rubble ground, adding to the biting sting he was feeling. Dragan's heart jumped out his chest at the brisk impact, refusing to calm to an appropriate pace while he tried to make sense of the situation.

Roland had pushed him. As the prince already picked himself up again, Dragan remained frozen, merely managing to look at him in bewilderment. Dragan only pieced together that Roland had been struck when the prince moved to grab hold of the arrow buried in his arm.

“Your Highness…!” Hughette was already rushing to her liege’s side as she exclaimed, “Wait, steady now!”

That arrow must have been addressed at Dragan; they really wanted to see him buried. If Roland hadn’t pushed him out of harm’s way…

“That appears to have been the last of them…”

“No enemies remaining?”

“None in sight. Shall I check the tunnels?”

It was hard to focus on any voice in particular. While the commotion built up around them, Geela stepped forward. She was swift at work, removing the arrow that had struck Roland without hesitation before tending to his wound. Frederica and Lord Serenoa followed shortly after.

“Are the two of you all right?” Frederica exclaimed as she examined them.

“Don’t worry yourself,” Roland assured her without missing a beat. The prince looked so focused, unwavering as ever. And yet, Dragan’s heart was still racing. He was shaking; his knees felt weak; even the light, burning grazes and bruises were a bother to ignore.

Roland was bleeding.

“The wound is shallow. I’ll have it patched up in no time,” Geela reaffirmed the prince’s statement shortly after.

The wave of relieve that washed over Dragan finally succeeded in crushing him. He started to spill words without thinking, “I… Forgive me. Had I but spoken the truth… None of this…”

“The truth?” Roland questioned sharply. Dragan searched the prince’s look on instinct when he took note of the harsh tone. Roland’s gaze was piercing him through. It was so unusual for the prince… No, that was nonsense; they didn’t know each other well enough to make such assessments at all.

“Yesterday… we happened about a deposit of salt – deeper within the mines,” Dragan started explaining. When he wasn’t thinking too hard about the broader situation, his sentences strung together much more easily.

It apparently took a moment for his words to sink in; the silence was starting to feel overbearing. Roland was the first to break it with an exasperated scoff, “If you intend to jest…!”

“Of course I wouldn’t!” Dragan protested, “I speak only the truth, as you demanded.”

Dragan finally got back on his feet as well. Even with how he was still wavering, the gesture succeeded in granting him at least the slightest reassurance.

“How come Lord Serenoa hasn’t been informed of this development?” the steward of House Wolffort jumped onto the opportunity to strike, “He’s meant to oversee the operation of the mines. Surely, you would make sure to give notice swiftly, would you not?”

Of course, they wouldn’t just overlook something like that. There truly would be nowhere for Dragan to turn once this had been said and done, was there?

“Dragan, please, it is about time you tell us the full truth,” Frederica pressed him. Even her normally gentle voice gained a stern undertone.

Maybe Dragan could come up with a comfortable lie.

“…Only Aesfrost was informed,” Dragan stated, his voice low enough that, just maybe, they wouldn’t catch that properly. Then, he tried to shake his fright off and finally corrected himself to something more truthful, “I only send notice to Archduke Gustadolph.”

Dragan braced himself for their reactions, not daring to look at any of them directly. His instinct was screaming at him to fix this, somehow pull himself out of this sorrow position he had found himself in. The Glenbrooks presented his best opportunity to turn this sorry situation around. Being this foolhardily honest could cost Dragan direly, but then matters was so painfully obvious that he wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Hail! Is Prince Roland among you?” a fresh voice suddenly interrupted the oppressive silence, “I have a message!”

“Speak it now,” the prince demanded instantly.

The herald rushed over, barely coming to face them before he started proclaiming the ill news, “Whiteholm Castle is under attack, Your Highness!”

By the stars, surely… No, this could be no coincidence.

“’Tis the Aesfrosti army!” the Herald confirmed.

“No…!” Roland’s voice was quivering ever so slightly, “What in the world…!?”

The prince looked distressed for a moment before he caught himself. The rest of the Royal Family must still be in Whiteholm.

“Damn it all! This can’t be!” their master of arms raised his voice.

“Control yourself!” Benedict cut in, calming the turmoil that was starting to build, “At any rate, we must confirm exactly what has happened.”

Dragan tried focusing on the situation at hand; he so desperately tried.

“Shan’t we look into the salt depository as well?” the spy of the house spoke.

“Unfortunately, time is of the essence. We can’t count on being safe to roam around here. Reinforcements may very well be on the way…” the tactician pondered, but finally gave her the order, “Secure a sample, Anna. We very well might need the evidence later.”

Gustadolph was after the salt, was he not? It was the only logical reason for attacking the mines. Then the charge on Glenbrook…

“Of course,” the short woman confirmed immediately and swiftly disappeared into the tunnels at that.

“The rest of us must return to the kingdom,” Lord Serenoa announced, drawing attention back to the glaring issue at hand.

Gustadolph must be planning on distracting from the mines with his assault. The ground on which they stood would be his to claim as well. It was astonishing in the most bitter way how events had cascaded like this.

“Allow me to come with you,” Dragan requested. It almost came out as a demand with how acute he said it.

Hughette appeared downright offended as she protested, “Haven’t you done enough?!” She turned to the Glenbrook nobles to reason with. “The last thing we need right now is an enemy by our side!”

Dragan cut in before any of them could answer, “I understand you’d be perturbed. But, please, let me try to reason with my people, at the very least.”

“With all due respect, Lord Dragan,” Benedict shook the demand off, “The Aesfrosti soldiers seemed all too keen on ending your life just moments ago. What makes you hope any in the capital would hear you out?”

His stoic way of speaking still didn’t tear the slightest bit. It turned Dragan much more uneasy than the blatant enmity of Hughette.

“I…”, Dragan immediately started up, though he ended up short of an answer. They really had been ready and willing to end his life. The audacity only aggravated Dragan’s urge to damn reason.

“If any were to spot you…” the tactician continued, “They would gladly finish their comrades’ unfinished business, wouldn’t you think?”

He gave a pause that seemed all too punctuated, readjusting his glasses right before finishing his deduction, “If the worst came to pass, they would surely not let us escape with the knowledge we gained here either. It would put a target on all of our heads.”

Dragan was starting to shake again, tensing his every fiber. This simply couldn’t be it.

“Then what will you have me do?” Dragan questioned; his voice also trembling lightly. The desperation must have dripped from his tone – how undignified.

“I say, you best retreat to the Wolffort demesne for now,” Benedict proposed, as he turned to Lord Serenoa, “My Lord, what do you say?”

The Wolffort nodded, affirming his steward’s decision, “I do suppose it is in all our best interest if Lord Dragan’s survival remains confidential – for now, at the very least.”

“I assume you have no objections to that, Lord Dragan,” Benedict assumed matter-of-factly, “Or do you wish to forfeit your life once-over?”

“Please, you will end up encouraging him at this rate,” Frederica sighed, giving her cousin a stern look as she finished talking. Dragan didn’t find it in him to protest them anymore at this rate. They had risked so much already. If this was truly the safest bet for them all…

“I have… no objections.”

The Wolffort party had quickly rushed off to support the crown city after that, leaving Dragan with the herald; or the herald to take care of Dragan, more likely. Benedict had insisted they cover up his survival, to pick out one of the deceased to “prop up”.

The scene before him was hard to stomach as it stood – not just the caved in bodies, the spilled blood, and the molten skin. The fact that these were people, alive and breathing just moments prior, was much more uncanny. They were supposed to be allies; they shouldn’t have fought each other to begin with.

Dragan had killed his own countrymen. He couldn’t truly regret it, not when they were the ones out for his head in the first place. The smell of burned flesh was sickening still, the glimpses of defaced, charred corpses haunting the corners of his mind. Dragan didn’t want to be a person capable of causing this carnage.

“Lord Dragan, will this one do?” the harbinger caught his attention. Dragan gladly cut his search short, keeping his gaze glued to the floor in front of him as he walked over. The herald had moved to turn the body before them, giving Dragan a questioning look. It was one of the Blackirons who had apparently found his end through a stab wound, spilling out onto the dirt ground.

The man did seem to have about the same stature as Dragan, though he supposed that the messenger would be better suited to judge that. They weren’t identical, far from it, but it had to do. They had been instructed to disfeature the body anyways.

Frigid shivers ran down Dragan’s spine at the thought. Dragan shouldn’t pity his aggressor. And yet, he looked so disturbingly human as he laid slain before him; the young man’s face was still caught in surprise, as if he hadn’t seen his untimely fate coming.

The man must have been about Dragan’s age. His features had a soft youthfulness about them. This man most likely had loved ones back in the Duchy, waiting for him to come back – a lover, friends, a father… But he wouldn’t come. Dragan would even deny his poor, bled-out body to return home.

They would present the remains to Dragan’s own father instead. The thought only slipped into his consciousness now, breaking loose a torrent of speculations that flooded his mind.  Would they truly report his alleged passing to his father? How would they explain this to him? Or did they plan on getting rid of him as well?

The panic hit Dragan like an icy wind, freezing the blood in his veins. He tried to take a steady breath, but his chest pricked like it had been frostbitten at every move. No, he had to think this through logically. His father hadn’t done anything to warrant such a fate. Would Gustadolph stop at that? Surely, he wouldn’t go through the trouble as long as it didn’t benefit him. Gustadolph didn’t stand to gain anything from killing Dragan’s father, right?

“My lord?” the harbinger ripped him from his thoughts – rightfully so. Dragan wouldn’t get anywhere with this.

“…I see no problem with your choice,” he finally answered the Glenbrook. His chest felt like caving in as he spoke, “If you see a likeness, we should be able to achieve the intended results.”

This wasn’t the right time to panic. No lamenting in the world would be able to change the situation at hand. Stars, Dragan wished he believed in a higher power he could pray to right now, as if that would alleviate a damn thing.

His hands were shaking when he started undoing the soldier’s jacket, even when he forced them to work swiftly. Swapping their clothing would be a good first step in disguising their true identities. His rationale couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling. This was simply vile, inhumanely so. Dragan didn’t want to be treated like this if he were to pass away. What gave him the right to inflict this on another?

When his hands came into contact with the clammy, blood-soaked fabric, Dragan finally caved in. He was trembling like leaves in a gust, his head foggy and his stomach filled to the brim with nausea.

“My… apologies,” he stuttered out, fighting to keep his voice proper, “Would you mind lending me a hand. I…”

He gave up on justifying his weakness rather swiftly. He simply didn’t have a good reason to make the harbinger muddy his hands in his stead.

“’Tis no bother, my lord,” the Glenbrook soldier affirmed. His voice was objectively calming, though it only succeeded in raising Dragan’s discomfort; he was coddling him. The Glenbrook swiftly kneeled beside Dragan before affirming onceover, “I will handle the unlucky fellow. See that you get ready to leave, lest we get caught by any reinforcements.”

“Of course,” Dragan affirmed. His body remained frozen for a heartbeat as he struggled to steady himself before letting off the corpse. His hands were yet shaking when he moved them. It was infuriating, not just how obviously overcome he was with the Glenbrook soldier right by his side to witness it, but also how fiercely he wished to hold onto his dignity. Dragan was about to cover in the Blackiron’s clothes, drenched with the blood that was spilled in his name and hide like a coward. Clearly, his dignity wasn't of concern.

Dragan felt like the notion should aggravate him more. Instead, he just felt numb and a little heavy. His head was pulsing. Taking a deep breath, Dragan finally picked himself up, stepping aside to at least allow himself some seclusion while changing.

When Dragan took his clothes off, he felt like he should have gotten cold in these clammy tunnels. Then, when he stripped down to his undergarment, it should have felt improper, even when the herald did his best to give him the illusion of decency; Dragan had to reach – almost stretch – for the soldier’s attire, as the harbinger didn’t ever turn to look towards him. The blood-soaked clothes should have made Dragan nauseated when they clung to his skin. Instead, he just felt empty – or perhaps detached was the more fitting term. It was as if a thick vail had been draped between his conscious and the impressions.

They made sure to leave none of the Blackiron’s belongings behind, not even the armor. The equipment was fairly light all things considered, just a simple cuirass, gloves, protectors and the like. Dragan still felt sluggish when he put them on. He’d rather not consider having to make the whole way back to the Wolffort demesne like this. At the very least, the clothes fit Dragan well; their stature must line up pretty well, just as intended.

Finally, the herald handed Dragan the Blackiron’s last remaining possession – a small knife. Dragan turned the trinket in his hands as the Glenbrook finished dressing the body up. He wasn’t even sure whether he was looking at a weapon or a utensil. The knife barely reached from the root of his palm to his fingertips. It was plain and a little dull – by the looks of it. The only remarkable detail was a small engraving on the wooden handle. It looked like scrawl. Had this meant something to the Blackiron?

“My Lord, perhaps we should find you something to cover yourself with,” the herald ripped him out of his thoughts. Dragan shouldn’t dally like this. If someone were to catch them and learn of his survival, the consequences could be dire.

“Of course, apologies for my lack of consideration,” Dragan replied.

He had to cover his face, at the very least. Dragan considered a helmet. However, any at hand would be so distinctly Aesfrosti in design that he would surely catch attention in Wolffort – leave alone the unrest he would cause if the news of the attack already reached the demesne. On second thought, perhaps he should find something less conspicuous to drape over the Blackiron’s armor as well.

Dragan searched the caverns again. The pictures of the corpses barely reached his mind anymore. His gaze got caught on a dark figure: a soldier slumped against the wall of the tunnels, head hanging low. His hood draped over his face. The black robe almost seemed to swallow his lifeless body. This would do just perfectly.

Dragan stepped over to get the mantle himself this time. Even with how loosely the cloak was fitted, Dragan struggled removing it. The body felt heavy and rigid, even when simply peeling one arm after the other from the sleeves. As Dragan finally managed to untangle the mantle and pull it off, the soldier’s body collapsed, folding over completely. Dragan felt a numb, uncomfortable sensation rise in his gut, like the qualms he should be feeling were trying to break through his sudden fit of apathy. Dragan couldn’t quite shake it, even when he continued moving. Pulling the cloak around himself, he felt strangely colder than before.

When he finally stepped besides the herald again, he pulled over the large hood and questioned, “Will this do?”

“It shall,” the Glenbrook replied, “Let’s better finish our task and start moving, my lord.”

The harbinger sounded unusually collected, considering the stakes of the situation. Then again, Dragan felt improperly calm now as well. The sensation paradoxically was rather uncomfortable.

“Of course, if I may…” Dragan mumbled.

Perhaps burning the body was the easiest way to execute this. Dragan should dread this; did he dread this? It wouldn’t mark the first time he had scorched a person today. It hadn’t been all that hard on him then, now had it? When he had been taking lives – had been fighting for his life, it didn’t seem so frightening at all.

Dragan forced a deep breath through the pressure. He wasn’t even sure what would greet him once the tension burst – anger, fright, or desperation, perhaps.

Dragan readied his spellbook, trying to gather any energy he had left. The fire collected in his hand as if it lit on its own accord. Dragan tried whirling it around, amazed at how easy this was coming to him. The flames curled around his wrist naturally.

His hands were still shaking.

Dragan fired off the spell without a second thought. For a moment, the soldiers face was obscured by the blaze. Then the flames and the smoke started to settle, revealing a faint impression of the skull-like features that remained.

Dragan stumbled backwards, almost tripping over himself as he did. His gaze stuck to the ground right in front of the poor soul. The twisted picture of something that wasn’t quite human anymore stuck with him.

Dragan had never quite thought about death like this before – something so terribly tangible for how ghastly it was. If the others hadn’t been there to support him, if Roland hadn’t reacted as quickly as he did, then he surely would have –

“Aye, this’ll do, my lord,” the Glenbrook messenger ripped him from the thought, “Let’s get going – quickly.”

“…Of course,” Dragan affirmed. He had to hold strong, had to keep moving, and eventually…

Dragan simply had to set one foot in front of the other.

Chapter Text

Wolffort offered little comfort when Dragan arrived. In the dead of night, the only signs of life were a couple of citizens hurrying about while exchanging agitated whispers and the soldiers guarding the gates. It was a small miracle the guards allowed Dragan entrance, considering he emerged from the undergrowth of the pitch-black forest with his hood draped over his features. They would most likely have sent him away if they hadn’t recognized the Glenbrook herald that had guided Dragan to the Wolffort demesne.

The castle’s cozy halls should have brought a taste of familiarity, though they only further alienated Dragan in their abandoned state. It was odd to navigate them without Frederica or Lord Serenoa to lend him company. Dragan’s steps echoed in the empty halls, only the occasional courteous word from the herald breaking the silence.

The herald organized Dragan a small room to stay in and a change of clothes. The warm browns and beiges weren’t quite Dragan’s usual stile, though that was the least of his worries. He was safe at last, finally able to shed the hefty armor for something lighter. It was a blessing, considering his body was already weighed down by exhaustion. Cleansed from all the blood, sweat, and dirt, Dragan was finally presented with a chance to rest. Yet, his thoughts ran faster than ever, one tumbling over the next.

Was he really such a spoiled brat? To think he’d cover while the others risked their lives out there. Dragan should have insisted on joining them. He should be facing Gustadolph head on, speak up against his reprehensible scheme. Instead, Dragan ran in circles like an animal trapped in a cage, pacing the confined space between the bed, the wardrobe, and the secretary. By the time the first rays of sunlight trickled in through the window, Dragan felt dim and nauseated.

Dragan had half a mind to make way for the capital himself; said half of him had probably gone mad. There quite simply was no feasible way for him to make it all the way there, find a path into the castle and join up with the others – on his own, no less. He would be captured, or – more likely – killed outright, rendering their fight to protect him meaningless after all. That wasn’t even taking into account that he’d surely be too late to change the outcome of the confrontation anyhow. Yet, just waiting around for news to arrive was driving Dragan insane all the same.

Dragan perked up as he heard faint voices reaching through the walls, the muffled murmurs contrasting the quiet that had lasted through the night. He listened closely, freezing in place and shallowing his breath. It was a proper commotion out there, one person exclaiming over the next. If only Dragan could make out what they were saying.

As curiosity got the better of him, Dragan carefully inched the door open slightly. He winced as it gave a faint creak, holding his breath. The talk outside continued undeterred. When Dragan rested his head against the door, he could finally listen in on the conversation.

“…we supposed to tell the young lord?!”

“Calm yourself…!”

“Goodness, thank the stars for Lord Serenoa’s return. If we'd lose him as well…”

Dragan zoned out; Lord Serenoa – at the very least – had made it back to the Wolffort demesne. Dragan leaned his back against the door, snapping it into its lock. He had been told to remain here.

Dragan wondered if Lord Serenoa had returned alone; surely some of the others remained to accompany him. Lord Serenoa had better made sure to keep Frederica safe. Dragan couldn’t bear the thought of them returning without her. Would Gustadolph find it in his heart to spare her? Or maybe the question was whether he thought more or his own sister than he did of Dragan.

Gustadolph would make sure to dispose of the crown if he managed to get a hold on Glenbrook, that much was certain. If his men caught Roland, they would never let him escape. Most likely, Gustadolph would prefer to kill him like he had tried with Dragan.

Without further consideration, Dragan picked a mantle from the short stack of clothes he was offered, pulling the hood over hastily before slipping out the door.

By the time Dragan was through the castle and down the hill, all the way into the village, his breath came in short huffs. He hadn't even paid attention to the fact that he was proper running until the incline of the mountain didn’t carry his steps anymore.

The first thing that caught his eyes was a cascade of pink locks. He slowed down, his eyes darting over the figure to affirm that he really was looking at Frederica. Instantly, a wave of relief washed over him, making him feel lighter and dizzier alike.

Dragan’s gaze stuttered over the surrounding area as he anxiously affirmed one by one that they had returned. Somehow, Roland had made it; he looked slightly worse for wear, but he had made it. Lord Serenoa was with them, most obviously, as well as Benedict, Geela… The thought of missing one of them by the end of the process was pulling Dragan’s chest together. He didn't; they had all returned. Dragan finally could breathe freely again.

As the affirmation sank in, the thought of turning heel and waiting in his room until one of them checked on him crossed his mind. He shook the thought, a little bothered that he even considered hiding again. Dragan continued towards them with wide steps.

They didn't seem to notice him, which was a good sign, considering he wasn't supposed to draw attention. The first to react was Frederica. She caught his gaze for a moment, haltering before a hint of recognition crossed her features. She closed the distance between them with a row of quick steps, already greeting him, “Thank goodness, you made it back all right,”

Frederica was still heartened to see him. Dragan could scarcely believe how much that meant right now.

“You’re too kind Frederica,” he insisted – not just to be polite but in earnest, “You put yourselves in grave danger. I…”

…was worried sick.

“I’m heartened to see you all back – and in one piece too,” Dragan continued instead.

“Not all of us,” Roland sneered, promptly bringing back that nauseating uncertainty Dragan had felt before. The prince appeared dejected – tense too as if ready to snap any moment.

Dragan wondered if this was the proper time to inquire them on what had happened in the capital. Roland already rushed past him as he considered. Dragan was left awkwardly falling into step as they started moving across the town square and towards the castle. They walked swiftly enough that it felt like they left the village behind in no time at all, even when the silence between them stretched uncomfortably.

“You should have been there,” Roland addressed him unprompted. His voice was shaking – not weakened but strained to the breaking point. Dragan hurried to keep the prince’s pace and remain attentive. An oppressive uneasiness was rising in Dragan’s chest, enough to turn breathing difficult.

“Gustadolph put the blame on us – for your supposed death,” Roland continued, his voice breaking in distress, “They died because you weren’t there…!”

Dragan haltered. The blood was freezing inside his veins at Roland’s torn voice, running icy chills through him from neck to toe.

“Calm yourself…!” Benedict insisted, “We talked about this. Our choice was well reasoned, considering the information available to us at the time.”

Gustadolph had blamed Glenbrook for “killing” him…? Of course, how very convenient…

“We didn’t make any choices,” Roland continued. The prince sounded utterly heartbroken. Dragan wondered which poor soul lost its life to hurt him like this. Roland continued his accusations, “If you would have given us time to think…”

“We had no time to think,” Benedict cut him short, “It’s apparent your emotions are running high, Your Highness. However, now is not the time for senseless bickering.”

“Benedict, please, let him catch his breath…” Lord Serenoa spoke up, “We’re all exhausted and dispirited. It’s only natural to feel bitter after all that happened.”

“No, Benedict is right, Serenoa,” Roland shook off, much calmer than before – unsettlingly so, “We must set our gaze towards the future. It is the only way.”

The prince dragged his steps until he came to a stop in the middle of the mountain-track. He turned towards the group as he finally proclaimed, “Perhaps, if we bring him –” Roland nodded towards Dragan. “– to the capital, we can sow enough confusion to strike back.”

Dragan perked up at the suggestion. If he were to stand up against Gustadolph’s lies, perhaps…

“Have you lost your mind?!” Frederica exclaimed, “We barely managed to escape with our lives but hours ago. Not to mention how destructive a direct confrontation could be…”

“We have to act,” Roland insisted, “I say sooner rather than later.”

“We have to consider our options carefully before taking action,” Benedict added, “At the very least, we need a reliable strategy to beat Aesfrost’s might. We can’t just count on him to win them over – or to be on our side in the first place.”

Dragan took a moment to understand that he was the topic of the conversation.

“Excuse me, are you implying…?!” Dragan rose his voice in offence.

“Of course he is,” Hughette cut him short, “You played us once; how should we trust you will not do it again?”

“Surely you don’t believe I would stoop so low,” Dragan stated in disbelief. His gaze fell towards Frederica, who promptly avoided it in favor of looking towards the ground.

“We have no reason to think you wouldn’t, I suppose.” Geela was the first to break the silence.

“Truly? After everything Gustadolph has done?” Dragan questioned. They had to see reason. He was better than that; better than Gustadolph for certain!

“Of course, having an ally against the one who ordered your assassination would be rather convenient, right?” Anna added. Dragan wanted to deny the thought, even when it had crossed his mind more than once already.

“Even if you were to believe that…” he reasoned instead, “Surely, that would only give me one more reason to fight by your side.”

“For now, it would,” Benedict remarked, “In any case, we appear to be getting ahead of ourselves. There still are more pressing matters to clarify. Only then will we be able to reach a conclusive answer.”

His gaze stuck to Dragan once more; it appeared Dragan was in quite the demand indeed.

“For start, we’ll need to know the exact words exchanged between you and Gustadolph,” Benedict explained; Dragan was almost bemused when he was finally addressed in person again. “If there is anything the Archduke could use against you, we might have to hold off on showing our cards too soon – least we end up in a more precarious situation than we started.”

Dragan had rather kept that affair vague. Then again, he didn’t exactly have a choice.

“There is no reason for that bastard to stick to the truth now,” Erador added, “He might as well pull slander out of thin air again.”

“If it came to that – a word against a word,” Dragan reasoned, “I’m certain, there will be people standing against Gustadolph’s tyranny if given the opportunity.”

There would be people that would rather stand with him. Dragan had no doubt in his mind about that.

“Bold words for someone who almost got killed by the very people he’s vowing for,” Hughette differed. Dragan could feel this discussion getting exhausting. He didn’t have a clear mind left for this to begin with, and convincing them all would be nigh impossible.

“Hail, Lord Serenoa!”

Dragan tensed at the sudden intrusion. He grabbed onto the collar of his mantle, pulling the hood further over his face and sinking his head low.

“My Lord, thank the stars for your return!” The soldier cheered.

“Please, catch a breath, good man,” Serenoa replied calmly as ever, “There is no need for such hurry.”

For a moment, there was an unbridgeable silence between them. Dragan was tempted to peek up beneath his hood. The limited field of vision was already starting to bother him.

“I’m afraid I bring ill news, my lord,” the soldier finally said, much quieter than before, “It’s about Lord Symon…”

On that note, the Wolfforts had more pressing matters to attend to than Dragan’s person; Lord Symon had fallen bedridden, cuing them to rush to his side. The thought of a man with such an impressive aura of power simply succumbing to his own body was surreal. Dragan had seen Lord Serenoa’s levelheaded demeanor slip for the first time when they got the news, a hint of panic flashing in his eyes.

They had only spared time to order Dragan back to his room. Benedict had made sure to give him a sharp look and some stern words for his ‘headless loitering’ before they took their leave. And so, Dragan sat on the bed again, mustering the quirks in the dark wooden wall as his mind wandered.

The situation was escalating at an alarming rate, one issue piling onto the other. Dragan attempted to piece together what happened in Glenbrook. Aesfrost must have taken the capital or else they wouldn’t have come back with their heads hanging low. If that was the case, King Regna had most likely lost his life. The pieces seemed to fit together, considering Roland’s discomposed state. Was he the only one of the royal family who had made it through that night?

Dragan experienced a bitterness that tasted distinguishably like guilt, even when he had no part in taking any of their lives. He really hadn’t believed Gustadolph to be quite this mad, hadn’t thought that he would go to such lengths to bring Glenbrook to heel – and just when their relation was shaping up profitable anyhow. Dragan couldn’t even say if he considered that shortsighted or simply devious.

Gustadolph’s real target must have been the salt deposit. It was the only logical explanation as to why he would strike now of all times. Most obviously, it must have marked the reason for the archduke’s assault on the mines. Dragan had been the only soul short of Gustadolph himself who knew of the salt’s existence. If Gustadolph had managed to kill him, there would have been none who could stop him from claiming it on his own terms. It seemed frustratingly obvious in hindsight.

Dragan didn’t even have enough time – or rather, he hadn’t taken the time to inform his father. He regretted the oversight more than anything. If he had only contacted him first, swallowed his over-boiling frustration down just a little while longer, perhaps none of this would have come to pass.

Dragan shook. His agitation slowly sizzled out as he came to a much more calming realization. If Gustadolph meant to mask his aggression on Glenbrook as just retribution, he wouldn’t dare making a move against Dragan’s father. If anything, he would pull the wool over his eyes as well. The wave of relief washed a weight off Dragan.

Dragan flinched when the door suddenly clacked open, rising from the bed immediately. Lord Serenoa was the first to step in, followed by Frederica and Benedict. Dragan would have to keep his wits about him in the steward’s presence. Indeed, Benedict was the first to speak up, “If you would be so kind to lend us your time, we would like to ask for more details.”

How very laughable – as if Dragan had an alternate way to pass the time. He answered diligently anyways, “Of course; speak it.”

Benedict gave a thoughtful nod before inquiring, “First and foremost: what exactly did you tell the Archduke? And please, do be precise in your account.”

Dragan considered how to wrap the truth into pretty words. His gaze fell to the floor as he started lightly picking at the planks with the tip of his foot. Frederica seemed to catch his hesitation as she calmly but surely insisted, “Dragan, please, it’s in all our best interest if we treat one another with honesty.”

“Well, that doesn’t appear to be my strong suit. You all seemed up in arms about that,” Dragan replied. Frederica tensed at his words, making him regret them instantly. Of all the people he could have chosen to bite back, it shouldn’t have been her.

“I must implore you to take matters more seriously,” Lord Serenoa requested, “We have no time to spare for tomfoolery.”

Lord Serenoa remained ever behind his advisor, even as he spoke up. He didn’t appear to accompany the conversation in full spirit. Then again, if Dragan’s father where to fall ill, he’d hardly have a thought to spare for much else, leave alone patience.

“My apologies. I…” Dragan gave in, tensing as he finally forced himself through the inevitable, “I informed Gustadolph of my findings as well as the basic scope of the deposit. I offered to keep matters confidential if he were to appoint me as Prime Minister in turn.”

“Of course, keeping the information between the two of you gave Gustadolph ample opportunity to dispose of you discretely instead,” Benedict reasoned.

“I can see that now,” Dragan grumbled, “Additionally, I… threatened to open negotiations with Glenbrook next, should he decline my offer.”

“It appears he didn’t take kindly to that,” Serenoa muttered. Dragan nodded along.

“As it stands, I would have preferred Aesfrost to reap the benefits of the salt mine,” Dragan explained, shifting as he suppressed the urge to pace around the room once over, “I’m aware that wouldn’t have been entirely fair on you. My apologies.”

“Underhanded amends don’t mark our priority, I’m afraid,” Benedict scoffed, “Instead, I would like to inquire you on another matter once more: the formula of your explosives.”

“Explosives?” Dragan spoke his confusion right away, “Surely… you don’t mean to use them for battle.”

“Are you raising objections?” Benedict asked, sly enough in tone that it was obvious he wouldn’t allow any such objections in the first place. The steward really possessed a gaze that was as keen as it was judgmental.

“They quite simply aren’t made for battle,” Dragan insisted, “Setting them up is no trivial matter. You’d run a fair chance of them backfiring at you if you were to use them haphazardly. Besides… I couldn’t even keep all my records on me through the turmoil. I’ll have to fill in the blanks somehow… That’s not mentioning the materials and craftsmanship needed to produce them. Gathering the necessities won’t be an easy task.”

“In that case, you better get to work on it right away,” Benedict replied, “I believe you are quite capable of handling the matter, are you not?”

Dragan couldn’t believe he was hesitating before answering that, “Why, of course I am!”

“Then it appears you just found a way to pass your time besides loitering about,” Benedict concluded.

Dragan pulled back at the simple remark, the scope of the situation dawning on him. “Are you intending on locking me up in here?”

“We haven’t decided on a course of action yet,” Lord Serenoa explained. Dragan could only blink at the other in sheer disbelieve.

“And we’d best be off to do that now,” Benedict hurried on, turning subtly as his attention already shifted, “Thank you for your assistance thus far.”

The steward was already in the process of taking his leave. Lord Serenoa shot Dragan one more glance before following suit. Meanwhile, Frederica didn’t move an inch as she said, “Serenoa, may I talk to my cousin in person? I promise to settle matters swiftly.”

Lord Serenoa answered shortly, “Of course. Would you please join us in the assembly hall once you’re done?”

When Frederica nodded, the two men followed her request and left without her. Frederica mustered Dragan for a moment before speaking up, “Dragan, are you all right? You don’t seem all there ever since… Well.”

“There is no need for concern,” Dragan insisted. Of course, he had seen better days; that much should go without saying. Instead, Dragan seized the opportunity to answer some of his own lingering questions, “Pray tell, Frederica… What happened in the Crown City?”

“Of course, no one filled you in yet…” Frederica folded her hands, her gaze turning more distant as she recounted the events. “Aesfrost took the capital by surprise. By the time of our arrival, the entirety of the Kingsguard laid slain. Gustadolph had fought his way into the throne room.”

The pause Frederica gave was tinted with gloom. Her somber voice only accentuated the impression. “Prince Frani lost his life then. It was only thanks to Ser Maxwell we managed to escape. Though he didn’t make it out with us either…”

Dragan’s head was spinning even when Frederica’s words didn’t truly surprise him. She wasn’t done yet. “Gustadolph did accuse King Regna of plotting your murder, as you could probably piece together by now. His Highness was executed on that basis.”

Dragan couldn’t find words anymore. He was simply left staring at nothing as Frederica continued recollecting what had befallen them, “Prince Roland appears to be in shock yet. We received ill news concerning Ser Maxwell’s fate but moments ago. His Highness retreated to his chambers that instant. He practically turned ashen as the herald broke the news to him…”

Dragan was going to be sick. He couldn’t shake the memory of how distressed Roland had been upon their return; the sound of the prince’s breaking voice was etched into his mind. Dragan could scarcely imagine how Roland felt now. Dragan had never ever thought he’d see the normally cheery, laid-back prince so… broken.

Dragan crossed his arms, struggling to appear steady. “If I had known it’d come to this… Frederica, you do believe I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, right?”

She nodded. Considering her downcast look, the gesture hardly lent any comfort.

“I do. I hardly blame the others for showing less understanding, though,” she answered, “You didn’t so much as consider their interests when you made your choice.”

“Frederica…” Dragan struggled to formulate an answer. She looked more hurt – perhaps disappointed – than anything right now. The sight stung more than any of her annoyance or even wrath could have.

“Please, consider things from where I’m standing for a moment,” Dragan implored her, “Discovering something that could shake the very foundations of Norzelia… I simply couldn’t afford to blunder this.”

“But you did,” she retorted plainly. Dragan mustered her in shock as she held direct eye-contact. He hadn’t known Frederica to be quite this bold. Perhaps her new surroundings were suiting her well.

“I only strived to do what is right,” Dragan insisted, “Our people deserve someone who stands up for their interests too.”

“Do you truly believe what you did was just?” Frederica replied immediately. Her tense voice revealed that she wasn’t in any mood to beat around the bush, “Dragan, please, if you can’t be honest around the others, at least try to speak frankly with me.”

Dragan hesitated, uncertain if he’d rather try buttering her up or take the chance to spill his frustrations in hopes that Frederica would understand. Frederica, of all people, had to understand.

“…I couldn’t stand it, Frederica,” Dragan admitted.

A knot in his chest came undone at last, his thoughts grinding back into gear. For a split-second, he recalled a quiet, snowed-in room, cracking of a fireplace, and Frederica quietly nodding along. He remembered the sympathetic half-smile she had given him as he had vented his frustrations to her.

“I toiled far too long,” Dragan muttered, “deluding myself into thinking things would change for the better, that my time would come… It did come. How could I have simply passed that up?”

As the tension between his grievances and reasoning grew unbearable, Dragan felt himself slipping.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Dragan spoke truthfully, “None of you deserve the pain Aesfrost brought you. I know for a fact, that standing by your side will be just. Yet, if given another chance… I’m not certain I wouldn’t take it all over again.”

Even with what Gustadolph had done to him – and all of them – Dragan couldn’t pretend he wouldn’t be tempted to take a chance if the Archduke but extended it to him. Just the thought of staying put and being reduced to a glorified play piece was unbearable.

“Perhaps you should inform the others of this after all,” Dragan proposed; he couldn’t catch himself anymore. “It’s only fair they know who they are planning to protect, don’t you think?”

Frederica didn’t answer him. She looked at him wide-eyed, frozen like a startled animal. A… different memory forced itself into Dragan’s mind at the sight – one of Frederica in a state of pure petrification in face of Thalas’ and Erika’s sneers. How sickening.

“I guess I’m not much different from your true-born siblings after all,” Dragan considered out loud, “Tell, Frederica, is that why you always found me so insufferable?”

“Snap out of it,” Frederica suddenly insisted. Her voice was wavering lightly under the tension for a moment before she continued clear as if she had never experienced any doubt in the first place, “You’re nothing like them. Thalas and Erika wouldn’t even entertain the thought that they might be in the wrong.” Frederica gave a deep sigh. “Apparently, Gustadolph wouldn’t either…”

“Do you think that makes a difference still?” Dragan questioned – honestly questioned. He was sure Roland, for one, wouldn’t consider intentions when his mind was filled with grieve for the loved ones he had lost.

“Misfortune is coming to us all these days,” Frederica replied, “I believe we should see each other through the hardships to come, instead of picking each other apart.”

“Would be lovely if we could…” Dragan mused, “Perhaps it is time you take your leave, Frederica. Lest you keep your betrothed waiting.”

“Dragan…” She hesitated for a moment.

“I mean it,” he insisted, “You shouldn’t linger here. I’ll be quite all right on my own.”

“…All right,” she finally affirmed, “Be well.”

Even when the undeserved hardships could be blatantly read from Frederica’s features, the mellow smile she gave right then was comfortingly familiar. Dragan could feel himself relaxing the muscles he had been unconsciously tensing this whole time.

“I will. You take care, Frederica,” Dragan replied. Somehow, that little phrase came off his tongue much more naturally than anything else had.

Frederica’s smile perked lightly. With a nod, she finally saw herself off. Her reassuring presence lingered for a moment. With each bit of tension that lifted, Dragan felt like gravity was weighing him down more. Reluctantly, he sunk back onto the bed, resting his head in the palm of his hands. He battled to keep his heavy eyelids from falling shut. Dragan truly hadn’t caught a second of sleep the past night; the ones before that had shaped up unrestful as well.

Perhaps it would be best to let the tiredness take him. Unfortunately, Dragan’s thoughts only grew louder as he tried to relax. His head felt like splitting apart.

Dragan didn’t want to turn his regrets over anymore. He wanted to put them to rest, or better yet, seize them at the source. He really hoped they would decide to strike back at Gustadolph sooner rather than later. It seemed to be the one thing that could return some peace of mind to Dragan – not to mention Roland, Hughette, all the people who had lost something to Aesfrost that night.

Dragan wasn’t sure what to do with himself if they decided on taking matters slowly. He already felt like going mad in this darned chamber; the walls seemed to inch closer with any moment he was forced to stay.

Dragan picked himself up. He went for the window first, intending on letting some fresh air in. Then a whim took hold of him – fresh air, sizzling sunlight, something not quite so confining.

Dragan went for his cape, shaking slightly. He made sure to secure the hood meticulously this time.

They would be discussing for a bit. Dragan might as well enjoy what limited freedom he could claim while he had the chance. Surely, they would be none the wiser after his return.

With that thought, Dragan slipped out of his chamber.

Chapter Text

Dragan took a deep breath as the fresh breeze hit him, blowing away the sticky nausea bit by bit. He stretched his sore limbs, only barely grasping his hood before it got blown off. It wasn’t like a single soul was here to spot him anyhow. While the castle was buzzing with unease, the outer wall remained mostly unattended.

It was only logical. The back of the castle was built on the edge of a steep cliff, nothing but woods and grassland spreading below. The parts facing the city were much busier, which was precisely why Dragan had avoided them. The last thing he needed right now was catching attention; Dragan hadn’t thought he’d ever see the day that thought crossed his mind.

He climbed onto the very top of the wall, balancing on the waist-high battlement. Dragan wasn’t sure whether it was the exhaustion or the height making him dizzy. The mountainside pummeled down merely a step in front of him, down, down…

Dragan decided to take a seat as the thought of falling sent numb prickles down his spine. He stretched his legs out over the chasm, leaning back as he settled in – well, comfortably didn’t exactly describe it but he would make do.

Dragan let the sunlight pour over his sore body, the warmth seeping through the layers of his garment. He turned stuffy under his coat; even the breeze couldn’t work against it. It was strangely comforting, like sitting a little too close to a cracking fireplace.

Dragan’s gaze wandered over the landscape. The forest built a dense, lush blanket from up top, shifting with the wind. To his side, the Norzelia River ran on until the foliage swallowed it. Dragan couldn’t help but wonder what he would find so deep into the woods. The urge to move was almost unbearable, if not to the Crown City to settle this cursed matter outright then down the mountain, along the flow of the river, towards the ever-shifting horizon line. What a strange impulse to have.

Dragan would have loved to evade the Wolfforts’ judgement that was sure to come. Unfortunately, he would hardly stand a chance without their support. If push came to shove, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself on his own. He had never felt so disgustingly powerless before.

Dragan fidgeted with his mantle as the gust tugged at it. Through the fabric of its pocket, the harsh contours of a small knife pressed against Dragan’s hand. Even when they had discarded all the Blackiron’s armor, Dragan had kept hold of the slight weapon. He fished the trinket from his pocket, turning it in his hands absentmindedly.

It was peculiar; the utensil might have meant naught to the soldier, yet just the thought that it was one of a kind, that it could hold lingering memories, made simply thinking about throwing it away uncomfortable. It wasn’t even Dragan’s to hold onto in the first place. Perhaps letting it rest would be more respectful.

Dragan’s mind wandered further than he intended. He wondered whether his father would notice anything off about the body; no, actually, he prayed they wouldn’t show him the disfigured remains in the first place. His father shouldn’t have to believe Dragan had found such a pointless, pathetic end.

Dragan wondered whether he could somehow send his father a notice of his survival. How would he even go about sending a simple letter? He could hardly rely on the Wolffort heralds. Much too conspicuous. Besides, Dragan had his doubts Lord Serenoa’s men would follow his request in the first place.

Hopefully, his father would be holding his chin up until Dragan got the chance to explain matters to him; Dragan would have a lot of explaining to do if he ever returned home. A souvenir probably wouldn’t be enough to soothe his father this time.

Damn it all, there was that stubborn tremble again, the nausea.

Dragan flinched when a sharp pain shot through his palm. He hadn’t paid attention; the slight blade was sharper than it looked, no matter the dull shine it had – sharp enough to slice his skin anyhow.

The cut opened some of the grazes on his palm again, resulting in a lovely, burning sensation. Moving his fingers felt off, like the bits of scabbed skin were moving in ways they didn’t agree with. Dragan mustered the droplets of blood as they trickled out.

He wondered what a proper wound would feel like, one more like what Roland had suffered in the mines. The prince had barely even flinched.

Dragan turned the knife again, little specks of blood now added to the matt surface.

When Dragan took note of a sudden commotion, he caught himself holding his breath, clasping the tiny weapon tighter. Making out the words was difficult; the approaching voices must still be some way off.

“Wait, careful…!”

Was that Frederica?

He hadn’t thought they would come looking for him so soon; how long had he been sitting here?

Dragan stumbled over the thought when he heard steps drawing closer. By the time he decided to check the commotion for himself, he was abruptly pulled backwards by the neck of his cape. Dragan’s blood froze at the sudden jolt. He barely caught himself before he could tumble backwards onto the stone tiling.

Ah, damn it, he had dropped the knife after all. A faint clink and a glimpse of the weapon tumbling down the mountain confirmed it.

“What on earth are you thinking?!”

Dragan’s heart seemed to fall out of rhythm for a split second. His thoughts likewise took their time slotting back into place.

Roland had made his way over here, fiercely mad from the looks of it. Dragan attempted to answer him, though any air was about knocked out of him.

“Goodness, have you gone proper mad?!” Frederica complained. She sounded out of breath as she joined them up top. Without hesitation, she crammed herself between the two and reached for Dragan’s bleeding hand. Her touch was comfortable yet firm as she pushed Dragan to show the wound – comfortable, safe for the familiar twinge his palm gave at being forced to spread out.

Dragan pondered Frederica’s words for a moment. Gone mad…

“I don’t believe so, no,” he finally answered, “I wasn’t really… Apologies, I must have given you quite the fright.”

“You can say that again,” Frederica muttered, her voice losing its edge. She seemed to be done scrutinizing his wound. Still, she kept Dragan’s hand in hers, palm facing up, her grasp much lighter than before. Dragan’s eyes fell shut for a moment, immediately throwing off his sense of balance even when he was still firmly seated.

“Get down,” Roland insisted. The prince seemed to have cooled down, shifting his tone of voice from fierce to standoffish. Dragan’s gaze stuttered over him. Roland looked tired too; they had fought through the night, hadn’t they? Dragan wondered whether their journey had been similarly unrestful to his own.

“R… Your Highness, please, I didn’t mean for…” Dragan mumbled. A knot tied in his throat, grating his words as they left him.

Roland claimed the short pause immediately – first with a scoff, then a trembling sigh. Finally, just as his agitation appeared to ebb into weariness, Roland spoke up, “Apologies, I…”

Dragan straightened up at the prince’s sudden change in demeanor. Even when Roland’s expression returned from tired to irritated again – his brows furrowing slightly – it somehow soothed Dragan’s unease.

“No, you know what? To hell with that!” Roland exclaimed, “We have no need for ill placed self-pity; it hardly suits you either. Wouldn’t you agree, Dragan?”

Self-pity? Dragan puffed his chest, protesting the accusation immediately, “You believe that I pity myself?”

Frederica finally backed off – not that the castle wall allowed her much room. “Please, there is no–“

“It sure looks the part,” Roland pushed the matter undeterred, still focused on Dragan, “Is there someone else you would make such a lamenting expression for?”

Dragan felt a strange pull in his chest at the question, like his breath was being taken from him, his heart tugged out of beat. He swallowed against the knot in his throat as he eyed the prince. Roland looked exhausted and somber on one hand, but then there was a twinge in his eyes that spoke of perseverance and earnestness in his words.

“Perhaps…” Dragan mumbled absentmindedly. Pity was such a sorrow emotion; Roland deserved better than that.

“I don’t want your pity, Dragan,” the prince insisted. Dragan shivered under Roland’s unrelenting gaze; his nerves were getting the better of him again.

“Scrap the apologetics,” Roland pressed on, “If you intend on making this right, you’ll have to take action yourself or not at all.”

Roland looked straight at him, his eyes clear as water. “Dragan, promise me you’ll be there when we need you.”

Dragan haltered for a moment as he weighed his words. He couldn’t recall if he had ever felt like holding onto something so dearly before. If he could, he’d like to fight with them. He set his resolution into stone then.

If he could, he’d make things right for him.

His thoughts stuttered out of pace. What was he–

“Please, let us all calm down.”

Frederica startled him when she spoke up. Dragan mentally turned the conversation over one last time before speaking up, “No need to fret…” He was addressing Roland still. “You have my word – however much that means to you.”

Calling the princes expression happy would have been a stretch; of course, genuine happiness couldn’t be expected after all Roland had been through.

“I’ll be holding you accountable,” the prince insisted – lightly.

“Well, I’d better hope so,” Dragan replied – in full earnest.

“Dragan…” Frederica sounded bothered somehow. Dragan gave Roland one last affirming look before finally turning to his cousin again, just as she continued speaking, “You should really get off the edge now…”

Frederica was fidgeting lightly, picking at her fingers. Her concern must run deeply then.

“You think me clumsy enough to slip off?” he questioned, trying to gauge what went on in Frederica’s head based on her reaction. She furrowed her brows.

“Dragan, please, stop joking around…” Frederica insisted.

You’re scaring me, Dragan concluded in mind. She thought him that desperate then. Desperate enough to come up here with a purpose?

“Do not worry, Frederica. Nothing like that,” Dragan insisted. At that, he finally turned to climb off the edge of the battlement onto more secure ground. Feeling the steady stone beneath his soles was reassuring.

“We should get down sooner rather than later,” Roland reasoned, “I’m sure Benedict’s temper is rising by the second.”

Dragan tensed, immediately scanning the area. He surely found said steward and his young lord waiting at the base of the castle wall. Benedict remained unmoving. Perhaps Dragan was imagining it, but the man’s posture appeared even stiffer than usual. If they hadn’t intended on locking Dragan into his room before, Benedict would surely insist on it now. Wasn’t that just his luck?

“Of course, we’d rather,” Dragan sighed. He motioned the both of them towards the ladder, as if to insist ‘after you’. Roland was the first to catch his intention, giving a light shake of his head before he was off, skipping down the steps of the ladder.

Frederica’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer. Dragan didn’t expect her to speak up again until she did. “Please refrain from repeating something like this in the future…”

“I will.”

His clear answer apparently succeeded in soothing her somewhat. Her posture relaxed noticeably; Dragan hadn’t even realized just how tense he had gotten her before. She nodded, finally starting to make her way down, much more carefully than Roland had.

Dragan gave her some space – and himself a moment to compose himself before facing certain doom. He didn’t manage to come up with an excuse for his behavior besides the truthful matter of intense discomfort and a momentary slip in judgment, which Benedict surely wouldn’t care one whit about.

Dragan finally resigned, deciding that dragging his feet wouldn’t alleviate the situation. He climbed down more deliberately than he had hurried up before, though he met the ground much too soon still. Instinctively, Dragan pulled his hood over his face as he turned to face them, both to hide from the scrutinizing eyes of the steward and to demonstrate that he had been diligent in doing so, at least.

Benedict gave an exasperated sigh. “You truly are beyond hope… What were you even thinking – No, perhaps you weren’t thinking much at all.”

“It won’t happen again,” Dragan assured them.

Dragan wasn’t sure simple promises could change their minds still. He expected Benedict to have a say on the matter first. Instead, Roland raised his point, “I say it’s for the best we organize him a mask. He’d better hide his features properly when out and about like this.”

Dragan beamed at the statement. Roland being the one to suggest that after everything meant more than he would have liked to admit.

“Perhaps you’re right; we should work with what we have,” Lord Serenoa agreed. His gaze stayed locked on Dragan as he worded that.

“Lord Serenoa, your words wound me…” Dragan jested – mostly. Hearing a sharp remark like that from the usually mild-mannered lord did sting somewhat.

“Hold your tongue, least we change our minds on the matter,” Benedict said. He appeared genuine, both in his warning and his intention to follow through with Roland’s proposal for the time being. It seemed Dragan had hit upon a stroke of luck after all.

“So, you agree then?” Dragan questioned.

“If my lord deems it so…” Benedict sighed. Dragan hadn’t thought it possible for the steward to sound more exhausted by the general situation than he had before, but here they were.

“You know, a mask doesn’t sound half bad. Perhaps it will suit me,” Dragan affirmed cheerfully, “Beats sulking behind a hood anyhow.”

“I suppose the speed at which you recover is something we could envy…” Lord Serenoa mumbled.

Dragan’s attention shifted to Roland for a moment, who was, as coincidence willed it, still looking at him. The prince shook his head at Dragan as if to silently agree with Lord Serenoa.

Dragan wondered whether Roland was aware how much his words meant to him, then whether he should communicate that at all. He decided against it for now. Hopefully, his actions would be able to speak louder than words.

Chapter Text

“What do you say? Is it to your liking?” Frederica questioned. Her eyes twinkled at Dragan in anticipation.

Dragan eyed the mask she had brought him. Frederica had insisted on picking one out for him – and had done a fine job at that. She had enlisted Geela for help, as per her own words, who now was accompanying Frederica to hear Dragan’s opinion.

“It is, Frederica. Much appreciated,” Dragan confirmed.

The mask was black and simple, fitted so it would cover the bridge of one's nose tightly, then curving down across each cheekbone. It was shaped asymmetrically and would probably reach down past his cheek on the side that tilted further down. Its form was somewhat reminiscent of a crescent moon.

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Frederica replied, “You better try it on.”

“He better wear it if he wants to move about freely,” Geela corrected her.

“Of course, of course.” Dragan mumbled, giving an off-hand wave. He was keenly aware that he’d better approach matters with diligence – for all their sanity.

The mask came with a nice, silky band attached. Unfortunately, the slick fabric made putting it on a bit of a hassle. Dragan tried finding the most comfortable spot for the hard shell first before fumbling the placement up either way when he moved his hands to bind the ribbon behind his head.

“Are you in need of assistance, my lord?” Geela questioned, a hint of a smirk in her tone.

“It’s quite all right, thank you,” Dragan insisted, finally managing to fasten the mask. That would need one or a couple more knots before Dragan trusted it to stay put.

Somehow, Dragan couldn’t help imagining the Dawnspear battling with his signature mask as he mouthed curses under his breath. He probably shouldn’t; if Roland had been aware that Dragan got a chuckle out of his late teacher, the prince would surely be indignant.

Finally, Dragan managed to attach the mask securely; he’d have to worry about untying the knots he had made later. Luckily, the pressure felt more so unfamiliar than uncomfortable now that it fitted into place nicely.

“Make use of a mirror next time, will you?” Frederica said as she closed the distance between them. She lightly brushed Dragan’s forehead as she sorted through his bangs; he must have made quite a mess of his hair.

“I’m not sure I have one at the ready,” Dragan replied. He brushed Frederica’s hand off with his own, absentmindedly continuing to stroke his fingers through his hair.

“Is that so?” Frederica considered for a moment. “Let me see.”

She began rummaging through the room uninvited. Then again, it wasn’t like anything here counted towards Dragan’s personal belongings. He had hardly acquainted himself with his new, make-shift home. It was anything but spacey; the by all means average-sized window appeared huge on the wall. The surrounding furniture lined it tightly: a bed to the right, a small study to the left. Dragan would probably be using said desk the most.

Apart from that, the leftover space was simply filled with a cupboard, standing only slightly taller than Dragan. It didn’t hold much, just a couple of basic clothing items. A bedside table offered some additional storage space, and, now that he paid attention, the study had some cabinets worked in as well. Dragan hadn’t checked any of those. Frederica made sure to rectify that, starting with the wardrobe.

“Surely, you’ll be needing a wider variety of clothes, Dragan.” She shuffled through the couple of shirts on the shelf. “I’ll seek out one of the maids later.”

“I believe I can handle myself fine, Frederica.”

“If you insist.” She already closed the cupboard as she said that, moving on to the study. “There are some writing materials at the ready if you’re in need of them.”

Dragan decided to check the bedside table by himself at that. He should have been the one to familiarize himself with his own room to begin with. Skimming the drawers yielded far more results; they held all kinds of knick-knacks he might need from a candle and matches to handkerchiefs, a brush and – finally – a simple hand mirror.

“There we go.” He made sure his hair was truly and properly sorted out on first instinct, then concluded that, while the accessory fit him nicely it also made him look distinguishably like death itself.

“Well, this look is more… depressive than what I’m used to,” Dragan mused, “Perhaps some ornaments could have helped this.”

“I’m afraid masks of the more… flamboyant nature are rarely found outside the capital,” Geela explained. She had a way to sound perfectly unfazed, leaving one wondering when she was earnest or jesting. Dragan considered whether he was being scolded.

“Oh, apologies.” Dragan put the mirror down onto the table. “I am quite grateful of this, you know?”

“No need to mention it,” Frederica said, “I’m sure you will grow used to it in due time.”

“It beats withering away in here anyhow,” Dragan added.

Just as he said that, the door clacked open, shifting their collective attention. Dragan eyed Lord Serenoa as he barely stepped in, half closed door still in hand. The Wolffort brought a sense of urgency with him, most likely thanks to the distinguishably somber look on his face. He glanced at them all for some moments, as if to assess the situation, before speaking. “Apologies for the intrusion. Frederica, Geela, may you have a moment to spare? We are to summon the war council.”

Dragan’s attention focused onto the young Wolffort in an instant. He had anticipated further developments since they had made their decision to wait the situation out.

“Of course,” Frederica affirmed immediately. She turned to Dragan for a moment, only to off-handedly brush him off, “If you’d excuse us, please.”

They were going to leave.

“Wait, Lord Serenoa.” Dragan managed to stop the lord of the house in the doorframe for now. “What may this be about?”

In the moment it took for Lord Serenoa to consider, Dragan ran through how to justify his curiosity. He was as involved with recent events as any of them, so that shouldn’t give him much grieve.

“A message from Aesfrost has reached us,” Lord Serenoa explained, “They demand we surrender Prince Roland to them at once; or have him taken by force, alternatively.”

“Surely, you mean to give them no quarter!” Dragan scoffed dead certain. Then the young Wolffort glanced towards the floor, eyes turning dispirited.

“You can’t possibly be serious about this…!” Dragan doubled down. He wasn’t sure how Lord Serenoa of all people could take matters so calmly. If anything, he – as Roland’s close confidante – should be the one outraged by the demand.

Lord Serenoa finally stepped back in and closed the door properly this time. He did so meticulously, only producing a soft click as the door fell into lock, yet the deliberate act gave him a sudden air of adamancy. “Lord Dragan, with all due respect; you are aware that I’d wager with my very own people’s life and limb if we were to decline.”

Dragan felt like he was being scolded for a moment, almost protesting on instinct. Then the thought sunk in further, leaving him considering out loud, “Of course, I suppose weighing on that speaks of your integrity as their leader.”

If this were his subservience on the line, would Dragan have had the same gut reaction? But then, this wasn’t a simple matter of black and white; just because Gustadolph offered them these two exclusives, they didn’t have to stick to the options they were given.

“Do you know who is to execute the attack? Given the worst case, of course,” Dragan questioned.

Lord Serenoa took a moment to answer, “We received reports of General Avlora leading the regiment. You should be well aware not to take her lightly, I assume.”

“Oh, I am indeed,” Dragan affirmed, happier about the news than Lord Serenoa’s crushed mood should imply. Avlora was a ferocious foe, that much was for certain and – as it currently stood – the most reasonable opponent they could have hoped for.

“Lord Serenoa, I don’t expect you to wager anyone’s life; not those of your subjects, nor that of your prince,” Dragan insisted, “Before I see that unfold, I will reason with her. Perhaps we can avoid a confrontation altogether.”

“I believe we discussed this,” Lord Serenoa insisted. Ad nauseum, his sigh implicitly added.

“I wasn’t under the impression matters were quite that static,” Dragan continued, “Trust me when I say General Avlora possesses more heart than Gustadolph or his lot could ever hope for; she can be reasoned with.”

“Lord Dragan,” Geela’s soft voice cut them short swiftly, “As much as I would like to echo your assessment, General Avlora co-lead the charge on the crown city; she struck down Prince Frani herself, hounded us on our escape relentlessly… I don’t think we can afford to underestimate her.”

The new information took Dragan off guard. Stars, how he wished he’d accompanied them that night. He still tried getting his thoughts out swiftly, before they could dismiss him, “She was given false information. I don’t think it unlikely for her to change her mind if facts called for it.”

“Lord Dragan, if it alleviates your worries,” Lord Serenoa gave in, “I’ll promise you to state your case to the war council. Will that suffice?”

“Lord Serenoa, would you be so kind as to grand me attendance?” Dragan pushed further.

The Wolffort’s unmoving expression telegraphed little hope for any concessions. Indeed, Lord Serenoa shortly said, “I’m afraid that is out of the question. Please, do not take this judgment to be a personal one.”

Dragan simply waved off. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t at least slightly bothered, even when he had considered his chances slim to begin with. Then again, Dragan could attempt to sneak out and meet Avlora anyhow. They would hardly be able to stop him from speaking to her once the general became aware of him. In that case, Dragan better not show his cards prematurely.

“A statement shall suffice then. Thank you kindly,” Dragan affirmed.

With that, they excused themselves to make their decision at last, leaving Dragan with his own thoughts once more.

Dragan had quickly decided to go out in search of a more productive use of his time. The logic was simple; if they wanted him to continue his research, he would like some sources on that. His stay at Wolffort could present him with a fine chance to gain new knowledge. The servants had been rather helpful in pointing him to the castles study.

The thing was somewhat underwhelming if Dragan was being honest – only a moderately sized room lined with bookshelves and a couple of desks in its center. Then again, he couldn’t have expected anything on the scale of the Archives. Perhaps he would be able to dig up some gems anyhow.

Dragan quickly found that the shelves were sectioned – history, medicine, some books on housekeeping even, calculus… Topics such as geography and geology were apparently sectioned under "miscellaneous research”. Dragan swiftly scanned those. There was a volume about the use and importance of minerals at large. Dragan wondered if he could glance anything new from that.

He drew the hefty tome from its place, searching the table of contents for any noteworthy section. Dragan naturally chose to skim the information on salt first. Steadily, his mind drifted off as he failed to spot anything he didn’t already know; of course, he had hardly expected to find anything exceeding his knowledge in a base-level collection like this.

Dragan considered how long the war council had already been discussing for, then whether it was worth checking the assembly hall. Not getting properly involved was a bother; Dragan needed to know their conclusion on the matter. He couldn’t just sit here and wait for them to decide their fate. Hopefully – no, surely, Roland wouldn’t just allow himself to be disregarded so easily.

Dragan tried shooing the thought, absentmindedly eyeing the adjacent section: spellcasting. The tomes quickly grabbed his attention. There was quite a selection covering fire magic. Of course, that style of casting was by far more common in Glenbrook than Aesfrost. Dragan grabbed one after the other, skimming through the abstracts. He got his hand onto a tome detailing more advanced techniques and figured that would be a fine fit.

Dragan considered sitting by one of the desks and focusing on the tome properly. Then he got a better idea; considering he was free to move through the castle however he pleased, he could pick a spot by the assembly hall for his readings, easily assuring he would catch them after the decision was made. As he went on his way, heavy tome in hand, Dragan tried ignoring the lingering anxiety in the far back of his mind.

Dragan turned the tome’s pages like a man possessed, as if flying through the words would somehow stop his worries from catching up to him. The close proximity to the room where it all got decided only made him turn the possible outcomes over more rapidly. He was starting to feel like simply getting to fight with them wouldn’t be enough, that now was his prime chance to rise from the pitiful position he had found himself in.

He should, at the very least, honor their wishes where he could compromise. He owed them that much for saving his neck. Dragan couldn’t stop himself from considering how it would be to deny Roland, startling himself with how unfeasible it seemed. He shouldn’t let his judgment get clouded by something so…

His thoughts caught onto a bit of information from the text then – ways to create more powerful bursts of energy through magic. Dragan tried soaking up the information to try out later: most of it was focused on the chest area, controlling his breathing. Right, that concept felt vaguely familiar.

Dragan fought the urge to slam the book shut the instant he heard noises around him – a creak, voices picking up. He fumbled the bookmarker band into place first before affirming that the Wolfforts were indeed leaving the assembly hall, presumably with a decision made.

Dragan had picked one of the pillars that lined the outer parts of the hall as his designated spot, at the very least not immediately tripping into the room as the doors opened. For a moment, he remained still, trying to gauge what had happened by examining their expressions.

Lord Serenoa was heading the convoy, stuck in deep discussion with his steward. They all seemed rather strained – of course, they couldn’t have possibly reached a happy conclusion try as they may.

Frederica was talking with Geela. She really did appear like the lady of the house on first look, proper and graceful. Then Dragan took note of how direly she was pressing one hand over the other, the light frown in the corners of her lips that betrayed her mellow expression. Dragan wondered if he could have possibly taken her mind off things if he were to try.

At last, he caught sight of Roland, who looked more desponded than any of them. Dragan froze on sight, the air somehow appearing to stop around him. They hadn’t truly decided on forsaking their own, had they? Dragan couldn’t possibly keep hiding if it meant putting the prince at risk. What a damn coward he would have to be!

Dragan rushed over, anxious to affirm his apprehension. Hughette looked at him first, pointing her liege’s attention towards Dragan. Her demeanor was still standoffish, from the light frown to the rising tension in her shoulders. She leaned towards the prince to whisper something. Dragan would have loved to hear her say that to his face.

“Your High–“ Should Dragan be saying this? “I see you have come to a decision.”

“Indeed, we have,” Roland affirmed.

His voice was heavy with forbearance, only moving Dragan to ask once over when neither of them disclosed said decision to him, “What are you to do? Will we be fighting?”

Dragan could scarcely believe how quickly circumstances had turned his unease into pure determination. He would make sure to be of great help to them, were it to come to battle.

“We will be, unfortunately so,” Roland responded. He sounded displeased with that, leaving Dragan struggling to understand for a moment; they were standing to protect him then, were they not?

“We will be sheltering His Highness,” Hughette affirmed, more so to her liege than anyone, “We have decided that leaving this realm with a ruler takes priority.”

Just like that, Dragan suddenly felt a couple stones lighter. He voiced his cheer without considering, “These are great news! We’d best steel ourselves for the battle ahead.”

Dragan wondered if he could get a training session in before the clash, then whether that would help or harm his performance to begin with.

“Please, you need to learn to keep your voice down.” Frederica joined them. Dragan was still not supposed to draw attention then. She apparently caught his perplexed expression as she shortly added, “It has been concluded that you best hang low for now.”

“Surely, I can at the very least aid you in battle!” Dragan insisted. He remembered the dread of waiting for them to return all too well. He wouldn’t be repeating that any time soon – not when he had a chance to take action instead!

Frederica gave him a sympathetic smile before basically whispering to him, “Avlora could very well recognize you – any of the soldiers might.”

“I assure you I will act with the utmost prudence,” Dragan vowed. Frederica appeared hardly impressed.

“Dragan…” Roland caught his attention as he addressed him. “Perhaps you will be of more use to us here. We’re relying on your intellect, are we not?”

Dragan’s chest brimmed at the acknowledgment first before the fact that he had just been shot down caught up to him. He complained immediately then, “I believe I am quite capable of proving my mettle if given the chance.”

Roland’s gaze flicked over Dragan as if he was taking his measure, suddenly bringing all of Dragan’s missteps of the previous battle to mind, the shakes that had taken hold of him. Dragan wanted to do better than that. He had set his mind to it already.

If they were to return with less fortune than last time, the simple thought of missing out on doing something, anything to prevent it would eat at him. If Frederica would get harmed, if the people of this demesne were to suffer because of his inaction… If Dragan would wait for his next chance to act, then perhaps they would have already lost Roland by then.

“I wish to protect you as well.”

Dragan wasn’t sure what had possessed him to voice that thought in particular. The short pause that followed made him feel like he shouldn’t have said it in the first place – not in front of all of them, at the very least.

For a split moment, a spark of amusement lit in Roland’s tired eyes. The light chime stuck to his voice as he spoke, “Oh, is that so?”

Dragan’s gaze fell towards the floor as he fought the stubborn fits of inadequacy. As he considered whether to speak true or shrug off the declaration he had so callously made, he caught himself picking his nails absentmindedly. Perhaps he had gotten too used to wearing his gloves.

“Of course,” Dragan spoke his mind, “I’m not sure what would have become of me if you hadn’t been there.”

Perhaps that was phrasing matters a tad heavily – much too heavy to fall between the two of them anyhow. Dragan was certain he wouldn’t be taking his words back still. In the end, it had been Roland’s words that had brought him to his senses when his thoughts were stuck running in circles. Somehow, when Dragan looked at Roland, no matter if the prince missed his cheer or grew strained, he felt like he could keep holding on more than ever.

“Oh that?” Roland replied, his words so much lighter than Dragan’s, “Think nothing of it. I’m just glad none of us were sorely harmed back there.”

Dragan had no clue what the prince was even talking about for a split moment. Then it caught up to him that Roland was referring to the clash in the mines – and that he was most likely completely unaware how much his words had truly meant to Dragan. Suddenly, weighing them so heavily felt misplaced, like Dragan was starting to give meaning to the silliest, miniscule things.

“Roland, please, consider me at least a little grateful that my life just about got saved,” Dragan insisted instead, trying to ignore how his chest pulled together as he dismissed himself.

“I believe you are being quite dramatic.” Roland shook his head at him. “Lend your gratitude to Serenoa if anyone, for sheltering the both of us.”

“I believe I have enough gratitude to spare for you both,” Dragan sighed in turn.

“If you are so ever grateful, you should honor the decision he has come to, should you not?” Hughette suddenly reasoned, swiftly reminding Dragan what he was trying to achieve here. He frowned on instinct as he weighed if this was a dispute worth continuing.

“Next time, all right?” Roland promised him. Dragan decided to swallow down the suspicion that he was being stalled and take the prince’s word for it.

“Very well then, I promise I won’t let up in the meanwhile!” Dragan exclaimed. He would have ample time to translate his readings into practice now, at the very least.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Roland responded. Dragan wasn’t entirely sure whether the prince found that to be heartening or tiring – Roland sounded tired these days anyhow.

“Don’t overdo it, okay?” Frederica added, unambiguously weary.

Dragan gave her an offhand nod as he said his goodbyes, “Take care; I’ll be expecting you to return safely.”

Chapter Text

With a quick, practiced motion, Dragan sent a fire spell forward. The edges of the flames were crude, the attack unfocused.

“No, that’s not it,” he mumbled under his breath. Dragan scanned the descriptions detailed in the tome all over again.

Dragan had hoped training would take his mind off things. After the other’s had broken their decision regarding his involvement – or lack thereof – in the upcoming battle to him, Dragan had grabbed the tome he had picked out from the study and headed to the training hall inside Wolffort castle without delay. Between the physical exercise and the concentration he had to expend, he certainly did have less mind to spare for his worries. Instead, he grew more exhausted with every failed attempt.

On all accords, this should present no problem to him at all. He was simply supposed to take deep, controlled breaths, put his focus into his center – right where his chest and stomach met if he interpreted the text correctly. Once he managed that, it was a matter of forcing out all the energy he had built up rapidly. Exhaling in a controlled manner should aid in achieving that.

Once more, Dragan closed the tome as he took a deep, deliberate breath. He was starting to worry he had mixed the anatomy up slightly; perhaps trying to collect the energy in his chest would serve him better. Dragan tried taking his time until he realized that he was holding his breath – and most likely was supposed to until it was time to cast his spell. In one, short burst, the magic surged through his system, expelling in a scattered flame that quickly sizzled out.

Dragan tried gathering his bearings swiftly even when his body was protesting the lack of energy with numb prickles through his libs. He tried shaking the feeling from his hands to little success, managing some stray sparks as he pushed himself further anyhow.

Thank the stars he was the only soul in the training room; it allowed him to give his frustration air with a much-needed groan as well. Perhaps Dragan should go back to his research. He still had to fill in the blanks in his scattered records.

No, Dragan wouldn’t give in just yet! He had to make progress eventually – preferably before he was in proper need of some battle prowess. He carried on like a man possessed the moment his system cooperated again. The motions had become second nature by now. Perhaps that would serve him poorly, considering his current lack of success. Steady now – another deep breath –

“May you need assistance with that?”

Dragan swallowed the startled noise that threatened to escape him. Swiftly, he turned to see who had disturbed his concentration, coming to face Geela. Right behind her stood Roland, carrying some bundled-up weapons – just as she was. That would explain their presence.

Dragan hoped he caught his surprised expression swiftly. They had better not borne witness to his preceding failed attempts. The subtle air of complacency Geela exuded left Dragan with little hope. To aggravate matters, he caught Roland eyeing him. The prince’s expression was hard to pinpoint, only resulting in Dragan’s nerves rising.

“Assistance? What for, exactly?” Dragan waved off.

“Pardon me if I misunderstood. You simply appeared to be experiencing some frustrations, my lord,” Geela said. She had indeed taken notice then. “If you are struggling in the arcane arts, my guidance may be of great help to you.”

Dragan didn’t doubt it. He had taken her advice before, if far less regularly than Frederica had. In fact, Dragan had the habit of sinking into his own research by himself. Perhaps now was a good time to change that approach.

“I would appreciate some input on the matter indeed,” Dragan affirmed. He was too short on time to waste any more of it. “You both appear to be having your hands full as of now. Shall I help you first?”

“No need to,” Roland was the one to wave off, “You two can get started. It shouldn’t take too long to sort these myself.”

“Nonsense, we’ll be done quicker if we work together,” Dragan insisted, “Besides, I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to, Roland.”

“I can put myself to use like any of you,” Roland insisted, quickly and firmly enough to make Dragan regret his words, “There is no point in sulking until the battle arrives anyhow.”

Dragan hadn’t even inquired whether they had a task for him; then again, none of them had cared to let him know either. Dragan hoped he would not become an afterthought to them this quickly.

“Carry on, all right? I’ll join your training once I’m done with these,” Roland added.

Dragan hadn’t expected Roland to linger here for too long. Suddenly, he recalled just how seamlessly the prince’s movements had flowed into one another in the past battles. Measuring up to that turned his own training into a monumental task.

Dragan tried staying spirited anyhow. “Certainly, I look forward to…” To what, exactly? Spending time together? Roland would probably prefer some space to begin with, least they got into each other’s way. Finally, Dragan glanced over to Geela again and found his out, “Such… an ample opportunity to further my skills.”

“I’d imagine,” Roland replied without missing a beat, “Don’t let me keep you any longer.”

“One moment, my lord,” Geela said. She placed her batch of weapons by the nearby armory, before turning her attention to Dragan at full. As Dragan watched Roland enter the storage, he became rather grateful for the wall separating it from the main hall.

“Would you demonstrate what you have been practicing to me?” Geela asked.

“Of course.”

As he steadied himself, he vainly hoped that his blockades would simply vanish. The short break had at least allowed his strength to recharge – as much as he could still expect after the time he had spent exerting himself.

Still, Dragan could try smoothing his movement out as he might; his execution was choppy and the results quite frankly poorer than if he had never tried this approach in the first place. The pitiful flame he did manage to produce puffed into thin air with the blink of an eye. He grabbed the tome tightly – perhaps too tightly – looking the section over again.

Trying to focus on the matter at hand, Dragan quickly attempted to brush his irritation off. “Perhaps you should take a look at this. The idea was…”

“Your focus is off,” Geela cut his thought short. Dragan could only stand by and look at her as she began running this through to him, “Your breathing doesn’t match your casting at all. It’s like your mind and body don’t agree with one another.”

“Pardon?” Dragan reacted without delay. Surely, his casting couldn’t be that shoddy! As Dragan began analyzing how Geela’s words would apply to his failed attempt, he began thinking out loud, “Has my timing been off this whole time? But I made sure to execute every step meticulously…”

“Forget about your exercise for a moment,” Geela demanded, taking the spellbook from his hand without asking, “We shall start from the top.”

“From the top?” Dragan was hardly an amateur anymore…

“I can’t know for certain whether this…” Geela raised the book she now held in hand. “…simply threw off your rhythm, but it looks to me like you never quite found your focus.”

“Could you explain that in more detail?” Dragan asked. Geela might as well be talking in riddles. Her descriptions felt much too abstract to be put into practice.

“When you think to cast, your body should follow suit as naturally as possible,” Geela started running this down to him, “You shouldn’t have to force it to comply.

“Now, part of this could just come down to a lack of practice. Motion sequences take time until they become second nature. However, I suspect you never learned how to tell your body’s signs either. Then, it would also be of help if you trained yourself to put more focus on that.”

Dragan considered how to pinpoint something of that nature. Breathing came to mind first. Perhaps he should try timing his casting better to it. Just thinking about how to synchronize something so second nature to a more complex sequence of motion left him as confused as before – most likely because he had been trying and failing to do just that to begin with. Thinking about this too deeply made Dragan feel like he suddenly had to actively consider breathing, which – if he understood correctly – was detrimental.

“You’re overthinking this,” Geela finally snapped him out of it, “Relax, close your eyes.”

Dragan followed suit, if skeptically so. Not being able to see left him more uncomfortable than anything. “This feels… odd.”

“You will get used to it in due course,” Geela assured him, “Try clearing your mind. Relax, find a point of comfort first. Then, eventually, start observing your body’s rhythm.”

Dragan still felt like he had to divert attention to his breathing, frustratingly enough. Even if he zoned that out, he was left repeating movement patterns in his head. If he tried blanking out one thought, different ones tried rising to the surface in time.

Dragan didn’t feel like experiencing any of them right now. He started worrying about the upcoming battle all over, even when doubts would aid no one. Then, Dragan considered what he was to do if the state of things wouldn’t change – and swiftly at that. He didn’t think he could stand for matters to remain as they were. When scattered pictures of the past battle and dead soldiers forced themselves into his inner eye, Dragan finally shook it all off.

“How am I supposed to find a rhythm to this in the first place?” Dragan complained, “Even then, I don’t understand how this would translate into spellcasting.”

“Are we getting impatient, my lord?” The honorific did poor in making Dragan feel like he wasn’t being condescended.

“Maybe I should just go back to studying the motions,” Dragan suggested. He opened his eyes, even when he kept his gaze to the ground. He caught himself picking at the flooring with his shoes, then shifting instead as he tried suppressing it.

“What are the two of you doing?” Roland had returned; had he truly finished his task already? “Are we making great strides today?”

Dragan came up short of an answer. Actually, we may be regressing instead, wouldn’t cut it.

“Apologies, it wasn’t my intention to discourage you – quite the contrary,” Roland added swiftly; Dragan’s frustration must be plainly written on his features then.

“Don’t mention it,” Dragan waved off.

“We are trying to attune his body and mind,” Geela explained straight ahead, “Though I’m starting to fear I’m asking too much of him.”

“We just started out; I will get this down in due course,” Dragan insisted, “It’s simply… if I think about it too hard, it stops coming naturally to me.”

“Is it like having your breathing and your movement synchronize?” Roland wondered, “Or learning the boundaries of your body?”

“I suppose melee combat does share similarities with casting,” Geela mused.

“Stars, that gave me much trouble when I started out,” Roland recalled, “I would get dizzy forgetting to breathe. Ser Maxwell surely required a mountain of patience for us to break that habit.”

“Truly?” Dragan said in disbelief, “I can hardly imagine it.”

“It’s been a while ago.” As Roland spoke, he started subtly turning the spear in his grasp, then shifting his footing, “I simply had to get used to it. It starts becoming second nature eventually.”

The prince turned to Geela then, “Apologies, I didn’t mean to disrupt your lesson.”

“Feel free to. We could make good use of a different perspective,” she waved off.

Dragan found himself agreeing. “Please, could you demonstrate it to me?”

“I’m not exactly sure I can demonstrate something like that,” Roland considered. Even then, the prince steadily fell into motion.

He shifted the grasp on his weapon, looking at it as if he considered his next action still. The moment Roland took on a proper combat stance, something seemed to click into place, as if he had truly found a new focal point. It wasn’t the first time Dragan had seen Roland wield his weapon. Yet still, he found his breath swallowing as the prince executed the first, deliberate motion.

Roland’s whole body worked in tempo to the movement. No matter how he shifted the spear in his hand, it remained perfectly secure in his grasp. The weapon naturally followed his will, as if it was but an extension of his body. The control reached to Roland’s very fingertips.

“I’m not certain…” As Roland started musing, Dragan found his gaze lingering on his fingers for a moment, watching as they wrapped around the spear handle tightly again. “You’d generally want to breathe out during phases of action, then breathe in if you let your tension lift.”

“That sounds right,” Dragan mumbled, “It’s just a matter of body control, is it not?”

“I suppose that is what it boils down to,” Roland agreed, still switching his weapon from one hand to the other.

“Do you feel ready to try this again?” Geela nudged him.

“Please, of course I’m ready,” Dragan confirmed right away.

Something about Roland’s demonstration had felt so tangible. Dragan tried following, one breath after the other. Pinpointing the exact energy flow had never been his strong suit; it was so very fickle when not bend into proper magic. As he steadied his breathing, Dragan tried making out the surges – and if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel it.

It wasn’t exact; one slight shift in focus and the sensation would ebb off, one thought too deep and the feeling seemed to evade his grasp. Molding it suddenly seemed a mountainous task. What would it take to bundle all that potential into one attack?

Dragan decided to save that thought for later. For now, he would simply take this one step at a time. A breath turned into a warm surge, then a flare of heat around his fingertips, until, finally, Dragan built a proper flame from it.

The feat in and on itself was ordinary. Dragan still tried to draw from it, watching exactly how the flame rose and fell with his body. He had never taken the time to observe this.

Making the next logical step, Dragan tried casting it into an attack. A forceful impact was much harder to synchronize with his breathing. He didn’t get the timing down exactly. Perhaps this was where the repetition came in?

“That’s much better, my lord,” Geela chimed. She turned to Roland to praise him next. “And thank you for your assistance tutoring, Your Highness.”

“I was just thinking out loud,” Roland insisted, “That could hardly have contributed that much.”

“You did,” Dragan insisted, “I wouldn’t have gotten this down without your help.”

Roland seemed to linger in thoughts for a moment before speaking, “Let’s get into our training proper, shall we?”

“Ready when you are.”

Dragan left the prince some space at that. He shouldn’t observe Roland anymore; that focus should go to his own training. Yet, even when Dragan wasn’t looking anywhere in particular, the background noises battled for his attention – the creaking of the floor, taps, the off huff. For some moments, Dragan lingered on the imagination of Roland’s movements before he could seize his thoughts.

Dragan steadied himself – breathing calmly, gathering his powers within, letting it flow through his fingertips. He mentally stumbled over the background sounds here and there, however negligible they should have been. He would have to get a hold of himself.

Dragan mustered the flame he had created, trying to give it all his attention. The flickers in energy were so miniscule; Dragan would have never picked up on them if the others hadn’t pointed it out.

Something pressed between Dragan’s shoulder blades without warning – lightly, yet it still sufficed in startling him. The sudden touch made him flinch, once over when the magic he had gathered burst with a crackling noise.

“Your posture was off,” Roland remarked casually. Had the prince been paying attention to him still? “Wouldn’t want you to form a bad habit.”

Roland’s voice somehow rung in his ears no matter how mellow it was. His touch trailed down, pushing Dragan to straighten his back. Dragan caught eye of some leftover sparks flying from his fingers. Finally, the numb prickles coursing through his digits caught up to him.

“I didn’t think you’d break focus that easily,” Roland mused as he finally let off.

Prickles didn’t quite describe the sensation Dragan was experiencing. In fact, his whole body had turned fickle. The touch still seemed to ghost over his spine even when Roland had stepped back.

“You startled me.” Dragan tried deepening his breaths. Surely, his accelerated heartrate would follow the tempo once he succeeded. That something so miniscule would throw off his rhythm effectively was incredibly frustrating still.

“I was in thought,” Dragan insisted further, “I won’t be making such a novice mistake on the battlefield!”

His quickened pulse was starting to flush him with warmth. Dragan tried shaking the phantoms of a spell from his hands as the tingles kept bothering him.

“How long have you been training for?” Geela asked.

“A little while.” Dragan had gotten tired even before they had arrived. Perhaps his body had decided to signal its exhaustion after all.

“You shouldn’t overtax yourself, my lord. Your execution will only grow sloppy from there.”

“I’m onto something here; if I but continue a little while longer…” Dragan finally turned to Roland again. “You will proceed with your training, will you not?”

“Not for long. It simply helps me clear my head,” Roland explained. Before Dragan could add to that, Roland continued, “Take a break; you appear to be needing it.”

“I can carry on yet!”

“There is no point in exhausting yourself.” Roland paused for one pointed moment. “I thought displays of carelessness weren’t in your character – as per your own words.”

How did Roland even remember things like this? Dragan could hardly place when he had said that any longer. Still, perhaps they had the right of it; if Dragan rested his fatigue now, he could continue fresh by the morrow.

“Don’t wear yourself down either,” Dragan sighed, “You’ll need all the strength you can get once Avlora arrives.”

“I’m aware.” Roland’s grip on his spear tightened, not subtly like before, but unreasonably so, turning his knuckles white.

“Roland, I mean this in all earnest.” Dragan didn’t quite seem to capture the prince’s attention anymore, Roland’s look still fading into the distance. “Do be safe. I – We’ll be counting on you to return.”

“You all worry too much.” Roland even trailed off as he said that. Only when he gave Dragan one last push did he look at him again. “Go to rest. I shall follow suit shortly.”

Dragan wished to stay. Growing stronger was becoming a necessity. Perhaps, he could manage to truly stand by his side one day, be allowed to fight like the rest of them.

“I’ll stay here and make sure His Highness doesn’t linger,” Geela said, “Go catch some rest.”

“All right, I appreciate it.” With that, Dragan finally saw himself off, choosing to believe that they would return unharmed once more.

Chapter Text

As the hours passed and a new day rose, Dragan became overtly aware that the confrontation with Avlora was drawing near. He didn’t even dare to join the other's preparations. If he were to witness their struggles, Dragan might just rush after them at last. For all he knew, Avlora could have already breached the city’s walls. The imagination did ill in stilling his urge to move.

Dragan shuffled the papers on his desk, then took his notebook to flip through. During his studies in the Archives, he had absorbed such a vast amount of knowledge; most of his work in the mines was done by memory. Still, he tried recreating his records as best he could, meticulously checking over calculations and details again where any mistake might blow up in someone’s face later.

He dismissed the first hasty steps and muffled murmurs he heard past his door, telling himself that the morning was a natural time to get busy. As he noted down the next line of the equation, Dragan’s thoughts caught onto a particularly vocal exclaim, forcing him to check the numbers’ validity once over.

This wasn’t just a couple of servants. As the voices kept layering over one another, Dragan became certain that a huge crowd of people must be amassing somewhere in the castle. They had to be on the brink of battle out there. Dragan caught his eyes wandering across the page without registering so much as a letter. This was pointless. How was he supposed to sit idly by as all this chaos built up around him? As Dragan sorted his papers, he told himself that he would only be checking the halls. Perhaps he could find a way to help there.

Dragan made sure to grab his mantle when he left the room. He had caught enough flack in the past for going outside without properly masking himself; he didn’t need to repeat the affront. The moment he opened the door, the distant murmur turned into voices. He was able to make disjointed bits out if he focused hard enough. Dragan followed the noise. The source of the commotion was hard to miss: the entry hall of the castle was brimming with people, some wandering lost, some resting by the pillars or below the balconies lining the walls, while others hurried from one place to the next, pushing through the crowd.

Most of them must have been citizens; Dragan could spot children and elderly between them alike. Had they evacuated the town? No matter how thoroughly Dragan scanned the room, he could only spot a handful of soldiers, leave alone any familiar faces.

A willowy woman was on course to rush past him, most likely a servant by the looks of her apron. Dragan tried catching her attention before she was gone, “Excuse me? Has the battle already begun?”

She came to a halt with a stutter in her step, simply looking at him for some odd moments. Dragan feared she hadn’t heard him over the commotion until she finally spoke up, “Apologies, I have not a clue. We were told to make haste evacuating the people, but…”

“May I assist you?” Dragan questioned.

The woman pursed her lips, pausing for an odd moment before finally giving her answer, “I’m afraid not. We’ve got most of them behind the castle’s walls… I’m not sure how the soldiers are doing. I think most of them marched out by now.”

“Very well, apologies for the disruption.”

She was gone swiftly at that. If they were in such a rush, Avlora’s army must be on their doorsteps – or past. Perhaps Dragan could find a way to make himself useful if he searched further. He tried his best staying perceptive as he navigated the crowd. Even when the turbulences slowly calmed down, people must still have been besides themselves with their homes on the line. Indeed, Dragan had to dodge a couple of them as they heedlessly rushed past him.

There wasn’t any particular place for Dragan to start his search. Most of the vulnerable seemed to have company, so Dragan hardly saw it as his call to impose on them. His best bet were most likely the soldiers that remained.

One shout managed to overlay the background noise. Dragan only made out parts of what was said. “Let off me!”

He stumbled over the cause shortly. One of the soldiers held a young woman by her arm, not letting off no matter how she tried to back up. She managed to shake his footing with the next pull, making herself heard once over, “You have no reason to keep me here!”

“Something the matter?” Dragan interjected.

He meant to ask the young woman herself. Instead, the soldier started explaining himself, “The young lady means to rush into battle.”

“If my brother can fight, so will I,” she demanded, “I shan’t stand idly by while he risks life and limb out there!”

The soldier didn’t move in face of the exclaim. Next, the woman turned to address Dragan directly, “Please, Ser, my brother is clumsy in the way of battle and a fool at heart; I simply mean to shield him from the worst of this.”

Dragan’s chest pulled together at the desperate request. Something inside him joined the agitated call for action. Dragan focused on the scene at hand. He subdued the urge to break her free, instead trying to figure the situation out properly first. “Was your brother trained in combat?”

“He was not, Ser,” she affirmed Dragan’s suspicions, “Him and some other men just went and decided to take up arms.”

“Then why exactly are you keeping her over him?” Dragan asked the soldier, “Shouldn’t you be grateful for anyone who fights for your cause?”

“Have you looked at the thing?” the soldier replied.

“Of course I have; she stands right before me, does she not?”

She was much shorter than Dragan, a little on the stockier side; in fact, she had to lean her head back a nudge to glint up at him. Still, the young woman looked perfectly able to him. She possessed enough vigor to shake the soldier up, at the very least.

“Let her fight,” Dragan insisted, “It’s well within her right to join the battle if she so chooses.” He paused; none of them raised objections either way. “Do you believe Lord Serenoa would approve of you forcing her decision?”

The soldier sighed with pure exasperation but let off the young woman at last. “Fine then; but if she gets torn to shreds out there, that’ll be on you. Understood?”

Dragan rather believed the fault would lie with the aggressor. Getting into petty arguments would serve no one though. “If you insist…”

“Come then,” the other soldier finally spoke up, “We’ll get you a weapon a small thing such as you can wield some.”

One last time, the woman turned towards Dragan. The agitation that had been plainly painted on her features mellowed out into a gentle determination. “Thank you kindly, Ser. I owe you a great debt.”

“Nonsense,” Dragan waved off, “Don’t waste your time here. I believe you have more than yourself to take care of.”

As they took their leave, Dragan remained frozen for some odd moments. He would have liked to be happy for the young woman. Instead, his frustration about not being allowed to follow her came to a boiling point. Dragan tried lidding the agitation for the time being, already hunting for another way to make himself useful.

It took some persistency, but eventually, Dragan had found the odd mundanity to help with – carrying around supplies, finding something to distract the children with before they could catch the adult’s unease. Dragan had tried just about anything to keep his mind from the battle.

Then the first injured had started making their way back up. Some medics had decided to move out then, set up a station on the mountain path, closer to the village. Dragan had insisted on helping them move their supplies, that he could lend them a hand wherever they needed it.

He had kept a close eye on the village. That effort had proven useless so far; there simply wasn’t any way for him to glean valuable information from such a distance. The wall that separated him from the town didn’t help matters. The only cue he got was the amount of injured soldiers retreating. As of now, the sheer number of them was filling Dragan with dread. That didn’t even account for those unlucky enough to not make it back.

“Get on it, lad! I’ll be needing a couple extra hands,” a woman called out to Dragan, pushing him to shove aside his worries for now. Dragan made sure to follow suit swiftly. She – Hossabara, as she had introduced herself – had been the one to supply him with a task to begin with.

“I’ll be right with you.”

Dragan wasn’t exactly worth much as a healer, only vaguely aware of the odd beginner spell he had tried copying from Geela. None of that would help these men; the one before them had taken a nasty gash to his back, bleeding through his layers of leather armor.

“We’ll have to pull him up,” Hossabara said, grip already secure on the soldier, “Ready?”

Dragan highly doubted Hossabara needed his strength; somehow, she measured just short of a head taller than him. He nodded anyways, trying his best to move the poor soul around with care. The soldier hissed in pain still.

“Steady,” Hossabara instructed as she gradually loosened her grasp, leaving Dragan to hold the man by himself. Finally, she was free to use all her focus on healing the injured soldier.

“You poor lad. Looks like someone brought you a world of hurt,” Hossabara said, “Don’t worry about it; we’ll have you patched up in no time.”

“The general…” The soldier was shaking still. “She’s cutting through our lines like paper. Gonna crush us to smithereens at this pace.”

“General Avlora,” Dragan mumbled absentmindedly. It had come to the inevitable confrontation then. He remembered Frederica’s recollection of events – about how Avlora had cut Prince Frani down without hesitation. If she succeeded, Roland would shortly follow his brother to the early grave.

“Sounds like she’s a force to be reckoned with,” Hossabara mused, the glow of her healing spell slowly sizzling out, “All done. You’ll be as good as new after some rest.”

“I cannot thank you enough for saving me.”

Dragan made sure to lay the soldier down into a stable position as Hossabara already rushed in search for her next patient. He couldn’t deny this anymore, no matter how far he had tried pushing his own reason aside. At the end of the day, Dragan didn’t believe in the idea of being just one man to an army, like a drop to a river. He had something to protect out there; that alone should have earned him the right to stand and battle.

If Roland were to fall here, Dragan wouldn’t ever get a chance to make it up to him. Dragan tried swallowing the knot that tied in his throat. It was time to get moving and fight like the rest of them. If the prince didn’t cover from this fight, Dragan shan’t either.

“Hossabara, a word,” he tried catching her attention – to apparent success, given that she flicked her gaze toward him, “I’ll be leaving for the town.”

“And throw yourself into that bloodbath?”

“Of course. They seem to be in dire need of backup, wouldn’t you say?” Dragan could barely keep his feet still, like standing on hot coals. Perhaps, if he was inconspicuous, he could pull this off with none of them the wiser – and if push came to shove, he would have to stop Avlora’s onslaught with reason instead.

For a moment, Hossabara remained silent. Dragan considered making his departure just as she spoke up after all, “Well, you do what you got to do, I suppose.”

“You’ll be fine here?”

“Oh, I’ll be damn well fine,” Hossabara replied with a deep laugh swinging beneath her words, “Just make sure to not end up back here in stitches, all right?”

“You can count on it.”

With that, Dragan finally rushed down the mountain. He didn’t plan on wasting any more time, hasting until he basically fell into his steps. Not making it in time wasn’t an option; failure, quite simply, was not an option. His focus shifted like it had when he first battled in earnest, everything but the gravel on his way blurring into the background. No regrets this time, he swore to himself.

Dragan barely breached the city’s gates when he was stopped by a mass of soldiers. He stumbled upon a clash in the tight street at the top of the city, walls of houses to the right, the terrain dropping off into the lower levels of the town to his left. The path ahead was crowded with soldiers, under the Aesfrosti and Wolffort banner alike. They must be scrambling to uphold some kind of sensible formation; most shield bearers and spearmen rallied at the front, the odd melee fighter breaking ahead of them. Further back, was an array of magic users Dragan could fit right in with.

Dragan struggled not to misplace himself as the soldiers fought to hold their ground, or perhaps he was simply not used to a fight like this – army against army in place of one man against another. At first, Dragan gave it his best shot to blend in, staying behind the front lines as he searched for opportunities to cast a fire-spell.

He was afraid he wasn’t contributing too much; most of his focus went towards finding a trail of Roland, Frederica, any of them. Frederica wasn’t with the group of mages he had joined, that much was certain. He couldn’t spot any familiar faces among the clash in front of him either, though with the chaos around, it was hard to tell either way. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t see Avlora herself either. If he could find her at last, he at the very least could try to stop her from continuing this bloodbath.

It was at that moment that Dragan realized that their forces must have been split. He doubted this fight would still be waging on if Roland had fallen. The same went for Avlora. If neither of them was around, the main event must be happening elsewhere. Staying here was futile then; the only way to go was forward, down the alleyway.

Dragan stuck close to the buildings, ruling out the possibility of getting surrounded. He barely scraped by a Wolffort soldier as he breached their line, bumping into the wall as he attempted to keep out of his way. A blade cut through the air before him, etching into the wooden wall.

Dragan tried not to think about how narrowly he had avoided that, rushing onwards the moment the soldier withdrew his sword. He leaped from step to step. Too many people were blending in and out of the crowd, shrill screeches of iron against iron ringing through the air. Steady now, he had to focus on his immediate surroundings.

Dragan saw the next blow coming. He halted immediately, forcing a short, rocky stop. Was there danger behind him? No time to check. Dragan reminded himself to breathe, just like he had practiced, before dispelling a burst of flames towards his uncovered side. That was sure to stop any aggressors for the moment, short as it may be. Swiftly, Dragan scanned the area ahead.

The crowd of soldiers slowly thinned out. Still no sign of the others. Where in the world had they gone? Down to the marketplace? Past that, to the edge of town? Dragan couldn’t linger here. Far too much focus on him, singled out from the crowd of Aesfrosti soldiers. Dragan tried to swallow a yelp when an arrow grazed his arm. He had to avoid further attention at all costs; easier said than done when he ran past the soldiers like a mad man.

A deep sound seeped through the air, like the echo of hammers against metal that would fill the air in Ironstone. Dragan wondered whether he was imagining things, his steps stuttering into a slower pace as he considered. Some of the Aesfrosti haltered, looked out. Suddenly, Dragan wasn’t all that interesting to them anymore; he wasn’t foolhardy enough to challenge the chance to catch his breath, watching diligently as he awaited their next move.

The clashes didn’t quite die down; people shouted all the same, the odd blade and arrow whirring through the air. Yet, some of the Blackirons stepped back. Dragan couldn’t quite pick out what they were saying over the blaring noise – thanking the stars, the odd curse, nothing out of the ordinary.

Retreat. Dragan had certainly heard that one right. Was that the meaning of that metallic sound? Had they won then? Dragan had to make sure they did. He prayed Frederica hadn’t gotten injured in the chaos. Keeping calm became much more challenging when the withdrawing soldiers revealed an abundance of bodies scattered across the battlefield, some more animated than others.

Dragan froze when he caught a slight figure between the carnage. That was the woman that had pleaded with the soldiers back in the castle, slumped to the ground and gasping for air. An arrow was lodged between her ribs, her blood steadily dying the gray fur of her belt a muddy red. Her slender hand grasped for the arrow, tugging at it.

“Ella, stop!”

A stout man quickly grasped her wrist, stopping her from making any rash move. She struggled against the restrain, just as fiercely as she had struggled against the soldiers that had tried to stop her from coming here. Dragan’s gaze finally dropped to the floor as he caught the raw panic in her eyes, barely taking note of the man picking her up and rushing off with her. She must have found her brother after all.

Dragan fought off the fit of nausea that boiled in his stomach. Why was this getting to him? Bodies were scattered all around him. None of them had wished to die, yet all of them had come here for a reason. After all, what were they supposed to do but fight?

Dragan clenched his fists to stop them from trembling. He had to find the others.

As he weaved through the crowd with hurried steps, he almost got run over by the soldiers rushing around. Dragan couldn’t blame them. He was as agitated to reunite with his friends as they were.

Once he descended to the lower level of the city, he practically stumbled upon his objective. Frederica’s bright, rose-colored hair caught his eye first. Lord Serenoa stood beside her. Roland wasn’t far off and apparently being tended to by Geela. On second look, Roland’s attire was stained with blood, clearly cut through to the flesh here and there. Dragan had rather hoped that wasn’t all the prince’s own blood. Roland appeared stable enough; besides that, Hughette still remained ever loyal at his side without breaking into dismay. At the very least, they had that victory to celebrate.

Dragan was about to leave when Lord Serenoa caught his gaze. He froze as the look lingered. Sneaking away was out of the question. Reluctantly, Dragan joined them, quiet for now; perhaps they wouldn’t pay him any mind.

“What are you doing here?” Frederica questioned. No such luck then.

“I caught news of your victory,” Dragan replied on the spot, “I only meant to see whether you are free from harm.”

“Truly? You must have made quite the dash to get here so quickly,” Lord Serenoa remarked.

“I’m a swift runner.” They wouldn’t believe him. None of them seemed to bother enough to scold Dragan either, luckily enough.

“Shall I heal you as well?” Geela questioned, apparently finished with Roland’s injuries for now. The prince looked fine, thank the stars.

Dragan took a moment to register that he was the one being addressed. He swiftly checked himself. The arrow had left a more obvious mark than Dragan would have hoped; the wound swelled and flushed beyond the shallow cut. It was numb and prickled, now that he paid attention to it, pins and needles all around it. It reminded Dragan of when he stayed out in the biting cold for too long. A frostnip? There were a couple of cuts on his forearms as well, dying his shirt red. When had he gotten those?

“Oh, it’s all right,” Dragan waved off. Geela stepped besides him anyhow, wasting no time to seal his injuries.

“Did you get those during your rush here as well?” Frederica asked, her tone of voice weary beyond being doubtful. Dragan decided to cut his losses then.

“Alas, I admit it. You must grant me that I was inconspicuous, though. None of you even took notice of me.”

“I suppose we can’t lament his lack of fighting spirit,” Hughette said.

“Let us all gather our bearings for now,” Lord Serenoa spoke up, immediately catching attention with his presence, “I’m afraid the peace will only last us so long. We best find strength in our victories where we can.”

“You can hardly call this a victory,” Roland proclaimed, “Look around, Serenoa. There are injured and dead scattered across your streets.”

The remorse must have struck Roland to his very core with how it swung beneath his words. It was only then that Dragan made sense of the prince’s hesitation from before, the sense of foreboding that had been written on his face when he had proclaimed they would be fighting.

“Roland…” Lord Serenoa took a deep breath before answering the prince. “We knew this path wouldn’t be without sacrifice from the moment we chose it.”

“So many people already sacrificed themselves, just to protect me.” Roland didn’t exactly look at any of them as he spoke. “How many will follow yet? This violence is so horribly pointless.”

“Pointless?” Dragan interjected on a whim just as he heard that, “All these soldiers came out here because they saw something worth protecting. They place their hopes on you, Roland. Don’t disregard the choice they have made so readily.”

Dragan wasn’t exactly sure why the matter agitated him to begin with. He caught Roland’s hesitant look, hoping to find a spark of understanding.

“He’s right, Your Highness,” Frederica affirmed, “We all chose this path together. Don’t shoulder all this blame by yourself.”

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, I simply…” The pause Roland gave laid heavily in the air. Finally, he continued, the resolve dripping from his every word, “I need to become stronger than this, for all of your sake.”

Even with how absurd it was to hear Roland of all people proclaim this, he struck a chord within Dragan. The need to move forward resonated within Dragan as if it had come from within himself to begin with.

“Serenoa, may I have a word?” Roland suddenly continued, “I would like to discuss something with you if you can lend me a moment of your time.”

“Gladly, my friend,” Lord Serenoa replied. He haltered for a moment still, his gaze falling to Frederica by his side.

“It’s all right, my dear,” Frederica confirmed, “We’ll handle the city for now, right?”

She apparently included Dragan in that declaration, considering the quick look she gave him. Dragan nodded; it wasn’t like he had anything better planned. Watching Roland and Lord Serenoa step aside turned Dragan uneasy still. He truly loathed being excluded, even when this was an ill occasion to think so. Dragan didn’t expect to match the trust these two had built over decades, leave alone so quickly. Still, a part of him stubbornly held onto the idea.

“We should get to it,” Geela proposed, snapping Dragan out of his brooding, “Benedict and the others have been at it for a while. They will most likely appreciate a helping hand.”

“Right to it,” Dragan proclaimed, ready as ever.

Chapter Text

The days following the battle with Avlora blended together. Dragan would help around the city in the morning, train in the afternoon, then pore over his studies until sleep took him. It wasn’t so bad compared to the height of his research; he had scarcely been able to tell day from night anymore with his relentless stays in the Archives. Now, he got to mingle with plenty of people from all kinds of trades, for starters. The longer Dragan stayed in Wolffort, the more its people’s unwavering spirit inspired him.

Despite all that, an underlying uneasiness stuck with Dragan every step of the way. It had indeed been a couple of days since the attack, and yet Dragan hadn’t gotten any news regarding the grander situation – not Gustadolph’s schemes, not Hyzante’s response, not even news from the Glenbrook capital. Neither Roland, Frederica, nor Lord Serenoa himself had anything particularly noteworthy to share when inquired. Dragan was starting to think they didn’t intent to share their knowledge with him at all.

So it was that the daily routine became his confinement. Focusing on his research was harder than Dragan could have ever imagined as his thoughts circled back to the battles looming on the horizon. His thoughts ever came back to the impending confrontation with Gustadolph – a battle of wits in place of combat prowess. On all accounts, Dragan should have felt more at ease on the intellectual battleground. Then again, that fight would be the very one deciding his future, whether his people would support or discard him. Dragan had underestimated Gustadolph once; he didn’t plan on repeating that folly, and so Dragan spent countless moments playing out debates in his mind.

If Dragan – rightfully – accused Gustadolph of ordering the attempt on his life, Gustadolph would obviously have to deny the allegation. After all, he had used Dragan’s supposed death to justify his attack on Glenbrook. Gustadolph’s only possible way out would be claiming that Dragan conspired with the Wolfforts then.

No, that didn’t add up at all. Neither Wolffort nor Glenbrook had anything to gain from such a farce. Would Gustadolph admit his guilt then? If he were to claim Dragan had conspired with King Regna to seize what the Grand Norzelian Mines yielded for themselves, he could justify his attack on Glenbrook after all. Meanwhile, Dragan’s best shot was revealing the truth and hoping to stand as the more believable in the end.

Dragan startled upright when he heard a knock; he had begun absentmindedly scribbling on his papers. Swiftly, Dragan scraped together his mess of documents, making sure the less presentable ones were buried beneath the others.

“Please, allow yourself in,” he proclaimed, tapping his papers against the desk as a last move to sort them out.

When Frederica and Lord Serenoa entered, Dragan couldn’t help but notice how natural it had become to see the two of them side by side. Just as Lord Serenoa shut the door behind them, Frederica greeted Dragan, “Good evening, I hope we aren’t disrupting your work, Dragan.”

“No need to mention it. I’m grateful for any news you might bring,” Dragan assured her. He stood up to face them properly, his papers all but forgotten – not that they had received much attention before.

“Thank you for your time, Lord Dragan,” Lord Serenoa replied, graceful as ever. Dragan didn’t doubt he was being genuine. He had come to despise empty phrases such as this over time. After all, he was at the Wolfforts’ mercy to begin with.

Dragan didn’t open that can of worms as Lord Serenoa finally bared news to him, “Lord Telliore has reached out to us, promising his cooperation in the stand against Aesfrost. He wishes to commemorate our alliance with a banquet.”

“A banquet? I hardly see it fit to celebrate at a time like this,” Dragan spat out.

“We do not believe his offer to be a genuine one,” Frederica explained, “In fact, we harbor suspicions that Lord Telliore is merely laying a trap for us.”

“And you plan on playing along regardless?” Dragan questioned. Trying to make sense of their reasoning was all the harder considering he barely knew anything about Lord Telliore and his demesne. He had only caught some light remarks before, and surely none from the man himself.

“House Wolffort seeks to make its stance in the conflict clear,” Lord Serenoa reasoned, “The high houses should strive to stand together in times like these. Whatever Lord Telliore has in store for us, we are prepared. I refuse to sink to his level.”

“I suppose you can hardly dodge a confrontation regardless of what you may choose,” Dragan mused.

“We would like you to join us,” Frederica finally proposed.

Dragan straightened like a pillar at her words. It wasn’t quite the fateful clash he had hoped for, but it would beat remaining caged any day. Naturally, Dragan affirmed, “I will gladly assent. You have my gratitude.”

“Very well then. We will make the journey by the morrow. Please, be prepared by then,” Lord Serenoa said. This was the extent of what he intended to share, it appeared. Yet, one question kept nagging at the back of Dragan’s mind.

“Lord Serenoa, one moment,” Dragan insisted before they could leave, “When was this decision made?”

“But moments ago. Frederica insisted we inform you right away,” the young Wolffort explained. Lord Serenoa gave Frederica a passing glance, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“And I assure you I appreciate your considerations,” Dragan continued as his suspicions were confirmed, “Yet, I can’t help but grow frustrated at being presented a fait accompli. If we plan on standing against Gustadolph in union, another level of cooperation should be expected.”

Lord Serenoa eyed Dragan contemplatively for a moment before giving his reply, “I understand your frustrations in face of the current situation all too well, Lord Dragan. However, I’m afraid the war council regards the members of House Wolffort only.”

“Is that so?” Dragan pressed on, “Do you not see me as an ally to your house, Lord Serenoa?”

“Calm yourself,” Frederica cut them short. She stepped forward as she addressed him outright, “Dragan, please, show some moderation. After your past… missteps, I think it goes without saying that you could work on your cooperation as well.”

Dragan was taken aback for a moment at Frederica’s straightforward remark. His gaze flicked towards Lord Serenoa, whose mood appeared to have lightened a touch at Frederica’s words. When he spoke up, he didn’t drop his aura of diplomacy, “Let’s take this one step at a time. I’m sure if our cooperation proves… beneficial, we could come to an arrangement, Lord Dragan.”

Lord Serenoa agreed with her then. If he was being all honest with himself, even Dragan could see her point clearly. After all, Dragan hadn’t exactly played with open cards either.

“Very well then, I assure you I won’t disappoint,” Dragan accepted.

“Just focus on the task at hand for now,” Frederica said. The intent look she gave Dragan could have easily been read as either doting or skeptical. “I’m sure things will be going just fine if you simply act natural."

The occasion Dragan arrived to wasn’t quite what he had built up in his mind. The banquet was far removed from a grand, roaring clash, or a decisive battle of wits. Instead, the evening offered a lively gathering, laughter that rung just slightly too loud and simple melodies that filled the air.

Under different circumstances, the event could have been quite pleasant. Lord Telliore hadn’t held back on accommodating his guests, from the delicacies he served to the fine wine. It really was a shame that all that was overshadowed by the thin veil of deceit hanging over them. They couldn’t even sate themselves on the wine if they didn’t want to risk getting poisoned.

Dragan made sure to give the occasion his best performance. The others were acting their part; Frederica was more excitable and prone to laughter than he had ever seen her. Roland shaped up to be a remarkable actor. He almost had Dragan himself deceived with his boastful chitter-chatter, had Dragan not known better. Lord Serenoa was going for a more subdued friendliness, sparing a talk with about half the gathering.

Lord Serenoa was most likely able to gather valuable information while he was at it. Scouting the terrain certainly wouldn’t hurt. The estate was full of winding paths and tight corners. The dim glow of the streetlights only made their surroundings harder to judge. They should have better ensured not to get caught between a rock and a hard place in the impending battle.

Dragan decided to mingle with the crowd himself, mentally taking note of any bottlenecks in the town. Soon enough, Dragan found himself with a group of Telliore soldiers. He kept his drunken act on point, not to be outdone by his comrades’ performance.

“So, after swatting down a dozen – nay, two dozen soldiers, my lord engages General Avlora herself,” Dragan boasted, “What a woman, I tell you, tall as a boar and about twice as ferocious.”

Dragan spread his arms, as if to illustrate her measure. Some of the soldiers mumbled between themselves.

“I heard the sword she wields stands yet taller than her,” one of the men exclaimed.

“It’s said she can lift a Blackiron without breaking a sweat,” another added.

“True, every word of it!” Dragan replied, miming a sip from his cup.

“Well, wouldn’t want to meet ‘er when she’s angry.” The man snorted. “Might be a bit of a handful.”

“You should have seen her run with her tail tucked, then,” Dragan continued, “Wolffort bunch, I tell you, tougher than iron.”

“Why, you’re such a storyteller, my dear,” it suddenly cheered besides him. Dragan turned to see who the new voice belonged to, coming to face Frederica just as she stepped besides him. Her bright smile fit her light tone. The glint in her eyes did not.

“Truth, my dear, they say it is stranger than fiction,” Dragan replied.

“Well, I hardly want to spoil the fun…” Frederica said, her gaze traveling across the group of soldiers, “Yet, I’m afraid I will have to borrow him for the moment.”

As Frederica linked their arms, a murmur went through the soldiers, some chuckling, some wishing Dragan farewell. “’ight, good luck with that, lad.”

Dragan could only give an acknowledging nod before Frederica heartily pulled him aside. When Frederica spoke up this time, her cheer was replaced by a calculated whisper, “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

Dragan scoffed a laugh at her remark. He made sure to keep his voice low as he answered, no matter if they had stepped away from the center of the event, “You can’t truly believe me that reckless.”

“I’m afraid I’m starting to doubt it,” Frederica replied, “If you recall, we had an agreeance about you laying low.”

“We also agreed to act natural,” Dragan replied beneath his breath. He managed to slip from Frederica’s grasp. Taking a step back, Dragan raised his glass, jauntily proclaiming, “It’s a celebration, and I very well intend to treat it as such.”

Dragan could hardly imagine how deeply Frederica wanted to trade her smile for a frown. Perhaps he should cut the excessive exuberance for her sake.

“I see the two of you are enjoying yourselves.”

Dragan took a moment to place the voice that joined in. He stood straight as a pillar the moment he realized that Roland had stepped besides them, already giving Dragan a quick, measured glance; Dragan couldn’t stand that glance. He shivered under it without fail, no matter how often the prince directed it towards him.

“Ah, Roland. Tell, what brings you here?” Dragan questioned. He had to clear his throat in order to shake off his startled tone.

“You simply demanded attention, were you not?” Roland replied.

“That wasn’t exactly my intention,” Dragan mumbled. He observed how the wine swirled in his cup as he tipped its balance.

“I think it would be best if you composed yourself as well,” Roland reasoned, his voice a steady whisper, “There is a reason you’re wearing that mask. Do us a favor and treat this matter with the necessary gravity.”

Roland was being plain serious; Dragan didn’t have to look up from his cup to confirm as much. The prince’s scolding words hit a nerve. Dragan was practically flushing with each pump of his quickening heartbeat. He haphazardly tried masking the nerves with an air of playfulness as he replied, “Of course, Your Highness. I’ll regard this matter with the utmost scrutiny.”

The light bow Dragan gave must have been a tad over the top; Roland let out a cut-off huff at the gesture.

“You are well aware formalities like this will not put you in my favor,” Roland reminded him. Dragan breathed a sigh of relief when Roland’s impish tone matched his own.

“Apologies, I did mean to take your comment to heart,” Dragan assured. After all, holding his tongue for the evening wouldn’t kill him.

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Frederica remarked, “You don’t appear to be taking this particularly seriously.”

“It is rather suspicious,” Roland agreed, turning his attention back towards Dragan, “You can’t even stop yourself from grinning ear to ear.”

He was? Dragan almost spilled some wine as he fumbled to hide his expression. Even Dragan himself took note of his voice swinging now. “Your company must have lightened my mood, Your Highness.”

“Me?” Roland choked a laugh, the corners of his lips twitching upward.

“Now you’re the one grinning,” Dragan doubled down. Roland didn’t drop his smile at the teasing remark. His bright demeanor almost matched that of the day they had first met. Dragan could hardly believe his fortune in getting Roland to smile like that again.

“Do me a favor; join me and the others,” Roland proposed, “No need to cause a ruckus around our host, all right?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Dragan affirmed right away. He lingered on Roland’s pleased expression for a moment before he turned his attention towards Frederica, meaning to ask if she would join them as well. She had a peculiar look on her face, hints of surprise and amusement.

“Is something the matter?” Dragan asked her.

Frederica shook her head before replying, “Oh nothing at all… I suppose I’m just not quite as convincing as Prince Roland is.”

From the soft smile to her light voice, Frederica couldn’t have possibly been serious in her ire – luckily enough.

“Now, now, Frederica,” Roland waved off, “I would like to believe we made a team effort.”

“Quite so, you just about had me convinced already,” Dragan assured her.

Frederica crossed her arms – with a genuine smile at least – as she replied, “Oh, you’re fooling no one.”

As Dragan joined them and the others from House Wolffort, he couldn’t help but wish for a genuine reason to celebrate with them.

When night came, they all scattered into their respective quarters on the estate. Lord Telliore must have planned this evening meticulously; the cozy rooms were just as accommodating as the banquet had been. More notably, it spread their group all over the estate. Unifying for the impending attack was out of the question then.

None of the rooms could have held more than four people at a time. Most of them had gotten split into pairs. Dragan had teased Frederica about rooming with her betrothed. The notion had flustered her and Lord Serenoa alike, not helped at all when Roland had joined the fun, stating how he wouldn’t want to interfere with the two lovebirds. Dragan had hoped he would be able to share a room with Roland then. If he was being honest with himself, he had kept his fingers crossed from the moment it had become apparent that they would have to part for the night.

In the end, they had all laughed the idea off, leaving Lord Serenoa and Roland to room together. Dragan had expected as much to begin with. Yet, imagining – no, witnessing the bond between Roland and Lord Serenoa stung, unreasonably so. Dragan caught himself wondering whether he would feel any lighter if he had grown up like they had – together. Then Roland had turned back one last time to wish Dragan a good night and the worry had eased from his mind.

Dragan had been assigned a cabin with Corentin in the end. Getting a chance to discuss in depth with a like-minded researcher was pleasant. Dragan hadn’t had a chance to do so ever since he had left Aesfrost and the Archives behind. So really, all had turned out well in the end, just perfectly well.

“We were scarcely told a thing about different schools of thought in the Halls of Medicine,” Corentin mused after some while, “Is it always like this in the Archives?”

“Well, as long as you don’t bother people during their readings, it is,” Dragan affirmed, “You would love it there; I can tell.”

Dragan stretched his legs, thinking about whether he felt like pacing instead of sitting on his unused bed. Considering the impending battle, it would be for the best he rested now while he still could. Waiting for any sign to strike left him jittering still, no matter how good a conversation partner Corentin made.

“Certainly, I can hardly stand the wait until that fateful day,” Corentin said, giving a contemplative sigh, “The Archives must hold a rich selection of tomes regarding ice magic. It will be a joy to read through.”

“That’s quite the extensive reading list. You’ll need much more than a day or two to work through all those pages.”

“All the better!”

Dragan gave a short chuckle, understanding Corentin’s excitement all too well.

“I must admit, I expected something grandiose from what Lord Serenoa had told me of you,” Corentin suddenly added, “I would have hardly imagined you to be so – how do I phrase this – simple at times.”

Dragan blinked at Corentin, trying to fit the Hyzantian’s audacious words to his nonchalant tone of voice. The reply practically fell out of his mouth. “Pardon?”

As if on cue, shouts sounded from outside. Dragan would have to give Corentin a piece of his mind later. They exchanged one last glance before rushing into battle.

As Dragan and Corentin stepped out of their quarter, the commotion had already turned into an all-out skirmish. Their allies were fighting in small, scattered groups. Fortunately, the Tellior soldiers played right along instead of focusing their efforts – how fortunate.

“Stop your cowering and fight. Spare no one!” a rough voice boomed through the vineyard, “But leave the prince to me. I’ll kill anyone who gets between us.”

Dragan faintly recognized that the voice belonged to the tall, boorish man that he had seen brooding by himself all evening, just by his grand built alone; the milky glow of the streetlights didn’t allow much else to show. He was a mercenary, was he not? The most noteworthy of their foes for sure.

As they were positioned, Dragan and Corentin were nestled into a corner. There was a narrow trail to their left and a path straight to the lake in front, splitting off into stairs cascading down the hills to their right. Just down there, the mercenary stood. He would have to make it up the whole way in order to reach his target – Roland. Considering he clearly didn’t intend to give them any quarter, Dragan might as well try and put a stop to his advance.

“Corentin,” Dragan tried catching the Hyzantian’s attention, gesturing towards the alley to their left, “Mind to watch our backs?”

Dragan was fairly certain he could hear a commotion coming their way, though with the nestled paths and the mountainside carrying the sounds, it was hard to pinpoint. Still, better safe than sorry. Corentin’s ice had made for a fine shield when they last fought together in the mines.

“Understood,” Corentin affirmed. Dragan left him at that, rushing to get to the staircase in time. He fumbled with his belongings, some healing pellets he might resort to in a pinch, spices and – most crucially – oil. He had expected this to come in handy when he had bought it off the traveling merchant back in Wolffort, though the narrow alleys of the vineyard made for an especially apt application.

With a hearty throw, the ceramic bottle shattered on the stairs edge, its contents pooling across the walkway. Dragan caught his mantle as he fumbled for his spellbook. He’d have to be swift about this; while the Telliore soldiers ignored Dragan in favor of vainly chasing after Hughette – and on second look, Anna, who blended like a shadow into the night – the mercenary himself wasn’t bothering with distractions.

Dragan readied his spell as the man approached. His hands shook, though his focus remained steady. Thank the stars, his training paid off; he barely managed to lite the oil before the mercenary could reach him. For a moment, Dragan was afraid the man would cross the flames as they spread. Dragan staggered back, his eyes darting for an exit plan, then back to Corentin who was catching up to him.

The blaze erupted in front of him in a matter of seconds, leaving the mercenary shouting curses – and their own group safe for now.

“We’d best regroup,” Dragan exclaimed towards Corentin, already rushing ahead.

“Right with you.”

Finally, they joined up for the main event; most of their group had already gather by the lake. At this rate, the Telliore soldiers unfocused attacks had no chance of breaking through. Dragan fell right into pace, taking on the battle in union.

By the time Telliore yielded, Dragan was out of breath – out of breath but accomplished. After having the audacity to backstab them, Telliore went running from his own demesne. Served him right, least Lord Serenoa relieved him of his head after all.

“Good work.” Lord Serenoa gave Dragan an acknowledging nod.

“Much appreciated,” Dragan replied, finally putting his spellbook away and easing out, “Perhaps we should honor our victory with a true celebration. What do you say?”

Lord Serenoa simply shook his head. Roland answered in his stead. “Please, be serious.”

“Well, am I wrong? We won!”

“’Tis no time for rest. This battle won’t be the last, not by a long shot,” Roland insisted. His grip on his spear was as firm as ever. “You all keep getting dragged into fights because of me. It’s not right.”

“Your Highness, don’t say such things,” Hughette said. She stepped besides her liege, as she would. Dragan wondered how diligently she must stick to the prince’s side, wondered just how much more Roland showed to her than others. “Remember, we are all supporting you out of our own free will.”

“I understand that,” Roland grumbled, shifting his footing, “I just wish you wouldn’t have to.”

Dragan took a step closer, making certain that he caught Roland’s attention. “You have so many eyes on you because people see your potential. Is that not something worth appreciating?”

As their eyes met, for a moment, Dragan was filled with hope of easing the prince’s tension. Then Roland turned away with a sigh. “Let’s not fret over this. We have more important matters to tend to.” Indeed, he sprung right into motion. “We shan’t linger here.”

Hughette followed her liege without question. As the others began gathering their bearings, Dragan caught himself dragging his feet. Roland’s tension only seemed to mount by the day. Dragan would have to come up with a better way to lighten it; he owed Roland that much.

Chapter Text

It was a day as any other when Dragan was called into the council room out of the blue. He had asked what had caused the sudden decision, though the servant they had sent for him hadn’t known anything substantial to begin with. The questions kept mounting when Dragan was merely met with the seven members of the war council; there wasn’t even a guard inside the room. They must have called him here specifically.

Dragan would have been overjoyed with satisfaction if it hadn’t been so unusual. Hughette was scrutinizing him quite intently; what was the matter in the first place?

“What is he doing here?” Hughette questioned, her gaze shifting between Dragan and her liege.

"I called him here, like the rest of you,” Roland explained.

Dragan perked up at the affirmation. He’d owe Roland a favor for finally bringing him in here; Dragan would have to add it to the list. “Much appreciated!”

“I take it you have heard of the address at the capital?” Benedict questioned undeterred.

Roland was quiet for a moment. Now that Dragan paid attention to it, Roland’s posture was awfully tense, from how he pulled his shoulders up to how he kept clenching and releasing his fists. Roland held a small, bright item in one hand, twirling the thing back and forth between his fingers. Was that a mask?

“I have,” Roland finally responded.

“You’d be hard pressed not to; it’s the talk of the town,” Geela affirmed.

Indeed, even Dragan had caught the talk around the castle; Gustadolph had used the newly appointed Queen Cordelia as a mouthpiece for his lies. Dragan had barely managed to temper his agitation when he had heard. Calling him unappreciative of how he’d been spun into Gustadolph’s schemes would have been an understatement; Dragan was fuming, tensing his jaw as he kept himself from voicing his frustration then and there. He assumed Roland had more urgent thoughts on the matter.

“I won’t forgive them for making Her Highness say such horrible things!” Hughette exclaimed, her voice pressed.

“Enough, Hughette.” Roland’s answer came without delay.

“But they lied about the king’s death! They made it seem like Gustadolph was justified!”

“Say no more. If Cordelia can endure this, so can we.” Roland’s hands started to shake. His voice shortly joined the subtle tremble. “And as long as she lives, that is enough for me…”

Dragan swallowed the comment that lied on the tip of his tongue, finally averting his gaze from Roland in favor of letting it wander anywhere else.

“…Forgive me, Your Highness.” Hughette sighed softly.

The room was awfully quiet. Perhaps Dragan should combat the silence.

“We all understand how you feel, Prince Roland,” Lord Serenoa assured him. As he stepped closer, Roland seemed to relax.

“Hughette’s concerns have their merit,” Dragan spoke up after all; no one else dared to anyhow. “How long are we to stand idly by while Gustadolph’s plot bears fruit?”

“Must I remind you to treat with caution? We cannot afford to pick a fight with the Duchy in our current state,” Benedict reminded him, his voice ever constant.

“You have a knack for making things sound horribly absolute.” Dragan’s gaze landed on Roland again; he recognized the look Roland gave him from the last time the prince had asked something of him. Dragan only noticed that he had been tensing his shoulders when he lowered them with a sigh. “But we haven’t gathered here to reprise this tired argument, have we?”

“Yes, we’d better set our gaze towards the future. We must rise to action; however we may be able to,” Roland replied. The twinge of anger never left his eyes; it was becoming disquieting.

“Indeed we must,” Benedict said, “I’m certain the news of your death will spread shortly. That means we are free to make our next move.”

Death? Surely Roland did not intent to…

“Listen, my friends. Prince Roland of Glenbrook is dead,” the prince affirmed as if it was the most natural conclusion, “I am now merely Roland, a warrior who fled a fallen kingdom. I humbly ask for your support until the sun shines upon our royal line once again.”

At last, Roland made use of the white mask he was holding, putting it on in one, smooth motion; had he practiced this?

“Is that Ser Maxwell’s…?” Lord Serenoa questioned.

Hughette was the next to voice her surprise. “That mask… You look just like Ser Maxwell!”

Now that she mentioned it, the resemblance was striking – even if Dragan was certain he’d still be able to pick Roland out in a crowd, mask or not.

“This is a secret that shall stay within House Wolffort,” Benedict said.

Dragan’s gut feeling didn’t agree with that. Seeing Roland like this was wrong, uncomfortably so. No wonder had Roland been so tense; he must have been beyond frustrated.

“Is this truly the path you intend to take?” Dragan inquired.

Roland’s answer came without delay. “I’ve set my mind to it. You should understand, I assume.”

Dragan could hardly argue with that, even when he direly wanted to. “Of course…”

No one questioned what they had heard after that, the silence draping heavily over the room. Roland brought one hand to his chest, right over his heart, as if he was ready to make an oath. Dragan wouldn’t have been able the tell anyhow; whatever Roland was mumbling was too quiet to make out. Dragan made a silent pledge of his own then, one to keep an eye out for Roland as they got through this and repay the debt he owed him.

Dragan worked tirelessly; in truth, he always did, but he’d like to think he was putting in just an edge more effort yet. Fortunately, training had become a habit Dragan wouldn’t want to miss. The physical activity helped keep his mind fresh and running. He should have made this a habit much sooner. It would have most likely saved him the odd headache studying in the Archives.

His efforts were bearing fruit. By now, the movement patterns were becoming second nature, one after the other seeping into his subconscious. Dragan felt ready to experiment once more. As of now, one detail had his attention, a slight mishap. He recalled the first time he had trained with Roland and Geela. The prince had startled him and with that triggered something odd, a surge of energy that had burst forth beyond Dragan’s control, all in one fell swoop. The banging flash of blazes could easily be turned into an asset, a means to signal his allies or startle his enemies, if Dragan only learned how to channel it purposefully.

“Ah, is it noon again already?”

Dragan recognized Roland from his voice before he turned to answer him, “Have I truly become this predictable?”

“You say that as if it’s something bad. Upholding a routine is an admirable habit.” Roland stepped besides him as he spoke. Dragan tried to gauge the prince’s expression, even when the mask firmly concealed his thoughts. Still, Dragan could picture the swift glance Roland would usually give him. Even the phantom image of Roland’s clear attention was turning his heartrate fickle.

“Your stance is improving,” Roland finally assessed.

“I’d hope so. I’ve been hard at work, after all.”

Dragan turned his gaze towards the open hall, eyeing the couple of people that were scattered about. He even spotted Geela between them, tending to that little magical apprentice of hers. The youthful boy swapped between casting elements like trying on clothes. Dragan had to quell his racing excitement watching him, least he tried picking up a tome on wind magic on top of everything else going on.

“What brings you here, Roland?” Dragan asked, “If you’d like to train, we could do so together.”

“I’d love to. Unfortunately, I only came here to make a quick stop by the armory.”

Dragan nodded. It really was peculiar to look at Roland without being able to read his eyes. The mask sealed another part of Roland off from him, hollowing out the light-hearted attitude he once held bit by bit.

Then again, Dragan too was hiding behind a mask. He must be worrying over nothing then; after all, Roland never seemed bothered that Dragan was hiding his face – or perhaps Roland simply didn’t find it in himself to care.

“I just need something light I can carry for a scout,” Roland explained, his head now similarly turned towards the other people training in the hall, “There are rumors of bandits loitering around the harbor. Hughette already scouted the air, but the surrounding forest make a thorough search difficult. I was thinking I could do my part and trail the paths by foot.”

Roland startled Dragan when he turned towards him, making Dragan’s breath stutter for the odd moment he needed to adjust.

“Would you care to join me?” Roland proposed, “I would feel more at ease with you by my side.”

Roland had Dragan convinced that instant; Dragan’s chest swelled with a sense of accomplishment at the sound of his praise.

“I can hardly decline then.”

Dragan wasn’t sure whether a smile truly tugged on Roland’s lips or whether he was just making it up.

“I’m sure some fresh air will do you good,” Roland affirmed, already putting one foot forward, “Let us be on our way then.”

The trek through the forest truly refreshed Dragan’s mind. The serene atmosphere was a change of pace from the steadfast castle walls. The bright sunlight that usually engulfed Glenbrook trickled through the foliage in gentle streams, painting the ground with dancing patterns of shadow and light. The woods were temperate; Dragan loved the feeling of cool, fresh air on his face, even when the cozy weather of Glenbrook always came just short of feeling familiar. The crunching of gravel beneath his boots almost reminded him of freshly fallen snow.

Glenbrook’s advantages were many. The sounds of nature around him contrasted the frigid silence he had grown so accustomed to. The murmuring of the Norzelia river was underscored with the gentle rustling of leaves. Birds chirped all around them, making the forest itself feel alive. Of course, the company he got to enjoy completed the picture.

“You have a knack for finding the kingdom’s most beautiful spots, Roland,” Dragan remarked.

“You have Serenoa to thank for that,” Roland replied, “He showed me around these parts to begin with.”

Roland kept his head turned towards the river down the shallow ravine. The path they were following winded its way closer to the river. Dragan could see it clear as day now, only the odd trees still obscuring the view. The water appeared much shallower than further downstream by the capital. What it lacked in volume, it seemed to make up with in ferocity, waves frothing as they tumbled over stones and through bottlenecks. There was even the odd fallen tree disturbing the river.

“Serenoa and I used to love this spot when we were younger,” Roland said. His steps haltered for a moment. As Dragan eagerly waited for Roland to continue, he stepped off the path until the ravine dropped down right in front of him. The water’s fierce rumbling reverbed around him now that he stood closer.

Roland joined him, apparently watching over the river valley as he continued, “I remember climbing around down there, trying to outdo each other. The rocks used to be the biggest hurdle, surprisingly enough. Much too slippery.”

“I imagine you had your fair share of unintended swimming sessions,” Dragan remarked, a smile creeping on his lips as he tried picturing the prince romping around the riverbank.

“Occasionally,” Roland admitted, “Luckily, we only had a few scratches to lament. Even a grown man could easily get carried downstream if the current took hold of him.”

Roland sat down into the grass, his legs dangling off the steep edge of the ravine. The odd strand had broken from his ponytail. How did Roland manage to look so elegant at any given moment? Not even the brisk wind could taint the impression. Dragan’s focus was broken the moment Roland ran his hand through his hair, making quick work of the slight disorder.

“The adults would scold us,” Roland continued, “I remember we once got stuck down there after rainfall. We tried climbing our way back up over and over, but we couldn’t get a hold on the mud. It ended with Erador dragging us out. We looked like swine by the time we made it back up. I’ve never seen Benedict’s face turn so red with anger – not before that day and not since. Can you imagine that?”

“Hardly,” Dragan admitted. He decided to sit down as well, settling in against one of the trees. For a moment, Dragan simply watched Roland as he picked away at blades of grass. “It appears you were quite the troublemaker in your youth.”

“Oh, please, I have a hard time picturing you as exceptionally well-behaved either,” Roland returned the teasing.

“I’ll have you know I was always studious!”

Did that exclaim even veer too far from the truth? Even when Dragan had gotten tempted to act rash, there was hardly anything for him to do but study out in Twinsgate.

“Besides that, I only consider it natural to test boundaries growing up,” Dragan finally assessed, “No better time to do so, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose that’s the truth of it.”

“Well, I do remember one incident… My father took me to the capital. I must have barely come up to his hip at the time.”

As Dragan started narrating, Roland seemed to ease down on the fidgeting, turning his head towards him. Dragan continued, “I joined some of the other children while he was occupied with his duties. We would come up with dares for each other. Ultimately, one girl proclaimed that none of us would dare leap over any of the fire streams.”

“You did…?” Roland appeared to doubt him, stuck somewhere between an exclaim and a question.

“’Course I did! I made it over the widest one too,” Dragan announced, “Left enough of an impression that they followed me around all day. I was beaming with pride when I told father. He… Wasn’t sharing my enthusiasm, to say the least. I must have gotten him worried sick.”

Dragan trailed off as he finished. How devastated must his father have been when they reported the news of Dragan’s “passing” to him? Hopefully, his father wouldn’t be too furious once he got the chance to reveal the truth of the matter.

“I… suppose that’s natural,” Roland mumbled. When he continued, he regained his lighthearted tone as quickly as he had dropped it. “There are ‘fire streams’ in Aesfrost? Or are you starting to spin tales now, my friend?”

“You’re doubt wounds me, Your Highness,” Dragan lamented, adding a sigh for effect, “I speak nothing but truth. Though… I suppose they aren’t made up of fire, per se. It’s simply all the molten iron streaming from the forges. It packs the same heat, that’s for certain.”

“And you just have them run all through the city?”

“It can be a blessing on frigid days. Besides, they must keep the stream moving to ensure the forges can operate smoothly,” Dragan explained, “It’s strangely beautiful, especially come nightfall, when the iron can truly shine its glow.”

“You make me wish I had come to see it for myself,” Roland said. Dragan remembered holding his breath for Roland to pay him a visit. Even when the thought would steadily fade, it had taken him by surprise on the odd occasion, clear and fresh. The memory seemed distant at this point, even when it had only been a couple of months since then.

“Perhaps you still can, one day,” Dragan suggested, “I can show you around after this is all over. Together, we can rebuild Aesfrost into something kinder, something worthy of your time.”

As Roland simply turned towards him and paused, Dragan yearned to see Roland’s eyes more than ever. The faint smile that played around the corners of Roland’s lips somehow only aggravated the desire.

“I admire your ardor, Dragan – and I intent to meet it with my own,” Roland said, his voice indeed gaining an eager edge, “Once we have seen this through together, I will finally make right of the promise I gave you.”

As Dragan remained locked to Roland’s lips, he became acutely aware how each of his heartbeats drummed and resonated in his chest, as if the prince’s spirit had ignited something within him. The simple promise they had made flourished into something precious, a vow that Dragan didn’t intent on breaking.

“Apologies.” Just as Roland said that, he turned his attention towards the ground where he was still fiddling with some blades of grass. His words didn’t lose their authenticity still. “It wasn’t my intention to keep you waiting this long.”

“There’s no need for apologies,” Dragan assured him, “If anything, I should apologize for availing myself of your hospitality.”

“I’m afraid there is little avail I could grant these days.”

“Don’t say something like that. You know it’s not true,” Dragan objected. He hoped for a sense of understanding from the prince, not just regarding his importance to their cause, but the tangible effect he has had on Dragan these passing weeks.

“Well, I suppose if you insist… In any case, I believe we are forgetting that this was supposed to be a scouting session.”

“One which has revealed nothing out of the ordinary; wouldn’t that count as a success? Besides, I’d say we’d best appreciate life’s simple pleasures wherever we may find them.”

“I suppose a moment of reprise won’t hurt us,” Roland agreed. The pause he gave got filled with the peaceful sounds of nature. They appeared more distant now that Dragan’s attention was on Roland. “I have always reveled in the murmur of the river. It fills me with a sense of calm like little else could.”

Roland indeed was calmer, from what Dragan could tell. For a moment, Dragan remembered how Roland’s blue eyes would turn clear like water in the face of adversity.

“Indeed, it’s beautiful,” Dragan acknowledged, his voice dropping into a soft mumble. He felt like splitting in two any moment; one part of him desperately needed to hold onto the moment, the other urged him to move on, pace around on spot, at least. He remained stuck somewhere in the middle, clamping his hands between his thighs as he tried steadying himself.

Dragan could barely believe how bright Roland looked with the rays of sunshine pouring over him. The prince’s blonde hair shimmered like spun gold in the warm light. It reminded Dragan of the day they had first met. The heart-felt laughs had burned themselves into his memory. The requiem pulled Dragan’s chest together. If only he could ease Roland’s burden somehow – allow his true, kind spirit to shine once more.

Dragan’s thoughts sunk deeper, something inside him starting to pour through the cracks. His gaze stuck to Roland, his perception shifting. Elegant figure, golden locks framing his face just so. It was as if Dragan was eyeing a painting – artfully crafted but coming just short of holding reality. Roland pursed his lips into something that could have been a smile if circumstances hadn’t worn him down. The motion of his fingers through the grass had a certain edge to it, as if his every gesture betrayed his urge to move.

Right then, Dragan could truly imagine it: a canvas depicting a picture so vastly beautiful, just real enough that one would grow the urge to reach out for it. But Dragan couldn’t have ever reached out for this.

When had he started thinking like this?

The impropriety of the thought hit Dragan in an instant. He shot his gaze down towards his hands as they were still firmly pressed between his thighs. His heart got caught in his throat, rattling him with every hectic beat. He could hardly swallow against it.

When had this happened? Right now, at the first ray of sunlight? Had Roland saving him triggered it? Or had this grown inside him from the very moment they had stepped out onto that wide, lively plaza together?

No, this was entirely the wrong question; what was Dragan thinking to begin with?

“Are you cold?” Roland’s voice cut through Dragan’s thoughts like a knife, ripping them into disarray. “Maybe you shouldn’t sit in the shade. The sunlight is much more pleasant, I promise.”

The words took some odd moments to sink in. Dragan started talking without a shred of consideration, “I suppose it’s chilly.”

Dragan was flushing hot. He was going to be sick.

This was ridiculous! There was no reason for his body to act up – no reason for the heat coursing beneath his skin, his racing heart, the tingles pouring down his neck. His hands only remained steady through the clutch he held them in. Dragan rubbed his palm against his trousers as they started sweating.

He shouldn’t be feeling like this.

“You were right; we should get moving again,” Dragan finally proposed. He got on his feet before even concluding the sentence. He tried lightening the tension as he spoke, but his voice betrayed him, “We wouldn’t want to slack at a time like this, would we?”

Dragan didn’t dare to look at Roland’s reaction, even when the pause started worrying him, instead keeping his gaze glued to the far reaches of the ravine, where the river was swallowed by foliage and cliffs. In the end, it must have only taken Roland an odd moment or two to answer, though time dragged unbearably as the butterflies in his stomach began nauseating Dragan.

“No, you’re right; there remains much to be done,” Roland replied, his natural tone contrasting against Dragan’s swirling thoughts, only succeeding in making them appear all the more ridiculous.

When they continued their track, the tranquility from before was undercut. Dragan’s focus was all over the place, the odd impression only reaching him at random – the erratic chirping of birds, the stiff breeze in his face, the smell of earth and freshly flowing water, the turbulent rustling of the stream, leaves and the gravel beneath their feet layering over each other. One moment, it seemed too sharp, then it faded into the background until it barely reached Dragan anymore.

“Anything on your mind?” Roland’s voice broke through the haze.

The longer Dragan looked at him, the more violently his heart fluttered against the confinement of his ribcage. “Nothing at all.”

Chapter Text

Dragan could hardly focus during the days to come. No matter how he fought to keep his thoughts in line, they would circle right back to Roland. The stubborn butterflies rose in his stomach just thinking about him, leave alone when he ran into the prince and had to pretend like his heart wasn’t going to give in any moment.

Dragan tapped the back of his pen against the paper in a restless pattern, filling his room with steady ticking, not unlike clockwork. The blank page was a little too bright on his eyes. Dragan’s gaze absentmindedly wandered to the window, even when there wasn’t much to see but blue skies. The chirping of birds that seeped in pulled him right back to that moment Roland and him had shared in the woods.

There it was again, that flutter in the pit of his stomach that turned him queasy. Dragan had come to loath it. Nerves didn’t suit him, never had. And what for? He was most likely overthinking the matter and getting worked up over nothing.

Let’s think about this logically, Dragan decided. Reason suited him much better than the theatrical brooding he was displaying right now. Unfortunately, Dragan could not deny the fact that Roland was making him feel… odd. His heart beat faster around him than anyone else, his breath shallowed, his stomach tingled; to be frank, it was nerve-racking.

Dragan recalled the small fits of inadequacy he had felt whenever Roland saw him stumbling up during a training session. Meanwhile, the prince had always displayed his combat skills flawlessly. Dragan’s heart pounded against his chest just thinking about how graceful Roland moved with his weapon – or at any given time, really.

Then, perhaps it was envy that had sparked his feelings to act up. It wasn’t just the prince’s battle prowess Dragan had taken note of. Roland was undeniably beautiful – just objectively speaking. Besides that, Dragan had always looked up to Roland’s persistency, his unwavering will to change the realm for the better.

Am I looking up to him?

It was strange to think of Roland as a role model, though the idea wasn’t entirely ridiculous. Dragan harbored no resentment against the prince – quite the contrary. Surely, some resentment would have been expected if Dragan was truly just envious. That, he had made his fair share of experience with.

Perhaps it truly was pure admiration he was feeling. It would explain the sheer unfamiliarity of the sensation. Never before had Dragan put another person on such a grand pedestal. Up until now, he had always led by his own example instead of turning to idols.

Yes, this was the most sensible reasoning yet. The sheer fact that Dragan had even considered an alternative explanation seemed absurd now. By all means, it shouldn’t be improbable but outright impossible for Dragan to…

A man wasn’t supposed to lose his breath looking at another. He shouldn’t have ever longed for a touch between them to linger.

Dragan put his pen down – too abruptly, as it splattered ink over the pages and table. As the ragged clattering subsided, Dragan eyed the mess with a weary sigh. He tried soaking up the patches of ink with the ruined paper, staining his fingers in the process. Dragan haltered, watching the royal blue smear over the white of the paper and his skin both. His hands were trembling, just like they had when Roland and he had sat by the river.

Brooding in his room had been a bad idea. Usually, Dragan would be training the arcane arts at this time of day. Truly, he should have had; it might just have succeeded in clearing his head. Should he pay the training halls a visit yet? After all, it wasn’t too late in the afternoon. In truth, the problem lied right there. Somewhen in the past week, Roland had made it a habit to train around the same time Dragan would. Of course, coming to face with the prince would do anything but put his mind to ease.

Lingering in his room wasn’t an option either. Dragan was in dire need of a distraction – errands to run, company to make conversation with, anything to move his thoughts away from Roland, really. With that thought, Dragan left his room behind, fully intending to bury the pointless worries.

As Dragan made his way through the wood-lined castle walls, he did so without a clear goal in sight. Lucky for him, it didn’t take long to stumble over a familiar face; Frederica was walking his way at a leisurely pace, studying some papers she loosely held in hand as she went her way.

“Frederica, good to see you,” Dragan greeted her.

Frederica haltered in her steps, looking up at him as if she had been completely oblivious to his presence before. The moment their eyes met, she gave him an acknowledging smile, replying with a pleasant voice, “Ah, good day. Ever as busy?”

“Would that I was,” Dragan admitted, stepping in front of Frederica as he tried for her full attention, “I’m in search for some company, as it were. You wouldn’t mind me joining you?”

Frederica hummed contemplatively before answering, “I assured Serenoa that I would be taking stock of our supplies. If you don’t mind joining me in the storeroom, I see no issue.”

“Of course I don’t mind; I will help you with it!”

“That would be much appreciated.”

As Frederica began leading the way, the soft sound of steps filled the halls. Distantly, Dragan caught muted voices and clattering, speaking of the hard work being done all around them. Wolffort Castle carried a special sound, much mellower than Dragan was used to from back home. Aesfrost’s stone built halls had a way to make even the softest murmur ring sharply. The wooden walls appeared to swallow the sounds not unlike snow. It was pleasant, in a way. Still, Dragan didn’t allow the silence to linger for too long. “You’ve been hard at work lately, Frederica.”

“As have you; we’ve all been,” Frederica insisted.

“You needn’t be so modest. You seem to have made your place here. I was thinking how reassuring it is to see you grow so comfortable in your new home,” Dragan assured her.

A gentle smile graced Frederica’s lips, her eyes shining like Dragan had rarely seen them before. Frederica replied naturally, “Ah, so that hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

The papers she was holding crumpled as she clutched them. She eyed Dragan for a moment as if she was carefully picking her words. Whatever she found in Dragan’s masked expression seemed to reassure her, as she continued shortly, her tone and posture relaxed, “I’m aware that our situation is loaded with tension. But being here, I can’t help feeling… at peace. It is as if I finally have a place where I belong.”

Dragan let Frederica’s words sink in. He would have liked to pretend he was happy for her; hearing her voice her high spirit so openly did make Dragan feel lighter indeed. And yet, something gnawed at the back of his mind, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Dragan replied at last. Judging by how Frederica’s smile softened, his voice must have betrayed his melancholic spirit.

“Apologies, I hope my words did not strike the wrong chord,” Frederica said, her gaze dropping to the floor in front of her, “I’m glad to have you here as well. I wouldn’t want to miss you.”

Dragan chuckled. He could still clearly picture Frederica’s exasperated expression as she had scolded him during the Telliore banquet. Even when she had been much less enthusiastic about his presence then, somehow, Dragan didn’t doubt her sincerity one bit. Her gentle, sincere voice eased him.

“That’s very sweet of you, Frederica,” Dragan chimed, “But there is no need to coddle me like a pouting child. I am happy for you, truly.”

Talking to Frederica had been a great idea. His smile came to him naturally now, his heart was much lighter as he reminisced, “Dear, father would be overjoyed seeing you flourish. He was all aquiver when your union with Lord Serenoa was announced, praying you would find your happiness. I know not what he would have done had Lord Serenoa not met you in kindness… Not that I don’t feel much the same.”

Frederica gave Dragan’s shoulder a playful nudge, the hint of a chuckle falling from her lips.

“Come now, I can handle myself.” Frederica beamed as she paused. “I can hardly imagine it. Uncle was rather composed when he saw me off.”

“Outwardly so, perhaps.”

At last, Frederica led them into a large pantry. The light from the window barely lit the shelves. Mixed with the slightly stuffy, dry air, the room felt just a little more confined than it truly was.

“We already compiled a list of all the necessary supplies,” Frederica mused as she scanned her papers, “Just mark down the units. We can evaluate the results later.”

Dragan nodded as Frederica handed him a couple of her papers. He quickly scanned them; the list held an array of consumables, from grains, to oils, vinegar, herbs and spices… Dragan began his task at the topmost item – flour – scanning the room for it. The shelves were only filled halfway up, at best, and yet Dragan could already tell he was in for a long search.

“It’s nice to see you and Lord Serenoa get along so well, Frederica,” Dragan continued their conversation from before, as he finally found the sacks of flour, counting them through to take his notes, “You two seem inseparable as of late.”

Frederica continued her task diligently, even when her response to the comment came shortly. As she spoke, a smile played around her lips, “Serenoa is a kind, gentle man. I consider myself lucky to be his betrothed.”

If her fond expression hadn’t betrayed her, the adoration in her voice made matters obvious; Frederica was enamored with Lord Serenoa. Dragan was about to give her a teasing remark or two when another idea struck him; Frederica’s emotions were so much more clear-cut than his own. Perhaps, if he could understand her feelings better, Dragan could contrast them to his own. Then, surely, he would find that their experiences were nothing alike, clearing the ridiculous idea that he had somehow grown infatuated with Roland for good.

“My goodness, Frederica, you must have grown quite enamored with our dear Lord Serenoa,” Dragan teased her, desperately trying to come up with a subtle way to steer the conversation his way.

“Well, I must admit that I am growing rather fond of him. You can hardly blame me,” Frederica replied straight away, still grinning to herself.

“Naturally…”

Dragan had to make matters plain or he would be getting nowhere. He moved on to the next item on his list – oats – as he considered, least Frederica caught him slacking. Dragan assumed they would be close by. He found himself scanning the shelves twice over as his mind drifted elsewhere.

 “I must say the fire in your eyes are igniting a certain sense of… curiosity inside me,” Dragan finally admitted outright, hoping that his casual tone masked how personal the matter had become to him.

“Curiosity?” Frederica asked, turning towards him. Dragan scanned the shelves for a third time, keeping his eyes from meeting Frederica’s for now; ah, there were those pesky oats.

“Well, you know me, my dear Frederica. There is hardly anything in this world that can escape my curiosity. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to know from… experience,” Dragan tried to justify his inquiry. So much for being inconspicuous; he hardly managed to keep his voice steady.

“Ah, naturally,” Frederica replied, her voice swinging with apparent amusement, “Well, I wouldn’t want to leave you guessing if you are so… passionate about the topic at hand.”

You have not the slightest clue, Dragan thought to himself. He bit his tongue, even when Frederica’s playful demeanor was only aggravating the flutters in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he had earned this by teasing her one too many times.

“The feeling is hard to put into words,” Frederica began explaining, “It’s as if my priorities have shifted, my very focus, even. When I’m without him, my thoughts draw back to him. I constantly find myself wondering how I can best fit into his world, or how I can make any moment together special. In the end, just being around him is plenty enough. Anything could end up feeling monumental, as long as we share it – small gestures and grand plans for the future alike.”

Frederica had slowed down as she drifted on, absentmindedly turning a bottle in her hand. Dragan, meanwhile, froze as he waited for her to continue, tensing his fingers until a muted crackling altered him that he was crumbling his papers.

Dragan had thought about Roland, maybe even unusually so, but that didn’t have to mean anything. So much had changed in such short time. With the stakes at hand, wasn’t it only natural that they would consider the future together? Roland was Glenbrook’s rightful ruler, after all; of course Dragan had to factor him into his considerations.

But it hadn’t been Roland’s future rule he had been racking his head over, now had it?

“Not long ago, Serenoa and I gazed at the stars,” Frederica mused undeterred, her voice gaining an ethereal touch, “It was the same sky I had witnessed every night. But sitting side by side, sharing the shine of the stars… No matter how mundane it may appear, it made me feel like I have a place in this world – a place by his side.”

The world had a knack to be a little brighter with Roland around. Comparing that to what Frederica had just described must have surely been lunacy. Dragan’s stomach turned queasy looking at her. He quickly turned his gaze towards the shelve and kept it there; some mostly empty glasses of spices caught his eyes.

“It’s unlike anything else,” Frederica softly voiced what must have been her conclusion.

Dragan’s mouth had dried up, barren for words. Was Frederica waiting for him to react? He had been silent for a while now. As the logical conclusion of this mess loomed over Dragan like an executioner’s blade, he began mumbling his own thoughts in absence of anything else, “Like… suddenly finding your center of gravity in another and your own self swirling around them.”

“I suppose that is a rather picturesque way to put it,” Frederica mused.

No, this was entirely the wrong conclusion. There must have been a better explanation for Dragan’s shifted focus, his running thoughts – the flutters in his stomach when Roland addressed him, the unbearable juxtaposition of serenity and fright that took hold of him whenever he faced him. If there wasn’t, then what would that make Dragan if not a deviant?

He really had hoped he’d be allowed to touch Roland, hadn’t he? That Roland wouldn’t pull back if he were to brush one of his golden locks behind his ear. How unseemly.

“Dragan?”

Dragan’s ears rung as Frederica addressed him. His heart was going to shatter if his pulse kept running like this – jump in his chest, spill out his throat and shatter on impact.

“I believe you’ve given that glass of pepper a rather thorough examination,” Frederica remarked, gently enough that she must have caught his undignified state.

Dragan’s eyes darted around at the remark. It was about time he pulled himself together; he fumbled the papers as he skimmed them for the pepper. He couldn’t spot it – how inattentive of him. On second reading, there weren’t any spices on his list to begin with.

“I believe it’s itemized on your list,” Dragan replied. maybe Frederica would focus on the task at hand at that – or perhaps he could. She did take the time to look over her papers, at least.

“Ah, it appears to be,” she affirmed, stepping besides him. The proximity only heightened Dragan’s awareness of his own state – his shifting look, unsteady hands; even his breathing seemed off. Frederica noted down the units diligently, her pen scratching faintly in the silence.

“Dragan…” She turned towards him. There went his hope for dodging the elephant in the room. “Is there a reason you are posing these questions?”

If his flustered state hadn’t been obvious before, Dragan’s cheeks grew hot at the implication. His voice, traitor that it was, broke on him as he hastily tried denying it, “Of course not!”

“Please, do you think I can’t tell you’re being untruthful? You’re voice always gains a pitch when you make something up on the spot,” Frederica sighed, shaking her head lightly. She was smiling still, if sympathetically so. Of course, Frederica wouldn’t think too much of his embarrassment, would she? She wouldn’t know how misplaced Dragan’s feelings truly were.

“Does the reason have a name, perhaps?” Frederica pressed the question.

“There is no ‘reason’, Frederica,” Dragan asserted more forcefully this time. He tried his damnedest to focus on his task, but his reeling thoughts could barely piece the letters together anymore. He needed fresh air; yes, the stuffy room wasn’t helping him think clearly at all.

“All right then, I wouldn’t want to push the matter,” Frederica replied, her voice much more subdued. Dragan should assure her that it wasn’t her fault he had grown so agitated. But how to go about that without dragging himself deeper into this mess?

With a stressed sigh, Dragan said, “Let’s focus on taking stock for now. It wasn’t my intention to cause such a distraction.”

The silence stretched uncomfortably between them; there was that damn, stubborn chirping of birds again. At last, Frederica looked at her papers again with a hesitant nod. “If you say so… Let’s stay diligent, then.”

Dragan sighed a breath of relief, even when Frederica’s response had barely given him any. What would she have to say to him if she knew the truth of the matter? Dragan could hardly stand his own thoughts right now; how was anyone else supposed to stomach them?

“Dragan?”

Dragan only gave a contemplative hum in reply, his head now muddy and his whole body fickle.

“If there were anything plaguing your thoughts… please, feel free to talk to me at any time. I’d be glad to help you out,” Frederica insisted, “We’re family, after all; are we not?”

“No, of course,” Dragan mumbled. What was he supposed to say? I may very well be falling for a man. Dragan could barely swallow against the knot in his throat. How could she possibly understand that?

“I’ll keep it in mind if anything ever comes up,” he said, his voice barely carrying.

“Okay…” It was plain she didn’t buy into his dismissal; she didn’t have to, as long as she finally dropped the cursed subject.

From then on, it was silence, only filled with muted clattering, scratching of quills against paper, and those sounds of nature Dragan was starting to loath.

Dragan tried his hardest to get back to work, busying his mind with something other than fretting about Roland. This was beneath him. Sure, Dragan wouldn’t claim to be without fallacies, but… There wasn’t anything intrinsically wrong with him. Did this mean there was something wrong with him?

Dragan absentmindedly sketched on the parchment, one muted scratch after the other. Right, putting his mind to the task, doing what he was best at. The Wolfforts had tasked him with adapting his explosives for the battlefield. It wasn’t the most glamorous task, certainly not what Dragan had had in mind when he had begun his studies, but he didn’t intend on letting them down either way. Moreover, not for such a paltry reason.

Dragan straightened as someone knocked on his door. He’d rather not have company right now; would pretending to not be present go too far? It would, certainly. What a joke. Dragan would be just fine – as long as Roland wasn’t about to greet him; he’d have to… Dragan wouldn’t have it in him to turn Roland away. Damn it all, now his heart was racing once more.

Dragan cleared his throat before answering, “You may come in.”

Lord Serenoa stepped in, quickly followed by his steward. Thank the stars.

“Good evening, would you lend us a moment of your time?” Lord Serenoa requested.

“It would be my pleasure,” Dragan was quick to affirm, turning his full attention towards the two men.

“Much obliged,” Benedict said, “We came here to inquire about the progress of your studies. Are there any notable breakthroughs to report?”

“Well…” Dragan trailed off, studying his notes. “I’ve got some ideas. Without prototypes, it’ll be difficult to judge them based on practicality.”

“Go on,” Benedict insisted. He stepped besides Dragan, looking at his papers as if he could make any sense of Dragan’s scattered notes.

“I’ve recollected everything we would need to construct the explosives,” Dragan explained, “The ironwork involved is somewhat fickle, but I assume it can be recreated outside of Aesfrost with enough patience. They are to be lit with fire. As long as one can make it out of the blast’s radius in time, that’s all you’d need. Fire stones or magic could light them from afar.”

Dragan tweaked his sketch as he continued, “I was thinking about integrating fire stones into the design directly. The stones would set off on impact, making the reaction more immediate. Of course, I’d have to refine the mechanism to make sure they don’t go off on accident… That might be a bit much to ask of your smithies.”

“Well, it’s certainly an interesting approach,” Benedict mused, “May I show your schemes to our blacksmith? Perhaps he will have something to add.”

Dragan’s first instinct was to insist he could handle himself. However, they’d have to get someone involved with the ironwork eventually; his father couldn’t help him here. Dragan carefully picked out some plans he could part with. “Go ahead. I’d love to hear back from you, should your exchange yield results.”

“Certainly.”

As Benedict looked over the papers, Lord Serenoa spoke up again, “Your efforts are much appreciated, Dragan. You’ve worked hard since you got here.”

Ah, that was a change in demeanor – a welcome one at that. Dragan waved off, even when he truly appreciated the acknowledgment. “It’s in my nature. No need to mention it.”

Serenoa paused for a moment. “I know the past weeks haven’t been easy on you. Your struggles are not lost on me, I assure you. We’re kin-to-be after all. You said it yourself.”

That seemed like a lifetime ago.

“You’re too kind, Serenoa. We shall hold onto hope for a quick solution, for all our sakes. I’m sure you and Frederica must be eager to tie the knot.”

“Please…”

“Come now, no false shame. It’s good to know you two are doing well.”

Serenoa smiled to himself, nodding. His affection was as transparent as Frederica’s; that was reassuring indeed.

“My lord,” Benedict spoke up, catching Serenoa’s attention.

“Very well.” Serenoa turned towards Dragan. “I’m afraid duty is calling.”

“Of course, don’t let me keep you.” Dragan haltered for a moment. “I did appreciate the visit.”

“No need to mention it. You were the one helping us out, after all,” Serenoa replied, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“You do as well.”

Benedict gave a courteous bow, and with that they were off. The talk had been refreshing; Dragan’s heart wasn’t racing anymore for one. In retrospect, it was ridiculous how flustered he had gotten to begin with.

Dragan should have buried the warped sense of affection for Roland the moment it had come to the surface. He had so much left to accomplish. He wouldn’t let this deficiency define him. None of the others knew; none of them would come to know. As long as Dragan kept his feelings hidden, nothing would have to change. That, Dragan could handle.

Chapter Text

“Your execution is immaculate today, Dragan.”

Dragan let his casting taper out, turning to find Corentin besides him in the training halls.

“How unusual… You used to take note of every slight imperfection. What’s gotten you into a high spirit?” Dragan inquired.

“How very fortunate that you ask,” Corentin chimed, “I’ve just made an astounding breakthrough. A fellow scholar like you will surely be delighted to hear all about it.”

Corentin’s demeanor was oozing expectations, from the passionate glint in his eyes to his proud posture. Dragan motioned him to move on.

“Excellent! You will not regret this, for I have once more outdone myself.” Corentin’s gaze fixated on something intangible. “Surely, you remember how crucial my ice walls were to the last clash we had with Telliore. While they have always proven useful in a pinch, I couldn’t help but be bothered by their… imperfections.

“They simply break much too quickly. The moment they are exposed to fire, their integrity is vastly compromised. Not to mention that they eventually just cave on their own… It’s truly irksome.”

Corentin paused for a moment, his gaze still lingering on air. Dragan hesitantly proposed a question as the pause drew out, “Is that not simply the nature of ice? It melts under heat.”

Corentin shook his head. “Please, I expect more from a fellow researcher such as yourself. Think bigger! The issue isn’t integral to the ice, but an unfavorable thermodynamic effect stemming from its natural crystalline structure. By carefully adjusting the structural matrix, it is indeed possible to move past these pesky limitations without compromising the materials beneficial qualities.

“As you might imagine, I’ve achieved just that. With my new formula, my ice can withstand any heat. Not even the most ferocious fire can make a dent in it.”

“Truly?” Dragan inquired immediately, “Care to put that to the test?”

“Naturally. You may convince yourself of my success.” With his spellbook at the ready, Corentin was quick to cast his ice magic. The wall of ice looked just like Dragan remembered it, a tinge of that frosty air lingering around it.

“Oh, I will thoroughly convince myself.”

“I expect nothing less. In fact, I welcome it.”

Dragan took a moment to gather the magic in his palm, a warm glow emanating from it. He didn’t hold anything back as he sent the burst of flames forward, swallowing the ice wall momentarily. Once it emerged from the flames, it stood firm as ever. Dragan hesitated for a moment before trying a more continuous assault, though the wall of ice remained thoroughly unimpressed by his efforts.

“Not a dent.” Dragan took a step closer, examining the pristine ice. “That’s impressive.”

“It is a true marvel, isn’t it?”

Dragan reached out, the ice biting his fingertips. Obviously, the warmth of his fingers was nothing to it. They didn’t even get wet from the touch. If heat was unable to damage the ice, perhaps mechanical force could make a dent. Dragan scratched his nails over the surface, managing to chip off some flaky bits.

“Have you tested this against mechanical stress?” Dragan questioned, rubbing the frosty remnants between his fingertips.

Corentin took a moment to answer, “Well… One thing after the other, as they say…”

“Do you mind if I do?”

“Go ahead. We shall see the results of my labor.”

“Much appreciated.” Dragan would be having fun with this. He made a quick trip to the adjacent armory. He was tempted to take the heftiest hammer to the thing, but ultimately decided that that was plain unnecessary, opting for a more reasonable battle axe.

Corentin mustered the weapon closely as Dragan returned, though it wasn’t clear whether curiosity or concern had grabbed hold of him. As he didn’t object, Dragan assumed curiosity.

Dragan struggled to get the weighty axe into fluid motion for a moment. Thank goodness his father wasn’t here to witness his clumsy execution; unlike him, Dragan had never been one for heavy weaponry.

The moment the axe made impact, the ice shattered with an off-pitch crunch, crumbling in the aftermath of the strike. Dragan brushed off the couple of splinters that clung to his clothes.

“Perhaps I should have started us off with lighter weaponry… Could you recast the spell? I’d like to see how it deals with a sword,” Dragan mused as he put the axe down.

Corentin didn’t answer right away. In fact, he didn’t seem to be listening at all, the furrows on his forehead deepening as he began mumbling, “No, no, the integrity isn’t up to par at all. I should have noticed this right away. If I could adjust the formula… Goodness, I might have to start over from scratch.”

Corentin paced around; at least Dragan thought so until the ice mage straight up walked away and didn’t turn back.

“Hey!” Dragan hurried after Corentin, stopping him in his track. “What happened to celebrating your breakthrough?”

Corentin blinked at him in astonishment. “You have clearly shown me the deficiency in my formula. What am I supposed to celebrate?”

“The improvements you’ve made already, naturally,” Dragan insisted, “I’ve never seen ice that could withstand my fire. You did the impossible, my friend!”

“What good use is that if one strike sends it crumbling?” Corentin’s voice wasn’t all steady. Dear goodness, this was getting to him.

“One step after the other, as you so fittingly said yourself. Why don’t you tell me more about your formula over a nice cup of wine?”

“Cup of…?” Corentin looked at Dragan wide-eyed, shaking his head. “Surely you jest! I expected better from a fellow researcher like you. Alcohol is like poison to the mind…”

“Yes, yes,” Dragan waved off, “It also has a way to get the thoughts flowing. Clearly this problem requires a more… free-form approach.”

Corentin didn’t answer yet.

“It will be a scientific discourse,” Dragan assured him.

“Scientific discourse?”

Dragan nodded eagerly. Corentin joined in shortly. “I suppose I can hardly argue with that…”

Dragan put down his cup onto the counter with a deep sigh. Goodness, he needed that – the bustle of the tavern around him and a proper buzz in his head. No more room for worries in that pesky brain of his.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Corentin lamented besides him, “It is simply in-incon-incontrensible!”

Dragan burst into a chuckle. “I see alcohol isn’t the key to unlocking your thoughts.”

“Excuse?” Corentin slurred his words, banging his cup against the counter.

“Can’t hold your liquor, my friend.” As if to prove his point, Dragan downed the rest of his mug in one swift motion.

“You’re being very… You’re a brat.”

“Maybe you’re getting too old for this?”

“I’m not… How old to you think I am?!”

Dragan only gave a sly smile as an answer, getting a proper huff out of Corentin.

“As if you’re fairing any better. Look at you all… shaky,” Corentin mumbled, flicking his wrist towards Dragan.

Dragan was already ordering his next drink when the remark sunk in. “Me? I’m as fresh as newly fallen snow! What are you talking about?”

Sure, he was feeling a bit stuffy, but that was to be expected with the crowd crammed around them. The war didn’t seem to have dampened the people’s thirst for liquid spirit, judging from the laughing and hollering around them, or perhaps they too were in dire need of a distraction.

Dragan was also light-headed, just a tad, but that had never hurt anyone, and it wasn’t so bad anyhow. Was the room shifting around him? Dragan grasped for the counter to steady himself, yet the room continued its revolution. Right, liquor had that pesky quirk of hitting delayed.

Corentin snorted. “You’re obviously in-intor- You’re drunk.”

“’s Fun, ain’t it?”

Corentin shook his head but took the next gulp anyways. “I highly doubt this will help me think.”

“Can’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Dragan chimed, “Your ideas will flow in time – just like the wine.”

Corentin furrowed his brows even now. “Well, clearly I have to put more effort into the inti-sgrity of the ice… all through…”

As Corentin began rambling, Dragan tried to follow. He really did. Was Corentin even making any sense, or was his own mind refusing to wrap around the words?

Dragan’s gaze wandered across the dim room and caught onto a cascade of golden hair. His eyes drew circles around the sight as they found their mark – Roland. He was here. Dragan swallowed against the nervous butterflies that rose in his stomach. Maybe he shouldn’t pay attention to him? Dragan hadn’t seen Roland for some days – because he was dodging him like the plague, but that was besides the point right now.

Roland turned towards Dragan for one heartbeat, then lingered for another. He had caught Dragan staring. Had Roland ever taken note of his odd behavior? A rush of heat hit Dragan at the mere thought. Surely, Roland would have mentioned if something was bothering him. He never held back his opinion on Dragan’s behalf.

Roland was smiling at him, and if that wasn’t the loveliest sight he had seen all day… The butterflies churned in Dragan’s stomach until he was nauseated. Lovesick, was it? Stars, what utter nonsense.

Dragan jumped in his seat at a sudden bang right beside him. Judging by Corentin’s sigh and the empty mug on the counter, Dragan could imagine where that came from.

“Maybe… a little… buzz isn’t hurting anyone,” Corentin mumbled, his words slurred, “Clears… the head. You know?”

Dragan nodded. The whole room wavered in the aftershock, like jelly.

Corentin was going down on that note. Dragan tried catching him, but the counter he had slumped over seemed to do a fine enough job at that already. The hectic maneuver almost made Dragan tip over himself.

“My goodness, are you properly passed out?” Dragan only got a snore in response. So much for holding his liquor. Dragan laughed triumphantly. How unfortunate that Corentin wouldn’t take note of his sweeping victory.

“You’ll only follow him if you continue like this – and shortly.”

Dragan straightened up at the familiar voice, finding Roland, in the flesh, right in front of him.

“Am I now?” Dragan exclaimed, “Please, I have more stamina than that!”

“You’re swaying.”

“You’re imagining things. Have you been drinking, my friend?” Dragan chuckled, taking another, accentuated sip. A part of him wished he could see beneath Roland’s mask and catch the heated spark the teasing might light in his eyes; a part that became rather vocal in the haze of the liquor.

Before Dragan could put his cup down again, Roland had already nabbed it from his hand. Dragan barely registered the movement until his cup was gone. He tried reclaiming it, but Roland pulled it from his reach before he ever had a chance to get a hold of it.

“Don’t you think that was uncalled for?” Dragan complained, clumsily bumping his back against the counter.

“I believe it was very much called for,” Roland replied, “You should compose yourself unless you prefer being carried back to your quarters at the end of the night.”

If it’s you doing the carrying. Dragan bit his tongue on that one, opting for something less candid. “I’m a responsible, fully-grown man. I can handle myself.”

“Responsible?” Roland chuckled, bright as the birds’ chirping.

“Come now, don’t be like that, my prince.” Dragan tried playing it sweet. Maybe Roland would show a reaction to that? He was hesitating for a moment.

“You are well aware I don’t appreciate formalities,” Roland said, all matter-of-fact, “Especially after what happened.”

Right, he had requested not to be addressed as prince anymore. Dragan was wavering; not just his surroundings, his very heart seemed to be rattling his chest.

“Apologies, I didn’t consider that,” Dragan admitted, “I didn’t aim for courtesy; it was rather meant as a term of… endearment…?”

That was not a thought that should have ever left his lips.

“Flattery won’t make me yield either,” Roland replied. He hadn’t thought anything of it then. Good. Splendid. Dragan was flushed anyhow. Or was that the alcohol rising to his cheeks?

“You leave me no choice then.” Dragan gave Roland one last, lingering look before rising from his seat. His head didn’t agree with that. Or were his legs wavering this time? Well, something, certainly, wasn’t agreeing with the motion.

Roland rose the cup far above his head before Dragan could even gather himself. Dragan didn’t let that deter him. He stretched up, but still came short of getting a hold. Roland wasn’t that much taller than him, was he? If Dragan could finally manage to balance on the tip of his toes… Wait, was Roland doing that already?

“You’re a cheater,” Dragan exclaimed.

“I’m taller, my friend. That’s just a simple fact of life.” Judging by his laugh, Roland found this rather amusing. Dragan tried stretching up, but only succeeded in bumping into Roland as his balance failed him.

Dragan’s gaze flicked from his cup to Roland’s face at the sudden contact, stuttering over the cursed mask, trailing his jaw, before finally coming to a crashing halt on his lips. Judging by Roland’s sublime complexion, his lips had to be soft. Feeling them mold against his own must be a divine experience.

Dragan quickly staggered back, trying to pretend like his face wasn’t lighting up with shame, and his knees weren’t shaking from the aftershock of that mental image. Had he just considered kissing Roland? That was a new low.

“Fine, I yield,” Dragan proclaimed. Roland would blame his odd reaction on the alcohol, surely. There was no reason for his heart to continue its frenzied race.

“Goodness, the poor sap has done it again, ay?”

Dragan took a moment to pinpoint the source of the bombastic voice, his gaze grasping for anything to hold onto. The room was blurring together between the bustle around them and the dim light. He finally assessed that Wolffort’s master of arms had joined their merry party. Frederica too, who was regarding Dragan with a less than impressed look.

“You two arrived in the nick of time,” Roland proclaimed, gesturing towards Corentin who was still peacefully snoring atop the counter, “Could you bring our unfortunate friend to his quarters?”

“Sure thing,” Erador replied, “What ‘bout our second troublemaker?”

“Hey now!” Dragan exclaimed. The complain got stuck in his throat when Roland grabbed hold of his arm. Goodness, Roland really had nimble fingers; he was barely closing his grasp around Dragan while somehow conveying a world of control.

“I’ll see that this one doesn’t get lost on the way to bed myself,” Roland said.

I can handle myself! Like hell would Dragan insist on that right now. It took him every stone of self-restrain he had left to not cling onto Roland and blame it on the alcohol.

“Will you manage all right?” Frederica questioned, looking between Roland and Dragan, “He can be quite the handful.”

“The two of us will be fine,” Roland insisted, “Won’t we?”

Dragan let a few beats pass before he realized that question was directed towards him.

“Well… Of course! Quite fine!”

Erador let out a booming laugh. “Ye worry too much, milady. I’m sure the lads will be fine.”

“Right,” Frederica said, her voice trailing off. Why was she mustering Dragan so thoroughly? “You should go to bed while you still can do so on your own two feet.”

Roland gave Dragan’s arm a slight nudge. Dragan took the hint, saying his goodbyes, “’aight, good night then.”

The full implications of the situation only hit him when they started walking; once they made it out of here, it would just be Roland and his extraordinarily intoxicated self. Dragan hoped the fresh air would manage to clear his head, least he let something slip he would come to regret with a sober mind.

Dragan stumbled towards his bed the moment they arrived at his room, plopping down with a sigh. The cold night air had not helped. In fact, it had only accentuated the buzz in his head.

Roland was still standing by the door without making a move. It was odd, almost like they shouldn’t be together like this. It was the middle of the night. They hadn’t even bothered lighting a candle, only the milky glow of the moonlight illuminating the room. Dragan’s head was heavy, and he was stuffy in his own skin. Not to mention he was about to turn in for the night, sooner rather than later.

Objectively, Roland was not doing much of anything, leave alone anything scandalous; Dragan tried not to think about doing anything scandalous with Roland.

As Dragan tried his hardest to ignore the awkward tension, he moved to undo the bindings of his mask. He had come to hate these damn strings; they were a bother to work with without being able to see. His fingers didn’t cooperate with him either, clumsily slipping over the firm knot.

Dragan haltered when the sound of footsteps drew closer, muted creaking on the wooden floor. He looked up at Roland who was now standing right in front of him, then froze completely as the prince reached around him. Roland’s fingers brushed his hands. They were slightly cool against Dragan’s skin. Dragan didn’t dare to breathe, leave alone move a muscle.

“Let me handle it,” Roland said, his voice gentle yet clear in the quiet of the night. Dragan reluctantly dropped his hands onto his lap at the instruction. “Goodness, you got these all tangled up.”

Roland was so darn close, close enough for Dragan to catch the scent of leather and fragrant sweetness. Dragan tried to calm himself with deep, steady breaths, even when he was drowning in it.

“Are you all right?” Roland asked, “You’re not usually this quiet.”

Dragan wanted to let himself drown in it so direly, pull Roland closer and never look back.

“Yes,” Dragan finally replied, “Just a little tired.”

Roland only gave an affirmative hum as he finally loosened Dragan’s mask, pulling it off and putting it down on the nightstand in one motion. An electrifying shiver poured down Dragan’s spine when he looked up at Roland this time. Roland would be able to read his expression like an open book.

“Apologies for the imposition,” Dragan said, battling for his voice to remain natural.

“Don’t mention it.”

Roland wasn’t leaving yet. Instead, he was reaching out. Dragan’s breath caught in his throat when Roland undid the topmost button of his vest. Why would Roland –? Was he planning on undressing him?

The absurdity of the thought only hit Dragan delayed. Roland’s explanation only emphasized it. “It would be best if you got comfortable before turning in for the night. You don’t have to bother with the rest of your clothes if you can’t manage.”

Dragan wasn’t inapt; he could handle a couple of buttons, though, he’d rather not voice that out loud if it meant Roland would stop doing this for him.

As Dragan watched Roland’s nimble fingers undo one button after the other, he could imagine it all too well: steadily being undressed, Roland’s firm hands running all over his torso. A rush of heat coursed through Dragan, breaking and crashing over him, pooling in his loins. Dragan clasped his hands tighter in his lap, attempting to hide the evidence of his shameful desire, his heart quickening steadily as Roland’s hands wandered lower. If Roland were to take note of the vulgar display – Dragan’s skin flushed at the mere thought.

Dragan could barely breathe, even when Roland unbuttoned the last button of his vest and withdrew his hands. Roland was so calm still; he was bright, nothing like the disgraceful low Dragan had sunken to.

“You should take off your vest,” Roland simply said.

Dragan kept his hands folded over his lap as if his life depended on it – his dignity did anyhow. He took a deep breath. “I believe I can undress myself, Roland.”

Roland’s posture stiffened. Had Dragan said something wrong?

“Right, apologies,” Roland said, taking a step back, “Good night, then.”

“Yes, good night.”

Dragan couldn’t even bring himself to look at Roland as he left the room. The moment the door fell into lock behind Roland, Dragan breathed a shaky sigh of relief. No matter how he tried to push the improper thought back beneath the surface, they would rise back up over and over. Then again, what was the point in denying himself if there was no one here to judge him?

Dragan slowly allowed his desires to seep into his consciousness, testing the waters. Roland had a level of control over his body that left Dragan breathless. Dragan’s mind drew back to the moment Roland had grabbed hold of his arm in the tavern, the subtle increase in pressure as he had nudged him. Dragan wanted nothing more than for Roland to keep touching him, more than that, grab hold of him, pull him closer, close enough that Dragan could share his warmth and take in his sweet scent.

Dragan gave his hips a tentative roll, a sharp shiver pouring through him as he rubbed against the fabric of his pants. This was disgraceful. The arousal would have been obvious for anyone who cared to look. Dragan could barely stand the pressure of his hardness against tight fabric. How delightful would it be to have Roland’s fingers firmly wrapped around it?

Dragan fumbled the strings of his pants, cursing under his breath as his fingers slipped. He needed to ease himself, if not through the object of his desire, then the next best thing. His imagination would have to do the trick.

A gasp escaped Dragan as he gave his hardness a stroke at last. His thoughts immediately filled with the image of Roland touching him instead, eyeing him with that attentive glint as he pleasured him. Dragan would have given anything for Roland to want him like Dragan wanted him.

Dragan fell back, melting into his sheets. He was too hot, mind all steamed up. Roland leaning over him, his golden locks spilling over his shoulder. Dragan wanted to twirl them between his fingers, tell Roland that he was always so effortlessly gorgeous. The thought of Roland leaning closer drew a gasp from him. Dragan would be able to reach up and feel his firm muscles for himself. He could finally lean in and give those full lips a proper kiss. Did Roland taste as lovely as he smelled?

Dragan only noticed the desperate sounds he was spilling now, his hectic pace stuttering as he attempted to swallow them. What did Roland’s moans sound like? Clear and striking like his voice was? Dragan couldn’t help but wonder whether Roland was the gentle or carnal type. Roland steadily nipping him, savoring every stroke; Roland pinning him down, greedily taking what he could. Dragan didn’t mind. As long as it was Roland touching him, he didn’t mind at all.

Dragan’s breath got stuck in his throat as he teetered on the edge. His whole body tensed in anticipation. Oh, Roland would be so hungry for Dragan to find his climax.

The release knocked the air clean out of Dragan’s lungs, all the pent-up heat breaking apart into a flurry of pleasure. Roland would approve of his unrestrained show of desire, a satisfied glint in his eyes. Must be a liberating feeling, knowing full well you hold the power to ruin someone so thoroughly.

Dragan was lost in the aftershock, his head dazed and his limbs heavy. His eyes fluttered shut, a soothing sense of satisfaction washing over him as his buried desires were finally quelled.

His reason had to return to him eventually. At first, Dragan only shifted uncomfortably, his damp shirt clinging to his skin. A cold rush hit Dragan the moment the pieces connected, the realization sobering him up more than he had liked.

Dragan had spilled himself all over his shirt. He touched the slick remnants of the vulgar act in disbelieve. He had made a mess. How utterly filthy.

Dragan tried saving what was left of his dignity by doing himself up. His hands were shaking, making the whole process draw out. He’d have to change into another shirt, cleanse himself as best as he could. Would it do to dry the shameful spots off with a handkerchief before getting it washed, or would the stains remain just as obvious? Maybe rinsing his shirt out in a lavatory would do the trick.

By some means, the possibility of a maid seeing the signs of his depravity wasn’t the most daunting of his worries. Dragan’s stomach turned at just the thought of facing Roland, engaging in conversation as if he hadn’t just fantasized about bedding the prince. If he hadn’t felt inadequate about his deviant infatuation before, Dragan had now firmly crossed a line that should have never been tested.

Dragan took a deep breath. This was unbecoming. All this self-pity was getting him nowhere. Oh, how Dragan loathed self-pity. At the very least, the matter was crystal clear now – troublesome, but clear. Dragan had never yearned for anyone like he did for Roland. No matter how undesirable that conclusion was, it was the truth, and Dragan would have to live with it one way or the other.

Chapter Text

“I have news,” Frederica informed Dragan one day, “Not particularly joyful ones… but perhaps you will enjoy the change in scenery anyhow.”

Dragan leaned back in his chair, giving Frederica his full attention. He had come to appreciate the sudden visits; they usually brightened up his bland routine, or, as of today, stopped him from brooding. Dragan just hoped Frederica wouldn’t take note of his frayed nerves. She had a knack for noticing details that escaped most others.

“Change in scenery?” Dragan questioned, clearing his throat, “Are we embarking on a journey?”

“A journey indeed,” Frederica sighed, “Minister Sorsley has sought us out. He wants us to smuggle salt to Aesfrost in exchange for his… generosity.”

“Oh?” Dragan absorbed the news for a moment. “The Minister of Salt himself is partaking in the illicit salt trade? No wonder the black market was flourishing.”

“Yes, indeed,” Frederica mumbled. Her demeanor was too tense to fit her gentle voice.

“It doesn’t sit right with you,” Dragan remarked.

“Of course it doesn’t. I’d rather we not have Sorsley’s dirt on our hands. But alas, the scales have spoken.” Frederica gave him a brave smile. “Who am I to object.”

Dragan nodded. “It’s not the most glamorous situation, that’s for sure. But I suppose if matters are already set…” Dragan paused, different questions plaguing his mind. “We’re heading for Aesfrost, you say?”

“To the border, yes.”

“Twinsgate…”

How did people manage to smuggle any notable shipments of salt through there anyhow? Dragan was certain his father hadn’t backed the illicit trade in the past – as certain as he could be anyhow.

“Who do you think is to receive the salt?” Dragan finally questioned.

As Frederica hesitated, Dragan suspected she knew what was going through his head. “That we weren’t told. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Come now, aren’t you curious at all?”

“Not particularly,” Frederica admitted, “Though I can see why you would be.” She gave Dragan a sympathetic smile before adding, “It would be nice if you got a chance to see your father. He must be devastated in face of your… well…”

Dragan nodded, his whole body suddenly tightening. “It was never my intention to worry him. I thought about damning Benedict’s instructions to refrain from contact before, but if any of my letters got caught…” The corners of Dragan’s lips perked into a misplaced smile at the thought. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be the end of the world for me, but I wouldn’t want to get your betrothed in trouble after the hospitality he showed me. Or any of you for that matter.”

“You better not,” Frederica affirmed, “We wouldn’t want to escalate the situation.”

“Oh no, of course we wouldn’t want that…”

“Dragan,” Frederica gave a deep sigh, her expression ever serious, “You best ready yourself for the journey ahead. We are to depart at early morning, before sunrise.”

“Lovely,” Dragan remarked with a sarcastic edge, “Though, I’ll be ready as can be, don’t you worry.”

“Very well then.” Frederica remained for a moment. Dragan was about to ask her if something was the matter when she beat him to it, “If there is anything on your mind, you know you can talk to me, right?”

“Where did that come from all of a sudden?” Dragan chuckled in a fit of surprise.

“Just making sure you’re aware.” The way she was looking at him was making Dragan’s whole system stand on alert.

She hadn’t noticed anything off about his behavior in the tavern, had she? Dragan remembered the vague rush that had possessed him, the flush of heat that had coursed through him when he had gotten a little too close to Roland. He hadn’t been obvious, had he?

“Nothing out of the ordinary right now,” Dragan replied, fighting for his voice to remain unsuspecting, “Besides, well, the obvious issue at hand… But that’s all of us, isn’t it?”

Frederica hummed contemplatively. “I suppose.”

“If anything’s bothering you, I would like to know as well,” Dragan added.

The remark seemed to take her off guard, her posture straightening notably and her eyes momentarily widening. “Oh, that’s very kind of you, Dragan.”

“Don’t act surprised; you know I care.”

“Yes, sorry.” When Frederica smiled this time, the gesture was unclouded. “Be well, then. We’ll meet later tonight, right?”

“Obviously.”

Dragan was itching to reach Twinsgate. Perhaps a change in scenery didn’t quite cover his excitement.

It was just their luck that their journey started with heavy rainfall. It came pouring down relentlessly, drenching the ground until their carriages could barely pull through anymore. An abandoned village they happened upon was the silver lining. As they decided to set camp there and wait for the rain to pass, Dragan was getting more impatient by the minute, though his sensibilities would hardly sway the weather.

He helped Serenoa secure their makeshift camp to pass the time, making sure there weren’t any unwelcome surprises waiting for them in the small, run-down settlement. Dragan pulled his coat tighter around himself in an attempt to shield himself from the rain. He was glad he had dressed for the occasion. Wading through the mud was hard enough with the heavy boots he had on.

“Let’s just hope this rain doesn’t last till the morrow,” Serenoa remarked, “We can’t remain here forever.”

“Yes, we’d be in quite the trouble with our buyer if we drag our feet,” Dragan said.

The mood in the camp was desolate. Dragan wasn’t sure whether it was just the weather or if the occasion had dampened peoples’ mood.

His eyes caught Roland, who was conversing with Hughette. She was quite animated as they talked. In contrast, Roland seemed frozen in place. Dragan could practically feel his tension from where he was standing; his shoulders were pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. More notably yet, Roland hadn’t even bothered pulling his hood over, the rain freely pouring over his face. How careless. He was bound to fall ill with that lax attitude.

“You have noticed too, have you not?” Serenoa’s question ripped Dragan from his thoughts. Dragan turned towards him, only to notice that Serenoa too had been looking at Roland.

“I suppose he makes for a rather… dreary picture,” Dragan admitted.

“I know the past weeks haven’t been easy on him,” Serenoa replied, “But this is becoming quite concerning. He’s not usually like this.”

Serenoa and Dragan had come to the same conclusion then. In a strange way, hearing one of Roland’s oldest friends affirm the observation was reassuring, even when the occasion itself wasn’t the most pleasant.

“I’ve talked to him when we arrived,” Serenoa continued, “No luck.”

“A shame,” Dragan mumbled, his gaze momentarily sticking to Roland, “I thought about making an attempt to cheer him up, but if even you can’t get through to him…”

“Give it a try,” Serenoa insisted, “If only to show you care. I’m sure he will appreciate the sentiment.”

“Are you certain?”

Dragan wasn’t even sure whether he could keep a straight face around Roland after the, on all accounts, shameful act their last meeting had resulted in. Was it not entitled to impose on Roland now that he was vulnerable?

“Of course,” Serenoa affirmed, “I believe he enjoys your company. He mentioned something about missing your training sessions to me before.”

Dragan stopped and recalibrated at the new information.

“He did?”

A rush of warmth coursed through Dragan’s body at the thought, most notably his cheeks. He prayed the flush wouldn’t be noticeable on his face. He couldn’t afford Serenoa catching him in such a flustered state.

“Why would I be lying about something like that?” Serenoa questioned, a polite smile on his lips.

“Right, right,” Dragan mumbled, haphazardly waving off. What a stupid thing to get his hopes up over to begin with. He tried to pull himself together as he added, “In that case, I better check in on him once we’re done here.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

At that, Dragan tried his best to focus on the task at hand instead of his worry for Roland. Despite his effort, his thoughts would come to draw back to Roland until the moment he would finally be able to see him face to face.

By the time Dragan and Serenoa had secured the area, Dragan’s coat was soaked through, the dampness starting to reach his skin. Dragan wanted nothing more than to go inside and dry himself by a warm, cracking fire – nothing but finally see Roland about his dreary mood.

Roland yet remained outside despite the downpour. His clothes clung to him, drops of water trickling from the tips of his hair. Dragan took a deep breath before addressing him, “This rain really is relentless. What a bother.”

Roland turned towards him immediately. His words took a moment to follow. “I didn’t think a little bit of rain was enough to dampen your mood. What’s with the long face?”

“Oh?” Dragan wondered, “As a matter of fact, I meant to ask you just that.”

Roland burst into a short laugh at that. The sound rung hollow, nothing like the usually bright chime. “Gods, surely I can’t make that pathetic an impression.” The corners of his lips dragged into a somber smile. “Next in line for the pity parade, my friend?”

“It’s not pathetic,” Dragan insisted, “You’re just usually not the brooding type. If there is something you wish to talk about, do share.”

Dragan gave Roland a smile of encouragement. He wasn’t too sure of his consolation skills; then Roland’s smile softened, and the sun seemed to break through the clouds.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to worry.” Roland paused for a moment, fiddling with his cuff button. Dragan tried not to think about Roland undoing any buttons.

“Sometimes I wonder how you can keep so firm and collected through all this,” Roland continued, his voice dipping into a quieter lament, “You, Serenoa, Frederica and the others… You’re all so… steadfast.”

“We don’t shoulder the legacy of an entire nation for one.”

“But you wish you were, do you not?”

Dragan was a bit taken aback by the pointed reply, taking a moment to consider Roland’s words. “Well, I suppose you got me there…”

Dragan trailed off as he imagined what it would be like for an entire nation to look up to him for guidance. It would beat hiding in the shadows for none to see anyhow. Maybe that was gnawing at Roland as well?

“It would be nice to make a change,” Dragan admitted, “The wait is killing me. Is it not the same on your end?”

“I suppose.” Roland gave a deep sigh. “And yet, I’m frightened of what will happen once I try. I know not where to go from here.”

Dragan’s chest pulled together as he considered what to reply to that. He wondered how Roland had grown so tired under his watch.

“It’s only natural to worry when any misstep might be fatal,” Dragan finally admitted, “Even I worry for the future… occasionally. You simply can’t predict some things.”

There was so much more pressing on the tip of his tongue, though dampening the mood further would help neither of them. When Roland didn’t reply, only the stubborn pattering of rain filling the silence, Dragan opted for a different approach. “Roland, none of us expect you to be perfect. If you just tell us what ails you, we can do this together. You’re the one who taught me that, remember?”

Roland let go of a laugh, so pitch-bitter that it made Dragan sick to his stomach. “Please, be serious. Someone like you is in no need for lessons from someone like me.”

“Oh, but I am,” Dragan insisted truthfully, taking a step closer, “When I didn’t know where to go, you were the one who kept pushing me forward. I simply want to return the favor.”

“You chose a tough audience then,” Roland sighed, “Though, I appreciate the effort.”

Dragan wasn’t sure whether Roland was pulling his leg or being honest. He tensed when Roland reached out, afraid that his desire was playing tricks on him again. Then Roland’s touch connected, a light drum against the edge of Dragan’s mask that made it swing at the beat.

“These masks are such a bother,” Roland mused. Was his voice clearer than before? “You’ve always had such honest eyes.”

The air got knocked clear out of Dragan’s lungs. The impulse to lean into Roland’s touch ran through him, though Dragan fortunately remained frozen in the aftershock of the moment.

“Thank you.”

Was that the proper way to answer that? Roland had intended to pay him a compliment, hadn’t he?

“I feel the same,” Dragan added. He regretted the words the moment they were out, clearing his throat with a shallow cough.

Luckily, Roland didn’t seem to mind his answer. In fact, he smiled brighter than he had all day. Roland’s hand lingered for a moment before he pulled back.

“That’s another reason to look forward to the moment we can shed them, then,” Roland said. His voice carried such a lovely, warm melody when he smiled.

“That’s the spirit,” Dragan exclaimed, still trying to recover from the sudden proximity.

“I’m going to pull through. I promise,” Roland insisted, the earnest evident in his voice, “No wailing in self-pity, right?”

A smile spread on Dragan’s lips as he recalled Roland’s words. The wind bit more than back then, and the view wasn’t quite as striking now than it had been on the castle walls, but that couldn’t dampen the warmth Roland’s words granted him.

“No,” Dragan affirmed, “Self-pity doesn’t suit you either.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Roland leaned his head back despite the rain hitting his face. “Perhaps it’s time we take shelter from the rain.”

“It’s a little late for that; you look like a wet cat.” Dragan chuckled. “Come now. Let’s get you inside.”

Dragan was ready to move on, both relieved and downcast at the prospect of leaving Roland’s side for the time being.

“Dragan,” Roland remarked, still not moving, “Thank you. I’m grateful to count you as a friend.”

“Of course… The pleasure is mine.”

How could such a wholesome admission tug so painfully at Dragan’s heart? For a moment, the thought of Roland returning his true feelings crossed Dragan’s mind, the thought of Roland looking at him like he meant the world. Dragan shook it off.

“Let’s not remain like this,” Dragan insisted.

“Of course, we shan’t.”

Dragan’s heart weighed heavily on him that night, taking his breath away. In the dark of night, he found himself wide awake, his mind running at the restless pace his heartbeat set. How long could he keep these feelings hidden? Would he be able to take the secret to his grave? Dragan’s reason had the bad tendency to leave him the moment he faced Roland. Had Roland already noticed his odd behavior?

Dragan finally gave up on finding rest, pacing through the encampment. He froze when he entered the shared space; Frederica and Serenoa were standing right there, the quiet of the night wrapped around them.

Dragan remained in the shadows. He couldn’t make out any of the soft words they were exchanging, nor could he read their expressions in the dim candlelight. Their gestures, however, left no room for interpretation; Serenoa reached out so carefully, touching Frederica’s cheek as if she was the most precious thing he had ever been allowed to lay hand on. Frederica leaned into his touch, meeting him halfway. They were too lost in each other to notice anything else; they didn’t seem to notice Dragan frozen in the doorway at the very least.

Dragan’s eyes got stuck on the sight. Could he truly be experiencing what Frederica and Serenoa were? It was hard to imagine Roland treating him so delicately; how Dragan wished Roland would touch him like that just once.

Dragan startled as footsteps hurried closer. He considered making a swift exit before someone got the idea he was staring, but the call rung through the encampment before he could will himself to move.

As Benedict rushed in with Anna by his side, he quickly announced, “The salt is gone!”

Chapter Text

They rushed out to confront the bandits that had dared stealing their cargo with hurried steps. Dragan’s Wolffort friends seemed to be familiar with the ragtag band of outlaws. He couldn’t imagine their prior encounter had gone any better, judging by the rough tone and the odd insult – and the fact that they were dealing with criminals, of course.

The bandits fought with reckless abandon. Dragan would have admired their grit if it hadn’t been such a darn bother. They were spread all over the village; Dragan believed he could even make some of them out on the rooftops, though the rain was blurring his vision.

Somehow, as if the sky itself was out for them, the weather condition had worsened yet. The rain poured down in a dense veil, drenching them as well as the dirt beneath them. The harsh wind tugged at Dragan’s heavy clothes, seeping into even the smallest gap the fabric left. He was soaked to the bone, again. The damn rain even dampened his fire magic.

Dragan was sticking to the back with Frederica and Geela. Trying to find an opening for his attacks under these conditions was a mess. Dragan’s eyes scanned over the turbulent battlefield, only catching shreds of the bigger picture. His gaze latched onto Roland; how could it not when the prince so obviously stood out against the dreary gray of the storm. His blonde hair gave a dull shine in the dreary night. Furthermore, Roland had decided to fight on horseback, his white steed immediately catching attention.

Roland was much quicker than the lot of them, even considering his horse staggered through the mud as much as they did. As Dragan watched Roland surge ahead into one of the tight alleyways, his worry got the better of him. It seemed no one else would be following him, so really, what was Dragan supposed to do? Without further hesitation, Dragan broke from his set spot to run after Roland.

“Hey!” Frederica called out, “We should stick together. Don’t just rush off!”

“You don’t have to tell that to me!” Dragan replied, gesturing towards the direction Roland had hurried off to, “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Dragan was sure Frederica had a stern word or two left for him, though he was already too far off to hear her. His boots stuck to the mud, making him sluggish as he rushed through the rainy haze. The heavy droning of the downpour blended with the distant sounds of battle, creating a disorienting backdrop to his frenzied rush. Dragan had a bad feeling about this. Roland had been carrying that detached demeanor throughout their journey, and now he was simply charging the enemy by himself… Truly, how heedless!

When Dragan finally caught sight of Roland again, the prince was barely hanging onto his bucking steed. Dragan’s stomach sank as he saw him slip off. Roland’s sharp cry registered before he even impacted the mud. Dragan tried to run faster yet, barely holding onto his balance as he slipped on the slick ground.

“What were you thinking rushing off like that?” Dragan exclaimed as he came to a halt besides Roland, his spellbook at the ready. He quickly cast a wall of fire towards the incoming bandits, trying to keep them at bay.

“I was trying to cut them off,” Roland replied through gritted teeth, struggling to pluck himself from the heavy mud, “Didn’t exactly work out in my favor.”

“Well, that much is obvious.” Dragan followed his attack up with another roll of fire. He had to keep the enemy away long enough for Roland to recover, at the very least. They would be in dire straits if they got involved into close quarter combat in a state like this. “Come on, hurry!”

“On it,” Roland huffed, his voice straining. Dragan gave Roland a once-over through the haste. Roland was injured, obviously so. He was obviously trying to get back into action, but the truth was that he was still slumped on the ground. He clutched his shoulder, his lips tightening into a thin line.

The world went quiet for a moment as Dragan froze. Roland was in pain. Dragan needed to tend to his injury immediately.

Before he could move, a blade whirred through the air in front of him. Dragan brought his arm up on instinct, catching the strike point blank. He swallowed the cry that caught in his throat as the sharp burn shot through his system, almost slipping off balance as he stumbled back. Dragan barely held onto his spellbook as the pain took root in his arm, hastily firing off a spell in retaliation. The flames cracked as they burst forth, sending the enemy scurrying backwards. Dragan’s eyes stuttered over the blurry battlefield; there was at least one other bandit approaching. He had to…

“Get out of here!”

Dragan turned towards Roland as his voice reached him. “Get out…? Are you quite mad?!”

“Don’t try to fight them upfront. You must– Watch out!”

Dragan thwarted the enemies attack on Roland’s cue, stepping back as he shot forth a burst of fire. As long as he could cast spells, the bandits wouldn’t be able to break through to them; if the numbness in his fingertips was anything to go by, that didn’t leave them much time.

“I’m not leaving you here,” Dragan insisted, readying himself for the next strike. Clearly, Roland wasn’t in any fighting shape. He had barely managed to pull himself into a sitting position; his legs didn’t exactly seem to cooperate either.

“I’ll only slow you down.” Why was Roland being so insistent? His voice cracked as he tried pushing himself up this time. “Do you have a death wish?!”

“I can handle myself!” Dragan bit back. He simply had to focus, tune out the sting, the blur of the rain – Roland’s constant protest, if possible. He was ready for the next attack when the bandit recklessly lunged towards them. Dragan’s spell had become too weak to stop him for long; his flames sizzled out, his energy draining from him like blood from a wound.

“I’m not failing here,” Dragan insisted. He had to find another way to keep them at bay. His eyes stuck to the spear Roland had dropped during his fall. “Let me borrow this for a moment.”

Roland attempted to grasp for his weapon the moment Dragan voiced his intentions, though Dragan beat him too it. He quickly secured his spellbook in his pocket as he readied himself for a more direct approach. Dragan didn’t bother to use the spear to attack, instead focusing on blocking the next strike. He held the weapon firmly, one hand on either side of the shaft. The bandit’s blade hit dead in the center, the impact almost knocking the spear from Dragan’s grasp. Dragan clutched the handle tightly, keeping his eyes glued to the enemy in front of him.

“Please, you’re going to get hurt.” Roland sounded distressed. Was he in pain? What a trivial question; of course he was.

Dragan couldn’t gather the mind to reply through the chaos of battle. He made his best attempt to block the incoming attacks, though the weapon felt clumsy in his hands. The enemy didn’t back off, leaving Dragan with no opening to counter. Dragan wanted to step back, when the strikes staggered him, but he remained firm; he had to protect Roland. If he fled back, he would leave him defenseless.

One of the bold strikes connected with his hand. Dragan gritted his teeth and tried to remain calm, as the sharp ache shot through him. His nerves betrayed him, the grip on his spear wavering. The next thing Dragan knew was that the weapon was knocked clean from his hands, sending a cold rush of panic through his veins. His hand wasn’t working with him as he grasped for his spellbook. How much damage had that hit dealt? He didn’t have time to worry about that.

Dragan’s blood froze in his veins as the bandit closed in for the next strike, his vision focusing on the sharp blade. He already braced himself for the full impact of the sword’s slash when the enemy suddenly staggered backwards.

Dragan tried to regain his grasp over his senses through the rush of panic that blurred his thoughts. He wasn’t in the immediate line of an attack. In fact, the enemy was in no fighting shape. Dragan caught sight of the arrow that pierced the bandit’s ribcage this time; they weren’t fighting alone anymore.

“Back off him you crooks!” Hughette shouted, perched on a nearby building. Dragan’s knees almost gave in on him as the relief hit him.

Serenoa joined them next, leading a small group of people towards the approaching bandits. Dragan finally allowed himself to relax, the throbbing ache of his cuts catching up with him. His hands were trembling like twigs in the gust as he mustered them. The back of his hand was a gnarly, red mess, skin, tendons and muscles frayed in ways Dragan could have gone without experiencing.

He took a deep breath, the sickening scent of blood and dirt rising to his nostrils. He hadn’t even noticed until now how thoroughly his blood had dyed his sleeves as they were already soaked through from the rain. Dragan tried to swallow the nausea that rose to the root of his tongue.

He had to calm himself; it was just a cut. Dragan could handle a simple cut.

“My goodness! Are you all right?” Frederica stepped besides him, examining him with a sense of hurry.

“I’m fine, just a little roughed up,” Dragan insisted, pressing his unscathed palm against the burning slash on his arm. Geela joined them next, eyeing Dragan with a similarly attentive gaze. “Would you give our prince a look first? I think he needs it more than I do.”

After a moment of hesitation, Geela followed Dragan’s request, tending to Roland with her usual scrutiny. Dragan tried to ignore the concerned look Frederica gave him, brushing off her hand as she ghosted it over his injured arm.

“Still in one piece?” Dragan questioned Roland as he kneeled down besides him. He furrowed his brows as Roland didn’t grace him with an answer. “Hey, are you all right?”

Not so much as a shrug. Was Roland trembling? Maybe the soaking rain and mud were getting to him.

“He dislocated his shoulder, besides some nasty cuts and bruises,” Geela explained, “His legs seem to have taken quite the hit, but they have suffered no major injuries from what I can tell.  A painful experience to be sure, but it’ll heal quickly if properly tended to.”

Dragan finally let go of the breath he had been holding onto throughout the struggle. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Dragan winced in sympathy as Geela pulled Roland’s shoulder back into its socket. Roland’s breath tore, leaving Dragan scrambling for some uplifting words. “Well… It’s a good thing you have attentive companions such as myself, right? That could have gone a lot worse.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Roland replied through gritted teeth.

“What?” Dragan scoffed a chuckle as the harsh remark caught him off guard. “I was expecting a little more gratitude –“

“You can’t keep acting reckless like this!” Roland cut in, “If Hughette hadn’t been there when she was, we would have lost you – and then what?”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Dragan scoffed, “You’re the one who rushed off by himself to begin with!”

Roland kept his head bowed to the ground, his voice wavering. “You should have retreated the moment this escalated. I don’t want you – I don’t want any of you to get hurt for my sake.”

“I couldn’t just leave you to fend for yourself!”

“I have only myself to blame for this mess. You said it yourself.” Roland’s voice cracked. Dragan couldn’t stand the sound of it. “Your survival is as crucial to our cause as mine is. I thought you were most aware of that.”

Dragan shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not the point.” His voice came out more torn than he had expected.

Dragan had almost lost Roland.

“I was not trying to save the future King of Glenbrook,” Dragan exclaimed, “I was trying to… I was trying to save my friend.”

Dragan’s heart beat heavily enough to shatter his chest at any moment. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the blood rushing through his ears.

“That’s enough.”

Dragan took a moment to register Frederica’s voice. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze as she put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You two made it out safely. That’s what matters most right now.”

The silence was oppressive as it was soothing. Even the muted sounds of clashing blades and cries of battle started to die down, leaving the oppressive murmuring of the rain.

“Apologies,” Roland finally sighed, his voice heavy with lingering tension, “I don’t know what has gotten into me…”

Dragan shook his head. “All well that ends well. Let’s not dwell on it.”

Dragan couldn’t stand the vulnerability in Roland’s voice. His heart ached to pull Roland close and tell him that it was okay; everything was going to be okay as long as Dragan didn’t lose him. Dragan swallowed around the knot in his throat.

“Let’s focus on recovering for now,” Frederica said, her warm voice a gentle contrast to their bleak surroundings, “I’m sure Serenoa and the others will chase the remaining bandits off in no time. We can all get some much-needed rest then.”

Dragan nodded, the exhaustion creeping up on him. Roland didn’t even respond from what Dragan could tell, though Dragan couldn’t bring himself to look at the prince anymore to confirm.

“All done,” Geela declared, “You need to refrain from putting strain on your shoulder for the next days at very least.”

“Very well.” Roland didn’t sound pleased at all. Dragan hoped he would listen to Geela anyhow. She had secured Roland’s arm in a sling, which should hopefully keep him from moving around too much.

“Let me have a look at you now,” Geela insisted, already reaching for Dragan’s arm. The sudden movement made the burn flare up again. Dragan tensed his jaw as he suppressed an outwards reaction. “Oh dear, that’s quite the gash you’ve got there.”

She pulled Dragan’s sleeve up, fully revealing the deep cut across his arm. Geela scrutinized the wound closely, her voice focused as ever, “I’d better patch you up quickly. That looks like it packs a sting.”

Dragan shook his head, trying his best to speak steadily, “I’m all right.” He balled his fist, watching the diluted trails of blood drip from it. “It barely even hurts.”

Dragan couldn’t put his mind to rest that night. He sat at the counter of their makeshift tavern, the encampment all but abandoned as people sought out their much-needed rest. Dragan tried to focus on the pattering sound the rain made as it hit the tent instead of his circling thoughts. The downpour finally seemed to mellow out.

Was Roland truly so worried about me? Or was it a matter of principle?

Dragan began rummaging the bar for a quick drink. Maybe some wine would soothe his nerves. He’d have to repay Hossabara on his next visit.

As Dragan poured himself a cup, he noticed soft footsteps drawing closer. Frederica was approaching him in an unusually cautious manner, a half-hearted smile on her lips. “You should be resting while you have the chance.”

“You’re not catching any beauty sleep either from what I can tell, unless you picked up sleepwalking.” Dragan took a generous swig of his wine, sinking back onto the barstool with a sigh.

Frederica didn’t respond to his attempt to lighten the mood. If anything, her spirit seemed further weighed down. “Dragan, are you all right?”

He attempted a smile, hoping it would look more genuine than it felt. “Of course, it barely even stings anymore.” He raised his glass towards Frederica, as if to prove that his arm was working fine. The dull ache that remained was truly nothing to write home about. “Better off than our daring prince, that’s for certain.”

Frederica simply eyed him in reply. Her insistency was starting to worry him. Dragan focused on his cup, swirling it in a gentle motion as Frederica stepped closer. She pushed herself up onto the barstool besides Dragan, settling in before calmy asking, “Do you want to talk about what happened out there?”

Dragan breathed out a chuckle. “Talk about what? I just took a bit of a beating.”

The utter pity in Frederica’s eyes made Dragan’s stomach sink. “Dragan, may I speak frankly with you?”

How much did Frederica know? Dragan braced himself for her words, his reply coming stilted. “Certainly. You know I’m an advocate for frank discussion.”

Every moment this drew out was treacherous. Frederica gave him that damn, delicate look as she began, “I’ve been thinking about the talk we had, the one regarding… love.”

Dragan’s heart dropped into his stomach at that word alone, though Frederica continued undeterred, “I was wondering why the matter seemed to upset you when you were the one to insinuate your interest to begin with. It couldn’t be that this is about… him?”

Frederica lowered her voice as if she shared a secret with him – an inappropriate, bizarre and, most egregiously, horribly kept secret. Dragan banged his cup onto the counter before he could spill any of the wine; his hands had started trembling out of the blue. “Of course not, Frederica. What are you thinking? That would be truly… vulgar.”

Dragan was going to be sick. The room was pulling in around him, and he hadn’t even drunk enough for the alcohol to throw him off balance this time. If Frederica had caught on, who else had noticed? Dragan’s stomach turned at the thought of Roland being aware of his misplaced affection.

“Why would you accuse me of something like this?” Dragan questioned, his voice wavering under the hefty mix of exhaustion and dread.

“I did not mean to accuse you of anything,” Frederica stumbled out, “I simply worry for you. I mean…” She sighed. “I am worried you might be struggling with this. I didn’t mean to make this harder for you.”

“It doesn’t make any sense, Frederica,” Dragan huffed, “It’s simply ridiculous.”

“I suppose it is unconventional,” she replied without missing a beat.

Dragan couldn’t help but give a heavy chuckle at her attempt to coddle him. “Unconventional? Is that what you would call it?”

Frederica shrugged. “It’s not my place to judge. You know your own heart better than I could.”

Dragan eyed her in disbelief. This wasn’t supposed to be something she could so easily wave off. He fidgeted with the rim of his cup as he mumbled, “I don’t need your pity, Frederica.”

“It’s not a matter of pity,” she insisted, “I simply don’t see a reason to shame you for this. It’s not like you are hurting anyone.”

He blinked at Frederica once, twice, trying to spot the mockery in her words. She wasn’t the type for two-faced comments. No, she must be genuine.

“It’s okay,” Frederica said, her words soothing the tears in Dragan’s frayed heart, “I know you’ll find a way through this.”

A strange, aching serenity washed over Dragan. He sunk against the counter with a heavy exhale, half-heartedly banging his fist against the counter. “Why did something like that have to happen to me? I didn’t ask for any such… complications.”

Frederica chuckled. Dragan would have liked to be offended, but her understanding overshadowed any grievance he could have held.

“I suppose you have a knack for the challenges life has to offer,” she mused, “If it’s of any reassurance to you, I suspect our prince may have taken a liking to you.”

A rush of heat hit Dragan at the thought. He shot upright, trying to keep his voice low through the surprise. “What in the world makes you say that?”

“Please, the two of you have been dancing around each other for weeks,” Frederica replied, “Besides, he was obviously worried sick about you out there, so…”

“Frederica, please,” Dragan sighed, “The last thing I need is more courage, least I start saying things I cannot take back.”

Frederica looked like she wanted to double down for a moment before she mellowed out. “Right, I understand.”

She hummed contemplatively, propping her chin up on her hand. Dragan let her words sink in as he sipped on his wine. If Frederica was able to meet him in understanding, perhaps... No, that precisely was his excess of courage speaking.

“I hope things work out in your favor,” Frederica said, “You risked life and limb for him. Perhaps an honest conversation won’t be so frightening compared to that.”

Dragan chuckled, draining the rest of his cup. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it.”

Chapter Text

“My lord.”

Dragan turned towards Hughette as she addressed him, allowing her to catch up with him. They had traded rainy swamplands for the snowy fields of Aesfrost. Their every step creaked on the freshly fallen snow that was still raining down without end. Dragan could barely see two steps ahead through the thick blanket of white. The chill of the blizzard hit his face, as if to welcome him back home.

“You have my gratitude,” Hughette said, “I cannot thank you enough for protecting His Highness.”

Hughette was ever so dutiful, her posture firm and proper. She even gestured a bow as they walked.

“No need to mention it. We must cling together during times like these.”

“Please, I insist.” Hughette’s gaze fell towards the ground. Dragan’s followed, watching as his boots sunk into the deep snow. “It is good to know we have a loyal ally in you. I… harbored some doubts in the past, to speak plainly, though your actions more than proved your intentions.” Hughette shook her head. “Apologies, I was speaking out of line.”

“Not at all. I find your honesty to be refreshing,” Dragan insisted, “You’re just watching out for him. Your commitment honors you.”

Hugette scoffed. “Yes, some guardian I am… I wasn’t even there to protect him when he took the fall. If you hadn’t been there… Goodness, I don’t want to entertain the thought.”

A chill ran through Dragan’s veins that had nothing to do with the blizzard swirling around him.

“You were there when we needed you most,” Dragan said, his voice gaining an unwelcomed touch of somberness, “That’s all that matters in the end.”

“It is my duty to protect him,” Hughette reaffirmed, her voice softening and blending with the howling of the wind. It was odd to hear her so doubtful. Dragan remembered seeing how ever present she was at Roland’s side and wishing he could take her place. By the stars, how oblivious he had been.

“You’ve done so much for him already,” Dragan said, his enthusiasm direly lacking, “He knows as much; I can guarantee you that.”

Would someone like Hughette be best suited to take the place at Roland’s side? A devoted woman like her would certainly grand Roland better fortune than Dragan ever could. Dragan despised how violently his heart revolted at the thought.

“Careful.” Lord Serenoa ripped Dragan from his thoughts as he spoke to the group. “We are not alone here.”

Had they found their buyer? It was about time. At the very least, Dragan hoped whoever they happened about wasn’t hostile. He wasn’t in the mood for another skirmish. His arm still stung whenever he moved it, and that wasn’t mentioning the exhaustion the arduous journey had instilled in him.

A sense of anticipation settled over Dragan as the silhouette of a broad figure solidified through the blizzard. Could it be that Dragan’s hunch had been correct? It was most likely improper to pray so direly for his father to be involved in this mess, though Dragan was beyond caring at this point. It had been a lifetime and a half ago since they had last spoken.

Dragan took a step forward, then another. By the time he could make out his father without a doubt, he was held back by a gentle hand. Frederica reeled him back in, speaking in hushed whispers, “Keep your wits about you. There’s too many people around.”

Dragan’s eyes darted over the group of soldiers that followed his father. At least a couple of them must have been picked by Gustadolph himself to keep close watch on Twinsgate. The fact that Frederica was right didn’t make holding his tongue any easier. His heart was pounding with glee and nerves alike. At the very least, his father was well. Dragan wasn’t sure what he would have done if he hadn’t been.

“That hair…” his father muttered in disbelief, “As I thought, Frederica! What in the world has brought you to this desolate place?”

She perked up as she was addressed, leaving Dragan behind as she moved to greet his father. “Uncle, it’s been far too long. There is much we need to discuss.”

Dragan’s eyes trailed after his father as he paced his quarters. He only followed their conversation in passing, though he did gather that the surprise regarding their encounter was mutual. If it was disheartening to see House Wolfforts resort to such desperate means, it should have been downright heartbreaking to witness his own father dirty his hands with Hyzante’s illicit dealings.

Dragan didn’t find it in himself to mind. He had never seen his father’s face harden with despondency as it did in that moment, not once in the years of scorn and loneliness. The strife had drawn deep lines on his face.

“To that end, I have one question,” he spoke, his cold, resounding voice sending shivers down Dragan’s spine, “Do you or do you not know who killed my son?”

The blood in Dragan’s veins froze in one fell swoop.

Father. Dragan choked on the word as he swallowed it down. His eyes darted across the room, ticking over one soldier after the other. Was it worth it to reveal the truth here and now to save his father from this misery? Dragan couldn’t risk the consequences. If he provoked Gustadolph to action, there was no telling who would be caught in the crossfire. Roland, Frederica… If push came to shove, he might very well put his father’s life on the line.

“We do not,” Serenoa replied, his voice pressed, “Though we have information regarding the matter that will be most valuable to you.”

“Speak it,” his father spat out, “I will not take kindly to being played the fool.”

“I understand your apprehension all too well, Lord Svarog,” Benedict spoke up. He was perfectly calm, even now as the tension cracked like the dry wood of the fireplace. Dragan spotted one of the guards resting his hand on the handle of his sword. “However, this is a matter of the highest sensibility. It is in your interest to keep this information confidential as much as it is ours.”

“Is that so?” his father replied, taking the steward’s measure with his sharp gaze, “How convenient.”

“Uncle, please,” Frederica spoke up, her gentle voice gaining a desperate touch, “We don’t mean to bring you any harm. We gain nothing by antagonizing you. Will you hear us out, at least?”

His father’s stern façade cracked as Frederica spoke to him. Dragan remembered how fondly he used to look at her, the care with which he handled her when they were but children. He couldn’t fathom what kind of pain could muddle the affection he held for her.

“Do you know how my boy arrived home?” his father questioned. He narrowed his eyes, only deepening the lines on his face. “Some cruel dog burned him to cinders. That style of battle reeks of Glenbrook mages.”

Dragan couldn’t bear hearing his father’s voice break. The poignant sound made his ears ring. He wasn’t sure what else the others tried to convince his father; it wouldn’t work. Dragan could see it in his father’s eyes, cold and unyielding like iron.

“Please, stop,” Dragan spoke up as his own guilt threatened to swallow him whole, “It’s not their fault.”

His father’s eyes locked onto him that instant. Dragan tensed as he fought the urge to unmask himself, clinging to the faint hope that the guards wouldn’t put two and two together.

“Leave us alone,” his father voiced his order. His hand shook as he gestured for the guards to leave, just enough for Dragan to notice if he focused on it. “I shall hear them out.”

“My lord.” The head of the guards bowed slowly, as if he considered objecting still. None of them did. They left in silence.

For a moment, only the crackling of the fireplace and the faint howling of wind filled the room. His father’s breath trembled as he spoke up. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Apologies,” Dragan croaked out. He took a step forward, pulled his hood back, unfastened his mask with shaking hands. Being able to show his face was as refreshing as it was frightening.

The color drained from his father’s face as he laid eyes on him. It’s as if he has seen a ghost, Dragan thought inappropriately enough. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

For a moment, his father was frozen straight and still as an icicle. Then he snapped out of it, stumbling forward. His grasp was hesitant as he reached out to cup Dragan’s face, as if he was still afraid he would vanish under his touch.

“Dragan…” His father’s voice was quieter than Dragan had ever heard him before. “It can’t be… They told me you had perished. I mourned you, my boy.”

Dragan’s throat tied into a knot. Before he could apologize, his father crushed him in a tight embrace, knocking the air out of him.

“I thought I had lost you.”

Dragan could barely breath, desperately trying to swallow the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. “I’m sorry, father. I wish I could have told you sooner.”

“It matters naught. You’re here now. Thank the stars you’ve returned to me.”

Dragan’s chest ached with every breath. If his father was on the verge of tears now, he could only imagine how he had reacted when faced with his supposed death.

“Are you all right, my boy?” His father leaned back to muster him, one of his hands firmly placed on either of his arms.

“A little tired and sore, but… yes, more than all right,” Dragan reassured him, his smile coming easily. His father was still eyeing him in disbelief. “What? Do I look different from before?”

“A little,” his father affirmed, the joy shining through the lingering doubt and hurt, “You look like you’ve grown.”

“I highly doubt that, father.” Dragan lost a light chuckle, as if his spirit recognized that he was home.

His father took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Dragan. “We have so much to talk about.”

Dragan shrunk at the prospect. “That might be an understatement…”

“As for you…” his father addressed the Wolfforts, hesitating for a moment.

“They have kept me safe, father,” Dragan assured him, “I’m not certain I’d still be alive without them.”

His fathers touch tightened around his arms, the smile taking a moment to reach his eyes. “They have? In that case, it seems I owe you an invaluable debt.”

“Your commitment honors you, Lord Svarog,” Serenoa replied, “I’m afraid my house will be taking you up on that offer in due course.”

“You will find that we have a common enemy,” Benedict added, “We’d best not keep you in the dark any longer. Lord Dragan, would you do us the honor of recounting the events yourself.”

Of course Benedict would grant him the honor. Dragan took a deep breath. The first words fell from his lips reluctantly. The ones to follow flowed freely, like a river breaking through a dam.

Dragan told his father everything, from  the deposit of salt he had found in the mines, to his exchange with Gustadolph, the attack of the Blackirons, concluding with Gustadolph’s true motive for the attack on Glenbrook.

“I meant to inform you of my findings much sooner,” Dragan explained, “Though those plans were scattered when the attack happened.”

“We considered it to be in all our best interest to keep Lord Dragan’s survival confidential after Aesfrost’s sudden attack,” Benedict added, “By keeping the truth hidden from the Archduke, we ensured his survival.”

His father gave a measured pause. “You do have a point…”

Before they could discuss the matter any further, a commotion outside arose attention, faint voices, followed by a dull thud. Dragan threw his hood over out of habit before deciding that he should indeed mask himself out of caution. Hughette tumbled in with a man in tow moments later; Dragan recognized him as the guard that had answered his father’s order before.

“This one returned but moments ago,” Hughette explained efficiently, “We caught him listening in on you.”

Dragan had been rightfully suspicious then. How much had he heard?

The man broke free before they had the chance to ask questions. Hughette and Roland were the first to react to the sudden motion, rushing after him with hurried steps.

“To think even one of my most trusted guards would dare spying on me,” his father muttered.

“We can’t allow him to escape,” Serenoa exclaimed, hurrying after the others. Dragan fell into step at the cue.

“He knows who I am,” he voiced absentmindedly, “If he stands in any connection with Gustadolph, this marks trouble.”

The freezing cold hit him like a blow as he rushed out. Dragan blinked through the haze as he entered the blinding blizzard, trying to follow the echoing sound of quick footsteps on stone and the blurred blots of color. There was a row of shouts, resounding from the mountainside. Dragan stumbled to a halt as he happened upon Hughette standing firm at the edge of the gate, her fingers wrapped tightly around her bow. She cast a quick glance towards them.

“Apologies,” she sighed, “He was getting away… This was the only way to stop him for certain.”

She had taken fire then. Dragan shook his head. “You did well to stop his escape. I’m in your debt twofold.”

“It’s a shame we don’t know who he’s working for,” Benedict mused.

“I believe we can make an educated guess,” his father remarked, “You have my apologies. You shouldn’t have gotten involved in my family’s feud to begin with.”

“There is no need for apologies,” Serenoa insisted, “As we have established, we share a common enemy.”

His father nodded calmly. “If you plan on staying, you’d best prepare for anything. If the worst came to pass, this situation might come to boil.”

Dragan wasn’t sure whether to look upon that prospect with anticipation or apprehension.

The soldier’s body had barely gone cold when a group of Aesfrosti approached Twinsgate. Dragan recognized the broad man that led them as Constable Sycras. Sycras had paid Twinsgate regular visits for as long as Dragan remembered, always treating him and his father with unwavering respect born from his sense of duty. Dragan had appreciated the taste of true nobility. He had made certain to repay Sycras with a courteous greeting and some pleasantries whenever he had happened upon him in the capital.

Sycras was the most upstanding man Dragan had met so far. How unfortunate that they were on the wrong side of the law in this moment.

Sycras appeared to spot the body the moment he arrived, his gaze locking onto the sight as he sent one of his men to investigate. The blot of red – armor and blood both – was hard to miss on the freshly fallen snow, blizzard be damned.

“How unfortunate,” Sycras remarked, his gaze sweeping over their group, “I shall be taking you lot in for questioning. Throw down your weapons!” His eyes met Dragan for a moment before shifting towards Roland besides him. “You there, remove your masks!”

Well, therein lied the issue.

“I am sorry, but we cannot comply,” Serenoa refused in their stead.

“Then you leave me no choice but to have you all arrested,” Sycras insisted. His men drew a step closer, rattling their steel.

Dragan’s father rushed to their side that instant, standing firm between Dragan and the constable. “These people are my guests! I will not tolerate such disrespect, even from you, Sycras!”

Dragan’s hand twitched towards his spellbook as the tension grew as thick as the blizzard around them. He was still sore from the last fight, his limbs heavy and sluggish. Dragan shook his hand, trying to shoo the numb tingles from it.

Dragan only now realized how precarious it was for Roland to still be among their ranks. He was still forced to rest his arm in a sling – or rather, Geela had forced him to comply. Roland would be ill advised to remain if it came to battle. Dragan tried to be inconspicuous as he padded down the steps to meet him.

“You should leave while you have the chance,” Dragan hushed, “This might get ugly sooner rather than later.”

His suspicions were affirmed as his father raised him voice into a thundering proclamation. “You dog! Did the archduke also deem me unworthy of your trust!?”

“You’re not leaving either, I take it,” Roland scoffed.

“I’m in fighting shape for one.”

Roland’s fingers tightened around his injured arm. Without warning, he reached for Dragan’s bruised hand, dragging his thumb over the thick scrabs. Dragan shivered at the sudden contact, instinctively reciprocating the gentle pressure of Roland’s grasp.

 “Are you, my friend?”

Dragan caught himself smiling, even when Roland withdrew his touch. “I promise I am. No need to worry.”

“You should heed his advice,” Hughette added, regarding Roland with a worried glance, “I don’t think I can stomach another hour worrying for you.”

Roland seemed to shrink at the remark, filling Dragan with the urge to reach out and steady him. The argument grew louder around them.

“I suppose I have little choice then,” Roland resigned, reclaiming Dragan’s attention, “The last thing I want is for my presence to weigh you down.”

“Roland…” Before Dragan could protest any further, Roland hurried past him towards the top of the gate. Dragan suppressed the urge to follow him. He had to aid his father and the Wolfforts in battle. The guard’s blood was spilled in his name after all.

“I hope I didn’t upset him,” Hughette sighed. Dragan suppressed the urge to join her lament.

“Now’s not the time to worry about that,” he insisted. The ground shook as his father brought his hammer down upon the ground, shattering the layers of ice beneath his feet into a sparkling mist. Even when Hughette drew her weapon before Dragan could, he continued, reminding himself as much as her, “Focus on making it through this fight. You can make amends once we secured our victory.”

Dragan barely broke a sweat as they fought. With the height advantage on their side, they could keep pushing Sycras’s forces back until they accepted defeat. Dragan breathed a sigh of relief as they retreated, glad to be spending the night in a warm bed instead of on the battlefield.

“It seems to me like the debt I owe you is ever multiplying,” his father proclaimed, “I will make sure to repay you in full, Lord Wolffort. You have my word.”

“Thank you kindly, Lord Svarog,” Serenoa answered as he sheathed his sword, “Knowing we have an ally this side of the border is repayment enough.”

“You’re too humble.” His father’s deep laugh echoed off the mountainside. “You’re here to gather funds for your army, are you not? I shall see that you are well rewarded for your efforts.”

“I cannot thank you enough.”

Despite the battles waging around them, Dragan felt a lightness settle in his chest. Their exchange was a small taste of the peace and cooperation they could achieve if they kept fighting. In that moment, it felt like that sliver of hope could last him through the war.

“You’ve fought well,” his father addressed Dragan as their group began to scatter, “You must have taken your training seriously while you were away.”

Dragan perked up at the acknowledgement, puffing his chest out. “I have indeed. You know how it is when I set my mind to something.”

“Quiet so. I haven’t discovered a force that could stop you yet.”

“I can’t start slacking during a time like this.” Dragan fell into step as they made their way up the tall stairs of the gate, his enthusiasm slightly dampened by the ache in his legs. “I still have so much I want to tell you.”

“And I will gladly listen. But for now, you should rest.” His father regarded him with a look so caring that Dragan almost felt like a boy again.

“You know what they say. I can sleep when I’m dead.” Dragan hesitated as his father’s keen attention did not waver, “Though, I suppose I can make an exception if it puts your mind at ease.”

“See to it. You’ll need all the strength you can get.” For a moment, his father’s gaze grew distant. As quickly as the impression came, it vanished, leaving only the familiar warmth Dragan had come to know. “Your room is still in place if you’d like to go there.”

Dragan wondered why his father would keep it if he’d thought him dead, though he knew better than to voice that question. “Thank you, father. I will.”

He said his goodbyes for the night with a reassuring smile. Dragan knew the way to his room by heart. The stairs ever winded up the tall tower, his steps echoing in the stone hallway. His father had picked out one of the finest chambers for Dragan when they had moved here – a spacey room far enough up the tower that he could have his peace and quiet while not needing to scale the entire staircase. The joy of a fancy living space had hardly outweighed Dragan’s frustration about their move.

A flood of nostalgia washed over Dragan as he opened the heavy wooden door of his room. His father had indeed not changed a thing. The bed and study still stood in place, just waiting for him to make use of them. It didn’t end there. The shelves were still filled with the same books, the tin soldier his father had made him when he was little standing proudly atop; he could spot the kinks in the metal from when he had tripped over and dropped it in his excitement. His father had rushed to pick Dragan up from the cold stone floor, though Dragan had been too upset about the misshapen toy to be comforted. His father had done his best to repair the damage, though it had never looked quiet the same again.

The bitter melancholy made Dragan’s stomach turn. A part of him seemed to recognize that he was home. Another revolted at the idea of calling this lone outpost such. Perhaps after the war, his father and him could settle into a more adequate place. A castle, he wouldn’t mind.

Dragan threw himself onto the bed the moment he kicked his snow-drenched boots off. He leaned back against the headrest with a heavy sigh. The fireplace was already crackling in the background. His father must have requested one of the few servants they kept out here to light it.

The warm sheets were like heaven after the arduous journey had chilled him to the bones. Dragan trailed his fingers over the leftover scab of his wounds, trying to chase the tingles away. He wondered how Roland’s bruises were faring.

Dragan was pulled from his thoughts by a fuzzy, warm nudge and soft purring.

“Oh? You still remember me?” Dragan spoke under his breath.

He held out his hand towards the small cat, allowing her to rub her fuzzy head against his fingers. She was white as freshly fallen snow; Dragan remembered that she was barely distinguishable from it when he had first found her in the streets of the capital. He had named her Snowflake in honor of the quirk. His fathered had smiled as he saw the slight thing even as he had disapproved of Dragan taking the stray with him. His disapproval had only lasted until Snowflake had snuggled up to him.

Dragan gently took the cat onto his lap, steadily stroking across her head. The low purring melted the tension from Dragan’s tired muscles.

“You missed me too, did you?”

Outside, the snow was falling relentlessly, even as the blizzard calmed to a gently howling wind. Dragan wouldn’t have seen a damn thing safe for snow and stone anyhow.

Nothing safe for one detail, as it turned out; bits of brown and greens caught his eyes. Oh, he would recognize that wave of golden hair from anywhere. Dragan didn’t know whether he should be endeared, worried or exasperated as he spotted Roland out on the gate. Perhaps all applied in equal measure. He was fairly certain Roland wasn’t even dressed in a proper coat, though he couldn’t be certain given the distance.

Dragan sighed as he remembered how Roland had simply stood out and let the rain soak him. It was worry he should be feeling after all. Dragan wished he could reach out to Roland and ease his burden, reach out and wrap him into a warm embrace. Dragan shivered at the thought.

Would Roland accept his comfort? Frederica’s words echoed in his mind like a devil’s whisper, urging him to take action instead of sitting idly by as Roland struggled. He really had started to care too much.

“Sorry, Snowflake,” Dragan murmured, carefully putting her down onto the floor, “I’ve got a prince in need of rescue.”

Chapter Text

“Can’t put your mind to rest?” Dragan questioned as he joined Roland on the lone gate. The wind howled around them, the outpost all but abandoned safe for a couple of lone guards in the distance. The snow wrapped them in an intimate blanket, making the world stop for a moment as Roland perked up to look at him.

Dragan offered a warm mantle to Roland. The chill settled into his bones; he couldn’t imagine how Roland must be freezing, dressed only in a light jacket. Roland hesitated for a moment before accepting the offer, loosely throwing the mantle over his shoulders. He still had one arm wrapped in the sling Geela had made him wear. Perhaps Roland needed assistance?

“You shouldn’t have come out here for my sake,” Roland murmured, the howling of the wind almost swallowing his voice, “You should be resting by a warm fireplace instead of minding my… sensibilities.”

“I don’t mind your sensibilities.” Dragan felt a strange sense of warmth settle in his chest despite the frigid air seeping beneath his clothes. “Can’t have the star of our show catching a cold.”

Roland laughed, a short, bitter tone. “Of course, quite the marvel I am.”

“Perhaps you are to me.”

Dragan choked in his words even as they had already slipped past his lips. His skin felt hot against the biting cold wind. Dragan clutched the frost-covered railing of the gate tightly, his gaze sweeping over the misty mountainside.

“It’s a shame the weather is so dreary,” Dragan tried to distract from his misstep, “You’d be able to see the glow of the molted iron under a clear sky. Specs of red littered across the mountains like stars in the sky… It’s quiet the sight.”

“That does sound lovely.” Roland joined him, leaning his unharmed arm onto the railing. “Maybe another time. You promised to show me around the capital. Remember?”

“Of course I do.” Dragan remembered all too well how that thought had kept him awake with excitement. Had it simply been a craving for companionship or had Dragan held out hope for something more to flourish between them even back then?

“It’s odd to imagine you grew up in a place like this,” Roland suddenly remarked, his casual demeanor not wavering. “The silence is suffocating…”

Dragan’s spirit grew weary at the reminder. “I suppose it would get rather…”

Lonely.

“… quiet out here.”

“It doesn’t suit you at all,” Roland murmured, “You’re much too lively for a dreary place like this.”

A gentle warmth spread beneath Dragan’s skin at the kind words. He imagined Roland complimenting him as he looked straight in his eyes, shivering at the sheer thought of getting his undivided attention.

Dragan grasped for anything to distract himself from his feelings that were just about fit to boil over. His gaze settled on Roland’s shoulders, the fuzzy mantle still loosely thrown over them. Dragan sighed as he took a step closer.

“You should do the buttons up properly. You’re going to catch death at this rate,” Dragan scolded Roland, reaching out to fasten the mantle himself.

Roland perked up with some words of protest, “I can do that much myself, at least.”

Oh? Doesn’t look the part.

Dragan’s words caught in his throat as his fingers brushed Roland’s, shivering as he felt the cold radiating from Roland’s hand. He didn’t dare move. More notably, Roland didn’t move a muscle either. All hope was lost then.

Dragan wrapped his fingers around Roland’s without a second thought, his mind reeling from the tender touch. Roland had such slender, graceful fingers. “You’re cold.”

“A little bit,” Roland replied breathlessly. Dragan’s heart just about burst from his chest as Roland squeezed his hand in return. “You’ve got nerves scolding me so. You didn’t even bother to put gloves on yourself.”

Dragan’s overbubbling feelings burst forth with a light chuckle. “You got me there.” Dragan cherished every second he was allowed to touch Roland. “I suppose we can both be a little reckless at times.”

Roland seemed to still as the touch lingered, his cold fingers steadily growing tepid at least.

“Thank you for keeping me warm out here,” he said, “It truly is freezing. I’m not sure how you can stand it.” Roland gave a weighed pause, as if he was about to say something monumental. “Even my lips are turning frosty, you know?”

Dragan’s gaze flicked towards Roland’s lips as he drew attention to them. They were a little pale from the cold, though Dragan couldn’t help but feel drawn to their gentle curves. How would Roland’s cool lips feel against his? It wasn’t just a skittish peak at the idea this time. No, Dragan found himself lingering on the thought of leaning against Roland, getting a taste of him as he surrendered to the allure of his touch. Was he delusional to consider whether Roland would reciprocate his affection?

As Dragan grasped for a less scandalous train of thought, he reached up to lend Roland the warmth he seemed to crave. His hands ghosted over Roland’s cheeks for a moment before making contact, his thumbs brushing over his frosty lips. “Indeed, they are.”

Roland’s skin quickly grew hot under Dragan’s touch, his cheeks turning a fine shade of pink. Dragan’s stomach sank as he realized his lapse in judgment.

“Apologies, I didn’t quite think that all the way through.” Dragan hastily pulled back.

Roland’s breath shook, the misty clouds he puffed into the cold air turning uneven and feathery. “It’s all right. Don’t mention it.”

Had Dragan turned Roland uncomfortable or flustered? A hot shiver poured down Dragan’s spine at the thought of Roland enjoying his touch. How entitled of him.

“We should both be in bed by now,” Dragan stated, as casually as he could mustered with the butterflies that fluttered in his core, “You look tired. Would you allow me to see you to your chamber?”

“Want to make sure I don’t sneak out again?” For a moment, Dragan expected Roland to voice his resistance. Instead, he only received gentle gratitude. “Thank you, my friend. I appreciate your care.”

“It’s nothing.” Dragan’s gaze dropped to the snow-covered stone below as he insisted. “We both direly need some rest from all this turmoil.”

As Dragan and Roland stood in front of Roland’s room, the unspoken goodbye drew out like running honey. Dragan wondered whether he should say something more profound. Was Roland trying to find the right words as well? Dragan caught himself daring to wish.

“Roland,” Dragan sighed, shifting his footing, “If I have made you uncomfortable, please accept my apology. It wasn’t my intention.”

His intentions hadn’t been quite so pure to begin with, but that wouldn’t help his case right now.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Roland affirmed calmly, “In fact, I… It’s all well.”

There was a tension between them that hadn’t been there before. Was Roland sensing it as well?

“That’s a relief for sure,” Dragan replied. He grasped the hem of his shirt as he tried to steady his shaking hands. His heartbeat was wrecking him. So much for his courage.

“Is there something else that is bothering you?” Roland questioned.

Dragan swallowed the flood of words that threatened to burst forth, shaking his head. “No. Why do you ask?”

Roland tilted his head. Dragan wondered whether he was eyeing him with that intent gaze again, the thought triggering a shiver of both fluster and delight.

“It’s not like you to hide your intentions,” Roland remarked, “Speak plainly with me. I insist.”

If Dragan began loosening the grasp on his bottled-up feelings, he might not be able to reel them back in. The line he was walking was becoming blurrier the longer Roland was near him, leaving him stumbling without direction.

“Would you mind taking this talk inside?” Dragan questioned, despite his better judgment. His reason and his heart were violently at war. He couldn’t shake the feeling of Roland’s delicate hand in his, the way Roland had relaxed into the touch.

“Not at all,” Roland agreed, “In fact, I’d appreciate it.”

Dragan followed Roland as he stepped inside, his gaze glued to the floor in front of him. The rushing of his own blood was disorienting. Was he really about to tell Roland the truth? Dragan recalled Frederica’s gentle encouragement. Maybe an honest conversation won’t be so frightening, she had said. If only she knew; Dragan’s body was turning fickle as if he was fighting for his very life.

Dragan leaned back against the door, properly snapping it into its lock. He didn’t dare to move away from it, stemming his weight against it. With shaking hands, Dragan removed his mask. If he was to tell Roland the truth, he should do so face to face.

Each tiny step turned Dragan more aware that he was at the cusp of something monumental, reckless even. They had ever been the reckless pair, had they not? By the time Dragan pulled his mask off and put it aside on a nearby cupboard, a sense of regret was already creeping up on him. If he got flustered now, he wouldn’t be able to hide it. Roland would read him like plain text. Dragan had to remind himself that honesty was the point of this, that Roland deserved as much, though that could hardly calm his racing heart.

Roland had followed suit by now, putting his white mask aside with a dull clack. Dragan hadn’t seen him unmasked for so long. The moment he met Roland’s clear, blue eyes, his heart jumped with delight, catching in his throat so hard it made his breath hitch. There was no holding back the flood of emotions then.

“What’s on your mind?” Roland asked again, “You’re carrying such a contemplative look on your face.”

Dragan’s reply came without delay. “I’ve done a lot of thinking lately. Thinking about…”

You.

Dragan’s breath shuddered as he tried anew, “I hope this isn’t too forward. I’m not quite sure how to say this.”

Dragan could barely stand to look at Roland as the dam that held back his feelings began to crack. His world pulled together, his focus stolen so effortlessly.

“Having you by my side was more than I could have hoped for during these times.” Dragan spoke so clearly, so directly, that he startled himself. “It’s like I’m a different person when you’re around… In a good way. In… the best way.”

Dragan’s gaze dropped to the floor as his nerves threatened to quiet him. His hands trembled as he clasped them together tightly. Just like the rush of battle indeed, the uncertainty, the looming threat of ruin and the promise of victory alike. Not even the fright could quell his emotions. Dragan’s feelings were pouring out. No matter how hard he tried to press them back, they just spilled right through his grasp.

“When I’m with you, my heart just about overflows.”

Was Dragan really saying that out loud?

“I adore you, Roland. Perhaps more than I should.”

The first breath of freedom triggered a dizzying rush. Then the seconds ticked by in silence, and Dragan came crashing back down to reality.

Roland was looking at him wide-eyed, his gaze skittishly evading Dragan as their eyes met.

Of course, how immature of Dragan to think his reckless infatuation could amount to anything more than that.

Was it too late to play this off as a joke? The thought of Roland laughing his words off tied his chest together; Dragan could barely breathe still without shattering.

“Dragan, I –“

“Forget I said anything,” Dragan cut him short, “It’s far too late. We should have just gone to rest, and I… Perhaps I just…”

He was grasping. Dragan tried swallowing through the lump in his throat. His face burned and his limbs shook weakly like dried-up leaves in a breeze. He had to pull himself together; Dragan wouldn’t humiliate himself any further.

“Dragan, please, don’t say something like that.”

Dragan couldn’t bring himself to face Roland.

“I just… I never thought I would hear this coming from you,” Roland said. Dragan had trouble piecing the words together. “I don’t mind it. In fact, I believe I understand what you mean exactly.”

Roland sounded so determined. Dragan loved it when Roland showed his grit. It was unbearably comforting.

Dragan’s thoughts grinded to a halt.

Was Roland trying to tell him that he reciprocated his feelings?

“I’m not certain you do understand,” Dragan replied, his voice still swinging with the lingering fright.

Roland stepped closer and – damn his faint heart – kicked his pulse out of beat with it. His hand came to touch Dragan’s. “Oh, I do.”

Roland’s fingers brushed across the back of Dragan’s hand, leaving tingles of bliss in their wake. Their fingers gently intertwined. Tentatively, Dragan ran his thumb across Roland’s skin, yet cool to the touch and a little rough from the treacherous past days. It was simply delightful.

“I’m not sure you realize how happy you just made me,” Roland added, his voice pure velvet. The stone figuratively dropped then, casting heavy waves in the sea of Dragan’s mind.

Was he dreaming? Roland cupped his cheek like he was touching something delicate, just like Dragan had imagined one time too many. He tipped his head until they were aligned. Dragan would wake up any minute, disheveled from a restful night in a warm, dry bed. Perhaps Snowflake’s purring had lulled him in after all.

Roland startled him to attention as he leaned closer, his warm breath hitting Dragan’s lips. A heavy shiver poured down Dragan’s spine, his breath catching in his throat.

Roland haltered, pulled back slightly. Had Dragan done something wrong?

“I will stop if I’m making you uncomfortable,” Roland said, his gentle grasp on Dragan faltering, “If I misinterpreted your –“

“No,” Dragan blurted out, “I’m not uncomfortable, just… Give me a moment.”

Dragan allowed himself to lean into the comfort at last, shifting closer. Every faint touch of their bodies felt like a monumental leap, Dragan’s fingers running beneath Roland’s thick coat and grasping for his arm, his forehead coming to rest on Roland’s shoulder, their chests brushing with every breath. Dragan tried to silence the voice that told him he was being indecent. Roland didn’t mind, did he?

“You’re warm…” Roland whispered. Dragan shivered as Roland wrapped his arm around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. He was drowning in the scent of leather and snow, of faint, floral sweetness. He buried his head in the crook of Roland’s neck, careful not to disturb Roland’s injured arm as he leaned closer.

Was Roland shivering? A foreign heartbeat knocked against Dragan’s chest, drumming in his ears. The quick rhythm reverbed through him. Roland’s heart was beating out his chest.

Dragan was making Roland’s heart beat out his chest.

He finally found the courage to look at Roland again, catching a glimpse of awe and unfiltered attention in his eyes. Dragan wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t delusional; he wasn’t broken. His heart leaped as he realized that Roland was as nervous as he was, that he had been yearning for a connection as much as Dragan had.

Without further ado, Dragan grasped for Roland’s collar, pulling him into a long overdue kiss. Roland’s hesitation practically melted in Dragan’s grasp, his weight tipping towards him. Dragan’s worries shattered that instant, the world crashing to a standstill around them.

Roland’s lips were chapped from the strife. Dragan tried moving carefully, though he couldn’t suppress the urge to press closer. Should he take the lead? At what point would his eagerness tip into being demanding? After a moment of hesitation, Dragan parted his lips, nudging Roland to deepen the kiss. A tremble of sheer bliss ran through Dragan as Roland took the hint, sending a tingle to the very tip of his fingers.

Dragan tried to burn each precious sensation into his mind even when the heat of the moment blurred his focus. A sultry breath mingling with his at every gentle huff, silky locks tickling his face, a firm hand burying in his hair, teasing his scalp.

As Roland leaned back, Dragan’s mind lingered on the impression a moment longer, his lips tingling in the aftertaste of the touch.

“You taste delectable,” Dragan remarked, wrapping his arms around Roland’s neck as if to keep him from slipping away.

Roland’s smile brought the sunshine to this desolate place. Dragan wished he could hear the vibrant chime of Roland’s laugh every day. “Do I now?” Roland tipped his head towards him. “Care for another taste?”

“I can hardly decline such a gracious offer.”

Dragan dove back in. The surge of warmth shone brighter than the glow of a fireplace, reaching him to the core. It melted any sense of reservation Dragan could have still held onto. He could hardly believe how frightened he had been of these very same feelings but hours ago. It was indescribable – the peace such a simple gesture could grant his mind.

Dragan recalled the first time he had kissed someone – not clear as day, but he could still make out the gist of it in the back of his mind. He had taken one of the girls that had frequented the Archives out to the town. Their city had had little to offer, though she hadn’t appeared to mind. He remembered how her grin had threatened to break through her veil of composure as they had talked.

Dragan had not had much mind to spare her. In truth, he had only found it in himself to ask her out because Thalas had pestered him about his lack of a love life the day prior. Dragan had proven his point by nightfall. Her lips had been cool as they met his, hesitant. Neither of them had dared to lean closer, lingering on the ghost of a touch for some heartbeats until they had called it a night.

Dragan had believed he had gotten to the bottom of it then; such a simple gesture couldn’t possibly shake his world.

Now, as Roland released him, Dragan’s knees shook in the aftermath, his lungs hungered for air as if he had never truly taken breath before. It was as if his very point of balance had shifted, nudging him to lean against Roland until there wasn’t a hair’s width left between them.

“Care to stay with me?” Roland asked quietly, “Just some moments longer.”

Dragan couldn’t have denied him a thing. “For as long as you will have me.”

Chapter Text

As Dragan sat by the fireplace in his father’s quarters, the gentle heat seeped into him, warming him to the core. He tried to rub the lingering daze of sleep from his eyes, though his lids felt as heavy as before. He and Roland had talked the night away, about the small ways they had lost their head about each other, the sights they wanted to see together. It was surreal how easily Dragan could laugh about the anxiousness that had robbed him of his peace of mind for weeks on end.

Dragan still expected to wake up from his dream at any moment, the hours he had spent at Roland’s side blurring into a haze like the illusion they were. Each touch he had initiated had come with a moment of hesitation. Even when they had rewarded him with a warmth unlike any other, his nerves had fluttered like snowflakes in a gentle breeze. Had Roland experienced it as well?

“Are you certain you do not want to stay, my boy?” his father questioned.

Dragan tore his eyes from the gentle glow of embers, trying to shake the thought. A dull pang of shame hit his stomach as he met his father’s gaze. What would his father have to say if he knew the truth? Dragan wasn’t too keen on finding out right now.

“I appreciate the offer,” Dragan replied, stretching his arms towards the lingering warmth of the fireplace, “However, I intent to remain with House Wolffort until this cursed war has found its end.”

His father’s footsteps clacked on the stone floor as he moved closer. He leisurely stoked what was left of the fire, tiny sparks scattering through the fireplace. “We could aid them together once the time is right.”

Dragan shook his head no. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Roland when he needed him most – and that wasn’t mentioning the debt he still owed House Wolffort.

“No, father, I insist,” Dragan repeated, more firmly this time, “Glenbrook will make a fine ally in the fights to come. I cannot afford to let them down. Besides, Glenbrook bore the brunt of Aesfrost’s bid for power. The least we can do is fix what was broken.”

Dragan rose from his seat, regarding his father with a reassuring smile. “It will be my duty and my privilege to put Gustadolph to justice once the time arises.”

The worry lifted from his father’s face, his eyes gleaming with a reignited sense of comfort. “You truly have grown. I am sure of it now.”

Dragan’s chest swelled with pride as his father’s words sunk in. “I was hoping you would notice.”

“How could I have possibly missed it?” Slowly, his father’s smile faltered, a deep sigh escaping him. “I know I should have no doubt in my mind, seeing as you have found your way back here. Just… Return to me after this cursed war is over.”

Even when causing his father any more grief was the last thing Dragan wanted, his care was oddly reassuring.

“You have my word, father. It shan’t be long before we meet again.”

His father nodded slowly, giving him a watery smile. For a moment, Dragan expected him to bid his goodbye for a chance to compose himself. Then his father pulled him closer, wrapping him into a tight embrace.

“Do not hesitate to reach out to me.” His father’s voice shook with the aftereffects of his grief. “No harm will befall you while I still draw breath. I will see to it.”

Dragan barely managed to move in his father’s tight hold, carefully returning the embrace. He wanted nothing more than to lend his father comfort, though Dragan found himself holding onto him more than anything. His father was warmer than the glow of any fireplace.

Dragan cursed himself as a lump lodged into his throat. He tried to breathe through it, his throat burning through the strain. With a harsh swallow, Dragan finally found the strength to pull back.

“Your support means more than words can express. I won’t forget it.”

“Think nothing of it.” His father finally released him with a heavy sigh. His arms loosened slowly around Dragan, as if he were still hesitating. “I’ll see you soon, my boy.”

“Yes, soon.”

With a heart full of hope and purpose, Dragan set out on his journey. He couldn’t exactly pretend he would miss the biting blizzard, nor the harsh desolation of Twinsgate. What Dragan would truly miss was his father, his comfort and his counsel both. The day he could return to Aesfrost with his head held high couldn’t come soon enough.

Roland left Twinsgate with too many thoughts to fit into his head. He’d never thought hope would taste so bitter-sweet. Lord Svarog’s promise to aid them against Gustadolph, the much-needed financial relief – Dragan spilling his heart to him so ardently. Roland wasn’t sure how he had gotten so lucky.

He couldn’t help himself from feeling out of place when Dragan and Lord Svarog had said their goodbyes. Roland could hardly believe the difference between Lord Svarog as he had greeted them compared to how he had seen them off. His welcome had been cold if not outright threatening, his features twisted in what Roland assumed to be raw grief. The lines of worry had lifted the moment Dragan revealed his return, the pure joy unmistakable. Roland hated himself for the envy that had struck him right then.

Dragan had worn a smile as he had said goodbye to his father. He was to leave home behind and fight for his damn life, yet he hadn’t even hesitated a moment as he turned away, marching towards Hyzante with determined steps. Roland ever matched his pace; he couldn’t possibly let Dragan down after he had placed his faith in him.

“What are you thinking about?”

Dragan’s clear voice ripped him from his thoughts. A smile tugged at Roland’s lips as he looked at him.

“Nothing much,” he replied, “Our upcoming meeting with Minister Sorsley.”

Dragan nodded, his attention already elsewhere. “We did everything he asked of us. It’s shaping up to be rather uneventful.”

Dragan was clearly getting out of breath. His voice wasn’t quite as animated as usual, and that wasn’t mentioning his drooping shoulders and flushed face. The desert heat must be getting to him.

The sun burned down on them mercilessly, the air swinging with thick heat. Each breath dried Roland’s throat, turning it coarse like the grains of sand that blew through the air. Their carts struggled to move through the shifting ground. They had only loaded them with whatever was most necessary in an attempt to lighten their load and make progress a little swifter. Most of them were stuck traversing the baking desert by foot.

“The weather truly is merciless,” Roland remarked, pulling at his collar as he tried airing out the heat. His damp clothes stuck to him. “Almost as bad as the freezing blizzard.”

“Oh, much worse!” Dragan explained, hiding his face beneath his wide hood, “There’s no escaping this cursed heat. I’m going to be cooked through by the time we arrive.”

“You could request a break. I saw Geela taking Narve into one of the carts.”

Dragan scoffed at the offer. “Please, I can handle myself. I’m not going to submit to a little sunshine.”

“If you say so…”

Roland wasn’t sure whether to be endeared or worried by Dragan’s grit. Dragan refused to slow down, even when Roland himself grew dizzy with exhaustion, his legs heavy as lead weights. By the time the sun began to set, Serenoa finally requested they set up camp to rest and continue towards the Citadel of the Sands by the morrow.

By the time they settled into their tent, Dragan was drenched in sweat and flushed red. He practically dropped onto the makeshift bedding, releasing an exasperated sigh. “Thank the stars for cold desert nights… How do people live with this heat every waking day?”

“They’re used to it, just like you are used to freezing snowfall.”

Roland stepped besides Dragan, brushing his fingers over the nape of his neck. Dragan flinched at the contact before relaxing, letting his shoulders sink. His skin was flushing warm.

“You should have rested sooner. The heat did a number on you.”

“I told you I’m fine.” Dragan brushed Roland’s hand off, looking up at him with a dazed smile. “How is your shoulder? Still aching?”

Roland considered protesting the change in topic. Just once, he wanted to be the one to take care of Dragan.

“No, I barely even take note of it anymore,” Roland replied, brushing the fingertips of his good hand over the bandages that held his injured arm in place, “Geela says I’ll be as good as new in a couple days.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Wouldn’t want one of our best fighters to be incapacitated for too long.”

Roland barely muffled the scoff that wanted to slip from his throat. “I don’t intend to leave you fending for yourself again.”

Roland sunk to his knees besides Dragan, a moment of hesitation washing over him before he embraced him. His heart quickened its pace the moment Dragan’s warm body sunk against him, a hot shiver pouring down his neck. Roland could still hardly believe that he was allowed to hold onto Dragan at long last.

“Oh, a knight in shining armor?” Dragan mused, “How chivalrous, my prince.”

Roland chuckled lightly, the weight of his exhaustion lifting for a moment. “You’re rather fond of that nickname.”

“It’s affectionate!”

“I know.” Roland pulled Dragan closer, peppering gentle butterfly kisses on his neck. Dragan’s pulse drummed against his lips, the faint taste of salt sticking to them as he pulled back. “It might just start growing on me.”

Dragan’s smile widened, shining brightly in the quiet night. “I knew I’d win you over eventually.”

Roland rested his head against Dragan’s shoulder with a soft sigh, licking the faint, salty aftertaste off his lips. He found himself nuzzling closer to Dragan’s warmth as the cool night air creeped into his damp clothes.

“Of course you did,” Roland mused, “I’ve never met a man so hopelessly stubborn. You must be used to getting what you desire.”

Not that Roland minded. In fact, it was refreshing to have someone be so unapologetically themselves around him.

“Oh, on the contrary,” Dragan refuted. He wrapped his arms around Roland’s neck, looking at him with an unfiltered intensity that left Roland breathless. “It’s a welcomed change of pace.”

How he, of all the things in the world, was what Dragan desired was beyond Roland, though he wouldn’t be caught dead complaining. Roland was determined to make any moment Dragan granted him count.

Roland’s breath caught in his throat when Dragan leaned in to kiss him, grasping for any sense of composure as the tender touch connected. Roland’s hand buried itself into Dragan’s soft hair, holding onto him tightly. In that moment, Roland was ready and willing to give Dragan anything he demanded.

The world had a way of growing quiet and overwhelming all at once when Dragan kissed him. How would it feel to take more? To push closer and closer until they could no longer tell where their own body ended and the other began, until there was no place in their mind for anything but the other? Roland shivered at the thought. Had Dragan ever considered baring himself so completely to him? Roland shooed the thought and blamed it on Dragan’s headache.

“Aren’t you tired?” Roland hushed, still close enough to feel Dragan’s breath on his flushed lips, “You’re in dire need of rest from this exhausting journey.”

Dragan tightened his embrace around Roland’s shoulders. “I can rest when I’m without you. I can think of more exciting ways to spend the night than sleeping.”

A flush of heat rose beneath Roland’s skin at the thought. He laughed it off. “You’ll be growing into quiet the insomniac if that’s the case. I don’t intend to leave your side any time soon.”

“Is that a promise?” The touch of genuineness beneath Dragan’s teasing was more than Roland could have wished for.

“You have my word.”

“Fine then.” Dragan sunk heavily against Roland, surrendering completely to his embrace. There was a primal comfort in having a warm body to hold onto, the steady rise and fall of another’s breath. That night, Roland slept easier than he had in weeks.

As if their journey hadn’t been exhausting enough, it drew out longer than they had anticipated when they had taken the first step. By the time they arrived at Sorsley’s doorstep, Dragan had long since grown tired of the barren desert, the scorching sun, the shifting sand below his boots. He could hardly wait for a chance to rest by the shade, only for his hope to be swiftly thwarted; Sorsley’s right-hand man informed them they had been called to the capital the moment they arrived.

A couple months prior, Dragan would have been unable to contain his excitement at the prospect of traversing the whole of Norzelia, from the frigid north he knew all too well to the very capital of Hyzante, the last outpost of their civilization before the desert claimed the land. Dragan had heard tales of the Holy State, read accounts of their wealth and religious doctrine. It was otherworldly in a way, not a reality Dragan could imagine living.

The image hardly got tainted when the city of Hyzante emerged from the plains of the desert. Its walls towered over them not unlike Twinsgate, though they spanned far wider. Where Twinsgate’s harsh stone blended into the mountains, The Goddess’s Shield shone brightly as the morning sun, emerging from the ground as if to spite the barren land it stood upon. The golden details that accentuated it were blinding in the harsh light. Dragan began to understand how the grand wall had gotten its title.

The first impression blended into the city seamlessly. The white walls reflected the sunlight through the streets, the colorful mosaic patterns that adorned every corner sparkling their luster. Each awning was dyed meticulously, outdoing the next with intricate patterns and brilliant colors.

The oh so Saintly Seven weren’t gracing them with an audience just yet, so their party had taken to wandering through the streets, scattering into smaller, less conspicuous groups. Dragan had stayed by Roland’s side and set out for the marketplace.

With the idle chitter chatter of passersby and the plaza fully packed with merchants, Dragan was almost reminded of Glenbrook in its heyday. The Holy State didn’t manage to evoke the same sense of comfort. Perhaps it was simply Dragan’s own biases talking – or maybe it was the Hierophant’s palace looming over them like a warning sign.

“It’s been a while since I’ve last visited,” Roland remarked, looking around the marketplace, “Though this place hasn’t changed one bit. It’s as if this cursed war had never reared its ugly head.”

“It’s not hard to get away unscathed if you never engage in the first place,” Dragan replied. He stayed back, sticking to the shade the awnings provided. He still felt like he’d melt in his boots any second.

Roland brushed the sweat off his brow. The sun made his skin and hair shine like gold. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

“Can you blame them?” Roland proposed, “I’d rather not get involved in a war I didn’t start either.”

Dragan sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the rough stone wall behind him. “Perhaps I would on principle… Though I suppose you have a point.”

As Dragan watched the people flow by, he realized how quiet it was. He could make out the patter of steps, soft words, only the odd chime of a child’s laughter breaking through the gentle murmur. The merchants didn’t shout for peoples' attention. Instead, they seemed content to serve the customers that did come to them with a smile.

“These people never had to fend for what they were given.” Dragan mused, “They can’t fathom walking a path that wasn’t paved for them. It’s disquieting.”

Roland didn’t answer on the first beat, turning between Dragan and the market in front of them. A steady flow of people passed by: a young man chatting with one of the merchants, a mother herding her children…

“You think so?” Roland finally asked, “They are well-fed and safe. Did you not wish your people were blessed with those very same qualities?”

“Of course I do,” Dragan sighed, “Anyone with a semblance of human decency would. It’s just a matter of what price you’re willing to pay to achieve it.”

Roland finally gave Dragan his undivided attention. He stepped away from the bright sunlight that suited him so well, leaning against the wall besides Dragan.

“It’s just nice to see people at ease for once,” Roland said quietly, though there was little joy to be found in his voice, “There’s children and adults sharing laughter alike. I just wish we could grant our people a life equally free of strife. Is that too much to ask?”

Dragan understood – better than he’d like to admit. Roland’s earnestness tore his guard down, a genuine smile breaking through his focused expression.

“You’re too kind by half.” Dragan grasped Roland’s hand before he knew it, squeezing down a little too firmly. The corners of Roland’s lips twitched up at the contact, though he pulled back a moment later.

Dragan watched Roland brush a strand of hair behind his ear and wished he could do it for him instead. There was too much distance between them. Seeing Roland’s uncertainty, Dragan wanted nothing more than to hold him steady. How lovely would it be if they could show their affection without worry.

“Let’s continue,” Dragan proposed, gently tugging at Roland’s hand as he reclaimed it, “The Saintly Seven await us.”

Chapter Text

The ceiling of the palace spanned over them like the canopy of heaven, a shining dome of sheer light. Dragan’s eyes wandered over the opulent ornaments, marble and gold outshining each other’s luster. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air, making even breathing feel oppressive. The stained-glass windows cast patterns across the room, the afterimage of their precious goddess molded into every last one of them. They towered over them, larger than life – not that Dragan knew the measures of a goddess from experience. The judgmental aura of the idols was the least of his worries; it was his fellow men he was wary of.

The Saintly Seven stood in formation, all in line except for one; Sorsley Ende stood accused with the Wolfforts, to his apparent dismay. His face shone a bright shade of red as his fellow countrymen laid down their accusations.

If Dragan understood correctly, the elderly man leading the trial was Idore Delmira, ruler of Hyzante in all but name. It was told he was the one person with the privilege of facing the Hierophant in person. Dragan couldn’t deny that he was curious about what was hiding behind the lavishing, purple curtains in the heart of the palace. However, he was more curious why the Hyzantians bothered with this charade. Judging by how the other saints bowed their heads when Idore raised his voice, he was perfectly capable of delivering judgment himself. Dragan would have gladly called it out if he wasn’t still in hiding, the words itching on the tip of his tongue.

“Serenoa, you cur!” Sorsley bellowed as Serenoa affirmed the Saints’ accusations. They delivered their judgment without a moment’s hesitation. Minister Exharme stepped down the cascading stairs with a sense of purpose, striking Sorsley down with one slash of his sword. Dragan flinched as the impact connected. Sorsley went to the ground that instant and completely still in a matter of moments. Dragan’s disgust had dulled with each battle, barely registering as the sea of blood tainted the marble and Sorsley drew his last, gurgling breath. Perhaps he should count it as a blessing that his stomach wasn’t so easily nauseated any longer.

With Sorsley out of the way, nothing was left standing between their party and the Hyzantians’ accusations. Serenoa and Benedict tried to fend them off as best they could, albeit in much more cautious terms than Dragan would have chosen.

“We had to act to protect our home and our people,” Serenoa reasoned, “It was the only way to prevent the loss of both.”

His plea was quickly deflected by one of the ministers, a tall boar of a man with a dark, long beard prominently shaping his features. “Your plight has not fallen on deaf ears. However, a crime committed under duress is still a crime.”

Serenoa remained outwardly composed, only the slightest dip of his gaze betraying the turmoil he must be feeling – frustration, Dragan assumed, or perhaps it was nervousness. “For that I have no words. Only hope. Hope that you will find mercy for us. For my people, I beg of you… allow our House to enter the protection of the Holy One.”

Dragan knew not how Serenoa could speak those words; he could barely stomach listening to them. At the very least, Idore played along nicely, turning his back on them to speak to the Hierophant. Dragan couldn’t make out a single word of the murmured whispers.

“They really are taking this seriously, are they?” Dragan hushed towards Roland, wondering what he thought of the self-important display.

“Such is custom here in Hyzante. They trust Her word over all else,” Roland replied under his breath, a subtle tension in his shoulders, “I thought you enjoyed making new experiences.”

“Oh, this is certainly one for the books…”

“Serenoa Wolffort, heed well the words of the Holy One,” Idore announced. When the others kneeled before him, Dragan had no choice but to follow suit. Idore used the most lavishing words to deliver them a simple ultimatum: Serenoa was to be declared the new Minister of Salt under the condition that he delivered the Roselle under his protection to Hyzante. Dragan wasn’t sure whether to be more shocked by the genuine offer or the callous request attached to it.

His gaze drew to Frederica the instant Idore had voiced his price, watching the horror drain the color from her face. He wasn’t sure where she found the strength to remain silent.

“You would have us betray the Roselle under our protection?” Serenoa voiced instead.

“Such mortal judgments are not Her concern. The Goddess has spoken.”

With that, they had no choice but to retreat. The silent stretched endlessly between them as they stepped out into the desert sun. Dragan shielded his eyes from the harsh light as they tried to adjust.

“Serenoa,” Frederica broke the silence, her voice shaking under the strain, “Will you surrender the Roselle to Hyzante?”

“I don’t know…”

Dragan scoffed. “An honest answer, at least.”

“We need to consider our options carefully,” Benedict insisted, “Our house is not what it once was.”

“Is that a reason to cast aside its honor?” Roland interjected, “My father, as well, likely had a hand in orchestrating their protection.”

Just when their discussion was about to grow heated, Minister Exharme emerged from the palace, stopping just a couple steps above them. Dragan had yet to witness his self-satisfied smirk slip. “Ah, my friends. I apologize that we once again meet under dire circumstances. You face a difficult choice, one I do not envy. Have you decided?”

“Not yet,” Benedict admitted, “We will, you can be sure.”

Exharme’s eyes narrowed in face of the Wolfforts’ plight. Dragan observed him with a sense of apprehension, not willing to turn his back to this absolute fox of a man for even a moment.

“Lest you misunderstand,” Exharme began his speech, “allow me to illuminate your position. You are not the noble hawks you think yourself to be. You are vultures, feeding off the scraps of Sorsley’s corpse.

“I speak from experience when I say that the title of saint is not to be worn lightly. Are you prepared?”

Oh, how he must be reveling in the high ground he held over them.

“Prepared?” Roland questioned, “For what?”

“Doubtless you are aching to break free of your fetters – to take wing and soar,” Exharme assumed; how Dragan wished he could deny the truth in his words. “To do that, blood must be spilled – the blood of enemy, friend and self alike. Your freedom lies at the end of a trail of dead. If you are not prepared to make that journey, to endure that sacrifice… then cast aside your pretentions and grovel.”

It turned out Dragan was capable of feeling disgust after all. He tried to swallow the venom in his voice, but it burst right out of him. “Do you truly believe that? Or is that simply what you tell yourself so you can sleep easy at night.”

Exharme haltered, regarding him with a glint Dragan knew too well as aggravation. “Worry not, I assure you I sleep all too well.” His gaze shifted away from Dragan that instant. “Lord Serenoa, I advise you keep your guard dogs in check. They are not to bark at their superiors.”

“Guard dogs?!” It took Dragan every ounce of self-restrain to leave it at that surprised exclaim and let Exharme leave. His muscles tensed with every step Exharme took towards the palace, his hands aimlessly balling into fists at his side. He startled as his arm was brushed, then quickly held steady.

“Easy now,” Roland murmured, “Don’t listen to him.”

Dragan took a deep breath, trying to focus on Roland’s firm touch over anything else.

“My apologies,” Dragan said, “I didn’t mean to lose composure…” He turned towards Serenoa and the others, a pang of guilt hitting him as his gaze fell towards Frederica; she had been silent this entire time, her lips pursed into a thin line. “Let’s focus on finding a solution to this mess.”

“I find myself agreeing with that,” Benedict replied. With that, they headed towards the encampment, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

The encampment was shrouded in an air of restlessness as they returned. Roland found himself pacing as the agitation caught up to him. Frederica was champing at the bit all noon, unable to brush off the Rosellans’ situation any longer. Roland couldn’t claim he wasn’t curious about what went down inside the Source either. Dragan was practically glued to Frederica’s side, only encouraging her in her endeavor. When Frederica finally set foot towards the Source, neither of them could resist joining her investigation. Serenoa had met them right by the gate in a fortunate turn of fate.

Roland could taste the salt on his tongue as they entered the Source, the crisp scent thick in the air. It was no small wonder; the fields of salt and water reached as far as the eye could see, a sparkling luster across the land. It was the most surreal sight – all the salt they could need in their lifetime spread out in front of them.

“Quick thinking,” Dragan praised him, “We couldn’t have made it in without you.”

“Indeed, thank you, my friend,” Serenoa joined in.

Roland shook his head in reply. “If anything, I should be thanking you, Serenoa. They would have never granted us entry without you by our side.”

A statue towered above the treasure of the land, reflecting the serene beauty of what Roland assumed to be the Goddess. Idore stood to her feet, preaching across the sparkling landscape. Roland hoped he wouldn’t take note of their small group.

Idore spoke of sin and divine retribution. “They seized the Source for themselves, wrestling every last grain of salt from other peoples desperate for the resource.”

Dragan scoffed besides him, his mumbled voice barely carrying over the stiff breeze. “What a farce…”

Roland watched in disbelieve as the Rosellan slaves joined the choir. Children and elderly alike were lined up to work, some of them collapsed to the ground. Could they truly be content with a live like this?

Idore didn’t stop, weaving a tale of war and greed not unlike what Roland had experienced for himself. He urged the Roselle to work harder, to devote themselves to this twisted atonement when they could hardly carry the burden they were given already.

“People of the Roselle, surrender your lives to the Source, and give your thanks to the great Goddess!” Idore’s voice boomed across the Source. The Rosellans’ praise and gratitude echoed through the land in reply.

This was the price Hyzante paid for its prosperity; an entire people crushed beneath their heel.

“I cannot believe what I’m seeing,” Roland mumbled when the reality of the situation began to sink in. A wave of shame flooded him all at once; he had been complaining day in day out, how his late father brushed him aside, how heavy the burden of his responsibilities weighed on his shoulders. The Roselle didn’t complain, not when the Hyzantian guards made them carry basket upon basket of their precious salt.

“This is atonement?” Frederica questioned, her voice shaking ever so gently. “And the Roselle accept it as a fitting punishment.”

Frederica’s iron resolve had transformed into horror, her eyes wide with shock. Roland recalled how weak his knees had grown when he had seen the entire Kingsguard slain to his feet, the wreckage of his once proud nation. At least his people had found a swift end to their turmoil.

“Even if that story Idore told is true,” Frederica continued, her gaze hardening, “No sin warrants this kind of cruel retribution! Hyzante maintains control over salt now. Are they, then, not guilty of the same crime?”

“You are right,” Serenoa replied somberly, “But… this–“

“No, Serenoa. Frederica is right,” Dragan cut in, “A band of hypocrites is what they are. They can preach about goddesses and virtue all day; there is nothing holy about this. They are just using these people because it suits them!”

Dragan swept his hand towards the sorrow sight in front of them as his speech gained momentum. Serenoa, meanwhile, remained poised for the most part; Roland knew his friend well enough to recognize the weight that lied upon his words. “I believe we are all in agreement about that. I simply request you remain mindful of your surroundings. It is one thing to disagree with them, but if one of the guards overhears you cursing them, they might see you out.”

“Let them try,” Dragan scoffed, “I’ve seen enough already.”

“Dragan, please.” Frederica’s voice was barely audible, and yet that was all she needed to say. Dragan let go of a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing the slightest bit.

“Right, my apologies,” Dragan replied, softer than before, “I just can’t stand their damn self-righteousness. Their so-called blessing isn’t as exclusive as they make it out to be anyhow….”

Speaking of which, how would the Saints respond to the reveal that there was salt to be found outside the Source? Considering how reliant Hyzante was on the salt trade, that may quickly turn a blessing into a curse.

“Someone’s ought to tell them, wouldn’t you agree?” Roland proposed, lowering his voice into an inconspicuous murmur, “Serenoa, do you have the salt crystal with you? The one we picked up back in the mines?”

Roland remembered when Anna had showed them the small piece she had managed to secure in their hurry. They had been fleeing the capital back then, the rock of the boat making Roland nauseated even when he had never been one to get seasick. Roland had only understood the gravity of the discovery then – and realized how absurd it was that people were taken advantage of and outright killed for something so natural.

“I believe Benedict has it on his person,” Serenoa replied.

“Do you think the Saints will hear us out if they see it with their own eyes?” Frederica questioned, “Once they learn that the Goddess didn’t bless them alone, how could they keep perpetuating their ill beliefs?”

“I wish I could share your optimism, my love. For now, I’m afraid we’ll be lucky to see Hyzante pardon us, leave alone support us.”

Roland shook his head. “Aesfrost stopped trading for Hyzante’s salt weeks ago. I believe they will put two and two together without us having to put all out cards on the table.”

With the way Dragan perked up, Roland didn’t have to see behind the mask to know how his eyes just lit with excitement. “They will have no choice but to join us, or they’ll soon find the war reaching their own doorsteps.”

“With Hyzante’s army at our side, we might be able to reclaim the capital after all,” Roland concluded. His body tensed in anticipation at the mere thought, his hands itching to pick up a weapon and fight for what he truly believed in at long last.

“We need to discuss this with the others,” Serenoa concluded. His gaze fell towards Frederica as he paused. Roland only realized that she had fallen silent now, her gaze searching the vast expanse of the source.

“Let’s take this chance to gather all the information we can,” Serenoa added softly, “We can talk about it more in the evening.”

Roland nodded along, even when he wanted to do nothing more than move forward. “A fine idea. Lead the way.”

The discussion of the evening went surprisingly smooth, they plan quickly set in stone. Benedict and the other’s seemed to share their enthusiasm. They were to seek out an audience with the Holy One by the morrow, laying out the evidence at hand. Once they had the Saintly Seven convinced of the truth, it would be Roland’s turn to take off the mask and convince them to join their cause. Roland repeated the words over and over again in his mind that evening, trying to memorize them by heart.

“Careful,” Geela snapped him from his thoughts, “Would you lift your arm a tad?”

She had finally agreed to take the sling off him. Not without a stern look and a reminder to be careful if he wished to partake in the upcoming battle, but Roland had appreciated it nonetheless. He’d have to resist the urge to train the first chance he got, but that was a worthwhile exchange if it meant being able to use his dominant hand again at all.

“Of course, my apologies.” Roland cooperated with her as best as he could, even with his mind stuck elsewhere. He imagined what it would be like to face the Saints, to pretend that his presence was noteworthy enough to warrant their immediate action.

I am the second son of King Regna, Roland Glenbrook, he repeated to himself as if that would make saying it any easier. He wondered what his father would have to say to him if he saw him cowering like this. Would he regret putting his bets on him if he saw him shaking in face of adversity?

“There we go,” Geela remarked, giving his shoulder a last, examining look, “You healed up well. The bruises have already faded.”

“Only thanks to your care,” Roland replied, trying to give her a smile that seemed genuine.

“Oh ho, maybe you’re right, Your Highness.”

As Geela began to pack up her supplies, Roland tentatively stretched his arm. It was yet rusty, tiring when he had barely moved at all, though that didn’t dull the sense of freedom. He got up the first chance he got, shifting his restless feet.

“You may only do some light training for the next couple of days,” Geela reminded him.

“Yes, yes,” Roland waved off, “It’s getting late anyhow. Too late to cause a ruckus.”

The encampment was quiet as one person after the other retreated to their quarters to rest. Erador and Hossabara were cleaning up the last traces of supper – or perhaps he was just trying to get one last drink out of her as she moved to wipe down the counter. Anna was sitting with Archibald, tending to their weapons. Meanwhile, Serenoa, Dragan and Frederica had taken to a quieter corner, too far off for Roland to catch a word they were saying.

If their goal was to cheer Frederica up after the day’s event, they were only doing a passable job; the smile she gave them didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. It didn’t seem to stem from a lack of trying. Serenoa looked at her with a sense of delicacy that Roland could only dream to possess, his hand resting on hers. Dragan, meanwhile, seemed to aim for enthusiasm instead. His resounding laugh reached all across the encampment, immediately making the corners of Roland’s lips twitch upward.

If Dragan was still feeling that desolation from when he had first joined them, he was damn good at hiding it. He had lost his home too, albeit in a different way. For how similar their struggles were, Dragan seemed to shoulder them much easier. Serenoa, meanwhile, had taken to leading his people as naturally as breathing. Even Frederica fought for the Roselle no matter how hopeless the situation was. Roland tried to find motivation in that, even when the weight of his own shortcomings threatened to crush him.

“Why don’t you join them?” Geela remarked, putting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, “I’m sure they’d gladly have your company.”

“It’s alright; I was merely lost in thought,” Roland replied, his voice heavier than he’d like to, “I think I will simply go to rest.”

“Well, I certainly won’t argue with that.”

Roland lingered one last moment, watching them talk so naturally, before he took his leave, regarding Geela with a last, acknowledging nod.

Even when Roland went to bed without delay, resting was out of the question. He tossed and turned on the makeshift bedding of his tent, stubbornly keeping his eyes shut as if that would force sleep to take him. Pitch black night draped over him by the time footsteps approached. Roland recognized Dragan by his quick pace alone. For a moment, there was complete silence, a soft rustle of fabric. Roland hadn’t decided whether to reveal he was awake by the time the footsteps drew closer. His blanket shifted around him. Would his quickening heartbeat give him away as Dragan joined him?

Dragan wrapped his arms around Roland firmly, pressing his forehead against the space between Roland’s shoulder blades. His warmth was enough to melt Roland’s hesitation. He intertwined his fingers with Dragan’s, bringing them up to give the back of his hand a kiss. Dragan twitched at the motion.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Dragan’s voice was raspy whenever he spoke softly, scratching an itch in the back of Roland’s mind.

“You didn’t wake me up,” Roland confessed, “And even if that were the case, I’d yet sleep much easier in your presence anyhow.”

“Flatteries, Flatteries.”

Roland finally shifted to face Dragan, even when he could barely make out the shape of his face in the dark. Dragan held on to him, weighing down his movement in the most comforting way Roland could imagine.

“I’m merely speaking the truth, dear,” Roland insisted, drawing a soft chuckle from Dragan’s lips.

Dragan rested his hand on Roland’s shoulder, trailing down over his arm. “You’re all in one piece again.”

“Ah, yes. Good as new.”

“Excellent.” Dragan’s voice carried his enthusiasm, loud and clear in the quiet of the night even when he seemed to restrain himself. “We need you well and ready for the days ahead.”

Roland’s stomach dropped as he considered the possibility of disappointing Dragan too. He mirrored Dragan’s touch, tightening his fingers around his arms with a strength he shouldn’t have allowed himself; even that couldn’t mask the slight tremor.

“Yes, ready…”

Before Dragan could object, Roland sealed his lips in a kiss. Dragan’s breath hitched audibly, his body tensing in Roland’s grasp for a couple of heartbeats before he eased into the touch. His hand came up to Roland’s nape, pulling him closer. The way Dragan nipped his bottom lip sent a shiver down Roland’s spine. At long last, Roland’s body and mind finally eased out.

In his inner eye, Roland considered how it would play out if he were to take more. He fiddled with the hem of Dragan’s shirt as he imagined slipping his hand beneath it, trailing the outline of Dragan’s body without anything standing between them. Would Dragan complain if Roland were to lean above him, bodies pressed together like two pages of a book? Dragan didn’t seem like the type to let himself be claimed. Roland felt much more selfish considering it now that the thought wasn’t quite so out of reach anymore.

Roland’s breath caught in his throat the moment their connection snapped, their mingling breaths making him dizzy.

“Are you certain you’re quite alright?” Dragan questioned. Roland wasn’t sure whether he had caught on to his hesitation or his more inappropriate thoughts – somehow. He considered denying either, though he quickly picked the one that was easier to explain.

“Just some stage fright regarding our audience with the Saintly Seven,” Roland admitted, “It’ll be a monumental occasion.”

“It will.” Dragan firmly cupped Roland’s cheek as if to demand his full attention. “That’s a good thing. It means we’ll finally have a chance to break free from this stalemate.”

Dragan’s touch lightened, his thumb brushing over Roland’s skin.

“You’ll do just fine,” he added, quieter than before, “Besides, Serenoa and Benedict will be there to remedy any potential hiccups. No need to be so on edge about it.”

Roland took a deep breath. “Apologies, I suppose you’re right…”

“It’s all right.” Dragan’s touch was a steady rhythm, lulling Roland into closing his eyes again. “Try to rest. You can fret about it when the time arrives.”

“Okay…” Roland rested his hand on Dragan’s, relaxing into the touch. “Thank you for staying here with me.”

“Thank me?” Dragan chuckled. “Please, I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

In that moment, all Roland wanted was to believe him.

Chapter Text

As Serenoa and Benedict entered the heart of the Hierophant’s Palace, Roland followed ever a step behind. The tension around them was thick enough to cut it with a blade. Idore made it abundantly clear that they should take their audience as a mercy, not a right. Roland wondered what the saints made of his presence. The young Lord Wolffort, the Steward of his house and… For a moment, Roland could pretend like he was simply a loyal knight. It was a shame he couldn’t stay in that reality for too long.

As they revealed the salt crystal to them, the frown that knitted Idore’s brows betrayed his agitation, even if he denied its significance. Benedict and Serenoa argued the implications behind it while Roland remained silent. Like a mere decoration, it echoed in his mind.

“What is it you want from us?” Idore finally gave in.

“Your full support,” Benedict spoke firmly.

“Lend us your strength and together we can defeat Aesfrost,” Serenoa added, “and Hyzante’s ties to all nations will remain intact.”

Roland’s fingers dug into his sleeve as he suppressed the urge to fidget. Idore was reluctant, that much was apparent. They couldn’t afford to leave this room without Hyzante’s support.

“Even so, my people do not wish for war,” Idore continued, “We must try to resolve this peacefully first.”

Peacefully… Roland recoiled at the word. With a scoff, he finally raised his voice, “Do you think Gustadolph can be reasoned with? Need I remind you that it was he who invaded Glenbrook? He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“Be that as it may, neither my people nor soldiers will accept it as a reason to go to war,” Idore replied, just as expected.

Roland took a deep breath, taking a step forward. “Then I shall give you one.”

Serenoa and Benedict left the floor to him. It was still odd to see his best friend bow to him, though Roland pressed on undeterred.

“For I am… The second son of King Regna…” Roland swiftly took off the mask, grasping Ser Maxwells hat and pressing it against his chest instead. “Roland Glenbrook.”

The murmuration that went through the saints added to the buzz of Roland’s nerves.

“Hah, so the prince lives to slay his kingdom’s invaders,” Minister Lyla exclaimed, “We could not ask for a better reason.”

They looked at him with expectations, like one would at a star when making a wish. Roland knew not how to grant it, though that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

“If you need a just cause to go to war, let it be me,” he reaffirmed, “We must stop Gustadolph!”

It was obvious they had them convinced at that; Idore simply confirmed it when he turned towards the Hierophant and swiftly declared they’d have Hyzante’s full support.

“From this day forth, we support Prince Roland as our commander and Lord Serenoa as one of the Saintly Seven,” Idore declared.

The thought of leading an army was daunting, though even as he gained the new burden, Roland felt lighter than he had in months. At long last, he had the chance to make up for his failure during Gustadolph’s invasion. Avenging those he had lost, freeing his people, and saving Cordelia from the Archduke’s clutches… It was all finally withing his reach.

Dragan found himself running circles outside the palace, kicking up the sand from the pavement. The stone was oddly slippery beneath his shoes. He did not like it much.

“I cannot believe they didn’t grant us entry!” Dragan exclaimed.

“I’m afraid none of us could shake the Hierophant’s decision,” Geela remarked, “It’s just a matter of patience.”

Therein lied the issue. Dragan half expected Frederica to tease him about it, though she kept her lips sealed, just like she had since they had left that rotten Source behind. Dragan relented with a sigh, finally stepping aside to rest in the shadow. He had his hood firmly pulled into his face, and he still feared he’d be red as a tomato come evening.

“Fair point,” Dragan sighed, “I just hope they treat Roland and the others with more… hospitality than they do us.”

When the three of them finally emerged from the Hierophant’s palace, Dragan could hardly contain his curiosity. Serenoa swiftly declared their success, a hopeful smile gracing his features. Hyzante’s full support and a position as Saint for their young Lord Serenoa to boot. Hyzante had even promised them with ink on paper to leave the Roselle in Wolffort to their care. Dragan couldn’t imagine that would erase Frederica’s worries, though perhaps it would ease them at least.

While the rest of them broke into cheers, Roland remained awfully quiet. Dragan stepped beside him and barely got the hint of a smile in return.

“Good goin’, lad!” Erador exclaimed, patting Serenoa on the shoulder.

“Oh, it is Benedict and Roland to whom we owe this victory,” Serenoa insisted.

Roland’s smile faltered right as Serenoa praised him. “Everyone here has suffered so much on my behalf. My weakness and worthlessness have brought pain and misfortune to you all, and for that I must apologize.”

Roland’s voice was crystal clear, not a moment of hesitation in his assessment. The sharp edges only made it cut all the deeper.

Erador tried to calm him first. “You’ve got nothin’ to apologize for. I already told you: House Wolffort’s the sword and shield of the crown.”

Roland continued undeterred, “I’ve decided that I must press forward, even if it means crawling forth on my hands and knees. I ask for your support as always. I know I will need it.”

Despite his apparent doubts, Roland’s voice didn’t waver. Dragan couldn’t help but admire his resolve, even when his concern for Roland grew by the day. Perhaps a proper victory would set his mind straight.

“And you shall have it!” Hughette exclaimed, “I am with you every step of the way, my lord!”

Dragan earnestly hoped their support was easing Roland’s worries. He wasn’t blind to the effect Hughette, Serenoa and the others had on him. However, he also wasn’t blind to the tension that grew within Roland every waking day, ready to snap at any given moment.

As their group slowly began to thin out and move forward, Dragan stayed by Roland’s side, taking it upon himself to comfort him. “You know none of us actually think that way about you, right?”

“No, I’m afraid you’re too kind for that,” Roland affirmed, “But none of that can erase the truth in my words.”

Dragan gnawed on that sentiment for a moment. The classic set phrases laid on the tip of his tongue, how Roland didn’t mean any harm, how they all find themselves stumbling at times. Dragan recalled the chasm that had opened up beneath his feet as he had gotten the first peek at the consequences of his own actions – real, lasting consequences, not a lukewarm reply or insults from people he didn’t want to care about. He hadn’t dwelled on that in a while, had he?

“I haven’t exactly covered myself with glory thus far either,” Dragan admitted. His voice lowered, his gaze scanning the streets around him to make sure the others weren’t listening in. “I could have prevented this whole mess if I had acted differently back in the mines. The fact that I didn’t foresee it doesn’t make a lick of a difference at the end of the day.

“You could still blame me for that, yet you are not; at least I hope you aren’t.” Dragan straightened up, giving Roland an easy smile. “I promise you it’s not as hopeless as it feels in this moment.”

Dragan wished he could have read the look on Roland’s face properly. Not much longer until they could finally stop hiding, he reminded himself.

“Thank you,” Roland replied, the soft edges of honesty in his voice easing Dragan’s worry, “I shall keep that in mind.”

“We’ll set things right in no time at all,” Dragan reaffirmed, “And then, this will be nothing but a distant memory, albeit an unpleasant one.”

“I assume I can count on you to be there when that time arrives?”

“Of course,” Dragan replied without hesitation, “You have my word.”

Dragan’s steps fell lighter with their plan all but set; not even the incoming track through the desert could dampen that cheer. Dragan yearned to return to the green hills of Wolffort, and soon, move on towards Whiteholm to give Gustadolph his long overdue confrontation.

The questions burned on Dragan’s tongue as Minister Lyla and the other Hyzantians presented them with the blast crystal; Aelfric, they had called it. It comfortably fit into the palm of her hand, and yet she claimed it held the power to lay ships, streets and vast structures alike to ruin. Dragan drummed his fingers against his arm, barely able to contain his excitement, though he held his tongue and remained in the shadow. He had his doubts Minister Lyla would reveal much if he were to pose questions, a fact he couldn’t even be too mad about, considering he had kept his own share of secrets.

After a quick explanation that barely scratched the surface of her invention, she left them with the Aelfric and one of their servants she had introduced as Milo in their care. The woman stood in the center of the room, an ever-pleasant smile on her lips as the others began discussing what to do with the blast crystal. Dragan wasn’t sure he was too fond of her listening in, though considering that he had been granted entry as an – objectively speaking – outsider as well, he shouldn’t be too quick to judge her based on first impressions.

Benedict proposed to destroy the Telliore dam with the Aelfric, intending to use the ensuing flood as a mean to rid themselves of the Aesfrosti soldiers inside the capital without risking a fight. The plan was nothing if not brutally efficient, but Dragan shared Roland’s and Frederica’s aversion to the idea. Dragan couldn’t imagine justifying such an act to his own people after the fact. How would Roland even start to explain the destruction to the citizens of Glenbrook?

Roland spoke up next, laying out an alternative to Benedict’s plan. He wished to sneak into the castle unseen and target the commanding officers directly – Thalas and Erika, Avlora and Gustadolph himself no doubt. The Aelfric would be used to destroy the warships and cut off any means of escape. Dragan liked the sound of that much more for one.

Frederica, finally, advanced that they should use the crystal to destroy Whiteholm Bridge, leaving their targets trapped inside the castle. Confronting Gustadolph outright was certainly a bold strategy, born out of the goodness of her heart and her care for the people. Dragan’s mind ran through how he might factor into the different scenarios.

“We could ask them to yield, free Glenbrook, and reestablish the trade between our nations,” Frederica proposed gently but firmly, “I am certain we can find a way to make both parties agree.”

“Negotiate…” Roland’s words were filled with a quiet tension, barely slipping out from under his breath.

Dragan had his own doubts about Gustadolph’s reasonability. However, the thought of confronting them head-on sparked an idea in his head. As Serenoa called for a decision to be made and the Hyzantian woman finally vanished with a courteous bow, Dragan spoke up, “Lord Serenoa, may I have a word before you decide?”

Serenoa didn’t seem to expect the interjection; he took a moment to reply, “Of course, you best speak it now.”

“Thank you kindly.” Dragan stepped forward, finding his place right besides Frederica. “I find myself in agreement with Frederica; an open confrontation may yield the best results. While I don’t harbor much hope regarding Gustadolph and his lot… I wish to speak to the Aesfrosti soldiers myself.”

Benedict was the first to break the silence, “You plan on revealing the truth to them?”

“I do,” Dragan affirmed with a sense of clarity and purpose he had been yearning for since the day he’d put this damned mask on, “I can’t imagine Gustadolph has been honest with them. They deserve a chance to judge the situation for themselves before engaging in battle.”

“Do you believe they will hear you out?” Anna questioned, “They have been following Gustadolph’s orders this entire time.”

“Some of them will be bright enough to understand the truth when presented with it,” Dragan insisted, “Besides, if we plan on taking the offensive, why should I delay the inevitable any longer? Not for any of our safety, that’s for sure.”

“If you reveal your survival and accuse Gustadolph of attacking Glenbrook under false pretense, that might indeed stir unrest between the Aesfrosti,” Benedict considered, “For better or worse.”

“True, though if we plan on putting Gustadolph to justice for his abhorrent actions, it will be in our best interest to weaken his stance with his own people,” Hughette added.

“My thoughts exactly,” Dragan exclaimed, “Besides, in order to stand with you during this fight, I must give the soldiers a chance to understand. If I fight against them under false pretense, I will do nothing but antagonize them. How am I ever supposed to set foot into Aesfrost if I so blatantly disrespect my own people?”

Perhaps Dragan had gotten a bit too heated there; he doubted half of them cared much, though he hoped they recognized him as a better potential ally than Gustadolph at least.

“You plan on returning to Aesfrost once this is settled,” Roland stated, momentarily snapping Dragan out of his thoughts. Out of all they had discussed, this was somehow the hardest thing to answer. Dragan searched Roland’s expression for the hurt he had believed to hear in his voice, though his mask shielded his eyes from betraying his inner workings.

“Not immediately, nor exclusively,” Dragan tried to appease him. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice firm. “I still plan on repaying the debt I owe House Wolffort and Glenbrook for sheltering me. However, if I wish to stand against Gustadolph, I must take upon the responsibility he’ll leave behind.”

Dragan hoped Roland would answer him, though he was only met with a curt nod. Instead, Benedict spoke up again, “Of course, that is very… prudent of you, Lord Dragan.”

“I believe Dragan has a point,” Frederica said before Dragan could comment on Benedict’s apprehensive words, “If negotiations with my siblings… with the Archduke turn out fruitless, it will be a blessing to have an Aesfrosti representative on our side.”

“Exactly, I consider it nothing if not mutually beneficial,” Dragan agreed, “Though, I suppose I must leave that up to you to decide.”

“I’m afraid so,” Serenoa concluded, “Thank you for sharing your thoughts. We shall take them into consideration.”

“Much appreciated.” Dragan shot Roland one last glance before taking his leave, though he came up empty on any definitive read on his mood. Once the vote was cast, Dragan hoped, he’d be able to clear the situation up. For now, it was back to waiting – hopefully for the last time in a good while.

Dragan, impatient as he was in good honesty, took to waiting outside the halls for their decision. He already planned out his words for the Aesfrosti soldiers. Would he have to debate Gustadolph or the twins openly? Gustadolph was by far his bigger worry; he, for one, knew a thing or two about subtlety. Dragan would have to combat him with brutal honesty, then. Straight to the point, just like it suited him best.

He perked up when the door swung open, followed by an array of footsteps creaking on the wooden floor. The way Frederica smiled and nodded at him was affirmation enough. Dragan would have burst with excitement any moment if his gaze didn’t land on Roland next, reminding him to go about this with a sense of tact, at least until he had him figured out.

Dragan stood straight as an arrow as Roland approached. “Roland…”

“Apologies,” Roland beat him to it, “I didn’t mean to catch you off guard in there. It’s not like you said anything… unexpected.”

Dragan fought the urge to reach out for Roland then and there, giving him his undivided attention instead.

“No need to apologize,” Dragan replied, lowering his voice so as to not catch anyone’s attention, “I should have brought it up sooner, not during a council meeting.”

“I believe you have made your intentions quite clear in the past. I shouldn’t have expected that to change just because…” Roland shook his head, his voice growing ever quieter, “I’m not sure what I was thinking, to be honest.”

“You know I’m not going to abandon you, right?” Dragan questioned, almost catching himself chuckling at the absurdity of the thought, “I’m still going to return to help you. Besides, someone will have to handle all the… diplomatic visits to Glenbrook, and I believe I am just the man for the job.”

To be perfectly honest, Dragan hadn’t spared much thought on how he would handle his relationship with Roland once this war came to an end and they returned to their duties. Not too long ago, he had branded the thought of his feelings amounting to anything as an impossibility. They hadn’t had any plans on how to advance against Gustadolph besides. Still, how hard could it be to make time for the man he had so hopelessly fallen for once peace returned to this realm?

Dragan breathed a sigh of relief as Roland smiled after all. “Indeed. Maybe I’ll even put in a good word for you.” Roland shifted his footing, his hand clenching and untensing. It was a nervous habit Dragan had seen him display before. “Besides, you still haven’t made right on your promise to show me around Aesfrost, so we better aim to realize that sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, now that’s the spirit!”

Perhaps Dragan was reading too much into this. After all, it was only natural for Roland to be unrestful considering the upcoming battle. Speaking of which…

“I take it Frederica’s plan was chosen, based on her pleased expression?” Dragan inquired.

“Ah, yes,” Roland affirmed, “I suppose I should have mentioned that first… You’re free to plead your case to the Aesfrosti soldiers as well.”

“A wise decision!” Dragan cheered, “I won’t be disappointing you!”

“No, I know you won’t.” The tension in Roland’s posture remained, most evident in how he squared his shoulders. Dragan had an idea or two in mind on how to work that tension out of his dear prince later.

“Serenoa told us to prepare for the battle ahead,” Roland informed him, “And to gather our strength while we can. We are to depart in a couple of days’ time.” He fell silent until Dragan affirmed with a nod. “I was thinking I might pay the training ground a visit. It’s been a while, and it always helps me clear my head.”

Dragan tilted his head. “Aren’t you still supposed to take it easy?”

“I need to be ready once the battle arrives,” Roland insisted, “Just a couple of sets to get back into the rhythm of it.”

Dragan took a small step closer, giving Roland a swift once-over. “All right, I won’t argue with that… though I’ll personally make sure you get some rest after that. We can’t have you training the night away.” Dragan stretched his arms towards the ceiling. “It’s been a while since we last trained together anyways. We ought to do this just for nostalgia’s sake, right?”

“Right.”

Dragan tried not to dwell on Roland’s subdued tone of voice too much. Training indeed had a way of centering him; not to mention that Dragan wouldn’t be caught dead complaining about the chance to keep a close eye on Roland while he did. Just a couple of days, Dragan repeated like a mantra, and all their patience and effort would finally pay off. Once all was put to rights, Roland’s downcast expression would surely clear up for good.

Chapter Text

Roland paced his room without end that night, pretending to busy himself with sorting through what little belongings he had in Wolffort. His steps ticked like clockwork – tap, tap, tap. Dragan saw right through it, the circles he drew, the way his gaze grew distant. Roland tended to his weapon for the third time now, rubbing the spearhead down with weapon oil until it shone. Dragan could have watched it endlessly, the fluid motion, how the muscles of Roland’s hand flexed as he tightened his grip – if there hadn’t been the small detail of Roland slowly going mad as the evening progressed.

“Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a touch?” Dragan questioned, still seated on Roland’s bed as he watched him go at it.

Roland sighed, loosening his grasp on the spear. “I know what I’m doing, Dragan.”

Roland’s look was overcast with worry. Deciding that something had to be done, Dragan picked himself up from the mattress with a hearty stretch. He gently took Roland’s hand, finally stopping him from his monotonous task. Roland’s fingers were slick with oil, slipping easily between Dragan’s.

“It’s enough, Roland.” Dragan stepped closer, trying to catch Roland’s gaze with his own. The warm light of the candles bounced off Roland’s features, making his eyes shine with a rich glow.

“It’s never enough.” Roland’s reply was barely audible; Dragan thought he’d imagined it for a second. “The decisive battle draws ever closer. If we fail…”

“We won’t!” Dragan squeezed Roland’s hand tightly. “Gustadolph doesn’t hold a candle to our combined might. Wolfforts’ battle prowess, the Aelfric, Hyzante’s prestigious army… You even have me as a loyal companion – as an ace up your sleeve.”

Roland finally returned his affection, leaning in until their foreheads were touching. Dragan’s heart melted at the tender touch.

“True, what a lucky chap I am…”

Roland’s eyes didn’t wander anymore, instead staying fixed on Dragan. Dragan wrapped his arms around Roland’s shoulders as if to keep him so.

“You need to gather all the strength you can,” he tried to coax Roland into taking it easy, “Come to bed.”

Roland’s gaze flicked aside for a split second before drawing to Dragan again. “Together?”

Dragan chuckled, pulling him a little closer. “Of course, if you want to.”

A hint of light finally broke through Roland’s overcast expression. He leaned closer, his hand coming to rest on Dragan’s hip as if they were engaging in a delicate dance.

“I do.”

“You make it seem a touch scandalizing, my prince.” Dragan tipped his weight against Roland, his heat and scent clouding his mind. Leather, traces of vegetable oil and that sweet, floral fragrance he could pick out from a crowd. Roland followed suit, leaning in until his warm breath hit Dragan’s lips.

“Just give me something to take my mind off things,” Roland murmured “It’s all I’m asking for.”

The temptation to close the distance between them was unbearable, only a hair’s width left between their lips. Dragan’s fingers curled around Roland’s shoulders as he restrained himself, tipping his head downwards.

“I’d much rather you do this because you want me,” he insisted. When their eyes met, there was nothing to soften the blow to his heart.

“I never implied that I don’t,” Roland retorted, graciously like he’d never wavered to begin with, “Not a day goes by without me longing for you.”

Dragan’s laugh rumbled in his chest, barely making it past his tight throat. He could feel every fluttering heartbeat reverberating through it.

“My, my, quite the charmer you are.” Dragan loathed how his voice broke when he was caught off guard. He had hoped no one would notice the quirk until Frederica had pointed it out to him. The way the corners of Roland’s mouth twitched into a smile revealed that the detail wasn’t lost on him either. Dragan gulped down the butterflies that rose to his throat.

“Apologies,” Roland began, “It wasn’t my intention to –“

“No,” Dragan stopped Roland the moment his piercing gaze wavered and dropped to the floor, “It was a mere observation. A compliment, even.” Dragan’s hand found the nape of Roland’s neck, urging him closer. His voice grew quieter the more the distance between them melted. “Perhaps I’ve even done my own share of longing.”

Dragan damned reason and kissed Roland that instant. As their lips collided – Roland’s hand dug in his hair, his breath hitching – Dragan tried calculating his next move through the rush of euphoria.

He’d like to think he had gotten the hang of kissing Roland by now; Roland’s breathing stuttered whenever he pressed closer or gave him a gentle nibble, which, surely, was to be taken as a good sign. Perhaps Dragan should continue from there? He shivered at the mere memory of Roland’s sultry lips all over his neck. Dragan could even do him one better, explore each sweet spots of Roland’s flushed skin to the last. Where to begin?

Dragan stumbled over his thoughts as Roland nudged him backwards. Right foot, left foot. He only put two and two together by the time the bedframe pressed into his calves. Dragan didn’t hesitate to tip his weight backwards. Their teeth clacked as they impacted the mattress with a soft thud. He’d have to apologize for that later.

Yes, later, Dragan decided when Roland’s touch lost its restrain. He would have teased the prince for forgetting his noble upbringing if his mouth hadn’t been occupied. Roland tousled Dragan’s hair as he pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together. Dragan returned the favor, his fingers digging into Roland’s collar.

The heat was unbearable, steady sparks beneath his skin. The sheets rustled beneath them as they scrambled to find a steady, comfortable position on the bed without breaking contact, a hectic mixture of pushing and pulling. Dragan’s hips rolled up against Roland’s before the thought ever filtered through his mind, throwing both their breaths out of rhythm. The moment Roland’s arousal brushed against him, any sense of hesitation evaporated. Dragan did it again, with more purpose this time, shivering as they rubbed together through layers of clothing that seemed entirely too bothersome all of a sudden.

He pulled Roland in deeper, his fingers hunting for the shape of Roland’s body through layers of fine linen and leather. A muffled groan escaped him when his efforts were met with little success.

“Take it off,” Dragan huffed against Roland’s lips, watching as they twitched into a smile.

“Someone’s demanding…” Roland leaned back, his gaze trailing over Dragan’s body as if he could pull his clothes off with that alone. He rolled the topmost button of Dragan’s shirt between his fingers. “You first, dear.”

Dragan would have gotten weak kneed if he hadn’t been lying down already. Roland’s gaze was burning like fire, leaving trails of heat in its wake. Dragan dropped his hands above his head, shivering at the thought of giving Roland a proper look. “If you insist.”

“Oh?” Roland almost seemed surprised that his request was met. He didn’t waste a moment’s time; his nimble fingers worked down the row of buttons, his fingertips grazing Dragan’s much too hot skin. Dragan’s belly coiled with excitement at every light tickle.

Roland brushed the shirt off Dragan’s shoulders as if he was unwrapping something delicate. Dragan leaned into the touch, pushing up to finally slip out of the garment completely. His compliance was rewarded without delay; Roland’s fingers ran over his chest, the touch light as a breeze at first, trailing the outlines of Dragan’s muscles and bones. Dragan shivered as Roland’s touch grew firmer.

It was a foreign sensation, tickling Dragan’s skin. Roland’s touch trailed down, down. His gaze followed, clear and striking. It would have been enough to pick Dragan apart without the firm, blessed touch of his hands. As it teased the valley between Dragan’s hips, Dragan’s stomach was filled to the brim with butterflies, trying to break from his throats in airy huffs and hums. Dragan pushed his hips up, aching for Roland’s touch.

“What about you?” Dragan huffed, grasping Roland’s collar, “You’re still awfully uptight, my prince.” Dragan’s fingers tightened around the slick fabric, pulling Roland closer. “Call me greedy; I want all of you.”

“As you wish,” Roland hushed.

Dragan’s heart drummed in anticipation as Roland undid the belt buck that adorned his slim waist, dropping it to the floor with a rattle. He remembered fantasizing about this and feeling dirty.

“Have you thought about this before?” Dragan inquired as Roland slipped out of his vest.

“Are you trying to tell me you haven’t?”

The remark brought out a laugh, deep from within Dragan’s chest. “I will take that as confirmation.”

Dragan brushed Roland’s neck as he finally undid his shirt. Roland’s fingers slipped from the button he was undoing at the contact. Had Dragan witnessed Roland’s nimble fingers err before?

“I think part of me wanted this for a long while.” Dragan startled himself with his own earnestness. Then again, he was about to bear himself to Roland; he might as well speak his mind. “I once considered that… shameful.”

Dragan drew patterns on the skin Roland exposed, his gaze hunting every bit as it was revealed. Roland was about to bare himself too, raw and eager and drop-dead gorgeous. When Dragan didn’t know how else to show his gratitude, he pulled Roland into a gentle kiss.

“We better make up for lost time,” Dragan hushed, tugging at Roland’s shirt as he finally peeled it off.

Dragan drank in the sight before him: Roland’s fair skin, the warm candlelight bouncing off the fine lines of his body, casting him in a rich glow. His muscles flexed under Dragan’s touch – the point where his neck met his shoulder, his arms, down his side to his abdomen. It was exquisite, graceful as his movement and radiant like the sun. Dragan tried to burn the shape of Roland’s body into his memory as if this was his one and only chance to enjoy him in full.

“See?” Dragan remarked, “That’s much better if you ask me.”

He hooked his fingers behind the sharp line of Roland’s jaw, feeling the rugged stubbles he must have missed while shaving, and pulled him in. His lips sought out Roland’s neck with a deep hunger. Roland’s pulse rushed beneath them.

Dragan didn’t waste time hesitating, his fingers digging into Roland’s back as he tried to claim more. The sweet rush of ecstasy of Roland’s body against his was almost too much to stand; Dragan twitched as Roland pressed their groins together, drowning in the heat of it. It wasn’t enough, never enough until he could finally have his lover whole.

“Roland,” Dragan mumbled against the slick skin of Roland’s neck, necking him with his teeth. He hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of Roland’s trousers, giving them a firm tug. “May I?”

“Yes.” Roland’s voice was sweet like honey. “Gods yes. I thought you’d never ask.”

A breathy chuckle broke from Dragan’s lips at the dramatic remark. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the buttons of Roland’s pants; hopefully, Roland was too enraptured to notice.

Dragan watched – stared – as he finally pulled Roland’s pants and undergarment down. The fantasies he had shoved to the outmost reaches of his mind came rushing over him, fantasies of having Roland all to himself, completely and utterly headless over him. Dragan relaxed into the sheets, letting his own legs spread wider.

He wrapped his fingers around the girth of Roland’s arousal, giving it an experimental rub. The soft gasp Roland gave him caught Dragan’s attention; the eager thrusts confirmed that it was given in approval. Roland’s eyes clouded with pleasure as Dragan met his rhythm in earnest.

Dragan had Roland’s pleasure in the palm of his hand. He had yearned for this man for moons past, and now he was finally all his, bare and raw. A man with needs; how obvious an observation. Dragan would gladly satisfy them all.

Dragan spat into the palm of his hand, making it easier to match Roland’s quickening pace. He recalled the tricks and habits he had picked up pleasuring himself. It wasn’t much, considering he’d usually work any rising frustration out in a hurry, but it was better than nothing right now.

He teased the underside of Roland’s length with a firm grasp, circling his thumb over the tender spot just below the head. Roland’s choked groan reverbed through Dragan’s body. Dragan could have basked in the sight forever. Each sound that broke from Roland’s throat, each thrust of his hips rewarded Dragan’s efforts twofold. Dragan’s fingers slid over Roland’s hard length with a growing sense of desperation, firmly hooked on his lover’s pleasure.

“You’re beautiful,” Dragan hushed, “More than I had dreamed of, even. I could watch you for hours.”

Roland gave a short, hearty laugh. Dragan’s heart leaped at the honest sound. Before he could meet Roland’s gaze, his lips were all over his, taking his breath away.

“Don’t flatter me,” Roland said, just as his lips wandered over Dragan’s cheek, “I’m not lasting that long.”

“Well, not with that attitude,” Dragan replied. The remark lit a spark of defiance in Roland’s eyes.

“Is that so?” Roland’s hand caught his wrist, putting an end to Dragan’s efforts. Somehow, Dragan felt more frustrated by the pause than Roland appeared to be. “I guess you ought to teach me a thing or two.”

Dragan caught himself holding his breath when Roland reached for the waistband of his trousers, his muscles coiling tightly. His hips arched off the mattress, eager to finally meet Roland’s touch.

“If you seek to chide me, I’m afraid this will yield little success.” Dragan kept his hips lifted as Roland tugged his pants down. He could get used to being undressed so eagerly; perhaps he would. If he could lie with Roland every night, he’d get to live a happy man.

“Hm… I suppose you could take this as encouragement,” Roland replied playfully, “What a shame that would be.”

Dragan tried his best to help Roland remove his trousers swiftly, wiggling his hips until the last bit of fabric finally came off. He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be flustered when Roland’s gaze wandered over his bare body; Dragan wasn’t. If anything, the unfiltered attention made Dragan’s stomach flutter with a warm sense of pride and belonging. At this rate, he would be getting hooked on it.

Roland’s first touch ran through Dragan like lightning, even when he barely took Dragan between his fingers. Roland swiftly made up for the moment of hesitation, stroking up and down Dragan’s length in a deliberate pattern. Roland knew too well how to work his fingers, when to apply and ease the pressure. It made the base of Dragan’s spine tingle, leaving him barely suppressing the urge to squirm in place.

Dragan only realized that a moan had slipped from him when Roland brought his thumb to his lips. It was hard to focus on Roland’s words over the blood rushing through his ears. “Sorry, can’t have anyone hear this.”

Right, that would be quite the scandal. Dragan nipped Roland’s palm on a whim – a little salty – switching down to his wrist, before finally pulling Roland into a sloppy kiss.

“A shame, really,” Dragan murmured, keeping his mouth busy with necking Roland’s jaw and neck. Now that they were pressed close, Dragan could feel Roland’s arousal brush against his thigh. The sensation sparked an idea. Roland’s pace stuttered as Dragan pushed him back, coming to a stop as Dragan grasped his wrist.

“If I may,” Dragan said as he aligned their bodies. He couldn’t fit his fingers around the both of them fully; squeezing down only made both their breaths hitch in time. “Too much?”

“No,” Roland breathed out, “No, not at all.”

Dragan gave them an experimental rub. The shiver that ran through him was quickly overshadowed by Roland’s sigh of pleasure. He was indescribably beautiful when his eyes darkened and his breath shallowed with lust. Dragan caught himself rutting into his own hand. Roland’s arousal was pulsing against him with every stroke, sending reverbing tingles of pleasure through his own body. Roland was still firmly rooted in place.

“Go ahead,” Dragan encouraged Roland, “No false shame.”

Roland’s reaction came a moment delayed, a careful attempt to match Dragan’s pace. Dragan’s free hand came up to rub the tension from Roland’s shoulders.

“Don’t hold back,” Dragan insisted, “I like it when you show your ardor.”

“I suppose if you like it…” Roland steadily picked up the pace. Dragan made a weak attempt to match his thrusts; when his rhythm threatened to fail him, Dragan simply arched his back against Roland, his hand matching Roland’s movement.

“Like this?” Roland questioned. His hand came to rest on Dragan’s hip, steady and grounding. The arousal made Dragan’s skin prickle, the small touch running through him like lightning.

“Yes, very good.” Dragan tried to commit Roland’s pace to memory. He matched his strokes to it as best as he could, even when Roland’s thrusts became more desperate. The moans lodged in Dragan’s throat. He swallowed hard to keep them from spilling, airing them out in a tense, feathery breath.

“Dragan…” His name was such a needy sound on Roland’s tongue. It was the sweetest reward Roland could have given him.

Roland’s forehead came to rest against Dragan’s, his breath sultry against his lips. The heat was trapped between their bodies, building with every carnal thrust. It turned Dragan’s mind deliciously blank, leaving him surrendering to the pace without so much as a thought to spare. Roland made it easy; his fingers dug into Dragan’s hip, hard enough to print faint marks on his pale skin. He kept Dragan firmly rooted in place, thrusting into his hand with desperate need.

Dragan trailed his free hand over Roland’s jawline, his voice airy as he spoke, “Just like that, Roland. I got you.”

Roland’s voice box bopped as he swallowed hard, his hitched breath melting into a whimper. His body tensed, firm wherever Dragan let his fingers wander. Dragan recognized what was happening the moment it hit. A deep, shuddering groan, hectic thrusts and a wave of euphoria that washed over Roland’s expression. His spend hit Dragan’s torso in hot ropes.

“Damn it…!” Roland practically choked on his words. Dragan laughed softly, only realizing that he’d been holding his breath when it burst out of him. He stroked Roland diligently through the pulses of his release, his own need momentarily on hold.

“Easy, Roland. Steady breaths,” Dragan advised, hypocrite that he was, “You’re doing well.”

Roland sunk against Dragan with a warbling sigh, tucking his head into the crook of his neck. His skin was practically glowing against Dragan’s.

“Apologies,” Roland mumbled against Dragan’s neck, “I… got ahead of myself.”

“Nonsense!” Dragan replied, brushing the fingers of his clean hand over Roland’s head. He wiped the other one on the sheets in a quick motion. “That was nothing short of delightful.”

“Mh…” Roland pushed himself up with trembling arms. Dragan trailed the firm muscles on a whim, as if to judge the force they held within. His arousal was protesting the break direly, though Dragan was too focused on Roland’s dazed, post-climax expression to listen to his body’s demand.

“You’re so focused,” Roland whispered. He breathed that so lightly, so naturally, and all in all suddenly enough that Dragan thought he had imagined it for a moment. Then Roland continued, “I can hardly keep my head together, and yet…”

The odd weight Roland’s airy words carried made everything still for a moment. He searched Dragan’s face, apparently unable to find what he yearned for. Dragan didn’t falter under it.

“Is it bothering you?” Dragan asked.

He was being full earnest in his inquiry. Apparently, Roland took it as some form of accusation with how swiftly he dodged his gaze. “Apologies.”

“Don’t apologize,” Dragan insisted. It was at this point that he gave up on pursuing pleasure, dropping his arms onto the sheets and propping himself up with a pensive sigh. He wasn’t exactly sure what had gotten into Roland; maybe that despondency from before clung to him more stubbornly than Dragan had anticipated. “What is it you’re thinking about?”

Roland shook his head lightly, picking at the sheets. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. And now, of all times…”

Dragan kept his eyes on Roland, even when he had no luck on the gesture being returned. He pressed on undeterred, “I was under the impression we were to speak frankly to one another. I would be rather grateful if you were to heed that advise now.”

“It was an odd thought. It’s just that…” Roland’s voice lowered as if he was ashamed of the answer he gave. “You were so flustered before. When you spilled your heart to me, you…”

As Roland’s words trailed off, Dragan remained glued to his lips. Was Roland speaking of the moment he had confessed his feelings to him? Triggering the memory was enough for Dragan’s pulse to quicken all over again.

“Are you doubting my sincerity right now?” Dragan posed the first question that came to mind. Roland tensed instantly, his eyes finally meeting Dragan’s as they widened.

“No, no, nothing like that.” Roland stumbled over his words. The ones that followed took their time, drawing out like honey as he spilled them. “It simply felt… raw. It felt real.”

For one, punctuated moment, Roland was perfectly still. His gaze didn’t waver, neither did his voice. “It felt like I could have you.”

The unfiltered need with which Roland murmured the words sent shivers down Dragan’s spine. For a couple of heartbeats, Dragan remained in place, his eyes locked with Roland’s. The thought of Roland being so recklessly head over heels for him sent butterflies through Dragan, no matter how inconvenient his timing had been.

“Oh,” was all that Dragan mustered at first, an involuntary grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Pray, forgive me. I’m being terribly selfish again,” Roland quickly backed down.

Dragan’s half-suppressed smile finally flourished into a laugh. “Oh, quit being dramatic!”

Dragan reached up, trailing across Roland’s cheekbone, down his jaw. He could feel the rapid beat of Roland’s heart as his fingertips brushed over his neck.

“I’m not exactly keeping much from you here.” Dragan sprawled out beneath Roland as if to make a point. “If you want me so badly, you’re free to have me.”

He had clearly seen the desire in the way Roland’s gaze clung to him. Why would Roland think to contain something so precious? It came back with a vengeance at Dragan’s words, burning brighter in Roland’s eyes than the reflection of the candlelight, yet he still didn’t set it free.

“You can tell me what you’re thinking about,” Dragan insisted, “We’ve got the whole night to figure this out.”

Besides, Dragan wanted to make the most of the time they could spend at each other’s side. He’d rather not draw attention to that, least Roland grew disheartened at the thought of having to part again, even if just temporarily.

“There’s been something in the back of my mind,” Roland began hesitantly, “Perhaps it’s mere curiosity, but I suppose if you’re asking…” Roland paused again, as if Dragan’s anticipation wasn’t drawn taut enough yet. “I’d catch myself imagining how it would feel to take you whole. It’s… a gluttonous kind of desire.”

“Take me whole?”

“I want to be inside you.”

Roland had actually managed to take him off guard with that one. Dragan tried his darndest not to show it. He hadn’t ever dared to think that far ahead. Somehow, the thought that Roland had was more flattering than anything.

“Apologies, it’s not that important,” Roland added.

“None of that; I was asking, after all,” Dragan replied, “I suppose that’s a rather natural thought to have.”

“Truly?”

Dragan simply nodded, watching the figurative wheels spin in Roland’s head. A moment later, Roland began anew, “Should I let you –“

“No,” Dragan interrupted firmly, cupping Roland’s face in his hands as if to underline the statement, “I meant what I said, and I intend to follow through on it.”

Dragan wrapped his arms tightly around Roland’s shoulders until they were close enough for their noses to brush together. Dragan’s skin lacked a touch of warmth – Roland’s warmth, preferably.

“I’ll ease you into it, my prince,” Dragan assured him, “You can make it up to me next time.”

Perhaps Dragan could pick up a trick or two until then, least he’d make a fool of himself trying.

Roland’s muscles finally relaxed under his touch. “I’d… like that.”

“Marvelous, it’s settled then!”

Roland rested against Dragan with a deep, soft breath, searching him with those attentive eyes.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Roland stressed, “I’ll stop.”

“Do you really think I would keep my mouth shut if something were to bother me?” Dragan questioned. He couldn’t help but smile anyways. The soft affection behind Roland’s words mellowed the edges of Dragan’s nerves.

“I appreciate that,” Roland hushed. He leaned down for a kiss, much lighter than before, giving Dragan a much-needed distraction. Dragan tried to focus on the soft pressure of Roland’s lips instead of what was about to happen. He still flinched when Roland reached between his legs, slipping his fingers between his buttocks and gently pressing down against his entrance.

Was this reckless? Knowing them, the answer was most likely yes, but was it too reckless? Roland seemed rather convinced by the idea, so Dragan wouldn’t dare to knock it before he tried it, especially considering his… limited knowledge regarding the topic. He didn’t expect Roland to pull back as soon as he did.

“I need something to slicken my fingers with,” he assessed, “I don’t want to risk hurting you.”

For a moment, Roland’s fingers rested against his lips, though his focus soon shifted. He got up from the bed without another word, retrieving the small phial of weapon oil he’d been using for the better part of the evening. He put it down on the bedside table, presumably to show Dragan, though Dragan’s attention got caught on Roland’s body as he finally took off his pants that they hadn’t fully bothered with before.

“Do you think this might work?” Roland questioned.

“Well, only one way to find out,” Dragan replied, his gaze still busy devouring Roland whole. Simultaneously, Dragan was filled with unbearable impatience and the yearning to make this night last a short eternity.

“True.”

When Roland joined him again, Dragan spread his legs to give him more room. The cork gave a soft plop as Roland pulled it from the phial, momentarily making Dragan’s heartbeat stutter in anticipation. How fickle. The oil made Roland’s fingers shimmer in the warm candlelight. One deep, even breath, Dragan schooled himself, breaking through the bundle of nerves that settled in the pit of his stomach.

He made his best attempt to work with Roland as he tried anew. No point in sharing his nerves and making them both anxious. Roland didn’t push too hard, instead leaning in to kiss Dragan’s neck. He was ever the swift learner, hitting Dragan’s sweet spots without erring. Dragan shuddered, twice over when Roland finally managed to work a finger into him.

“Oh…” What escaped Dragan didn’t exactly qualify as a moan, more so a surprised exclaim, perhaps even a question. Dragan’s body wasn’t sure what to do with the pressure. It wasn’t painful, not even when Roland added a second finger and pushed down. Dragan’s core coiled. He squirmed as the tingles tugged at his nerves. It was overwhelming, not quite pleasure or discomfort, and yet it was filling him to the brim.

“Can you try to relax?” Roland hushed against his wet skin. The way he sucked on the spot where Dragan’s shoulder met his neck momentarily stole his focus. “Is that all right?”

Roland slowly shifted his fingers in and out. In and out. Dragan braced himself through the shivers. His downy hair stood on edge. The thought of doing this with Roland, of feeling him so deeply, finally made his body give way.

“It’s all right,” Dragan affirmed, “It’s… more sensitive than I expected.”

“Okay, I’ll be careful.”

Dragan pulled Roland closer when he didn’t know how else to express the wave of adoration that swallowed him. Roland smelled like sex, a hint of salt joining the familiar scent. He didn’t rush, allowing the sensation to build as he kept thrusting his fingers into Dragan. Dragan’s body tensed and eased at Roland’s rhythm. Once the unfamiliarity wore off, he recognized the sweet tingles of pleasure that poured down his spine.

“Don’t worry. It feels good,” Dragan mumbled, clinging onto Roland tightly. Roland’s ministrations had the power to leave him absolutely boneless and – as he found out that instant – make his mind go blank with pleasure.

Dragan’s hips arched off the mattress, seeking out the touch that rippled scorching sparks through his vision. He pressed his lips to Roland’s neck, desperately trying to choke the moans and cries that wanted to escape him. Dragan flushed at the thought of drawing attention to his undignified state. The things he was ready to do for this man.

“Is it too much?” Roland questioned. Was that why he stopped moving? Dragan rutted down with a whine in an attempt to make Roland repeat the motion.

“No. Stars, no,” Dragan managed to reply, “You have no idea how good that feels.”

“Oh? It’s a good thing you plan on showing me then.”

Dragan’s mind bounced from one idea to the next. Roland teased the sweet spot with an utter sense of indulgence, making Dragan’s body wrap around his as if Roland was the only thing keeping him grounded in reality. Dragan ached to finally be released from the tension. It was just at the edge of his grasp, yet frustratingly far out of reach. How Roland found the restrain to not claim the mess he was making of him was beyond Dragan. Dragan’s gaze flicked down, affirming that Roland was quite ready again to take this further.

“Roland,” Dragan huffed, “Are you not planning on… seizing the opportunity?” He grumbled when Roland haltered, his body still stubbornly chasing the rhythm. “Now, preferably.”

The clear instruction seemed to work wonders on Roland. He gently let his fingers slip out, quickly starting to spread a fresh coat of oil over his own length. Roland’s hands were trembling. Dragan dug his fingers into the sheets, trying to pretend he was faring any better. He tried calculating how well his body would be able to accommodate Roland’s girth, his stomach doing somersaults at the thought.

Roland’s hand slipped on Dragan’s skin as he grasped for his hip. Dragan held his body tense in anticipation, trying not to be taken off guard by what would happen next. His toes curled the moment Roland pushed in. Dragan let a sharp intake of breath slip at the first pang of discomfort and just like that, Roland froze perfectly still.

“Are you all right?” Roland questioned. Dragan nodded, absentmindedly gnawing on the inside of his cheeks. He recalled what little he had been told about sex before, specifically how women supposedly experienced pain when losing their virginity. He’d felt rather bad about it back then, but it was a whole other story to experience something like it. Was this just part of the process?

Roland was about a finger deep in when Dragan grasped for the base of his braid, trying to suppress the urge to tug on it. A kiss to his nose, his cheek, light and refreshing like the touch of a snowflake. Roland took Dragan’s clenched hand and pressed it into the mattress, intertwining their fingers even as Dragan squeezed him for dear life. Dragan distracted himself from the sting with kissing Roland, impatiently nibbling on his lips.

Roland’s breath came tense and shallow, his free hand digging into the sheets. His touch on Dragan never grew forceful. He simply held still, giving Dragan one soft kiss after the other. Dragan practically melted into the sheets as the simple act of care registered.

He flinched when his muscles began to pucker, trying to fight through the tingles of anxiety. Once he allowed himself to relax, the ache faded into a much more bearable pressure.

“You’re actually inside me,” Dragan remarked. The observation was obvious, but in the moment, it was the most remarkable thing. Every slight twitch or motion from Roland ran through Dragan like lightning, not a moment’s delay between their bodies.

“Is that… a good thing?” Roland questioned, still firmly rooted in place. Dragan finally extracted his hand from Roland’s gentle hold, wrapping his arms around Roland’s neck.

“Yes, very good,” he affirmed, “Don’t you think?”

“No, of course. It feels like heaven.” Roland’s voice was light and to the point, making Dragan nuzzle closer with a pleased smile.

“See? You worry too much.”

When Roland returned his smile, Dragan’s heart just about overflowed with joy. Each light kiss sent shivers down his spine, pooling in the small of his back. Roland gently sunk deeper until their bodies were pressed flush against each other. The thin sheen of sweat, evidence of their shared excitement, made them cling together.

Dragan let a small moan slip, muffled against Roland’s lips. He wished he could show his appreciation more ardently and reward Roland’s slow thrust with unrestrained sounds of pleasure. Dragan met him in earnest instead, rocking into Roland’s motions until they found a shared rhythm. If this was something he should have been ashamed of, it was the sweetest sin Dragan had ever had the pleasure of committing.

“Like this, dear?” Roland cooed, “Or do you want something different?”

“’tis good,” Dragan murmured, trying to wiggle into a position that would let Roland sink deeper, “Maybe… try going harder.”

Roland’s eyes gleamed with a touch of challenge. “That can be arranged.”

The moment Roland thrust into him without restraining himself, the air was knocked clean out of Dragan. It was hard to tell up from down over Roland’s body pressed against him and the sweet pressure of his cock. The line between where his body ended and Roland’s begun became increasingly blurred. For one, punctuated moment, Dragan didn’t have to worry about any of it. Thinking became obsolete when simply being brought him the purest sense of bliss he had ever known.

“Roland… I…”

…love you.

Dragan’s heart squeezed in his chest, fluttering like the dainty wings of a songbird. The way Roland’s clear, blue eyes looked at him, only him, made him quiver with delight.

“I need you,” Dragan finally huffed, “Don’t you dare stop now.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

Dragan wondered whether Roland was experienced with this or was just showing his ever-observant nature. He kept gently adjusting his approach, shifting Dragan by his hips and thighs until he was a quivering bundle of excitement. Dragan urged his hips to meet Roland’s thrusts. His body was tightly coiled, hot and crackling with arousal that was ready to come to boil any moment. A spark of hot-white flashed before his vision when Roland, blessedly, wrapped his fingers around his cock. A couple of well-timed strokes, just as Roland hit his core and Dragan was unraveling without a chance to catch himself. He let himself drop gladly.

For one, blissful moment, Dragan’s mind went blank. Roland was hot and urgent against him. His sultry mouth caught Dragan’s moans. The surges of pleasure kept coursing through his system in waves, pooling in his core while somehow ravaging him from head to toe. Dragan let a delighted sigh slip against Roland’s lips, waiting for the sparks of pleasure to fizzle out.

Roland tensed in his grasp, his breath shallow. Dragan trailed the accentuated muscles of his back as he came down, his fingers tightening their hold as he felt Roland follow him over the edge. Roland twitched inside him with every surge of his release, hot and deep in a way that rose a flush up Dragan’s neck. Dragan kissed Roland patiently, drinking in every drop of pleasure that rolled off Roland’s body and voice. A delighted, boyish ‘woah’ escaped Dragan, though he wasn’t sure Roland was present enough in mind to catch it.

In another reality, Dragan considered, this would have been enough to commemorate their union. It was a silly, little thought, but when Roland sunk into his arms and his breath evened out, the thought that this could hold meaning just for the two of them made Dragan forget all his other worries.

“You’re good at this,” Dragan remarked, a chime in his voice. His hand started brushing over Roland’s silky hair.

Roland laughed, his weight barely lifting off Dragan as he pushed up. “Why, thank you. It was my first attempt.”

“Oh.” Dragan couldn’t help but grin as he realized he’d been skirting around the matter over nothing. “Well, that makes two of us.”

Dragan joined Roland’s laughter. It rung like freedom in his ears, like the song of birds high up in the sky. Dragan would gladly keep fighting if it would grant them more moments like these, completely wrapped up in each other.

“We should get you cleaned up,” Roland remarked gently, “Sorry about that.”

Dragan shifted as he drew attention towards it, feeling the cooling traces of their spend on his skin.

“Right, that.” Dragan sighed softly, stretching his sore muscles. “Care to help me, my prince?”

“Of course I do,” Roland replied, gently nipping the sweet spot on Dragan’s neck, “I’ll take good care of you, make sure you’re comfortable…”

“I like the sound of that.”

As they settled in for the night, a soothing quiet draped over them, the uneasy air from before now replaced with their shared, even breath.

Roland watched Dragan’s chest rise and fall in a gentle rhythm, trying to synchronize his own breathing with it. They had long since extinguished the candles, and Dragan had fallen asleep shortly after with nothing but the milky glow of the crescent moon to illuminate his features. Occasionally, Dragan would mumble in his sleep – if it could be called that. It was much too soft to make out even a single word. Just a touch buoyant, even when fast asleep. Roland smiled to himself, barely convincing. He pulled Dragan tighter against his chest. One steady breath, in and out.

It was a calm night. The calmest night Roland had had in weeks. They weren’t on their way across all Norzelia and back, they weren’t caught in a raging storm or a scorching desert, and there was no immediate threat to their lives. The breeze carried the gentle murmur of leaves in through the window. Dragan was peacefully asleep in his arms; Roland should have been too.

Roland replayed the way Dragan had clung to him over and over in his mind, praying it meant something. He recalled how Dragan’s sharp gaze would find him without fail. Roland recalled the insecurity it had triggered when they had first met all those months past. With how much attention Dragan diverted to him, how come he hadn’t found something that had made him pull back yet?

Roland gently sorted through Dragan’s hair, still tousled from their earlier activities. He let his fingers brush through it like a comb. It was different from his, not as slick, but softer and thicker. Roland froze for a moment as Dragan stirred besides him. The last thing he wanted was to wake him; he was happy enough that Dragan was sleeping at all, leave alone so peacefully. In the end, Dragan simply shifted closer, nestling his head against Roland’s chest with another, airy mumble. Roland let out a shaky breath on cue, even as his chest clenched tighter.

It was precious, seeing Dragan’s carefully woven focus ease into a state of calm. He looked so much softer when they were like this. Roland tried to imagine the moment Dragan’s eyes would flutter open and find him, the bright smile that would make his nose crinkle as he pulled him into a tight embrace. Roland’s focus pulled together. His world became a blur. Roland was falling.

“Please, just… don’t leave me,” Roland murmured, much too quiet to be made out. He held onto Dragan desperately, as if that had the power to make a difference.

Chapter Text

By the time Dragan woke up, the rays of sunshine gently warmed his body. The bed he found himself in faintly smelled like Roland. Dragan patted the space beside him in an attempt to make contact, though he only caught onto soft sheets instead. With a sigh, Dragan finally relented and opened his eyes, slowly turning to look around. His body was heavy with the remnants of sleep.

Roland was sitting at the desk, his back turned towards Dragan. He had his hair undone – a rare occasion. In fact, Dragan had never seen him like this. It spilled over the back of the chair all the way down to the seat. It looked even longer, somehow, than when he had it tied into his signature braid. Dragan adored the way the soft morning light made the cascade of hair shimmer. Roland combed through it with an even rhythm, working his way from the tips of his hair upwards in ever wider strokes. Watching the steady motion almost made Dragan drowsy again.

“You’re up early,” Dragan mumbled, his voice yet raspy.

Roland perked up, turning his head towards him. “Apologies, did I wake you up?”

“No. I don’t think so,” Dragan replied. He smiled, earnestly, unable to hide the sense of adoration that took hold of him if he’d tried – or wanted to, for that matter. “Your hair is really long.”

“That’s… very observant of you,” Roland replied, turning back to face the small mirror set up on the desk. Dragan still caught the way Roland’s lips twitched into a grin.

“Oh, spare me! I’ve just woken up.” Dragan watched Roland resume to rake through his hair for a couple more strokes before he got up to join him. As he leaned in, instinctively chasing Roland’s proximity, he rested his hand on the crown of his head. Roland’s hair was just a touch damp, the sensation hard to distinguish from mere cold. That sweet, floral scent filled the air more than ever. How long had Roland been up and about already?

“May I?” Dragan questioned, hovering his hand over the one Roland held the comb with. Roland gave it to him without question, leaning back in his chair as Dragan took over. Dragan tried to copy what Roland had done before, taking a couple strands of hair between his fingers, starting with short strokes at the tips before working his way up. Roland’s hair was silkier than the finest fabric.

“When Frederica and I were but children,” Dragan recalled calmly, “I was begging her to let me comb her hair one day. I hardly even remember why I was so insistent on it. Perhaps it was merely the novelty of it.”

Dragan diligently held Roland’s hair steady as he worked through a small knot.

“I was a small boy and rather clumsy,” Dragan continued, “I’m not sure why she let me continue. I had set my mind on getting it done, but I eventually relented when I caught her pouting. I hadn’t yet learned how to be gentle, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve much improved since then.”

Dragan smiled to himself, giving the top of Roland’s head a peck. “I’d rather hope so.”

After a small pause, Roland spoke up, his voice soft and steady, “I would often brush my sister’s hair. Mother used to do it for me when she was still with us, but seeing as Cordelia couldn’t remember that time… I took it upon myself to do it in her stead.” Roland’s voice grew quieter as he continued. “She wanted me to help her braid her hair like I do. She got the hang of it quickly, but she’d oft come back asking for my help anyhow.”

“I suppose you were more dexterous than I, even back then,” Dragan remarked, “I’d have requested your services already if I had known you’d be so skilled.”

Roland didn’t reply. Dragan had to crane his neck to catch the half-hearted smile that graced his lips. Was this about the topic at hand or had Roland carried this dreary attitude all morning?

“You’ll be able to see her again in a few days’ time,” Dragan reassured him, making an educated guess on what might be going on in Roland’s head. Roland’s hands clutched the fabric of his trousers.

“I hope so.” He practically gnawed on those words before letting them go. Dragan’s intuition hadn’t led him astray, then.

“Roland…” Dragan began, followed by a punctuated pause. He set the comb aside, walking around Roland to face him properly. “I’m not blind, you know? Talk to me.”

Roland ran his fingers through his bangs, swooping them back only for them to slip down to frame his face moments later. He gave Dragan a quick, inquiring look before he began.

“She’s in enemy hands,” Roland explained, “I’m afraid if we corner them… she’ll be the next victim on our trail of blood.”

Dragan leaned back against the desk, drumming his fingers against the hard surface. She’ll be alright, he wanted to insist at first. We’ll make sure of it. Could he truly promise something like that?

“I know it’s selfish of me,” Roland continued, his voice shaking, “So many people have lost everything due to my own failures. I’ve got far greater responsibilities to mind, but…” Roland’s hands trembled like leaves, his knuckles turning white. “She’s my little sister. I can’t possibly forsake her.”

Dragan gave Roland a sympathetic smile. He gently reached out to take his hands, trying to untangle them from their strained hold and take them into his.

“It’s not selfish,” Dragan insisted, “It just means you have a heart. I’d rather prefer if you held onto that.”

Roland’s lip quivered, not a smile, not quite a frown, just a shaky line of uncertainty.

“Gustadolph has kept her from harm all this time,” Dragan continued, “I suspect it would take a lot out of him to cast her aside after all.”

“You think so?” A loaded pause followed Roland’s words. “What if she’s more useful to them as leverage? If we put them under pressure…”

Dragan was grasping at this point.

“Even then, she won’t be of any use to them dead,” Dragan said, giving Roland’s hands a reassuring squeeze, “I promise I’ll do anything in my power to protect her.”

“Anything? For a girl you hardly even know?” Roland questioned, his voice stressed with a quiet kind of tension. A deep sigh escaped him just as he cast his gaze downward. “You have your own worries. You shouldn’t have to carry mine as well.”

“I believe I can handle it.” Dragan gently tipped Roland’s chin, nudging him to meet his gaze again. It was dreadful to see Roland so disquieted. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. Don’t try to make me change my mind; it won’t bear fruit.”

Roland smiled after all, a gesture Dragan immediately and gladly returned.

“I suppose you have a point.” Roland took Dragan’s hand, shifting it until he could place a gentle kiss to his palm. Dragan shivered at the soft contact. “Just… be careful, dear. You’re important to me too.”

Dragan’s heart drummed at the sudden tenderness, a gentle thump-thump-thump against his chest. He had given himself to this man but hours ago, and yet the simple, honest words made him tingle with glee. Dragan hoped the feeling wouldn’t wear off any time soon.

“Likewise,” Dragan replied, “We’ll have to keep an eye on each other.”

Roland seemed content with that for the time being. He leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair and weaving it into a braid. Dragan watched his handiwork for a moment, wondering whether Roland would appreciate a change in subject.

“Roland… Would you mind if I told Frederica about this? About us,” Dragan questioned, “She’s been extending some… encouragement to me. I don’t feel good about keeping her in the dark after all that she’s done for me.”

Roland simply blinked at him for a moment, pausing his movement before he finished and tied his braid. “She has? Well, I suppose I owe her my gratitude then.” The remark made Dragan smile from ear to ear. “Wish that we could be more honest to our friends as a whole. I’m not much for keeping secrets.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Dragan waved off, “Let’s focus on getting through this battle for now. You’ve got enough on your mind as is.”

“They’ve got enough on their minds as well, without me adding to it…”

“Roland,” Dragan sighed softly, “We’ve been over this.”

“Right.” The smile Roland gave him was clearly extended to soothe his worries. “Apologies, dear. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He got up, grasping for his mask.

“How about we start our day proper instead of worrying about what-ifs?” Roland proposed – and that was the end of that discussion.

Dragan managed to catch Frederica in a moment of quiet later that day. She was poring over a book in her chamber, like she used to in one of the quiet corners of the Archives. Books have always had a way of granting her comfort, a habit Dragan understood all too well.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” Dragan said as she bid him inside.

“It’s quite alright. Is something the matter?”

“Nothing really, I simply wanted to let you know that I have spoken to Roland,” Dragan said, absentmindedly fidgeting with his hands, “And I mean to thank you for your council. It appears I was in need of it after all.”

Frederica perked up, her eyes clearing for a moment. Her smile was a genuine one too, different from the slight ones she gave out of courtesy.

“I take it he’s responded in kind?” she questioned.

“He has,” Dragan affirmed, “Apologies for the poor timing. I know you have more important things occupying your mind as of now. I simply couldn’t go back to hiding this from you.”

“Nonsense! We could all use some good news during times like these,” Frederica waved off, her voice as soft as the breeze, “I’d say I’ve told you so, but that would not be very mature of me.”

“Oh, you’ve more than earned it.”

“Fair point,” Frederica admitted, though she didn’t take the chance after all, “Did you get a chance to tell your father?”

Dragan tensed at the notion. “No, I have not. We’ve had enough cause for worry during our short stay as is.”

“It’s no cause for worry,” Frederica insisted, “Though, you do have my understanding…” She paused for a moment, letting her fingers run over the spine of her book. “It’s a shame. You two have always been so close.”

“Well, I’m not banishing the thought… Just waiting for a more opportune moment.” Even as Dragan said that, his heart was racing in his chest. He was fortunate enough that Roland and Frederica had reacted as well as they did. Taking another gamble like that wasn’t the most appealing thing in the world.

“Let us speak of more urgent matters,” Dragan promptly changed the subject, “I also came to ask you how you’re feeling about our upcoming confrontation with your siblings.”

Frederica frowned. “The proposition to negotiate with them was my own. I am still of the belief that it’s our best option.”

“That I know,” Dragan replied, “I’m more worried about what may happen to you if the negotiations fail – if it came to battle.”

Frederica didn’t appear exactly comfortable with the thought; the tension in her shoulders made that much apparent. However, her gaze was far from skittish. It held a certain, undying fire as she met Dragan’s.

“If they were to choose that path, then so be it. I’m done running.” Frederica had a way of surprising Dragan with her unwavering determination all over again. Even when he knew the thought must be weighing on her, he couldn’t help but give her a smile. In a way, Dragan was proud of her.

He still remembered the quiet girl that scurried around the halls of Ironstone with a wary gaze, only ever allowing the fury to light up in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. One time, he recalled, she had stepped between one of Dragan’s and Thalas’s quarrels. Her voice had shook, her tongue tripping over Thalas’s name. Thalas hadn’t even hesitated, sending her to the floor with a sharp slap.

Dragan had seen red then.

“Leave him be, Dragan,” she had told him, before he had gotten a chance to return the favor.

“What…? He hit you! I… What did I ever do?!”

“Please, stop.”

The sheer fright in Frederica’s eyes had burned itself into Dragan’s mind. It had been like watching a deer freeze as it was cornered by wolves. Dragan had let off Thalas that instant, had bitten his tongue as Thalas regarded them with a dismissive sneer.

He couldn’t wait to see her bite back at long last.

“Yes,” Dragan affirmed, “Done running indeed.”

As the confrontation at the capital drew ever closer, the days went by all too slowly and yet were past in the flash of an eye. Now, Dragan was breathing the fresh river air, sitting on a ship that was Whiteholm bound. If that didn’t bring back old memories… The gentle rock of the water was the same. In a way, the excitement of finally, finally moving forward was familiar as well, even if they traversed the Norzelia River in the dead of night now, tense and ready for a fight if need be.

As they scaled Whiteholm Bridge, Dragan barely recognized the place. He remembered it bright and brimming with people, its gates open for any and all. Now, their group was the only source of life, and they were doing their best to not be perceived as such.

They gathered around Milo as she began setting up the Aelfric on the wooden center of the bridge, though they soon scattered as she spent one minute after the other tending to the blast crystal. Roland looked out towards the castle, with Hughette soon joining him. They must have both been eager to return home. Frederica seemed to be gathering her thoughts as Geela remained by her side. Dragan, meanwhile, kept his eyes on the Hyzantian spy as she handled the Aelfric.

He was hoping to gain an understanding on the new explosive, but he couldn’t make sense of Milo’s actions. She wasn’t exactly going through a mechanical procedure; obviously, considering the Aelfric was merely a small, violet crystal, easily fitting into the palm of her hand. The half-translucent material didn’t reveal any mechanism hidden inside. Perhaps it functioned similar to a magic stone? It seemed much more fickle with how long Milo took to set it up. Dragan suspected she was infusing it with a type of magic herself, but it was invisible as is.

His concentration was swiftly broken as the clattering of metal filled the night, followed by a surprised remark. “Wolffort!? When did you get here?”

Milo quickly stopped her efforts, hiding the Aelfric away. Dragan’s attention shifted to the source of the voice a moment later. It was familiar; when he spotted Thalas stepping through the now open gate, it became all too apparent why. Laughter shortly rang from the opposite gate as it revealed Erika with her signature sneer.

“Oh, I am so glad we didn’t leave this to Avlora,” she sniggered, “I am shocked, Frederica, to find you sneaking around like a common thief.”

And just like that, the two of them and their soldiers had them surrounded. Dragan’s mind sprung on the opportunity. Was it time to act already?

“If they won’t pass quietly,” Serenoa remarked towards their group, “we have no choice but to fight them off.”

Frederica’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “I’m well aware, my love.”

“Wait,” Dragan spoke up, “Do with Thalas and Erika what you will, but these soldiers are my people. They’ve fought more than enough battles based on Gustadolph’s lies.”

“Are you sure now is the best time…?” Serenoa began, but Dragan didn’t let that stop him from stepping forward.

“Thalas!” he exclaimed, enjoying the moment of confusion that washed over Thalas’s features, “Oh? Didn’t expect to find me here?”

Dragan pulled the mask off his face, casting it towards the ground. He did not plan on picking it up again.

“That’s impossible!” Thalas’s face twisted with a sense of indignation and shock both before he caught himself. “I saw with my own eyes that…”

Erika scoffed as he didn’t finish his sentence. “Gods, Thalas, how did you manage to let this one slip away?!”

“He was dead when I last saw him!”

“Are you all listening to this?” Dragan exclaimed towards the crowd, “They are not even trying to hide it! Thalas, Erika, Gustadolph… They have been lying to you this entire time!” He was so close now. If he just pressed on, he’d finally, finally have the upper hand. “Gustadolph was the one who ordered my death. He merely shifted the blame on Glenbrook in order to fabricate an excuse for this pointless war.

“None of this was necessary. None of this was justified! He set you against those who should have been your allies for his own, selfish gain!”

“Gods, you still just love to talk, do you?” Thalas groaned.

“Gustadolph has led our nation to victory,” Erika said, “Meanwhile, you’ve been… What? Cozying up to the Wolfforts? And you think anyone here will hear you out?”

“You’re taking up arms against your own kin, Dragan,” Thalas sneered, his agitation simmering down into an afterglow of fury, “That’s low, even for you.”

“You’re one to talk!”

Neither side dared move yet. For a moment, Dragan was optimistic that he’d manage to sway some of their men.

“What matters is that you’re standing against Aesfrost in this very moment,” Thalas remarked, “I’m sure everyone here understands that by siding with you, they’ll become as much of a traitor as you are.”

There were some quite murmurs, though not a single soldier broke from the line.

“Traitor?! You’re the ones who tried to stab me in the back!” Dragan’s frustrations boiled higher and higher in his chest, making the words on his tongue taste charred like ash. “You don’t get to brand me a traitor now.”

“That’s enough.” It took a moment to sink in that Frederica had stepped in. Her voice carried a firm sense of tenacity. “If none of you will listen to reason, I’m afraid we must settle this in battle after all.”

“Oh, such brave words, Frederica,” Erika sneered, “I wonder how long it will take for you to take them back and ask for my mercy.”

“I will not.” Oh, fierce like her fire magic indeed! Dragan quite liked that dangerous glint in her eyes. “I’ve cowered to your whims long enough. You don’t get to silence me any longer!”

Thalas practically burst into laughter, a hysterical edge in every sharp peak. “Well, well, you've finally learned how to stand up for yourself.” He pulled out his spellbook with a flick of his wrist. “Right before you die.”

Erika drew her knife but a moment later, marking the beginning of their battle. “Kill them—every last one!”

Chapter Text

With Thalas’s and Erika’s men surrounding them from both sides, slowly closing in, their group was soon forced into a tight pack in the middle of the bridge. Dragan tried to get through the armored units lining the front row with his fire magic, though they resisted his attacks surprisingly well by blocking them with their towering shields. He didn’t let that stop him; it would only take so long for the heat of his flames to work through the iron.

The small battlefield was soon shrouded in chaos; Erika had set fire to one of their flanks with a mix of oil and fire magic, forcing them to back away further. Thick clouds of smoke settled in the air, breaking the dim light of torches and stars into a blur. Dragan shot a ball of fire at a dark, towering figure approaching him.

“Don’t you dare kill that one yet!” Thalas exclaimed as one of the Blackirons’ shields came down in front of Dragan, making the cobblestone crack and splinter, “I’ll take care of him personally.”

Dragan tried to cast another spell to deter the Blackiron, but he wasn’t yet ready to feed another flame. He tried to weave out off the soldiers grasp as it closed around his arm, slipping on the ice the enemy archer must have left behind as he struggled.

“Dragan!” Frederica called out. One of her fire pillars began lapping at the soldier’s feet. Before it could light ablaze, the Blackiron’s heavy shield slammed into Dragan’s back, leaving him stumbling forward. Dragan caught his fall with one arm as his knees hit the ground, clutching his spellbook for dear life with the other. He wasn’t injured, was he? Before he could gain his footing, another soldier grabbed him by his shirt and practically shoved him to Thalas’s feet.

“There we go.” Thalas’s eyes burned with a cold type of fury, sharp like shards of ice. “No hiding this time, Dragan.”

Dragan’s fire lapped at his tongue, almost coming to boil in his chest as he glared up at Thalas. He used the chance to attack, flinging one sharp burst of flames from his fingertips. Thalas broke Dragan’s attack with his wind magic before it could connect, leaving them both stumbling back from the gust of flames.

No, that wasn’t any good! The flames were much too unfocused to start off, a mess of an attack. Dragan had to reel in his temper and focus on fighting. The only saving grace was that Dragan had enough time to stumble to his feet before the smoke settled.

“Ugh, must you do this?” Thalas sneered, brushing the dust off his shirt. Dragan focused his gaze on Thalas’s hands, trying to catch any attack before it could form. His heart pounded against his chest like sticks on a drum. Finally, a chance to repay Thalas for every insult, every sneer, every push. Finally, a chance to wipe that sleazy grin right off his face.

When Thalas wrapped the air around his fingers, Dragan’s first instinct was to counter the attack. Bad idea. The fire would just be blown towards him. He stopped at the first spark that lit at his fingertips, sidestepping the spell instead. The wind was sharp as a blade, leaving cuts over the sleeve of his shirt.

With that attack out of the way, Dragan was free to go on the offensive again. He took one deep breath, focusing all the energy he had into a small, burning sphere. He flicked it towards Thalas as fast as he could. Somehow, Thalas still had it in himself to redirect it, making it burst apart on the cobblestone instead.

“Oh! Why, you almost had me there,” Thalas mocked him. What a bastard. He hadn’t even lifted a finger during the battle so far.

“Shut your mouth…!”

“How rude. We haven’t seen each other in so long, dear Dragan, and this is how you greet me.” Thalas took one, slow step back. Was he trying to get out of range? Gain more room to react to Dragan’s spells? Dragan hesitantly stepped forward; the second step followed easier. Thalas’s eyes narrowed.

“I think I’ll quite enjoy celebrating your demise once over,” Thalas said, his words dripping with venom.

“What in the world is wrong with you!?”

“Wrong? With me?” Thalas sniggered. His steps betrayed him, backing up further towards the edge of the bridge. “Please, don’t act like you aren’t simply aching to burn me to the ground. That’s not very noble of you either.”

Sparks of fire made the air around Dragan crackle as he listened to Thalas’s insolent words. “You brought this upon yourself, Thalas! You and your lot started this entire war!”

“Do you ever tire of your own self-righteous rambling?”

Dragan hated the way Thalas would find ways to put him down, hated the way he smiled as he spewed venom, hated the unwavering air of superiority he cloaked himself in. Dragan loathed giving a damn about any of Thalas’s games still.

Their attacks clashed into a bright whirlwind of fire, filling the air with heat. Sparks across Dragan’s hand, snappy, little zaps. He wasn’t supposed to use all that energy blindly.

Before Dragan could compose himself, a surge of wind took hold of him. For a moment, Dragan felt completely weightless, unable to tell the starry night sky from the torch light flickering over the dark stone.

His shoulder hit the ground first. Before he could even gasp for air, his head bounced off the pavement. Sharp stone caught his skin as his body flung across it. Hot-white flooding his vision. A sharp impact stopped the hectic motion, knocking the air clean out of his lungs.

Where was his spellbook?

Better question: where was he? Dragan tried to assess his surroundings, but his vision blurred, leaving him stumbling in the dark. He forced himself up with a groan, his arms trembling and barely supporting his weight. His body was somehow burning and ice-cold all at once.

Sharp cuts ripped at his arms and chest, making him flinch before he could compose himself. Dragan tried to remain steady through the brunt of Thalas’s wind magic. Was Thalas toying with him? He could barely make out Thalas’s self-satisfied laugh over the droning of the battle around them.

Pull yourself together.

Dragan blinked, though his vision remained muddy.

Not here. Not like this.

He tried to rub his eye; his hand came back bloodier than before.

He had hit his head on the pavement.

“The ground suits you, Dragan.”

Dragan took a deep breath, as deep as his sore body would allow him. He could hear someone calling out for him, though the clash of metal drowned it out. Was he imagining things?

“Is this how you end it?” Dragan fought to make his voice carry. “Barely even facing me? You’re running away as if you’re scared of me!”

Come on, please. For once, let his cursed pride be worth a damn… Dragan practically prayed. With his spellbook gods knew where, there was no way for him to stop Thalas from afar.

“You’re the one cowering, Dragan!” Thalas’s voice was gaining an edge.

“Am I now?” Dragan grasped for the railing of the bridge, pushing himself up through the pain. He was so close to the edge now… If he could get Thalas over here, could he push him over the short railing? As long as Dragan kept his body low to the ground and held onto the metal bars, he should be able to remain up top through whatever struggle might ensue.

“You’re still a coward, Thalas,” Dragan called out, “Haven’t changed one bit since that day. You couldn’t face me in the mines, and you can’t now!”

His attempt at bravado fell short as his arms gave out from under him, leaving him sinking to the ground. His vision kept blurring, yellow and red flames melting over the dark stone. The way the pain caught up to him was the worst, biting at the sharp cuts and bruises over his body and making his head split.

“Brave words, coming from someone brought so low.” Thalas was getting closer. “Look at you, toiling in the dirt where you belong.” The steady clack of steps on pavement. “How does it feel? Knowing you’ll die right here without accomplishing anything? Tell me, Dragan, does it pain you?”

Dragan fought to focus on the pain over the fury. It brought more clarity. He curled in on himself as Thalas’s boot came down on his stomach, the sharp edge of his heel grinding against his ribs.

Focus. Breathe through the pain.

“This is what all those proud words get you,” Thalas spat out, “Would you like to take them back? I might – just might – make it less painful then.”

Dragan jumped onto his chance, grasping Thalas’s leg and throwing his weight against him. The sudden motion made the pain flare up, a sharp pang to his temple.

Focus.

Dragan’s heart raced as Thalas stumbled. He grasped for him, catching onto a fistful of his shirt. One clumsy tug was enough to tip him over. Dragan barely caught onto Thalas’s wide, panicked eyes before he tumbled over the edge and vanished.

For a heartbeat, Dragan was perfectly frozen in time. He didn’t hear the impact, barely even registering the sharp scream. He wanted to confirm for himself what he had done, drag himself up and gaze at the ground steps upon steps upon steps below. Dragan couldn’t find it in himself to move a muscle.

One deep breath in, one deep breath out. Did he manage to break free yet?

A shout tore through Dragan’s thoughts, sharp and somehow only reaching his consciousness the second time.

“Dragan!”

Roland. Dragan recognized his voice. He tried lifting his head. A stabbing pain in his temple and he crumbled back to the floor. Damn it all. His limbs pulsed with a numb ache, slipping on the ragged stone floor as he tried to steady himself.

“Dragan, can you hear me!?”

Dear stars, Roland’s voice was trembling and rushed. Dragan spat out the dirt and blood, the taste of copper lingering on his tongue.

“Fine,” he managed to say. He couldn’t control the wince as Roland moved his sore body. Dragan wanted to curl in on himself and breathe through the pain, though he indulged his worrywart of a partner instead. His head throbbed, even when Roland pulled him up into his arms slowly and steadily.

“You’re far from fine! You’re bleeding.” Roland brought his hand to Dragan’s forehead, trailing the wound without touching it directly. It was soothing. The gash throbbed, its sharp edges burning, and yet the light touch made Dragan’s eyes flutter shut.

“I can handle it,” Dragan mumbled, “Was worth it anyhow.”

“You’re a stubborn fool…” With the soft way Roland breathed that out, Dragan would take it as a compliment.

“Excuse me,” a third voice suddenly joined their conversation, “If I may take a look at the young lord… I believe I’ll be able to aid him.”

Dragan tried to follow the direction of the words. The glow of the torches flickered in the blurred edge of his vision.

“Stay away from him,” Roland spat out, his grip tightening around Dragan’s shoulder, “If you dare lay a hand on him, I shall make certain you’ll regret it.”

Ah, an Aesfrosti mage. One of the healers that had stood by Thalas’s and Erika’s side?

“I mean no harm. Aesfrost has lost enough in one night.”

Had Erika fallen too? Had they won?

Roland practically hissed at the reply. “Bold words coming from those who robbed my people of everything!”

“Hey,” Dragan cut in. He tried to push himself up to underline his words with some semblance of assertiveness. His hoarse interjection seemed to be enough to silence them for now. “Let him help.”

“You can’t be serious,” Roland uttered.

“I am. We could… use a healer, could we not?”

For a moment, neither of the men moved a muscle. Roland tilted his head up at the healer, his eyes narrowing as he mustered him. “If you bring any harm to him…” His threat was quieter the second time, though it didn’t lose its bite.

With a soft huff, Dragan let his weight sink against Roland. He couldn’t help but wonder whether he should allow himself that comfort now, in the middle of a quieting battlefield. Thinking too hard about it made his head pulse. Whatever. It was all right. As long as he was injured, it was all right. People wouldn’t think too much of Roland lending him a hand in a moment like this, would they?

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Aesfrosti affirmed, kneeling besides them. At least this one didn’t appear to care. Dragan’s head seemed to catch his attention first. The healer’s touch was light and quick, brushing Dragan’s bangs out of the way as he assessed him. Dragan flinched as the hair that had gotten stuck to the drying blood ripped from the open wound.

“I must clean and seal that wound,” the healer explained. When he shifted Dragan to a more open posture, less curled up against Roland, Dragan complied with a grumble. “I will give you some ointment to sooth the cuts as well, though they don’t appear to be as grave as the laceration. Are you experiencing pain anywhere else, my lord?”

“This would be quicker if I’d list whatever’s not aching,” Dragan joked – maybe not quite joked – before giving a more serious answer, “My shoulder took a hit on the way down.”

“Okay, I shall take a look at it,” the healer replied diligently as he got to work. Whatever he used to clean the open wound stung like it was torn anew. Dragan gritted his teeth through it.

“It is difficult to determine the scope of your head injury without monitoring you further,” the Aesfrosti continued. The soft glow of his healing magic seemed to seep into Dragan’s throbbing wound, taking the edge off the pain. “I must implore you to seek the help of a healer again once you make it out of here. I suspect you will need some proper rest to make a full recovery – a couple of days at least.”

“Well, if I must,” Dragan mumbled.

“Dragan.” Roland’s firm voice carried just an edge of a plea.

Dragan sighed. “Fine, I’ll make sure of it.”

The timing was more than inconvenient. They still didn’t have the castle secured, and that wasn’t mentioning the potential fallout of their advance… Once they had the Glenbrook capital under control and a couple more Aesfrosti soldiers convinced to help their cause, Dragan would finally be free to make his move.

Chapter Text

By the time they retreated from Whiteholm Bridge, the light of a new day reached over the horizon. Roland’s gaze remained fixed on the violet blast of the Aelfric. The light was blinding, engulfing most of the tall structure. Roland remembered training with Ser Maxwell on that very bridge. His stomach dropped as the debris was swallowed by the current of the river. Roland couldn’t take his eyes off it until the dust settled and the broken remains stabilized.

With the first step of their plan completed, they gathered on a sandbank near the capital, the first place where they could anchor their ship. Minister Exharme met with them shortly after, affirming that they had secured the city, and the river blockage was progressing apace. With everything set into place, they would be free to set for the castle and… negotiate.

Roland’s blood boiled beneath the surface just thinking about facing Gustadolph and pretending like their broken relations could still be mended. And yet, he had no choice but to comply. I suppose if Serenoa and the others believe it’s right…

“I have to admit, I did not expect to see you among the Wolfforts, Lord Dragan,” Exharme remarked, “Your group seems to be full of surprises lately. It’s a shame you didn’t trust us with this information sooner.”

Dragan’s fingertips were absentmindedly rubbing at his bandaged temple, though he stopped the moment Exharme addressed him.

“I’d say you found out when it mattered most.” Dragan had the most matter-of-fact way of speaking, like there wasn’t a single doubt crossing his mind before he voiced his thoughts.

“Well, I suppose we shouldn’t linger on that then.” Exharme still threw Dragan a sideways glance before he continued. “Now, all that’s left is to take Whiteholm Castle itself.”

Frederica nodded, a spark of determination in her eyes. “Yes, we must set for the castle to negotiate a ceasefire.” She put her hand to her chest, holding onto the pendant she always had with her. “I shall act as our envoy. After all, this was my idea to begin with.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dragan insisted right away, “I won’t let you go alone. This is my responsibility as much as it is yours.”

“Do not make this decision so rashly.” Serenoa’s interjection seemed to bring a level of calm to the discussion. “We will handle the negotiations like all things – together.”

“Serenoa…” Frederica smiled at him, even after everything. Roland tried to swallow the feeling of inadequacy like that would make it any less pathetic. Why couldn’t he be as steadfast and giving as Serenoa was? Frederica, meanwhile, was a source of determination at his side. Did Roland’s friends not tire from making up for his shortcomings? Dragan… How long would he settle for someone that couldn’t keep up with him?

Roland dismissed the thought. Now was not the time to worry about something so… trivial. Why, then, did his heart ache like it was pierced by a weapon?

“Hughette,” Roland spoke, “Can you scout for us from the sky? We need to know what awaits us at the castle.”

“But of course. I shall return with the information posthaste.” Hughette saluted at his request, straight as an arrow. As she called Flugie to her side and set for the skies, Roland tried not to think too hard about what she might find at the castle.

In an attempt to keep his mind busy while they awaited Hughette’s report, Roland decided to look after Dragan. The healer had managed to patch him up after all. At least Roland wasn’t worried Dragan would faint on him any moment – or at the very least, he wasn’t too worried anymore. A neatly wrapped set of bandages hid the gash on his forehead from view, even when it made it no less obvious that Dragan was injured. The dark, dried blood still stuck to his bangs.

“How are you feeling?” Roland questioned. He had the urge to reach out for Dragan, maybe stroke his head to soothe him, though he wouldn’t embarrass him like that while the others were around. “Does your head still hurt?”

What a stupid question.

“Oh, it’s much better than before,” Dragan assured him with a smile, “The healing magic did wonders on me.”

Roland tried his best to smile in return. He hadn’t even managed to break through the measly group of soldiers that had stood between him and Dragan when he had finally – finally – realized the danger he was in. Roland’s gaze swiftly fled downwards as the flash of worry took him back to that moment. He had to cross his arms in order to mask how he was quivering. He wasn’t sure he still had it in himself to brave another loss like that. How selfish was he to be absorbed in his own fear when Dragan stood right in front of him, injured as he was? Despite the blood and ash covering him, Dragan still managed to give him a smile.

“You should rest some,” Roland remarked, “I believe Medina is staying behind with those that were injured and, well, you are injured. I’m not certain you’re fit to fight another battle – and I’m not certain Gustadolph will yield without one either.”

Dragan practically bristled, tensing his shoulders and furrowing his brows. “Roland, I can quite handle myself!”

“Apologies, I…” Roland sighed. “I know you can. It is simply hard not to worry.”

Dragan’s features mellowed out – reluctantly so, judging by the frown that stubbornly lingered. “It’s alright. I know you harbor good intentions.“ There it was again, that brave smile of his. “I’m just a bit sore like the rest of us. If everything goes smoothly, there will be no further bloodshed to begin with. And I can’t afford to be missing during the negotiations.”

Dragan was trying to soothe him. Roland had meant to comfort Dragan for once. Instead, he had somehow managed to burden him with his worries yet again.

“Let’s pray you’re right, and we can get through this unscathed,” Roland replied, trying his best to take the advice to heart and remain steadfast a little while longer, “Apologies. I shall focus my energy on seeing our plan come to fruition instead of worrying about the alternatives.”

“Now that’s the spirit!” Dragan cheered, “Still, I suppose your concern speaks of your kindness, my prince. Perhaps I should consider myself honored instead.”

Kindness… Dragan was rather fond of using that word when speaking to him. What good was kindness if it didn’t yield results? If it didn’t help Roland protect those he loved?

“You think too highly of me,” Roland replied however casually he could, “Why wouldn’t I be worried about you? We still need you.” He hesitated for a moment before finally reaching out, letting his hand rest on Dragan’s arm. “I need you. So… maybe rest while we wait here at least. It will do no harm.”

That seemed to do the trick. Dragan let Roland nudge him into motion with a bright smile and finally settled on one of the nearby rocks at Roland’s insistence.

“If you quit being so dramatic, I shall humor you.”

Roland shook his head but knew better than to argue with that. As they settled down, Roland’s gaze drew skyward, awaiting the moment Hughette and Flugie would appear on the horizon.

Dragan could sense the moment Hughette returned with new tidings before he even spotted her in the cloudy sky. Roland shifted besides him, his body tensing just a touch as his head tipped skyward. She swept down, her greathawk breaking the swift descent moments before they met the ground. Hughette leaped off her steed the moment she landed, hurrying towards their group.

“General Avlora has fled the castle,” she announced, “I saw her board one of the Aesfrosti warships in the harbor. The enemy seems to have all but abandoned the castle, but…” She took one measured breath in and out before continuing. “She took Queen Cordelia with her.”

“What!?” Roland jumped to his feet in an instant. “Wasn’t Minister Kamsell supposed to blockade the river!?”

Dragan only realized that he had been leaning on Roland when he was gone. He tried not to show how heavy his body felt now that he was holding himself upright, blinking through the throbbing ache that filled his head.

“Some of his ships were encircled by the enemy,” Hughette explained, “The general used that opening to escape.”

As Benedict began lamenting over strategies and warfare, that suddenly became an afterthought to Dragan. Roland had gone pale as chalk.

“We have to go after them,” Roland declared, “Prepare the boat!”

“Wait,” Benedict cut in, “Our aim was to take back Glenbrook. With General Avlora gone, we can easily claim control over Whiteholm Castle.”

His reasoning was sound; the castle would be easy pickings now that Avlora abandoned it. It still made Dragan’s stomach turn. Just because it was easy didn’t mean it was just. Roland was clearly seething at the idea. The mask did little to hide his fury as his teeth grinded together, his hands balling into fists.

“You’re suggesting we just abandon Cordelia?” he spat out.

“No, simply that there is an order to these things,” Benedict replied.

A low growl escaped Roland. “Then I’ll go by myself.”

He didn’t leave much time for answers, already setting foot towards the ship.

“Wait!” Dragan exclaimed, hurrying after him. The sudden motion made him dizzy, but he braced through it. “I will come with you.”

“Shouldn’t you understand more than anyone how crucial it is to handle the Aesfrosti soldiers remaining inside the castle?” Benedict questioned.

“So what?” Dragan scoffed, “They aren’t going anywhere.” His gaze fixed onto Roland as he continued. “Let’s set sail. We only have so much time.”

Roland was frozen for a moment, his fists shaking, though whether from fright or anger, Dragan knew not. Dragan wondered whether he would find surprise in Roland’s eyes if they hadn’t still been hidden behind that mask. What a strange thought. Dragan had promised to protect Queen Cordelia, after all.

“We can still catch them,” Frederica joined in next, “Ironclad Aesfrosti ships are slow. If we leave now, we can still catch them.”

“Frederica…” Roland’s voice shook.

“What? Did you really expect us to let you give chase all by yourself?” Dragan questioned. For a moment, he couldn’t help but wonder whether he would have found himself agreeing with Benedict a couple of months back. The thought didn’t sit right with him, not at all. Maybe that was just a sign that things were finally changing for the better.

“We mustn’t be hasty,” Benedict implored them once over.

“Queen Cordelia is yet another victim of Gustadolph. We must save her,” Frederica insisted. She spoke with conviction, swift and firm. Her determination only seemed to burn brighter now that she had broken the shackles her siblings had tried forcing onto her. “I do not want to regret not going after her.”

“Benedict,” Serenoa began. He was calmer than the rest of them, easing the friction between their words. “Roland is our cause for this war. That much is true. But once the war ends and people find out we abandoned the queen, their faith in him will be lost.”

“Will it, now?” Benedict remarked, just dismissive enough that Dragan almost started arguing again. Almost.

“Let us go to Queen Cordelia's aid,” Serenoa said. His words seemed to have a way of convincing his steward; at the very least, they silenced him for now. “It is part of our fight as well.”

Some of the tension seemed to lift off Roland’s shoulders. “Thank you, my friend.”

As their group started to board the ship, Roland stepped in front of Dragan, catching his attention. “Dragan, maybe you shouldn’t –“

“Perish the thought!” Dragan cut him short, “I promised you I’d protect her, after all.”

“I suppose you did.” Roland hesitated for but a moment. “Thank you.”

Roland smiled – or he was trying to, at least. It made Dragan’s heart burst at the seams. That’s all he needed to see – Roland still pressing forward. As long as Roland would have reason to smile at the end of the day, their trouble would be well worth it.

By the time they caught up to Avlora’s ship, clouds gathered over the plains of Norzelia, a stiff gale rocking their vessel. Dragan struggled to keep his footing through each wave. Boarding the Aesfrosti ship was precarious in and on itself as they used the pulley to make it across the gap one after the other. The waves crashed below as he took the leap, lapping at the two rocking boats. Dragan sighed a breath of relief as he felt the planks of the ship beneath his boots again, though it did little to ease his sense of vertigo.

Roland had already charged forward the moment Avlora was within his reach, getting into a skirmish with one of the opposing swordsmen. Dragan hadn’t seen his fury to fight burn quite this brightly in a long while. Queen Cordelia, meanwhile, was absent. She must still have been below deck.

“Halt! General Avlora!” Dragan exclaimed. He tried rushing forward, but the ground seemed to slip beneath him, his surroundings rocking and tumbling. Dragan shook his head, clutched it as it gave a sharp sting. Gods, he was getting seasick as if everything else hadn’t been bothersome enough. Reluctantly, Dragan braced himself back against the railing.

“Cease your resistance,” he continued, “You have to listen to me!”

Avlora’s expression barely revealed her surprise, her brows knitting as her gaze caught Dragan from across the deck.

“Lord Dragan?” she exclaimed, her clear voice carrying over the battlefield, “I’ve thought you dead, but it seems you have taken to treason instead.”

“Treason!?” Dragan pushed himself upright and stepped closer after all. “Nothing of the like. I do not wish to raise arms against any of you.”

A rumble joined the clash of metal as some of the soldiers haltered and whispered among themselves. The battle didn’t die down; Roland aimed for a hawkrider but made a notch in the deck instead, Serenoa blocked an incoming attack from an Aesfrosti swordsman.

“Your allies don’t appear to share your conviction,” Avlora remarked. She had her sword drawn, ready like a predator waiting to strike, though she did not move to attack – at least not yet.

“Dragan, stop trying to reason with her!” Roland exclaimed to little avail.

“There’s something you must know,” Dragan insisted, “Gustadolph is lying to you. He sent soldiers to get rid of me and blamed the crime on Glenbrook instead. His entire reason for this war is nothing but a farce. Please, do not trust his command!”

 “And you believe you are any better than him?” she questioned.

“I promise you; I will be!” he exclaimed, for her as much as the other soldiers, “I won’t allow greed to overrule my reason. All I wish is for this war to end.”

Avlora took a deep, measured breath before her icy gaze met his.

“No,” she declared, “If I yield to you, you will use Queen Cordelia as a means to an end. You’re no better than the Archduke.” She raised her sword at last. “I am Queen Cordelia’s sword. I will not let you take her from me!”

Dragan hadn’t predicted the general of Aesfrost to become so attached to Glenbrook’s queen. Then again, he was in a poor position to judge. She wouldn’t budge on this, would she?

“Do not listen to them!” Avlora exclaimed towards her soldiers, “Fell any who draw near!”

Wouldn’t budge indeed. Serenoa immediately retaliated with his own command, “Do not falter! This is our chance to strike down their general!”

For once, Dragan felt like he was misplaced on the battlefield. If he made an enemy of Avlora too, where would it lead him?

No, he couldn’t start thinking like that. He knew what was right, and Gustadolph seizing one of their neighbors – one of their allies – was anything but. If Avlora wanted to stand against Dragan as he set it right, perhaps she was less reasonable than he had thought her to be.

Dragan drew his spellbook once more, hoping he could swallow the fits of nausea until this fight was settled.

As the battle raged on, a dark veil crept over the battlefield. Gray clouds gathered thicker and thicker, until the first drops of rain joined the wind hitting Dragan’s face. The brewing storm upset the river’s current more with every passing moment, joggling the very ship they were standing on. Dragan felt close to useless as more and more of his focus went towards keeping himself upright through the heavy shakes and his already spinning head.

A metallic shriek joined the distant crack of thunder as Serenoa’s sword clashed against Avlora’s heavy armor. A sharp gasp, and she fell to her knees at last. Her soldiers didn’t seem to know what to do now that their iron-tough general was faltering, haltering and exchanging concerned looks.

“General Avlora!”

Dragan took a moment to find the source of the high, clear voice. Queen Cordelia emerged from below deck, stumbling as the vessel braved the waves. Dragan couldn’t fault her, seeing as he clung to the next best mast in an attempt to keep his footing. Queen Cordelia rushed to her side, her gaze flicking between Avlora and the Wolfforts with measured glances. Her eyes had hardened since the time he last spotted her at the banquet, though he assumed it was much the same for most of them.

“I am sorry, my queen,” Avlora pressed out through gritted teeth, “Being overtaken by these traitors and failing to protect you is my life's greatest failure.”

“You dare call us traitors!?” Roland exclaimed. He took a step towards her, raising his spear as if he yet wanted to challenge her. “You invaded Glenbrook under the premise of peace!”

Avlora looked up at him through her messy bangs, her eyes as sharp as her blade. “If not traitors, then how about Hyzantian dogs!?”

Roland’s grip on his spear tightened – his voice, nay, his whole body following suit. “Every dog has its day, and this one shall be mine!”

Dragan’s mind raced. Was there any way he could diffuse the situation still? Both Roland and Avlora oozed with quiet fury, the kind that stuck to the very bone. Dragan was… familiar with it.

“Please stop, Maxwell!” Queen Cordelia exclaimed, sharply, perhaps even desperately so. If she couldn’t get through to Roland, Dragan suspected nothing else could.

“Stand back, Cordelia!“ Roland took a step closer, close enough for Avlora to be in range of his spear. Avlora braced herself heavily against her sword but didn’t get up.

“You’re not Maxwell!” Queen Cordelia realized. She was the first to do so. Roland didn’t even speak as he began unfastening his mask, taking a moment longer than Dragan was used to; his hands must have been shaking.

The moment he revealed his face, Avlora’s eyes widened in a display of shock. “What!?”

Queen Cordelia’s surprise seemed more subdued. “There’s no mistaking it…” She took a step closer, even as Roland kept his weapon raised. “Roland!”

The lightning was blinding, too close for comfort. Thunder rang through the air but a moment delayed, soon to be joined by Avlora’s roaring laughter. “I see now…” Her voice dripped with bitter amusement. “Oh, how I wish I could tell Gustadolph…”

“Stop, Roland!” Queen Cordelia exclaimed. She was still standing by Avlora’s side. She wanted them to lay down their fight as well…?

“I am sorry for all the pain I have caused you, Cordelia,” Roland lamented, “But I will free you from this villain by my own hand!”

Was he listening to her? Dragan wasn’t quick enough to step between them.

“No, Roland!” Queen Cordelia shouted, “General Avlora is—”

It was hard to see what happened as another lightning strike hit the land. Dragan barely caught sight of Roland lunging forward before he shielded his eyes from the harsh light. Screams, gasps. Dragan brushed his wet bangs from his eyes as he stole a look.

Roland, Queen Cordelia and Avlora were all frozen in place. Roland had struck, but he hadn’t found his target, his spear buried deep inside his sister’s gut. The red that seeped into her snow-white dress made it painfully obvious.

“Roland!” Dragan wasn’t sure what came over him. Roland didn’t even flinch.

“C-Cordelia… But why!?” Roland’s voice shattered like a mirror on stone. Dragan couldn’t make out Queen Cordelia’s answer over the sound of the storm. The moment Roland drew back his spear, it clattered onto the deck. Queen Cordelia’s knees buckled that instant, her blood seeping over the wooden ground.

Avlora cried out for her, trying to get closer but something the young queen said seemed to stop her. Avlora hesitated but a moment before she took the only escape available to her – straight off the ship and into the foaming river. That she would leave herself into the hands of fate like this… but that was a worry for another time.

Dragan finally willed his feet to move, stumbling over the deck in quick steps. Roland’s knees hit the ground before he could reach him, cradling his sister in his arms. His body rattled with every quick breath. “C-Cordelia…?”

“Queen Cordelia!” Frederica found her voice next, “Geela, she needs a healer!”

“Cordelia!!” The terror in Roland’s voice clawed its way into Dragan’s core, sharp, raw and wrong.

“Roland, please, calm yourself!” Dragan stumbled over his words.

No. None of that. This wasn’t the time to fall into panic.

Roland didn’t seem to hear him, didn’t twitch, didn’t blink. Dragan rested his hand on his shoulder in an attempt to catch his attention, but only succeeded in making him jolt before he clutched his sister tighter.

“Your Highness, I need to tend to her wounds,” Geela insisted, kneeling down besides them. Dragan followed suit, dropping to his knees to Roland’s other side.

“Roland, look at me,” he insisted. No reaction. Dragan shook Roland’s shoulders, grasped his face, made him look up. The shock clung to Roland – his pupils small like pinheads in his red-rimmed eyes. Dragan clapped his cheeks trying to get his gaze to focus.

“Let go of her. You’re not helping,” Dragan said when he didn’t know what else to do. The words that escaped Roland were broken and wavering like they carried through water. His eyes went glassy with tears. At the very least, his arms finally went slack, allowing Geela and Frederica to pull Queen Cordelia out of his grasp and start treating her. Good. Now Dragan could focus on controlling the damage.

“There, that’s better,” Dragan said, daring to relax with a pensive sigh. “Roland, it’s all better now.”

Was Roland listening? His fingers dug into the fabric of his trousers, muddled with blood. His body shook and tore with every breath, his gaze hollow. Roland wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t looking at anything.

Serenoa startled Dragan when he joined them. Dragan was close to begging him to fix this, to fix Roland somehow, though he was certain he wouldn’t need to even ask that of him.

“Roland, my friend, can you hear me?”

Nothing, not even an apology.

Dragan wanted nothing more than to hold Roland – hold him as tightly as he could and tell him he was doing fine as if that would help. He overheard Geela’s words – about how they should take Queen Cordelia to the capital to rejoin forces with the Hyzantians. How they needed their healers’ aid in order to bring the young queen back from the brink. And just like that, the hope for some long overdue peace of mind became nothing but a distant dream.

Chapter Text

The way back to Whiteholm was a blur. The healers swarmed around Cordelia, led by Minister Lyla herself as they rejoined with the Hyzantian forces. By the time they had brought her to the medical wing inside the castle, Roland’s sister was as white as the sheets she laid upon. What little movement she gave was labored, sudden and all too fluttery.

Roland had to do something to ease her suffering, but he couldn’t have even made it through the group of healers if his legs had agreed to carry him. In the end, Serenoa and Dragan ended up dragging him out of the healing chamber. Roland didn’t exactly mean to resist.

There’s nothing you can do. Let the healers do their work. The same reason, surely meant to lend comfort, over and over again.

Roland knew. He knew damn well his role in this mess, that he was completely powerless to stop it from unraveling before his eyes. None of that granted him any comfort – not that he deserved it. The thought that he might have just seen his little sister for the last time, that she would draw her last breath without him – without any of her family by her side – was making his blood run cold, no matter which angle he approached it from.

“Roland, pray, calm yourself,” Serenoa said.

“I stabbed my sister.” The words practically fell from Roland’s mouth, the regret tasting like ash on his tongue. He wanted to bury his face in his palms – rust red, soaked to the sleeves in the blood of his own sister. Roland froze, his focus zeroing in on the sight. The hallway blurred around him, shifting like he was still rocked by the waves of the river.

Accident. Roland understood that much of Serenoa’s words through the haze. Was he starting to get dizzy or tearing up? Gods, even Frederica was watching him in silence.

“I struck.” Roland’s words shattered on their way out. “That’s no accident.”

“Hyzante’s best healers are aiding her.” Dragan’s voice reached him through a fog. “Minister Lyla herself is working her magic no less. Even I must admit we couldn’t wish for a better medic.”

The calm in Dragan’s voice made Roland sick, even when it was wrapped in soft care. Roland’s chest seized together. Quick, shallow breaths. The lack of air would have made his panic rise if he hadn’t more than earned whatever happened to him next.

“Roland.” Dragan stepped closer, coming into view through his blurred vision. Roland kept his eyes on his bloody hands, the sheer thought of meeting Dragan’s gaze and seeing what he may find in it nauseating him. “You aid no one fretting over what you can’t change – least Queen Cordelia herself.”

Roland flinched when Dragan’s hand came to rest on his arm. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was Roland really making such a sorrowful impression that even Dragan was scolding him now? Roland had brought that upon himself, hadn’t he?

“Who needs you most right now are your people,” Dragan continued. Something inside Roland snapped clean through. “How about we –“

“No.” Roland caught Dragan’s wrist, keeping him at just a breath of distance. “My sister is bleeding out right behind that door, and you expect me to keep a level head!?”

“Roland…”

“No!” Roland’s whole body was taut like a drawn bowstring. He was shaking. Damn it all, the tears he swallowed down made his voice quiver. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t understand! It’s not your sister who lays dying!”

“Roland,” Frederica was the one to cut in this time. He couldn’t keep himself from looking at her in surprise. He could see the irritation burning in her eyes. Irritation or worry, perhaps. Roland blinked through the veil of tears. When he caught sight of Dragan – his eyes straight on and somehow more despondent than mad – Roland almost forgot himself and cried like a child after all.

“You’re hurting me,” Dragan said. Roland took a moment to connect the dots, blinking uselessly at him. His gaze flitted to Dragan’s wrist, still caught in his grasp. Roland was shaking from the strain. He dropped him the moment the realization hit him.

“A-apologies,” Roland croaked out. All the blood seemed to drain from his head at once. He caught sight of Dragan rubbing his wrist, smearing the crimson blood Roland had gotten on him over his pale skin.

Roland’s stomach flipped upside down. He tried swallowing against it as the nausea salivated his mouth, more out of instinct than any concern for his dignity.

Quick bursts of air. The room shifting around him.

Roland tipped back against the wall as the strength drained from his body.

Dragan’s hand reached out for him again, though he stopped just short this time. How childish of Roland to get upset about that now.

“I’m sorry,” Roland repeated, his voice barely carrying.

Dragan’s touch steadied him after all, warm hands against Roland’s ice-cold limbs.

“We should clean that blood off,” Dragan remarked, as if that would wash away any of the stomach-turning guilt, “Pray tell, is there a lavatory nearby?”

Roland tried to pull his surroundings back into focus. The medical wing… He used to get sent here when he managed to bang himself up playing with Serenoa. He recalled sitting by Cordelia’s side that time she had come down with a particularly nasty fever. Cordelia…

“Right down that hallway to the right,” Serenoa answered in his stead, “Are you sure you don’t want me to handle it instead? It wouldn’t be a bother.”

“Perish the thought! I’ll handle it!” Were they talking about him? Dragan continued, “If you’re worried, just say so. I won’t keep him too long if that’s the case.”

Serenoa was quiet for a moment. “You can’t truly blame me for worrying, can you? Just… call for me if I can be of any help. I will regroup with the others in the meanwhile.”

“Much appreciated.”

Roland stumbled into step as Dragan nudged him forward. His limbs quaked, close to useless. He kept his head down as they passed Serenoa and Frederica. The cold sweat and hot shivers made his body fickle, triggering a shudder as Dragan’s hand rested against his back.

He only realized they had reached their destination when the door clicked into lock behind them. He could spot a basin from the corner of his eyes, neatly folded cloth on a short shelf beside it. Dragan led him with the careful press and pull of his hands.

“Take a seat,” he requested, pushing Roland to sit on a stool. Roland braced himself against the wall to his back, swallowed, trembled.

The room was cool and dim, the sunlight not directly reaching through the windows, pale and broken by lingering clouds. Roland’s gaze flicked over the dull patterns it cast onto the stone beneath his feet – catching onto the red on his hands without fail.

Roland let his eyes flutter shut, trying to push the sharp cry Cordelia had let out to the back of his mind.

Clattering filled the room, soft but ringing in his mind.

Roland opened his eyes, observing Dragan in hopes of chasing the memories away. Dragan lit the stove with a flick of his wrist. His spell was a little rough around the edges, uneven, fickle flames.

Dragan was covered in dirt, soot and blood. He lifted a bucket onto the stove, his gaze flicking towards Roland as he let it heat. He was all tattered clothes and bruised skin.

Why couldn’t Roland be strong for him just this once?

The sharp crackling of flames made Roland’s head throb. He wondered how badly Dragan’s must be aching. They still hadn’t cleaned him up and exchanged his bandages with new ones.

Dragan didn’t speak as he rejoined him, putting the bucket down beside him. Roland wasn’t even sure he should breathe right now, as if he might shatter the room around him with any wrong move.

Dragan dipped the cloth into the bucket with a gentle trickle. Were Dragan’s hands quivering?

Roland flinched as Dragan brushed the cloth over his forehead, even when he saw the touch coming. It was warm and soft against his skin. Dragan gently wiped over his temple, patted his cheek. Roland fought the urge to curl into himself.

Cordelia needed help more than he did. Hell, Dragan needed help more than he did. Roland wanted to reach out for Dragan’s injured head, but his body didn’t budge. The bruise had spread since the night, a dark circle over his brow reaching around his eye. Roland shivered as if he was coming down with a fever, even as his blood ran cold.

Once Dragan appeared satisfied with his face, he moved on to clean the blood off Roland’s hands.

He had tried to fix it. He had tried. Roland had pressed his hand onto the gash until he shook. The blood had kept dyeing her fair dress crimson, draining the color from her face.

“Roland.”

He jolted upright. “A-apologies…”

He wasn’t even finished speaking when Dragan continued, “You look as pale as a spirit. Do you feel sick?”

Yes. To my very core. Roland remained as still as a statue.

His gaze dropped to their intertwined hands as Dragan cleaned the dried blood from between his fingers. Dragan’s hands were banged up, one palm slashed open, covered in a thin layer of soot that slowly rubbed off onto the white cloth.

Dragan’s wrist was bruised red and purple.

Why did Roland keep doing this? What possessed him to put his anger before reason?

“Oh?” Dragan followed his gaze. He freshened up the cloth with a dip into the water, wiping off what little blood Roland had smeared on his wrist. A moment later, he returned his focus to Roland like nothing had happened.

Roland wasn’t sure what came over him then. A deep ache had taken root inside him, coming to bloom at that moment. Roland choked on it. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks before he knew it.

“Stop,” Roland managed to croak out, “Please, stop.”

“Roland…?”

“I hurt you!”

Dragan cracked a smile. What in tarnation was he thinking!?

“I suppose you did,” Dragan replied, “But you also seem more horrified about it than I could possibly be. Forgive me for not harboring a grudge because of it.”

“For once, be serious.” Roland’s voice quivered. His tears tasted salty on his lips. “This isn’t right. None of this is right!”

“I’m perfectly serious!”

How could he be?

Dragan sighed resting his hand against Roland’s chest, right above his heavy heart. “It did hurt. Is that what you wish to hear from me? I can yet feel the ache.” Dragan was gentler than Roland, his fingers brushing against him softly. “But it will pass with time. And once it does, I’ll still love you all the same.”

Roland’s mind caught on the words, stumbling over them. Dragan continued without faltering. “We’ll all still love you. I can promise you that much. So, please, don’t be quite so fast to condemn yourself.”

For a moment, Dragan really looked at him like he did – like he loved him, like he had caught onto a quiet part inside of Roland and refused to let go. Roland shifted in place when he couldn’t pinpoint the root of it.

“Love me?” he muttered, “Do you truly mean that?”

“Do I…? Of course I do! I thought I had made that obvious enough.” Dragan exclaimed, his voice almost taking on an indignant force before it mellowed out, “Then again, this may not have been the most… refined way to divulge that information.”

“No,” Roland stumbled out clumsily. “No…” He reached out after all, cupping Dragan’s cheek. He let his thumb brush up against Dragan’s temple. Roland wished he could make his voice sound as steadfast as Dragan’s. “I love you too. I promise, I do. I just… have a poor way of showing it.”

Dragan leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. He furrowed his brows in a small wince as Roland’s fingers neared the bruise, before relaxing, a barely audible sigh beneath his breath. “I like your way of showing it.”

“Does your head ache, my love?”

A smile spread across Dragan’s lips, shaky at first before it flourished. “A bit, I suppose.”

Roland assumed Dragan must have been in pain then. What a stubborn fool.

“You must seek out a healer at once,” Roland insisted this time instead of suggesting. He took the cloth from Dragan’s hands, trying to clean the blood that was still stuck beneath his nails himself. Gods, he’d be feeling it stick to him for a while, no matter how hard he scrubbed it off. “If you are truly that worried about me, pray, take Serenoa up on his offer and have him… watch over me.”

Like his nursemaid when he was a boy – Roland held back on adding that part. Dragan was quiet for a moment but nodded after all. “If it will ease your worries.”

Roland had expected Dragan’s words to come out louder, to carry more protest, though he considered himself lucky they didn’t. “Thank you.”

The room fell quiet after that. Roland tried to wipe the lingering ghosts of his sister’s blood from his hands, praying that the healers would soon be able to share any news on her condition. The smell of iron still hung in the air. Dragan grabbed a fresh cloth, dipping it into the lukewarm water before taking to one of the mirrors. He wiped his face, dabbing carefully at the bruises. Roland found himself flinching when Dragan did. Couldn’t Dragan have left it to one of the healers to clean his wound?

“I’ll handle it,” Dragan spoke up into the silence. “I assume Serenoa will be all too keen on joining you. He’ll be here shortly.”

Roland nodded, even when he wanted to protest about being coddled. “Take care of yourself, my love.”

“Of course. You worry too much.”

When Dragan took his leave, he left a shadow of doubt behind.

Once Dragan had found Serenoa and asked him to join Roland, he didn’t hesitate to make his way towards the courtyard. He had seen a group of stranded Aesfrosti soldiers there when they had arrived, though the situation had been too hectic to pay them much mind then. A couple of especially rowdy ones had even been cuffed and led away, presumably to the dungeons. Dragan couldn’t afford to keep them waiting for even a moment too long.

The guilt gnawed at the bottom of his stomach, even when his reasoning was perfectly sound. Roland had looked almost frightened when he had left him. He worried too much. He always worried too much. Dragan took a deep breath, rubbing his aching temple.

His thought pulled at him from all directions. Something had snapped clean through inside Roland, breaking into pieces as he was forced to watch. No matter how Dragan tried to mend it, it wouldn’t become whole again, crumbling like snow pressed too long between warm fingers.

Dragan hadn’t seen him like this before. He recalled Roland’s desolate eyes from the day Gustadolph had captured Whiteholm. Even then, a spark of fury had lit in them, quietly burning. That fire was so very close to suffocating now.

No, none of that. Growing despondent would serve neither of them. Dragan forced his shoulders to straighten as he carried on, even when his quick steps teetered more than he would have liked.

When Dragan stepped out into the courtyard, things were almost too peaceful. The sun shone brightly, only the puddles on the cobblestone remaining as evidence of the morning’s storm. The courtyard was perfectly in place, marble structures, meticulously planted flowers and the vast fountain arranged just the way Dragan remembered it. Stars, he had last been here during the tourney, hadn’t he? Life had been so much easier when the battles had brought their nations together instead of forcing them apart.

The only thing that stood out – and rather obviously at that – was the group of Aesfrosti soldiers. The reds and blacks of their armor sharply contrasted with the greens, browns and grays of the courtyard. Dozens upon dozens of them were gathered in the expansive area surrounding the old tree. Their voices sent a murmur through the area as Dragan climbed up the set of stairs. The commotion only grew louder as he approached, a couple heads turning his way.

“Lord Dragan!” A Glenbrook soldier approached him, stopping him in his track. A group of them lined the area, guarding the Aesfrosti like shepherd dogs. The soldier gave a stiff salute, not following up his surprised greeting any further. How much of the news had even reached those that had been trapped inside the castle? Considering the soldier seemed to tolerate his presence, they must have been informed that he had been joining forces with Roland and the Wolfforts at the very least.

“I wish to speak to my people,” Dragan declared, “There have been lies shared about myself and others that I wish to rectify.”

The soldier glanced towards his brothers in arms for a moment but didn’t raise any protest, stepping aside to let Dragan get closer. Dragan took a moment to gather his thoughts. He had rehearsed what to say over and over again while he had bided his time back in Castle Wolffort. And yet, now that he stood here, he could barely keep his legs from shaking. His stomach revolted; his balance skewed.

“My Aesfrosti brothers, I must implore you to lend me your ear,” Dragan exclaimed towards the crowd, “I can imagine that the past months must have been filled with hardship for all of you. Even more, then, do you deserve to know the truth of the matter.”

Dragan ached for nothing more than to spill his heart unfiltered, hoping that his honesty could trump whatever scheme Gustadolph could be conducting. His pulse drummed against his temple, droning over the soft murmur of the crowd.

“As you can plainly see, Archduke Gustadolph has lied to you. He claims to have started this wretched war to retaliate against Glenbrook’s aggression. But it is not Glenbrook that sought to claim the New Norzelia Mines for themselves that fateful day. In fact, it was the Archduke himself who attacked the mines and ordered to have me killed.”

The murmur that went through the crowd told Dragan that the news hadn’t reached most of them yet. He was certain that some of them were trying to address him, though it was hard to make out over the general commotion. The words blurred into a fog. Dragan blinked through the dizziness, continuing undeterred.

“His one and only goal was to expand his reach on our realm. There’s nothing that can justify the damage he has caused, the lives that have been lost in the war. He took up arms against the very people that should have been our allies.” Dragan’s voice grew louder as he reached his conclusion, carrying over the commotion. “I do not blame any one of you, for you have all been deceived by his lies. All I ask of you is that you consider my words carefully and come to your own judgment regarding this pitiful situation.”

Dragan hesitated for but a moment. Should he tell the soldiers about the salt he had found within the mines as well? Part of him wanted to, if just to preempt Gustadolph from being the one to make it public knowledge. On the other hand, Whiteholm was still littered with Hyzantian soldiers. If any of them caught onto the news, it would be forwarded straight to the Saintly Seven. Once they realized that Norzelia was no longer dependent on the salt the Source provided, they would surely attempt to claim the mines by any means necessary. Dragan couldn’t afford to escalate the situation that far – not for his own good, and certainly not for that of his friends and allies.

“Any who can see the truth in my words and seek to break free from Gustadolph’s machinations are free to join our cause,” Dragan continued instead, “There has been enough divide in our realm. I will personally see to it that we can rejoin as allies once more.”

Finally, some of the Aesfrosti men rushed closer, though they were still talking over each other. A couple of the Glenbrook soldiers joined the commotion, trying to step between Dragan and the crowd.

“None of that,” Dragan brushed them off, “I shall hear them out and answer their concerns myself.”

The soldiers paused. Dragan caught one of them grasping the hilt of his sword, though he didn’t draw it. His eyes remained sharply on the crowd, though he took a step back, motioning the other men of Glenbrook to follow. Dragan let out a breath of relief, though any calm was quickly overwhelmed by the row of questions and remarks.

“Lord Dragan, where have you been these past months?”

“Why would the Archduke do such a thing…?”

“If he’s standing here now, it must be true…”

“Are you hearing yourselves? He’s clearly just trying to use you to gain control over Aesfrost!”

Dragan got the feeling he was going to be here for a while.

The more questions Dragan answered, the thicker the fog clouding his mind grew. The ache had grown into a heavy pulse, pressing against the inside of his skull. He tried to shove the sensation to the back of his mind, though it was a futile endeavor; the numb throb creeped into the last corners of his body.

At the very least, he seemed to have managed to convince a sizeable number of soldiers, though the words of doubt lingered in the air. Some were rightfully appalled by the machinations he had revealed, while others were hesitant to trust someone so closely allied with Glenbrook over their Archduke himself. Once Dragan had answered their concerns, the soldiers’ discussion turned inward. Shouts rose over the crowd as arguments broke out, piercing Dragan’s skull like a blade.

“Please, there’s no need to turn against each other!” he exclaimed, turning some heads, “Discuss all you want, but I will not see my own people fight each other.”

Was that the full truth? Hadn’t he been the one to cause this unrest to begin with?

No, that wasn’t right. If Gustadolph hadn’t attacked him, none of this would have come to pass. Dragan was only defending himself.

Gods, his head was going to split in two. Dragan decided that the way the shouts winded down into agitated chatter was good enough for now.

“Would you see to it that those who want to join get a chance to settle in?” Dragan requested one of the Glenbrook soldiers. The man tensed at his words, his gaze flicking between the Aesfrosti troops and Dragan.

“With all due respect, my lord, I will need His Grace’s orders to arrange something of that nature.”

Dragan tried to suppress the frown that tugged at his lips, rubbing his temple.

“Confirm it with King Roland if you must,” Dragan said, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice despite his best efforts, “I’m certain he and I agree on the matter. We’ll need any help we can get. I’m sure you realize that much yourself.”

Dragan shook his head, trying to ignore the way the gesture threw off his sense of balance.

“Pray, treat those that disagree with respect,” he added, shooting the group of Aesfrosti soldiers a look. Surely, Roland would agree with him on this as well. He was an upstanding man, after all. Somehow, Dragan didn’t find himself certain enough to declare the sentiment to the Glenbrook this time.

“I promise you we’ll handle the situation with grace until His Highness’s orders reach us,” the soldier declared. Dragan had never been too fond of dutiful platitudes, but he wouldn’t raise issue over something so trivial in a moment like this.

“You have my gratitude,” Dragan said, managing a courteous bow as he excused himself. He almost tripped over nothing was he turned to leave. The spell of dizziness only made him walk at a brisker pace; the last thing he needed was to embarrass himself in front of a crowd.

Maybe I should have paid the healers a quick visit after all, Dragan considered. Not that he’d had much choice in the matter. If he hadn’t addressed the Aesfrosti’s concerns swiftly, their opinion on him might have turned sour. Well, better late than never, Dragan thought to himself as he stepped back into the castle. He braced himself against the wall, trying to remember which way the medical wing had been. His traitorous legs trembled beneath him as he forced them into motion again.

He still needed to inform his father of what had happened. Dragan cursed himself for not considering it sooner. Once the news of his survival reached Gustadolph’s ears, he may very well lash out again. If Dragan was a thread to him, so was his father. The quicker he sent a letter to his father –

Dragan stumbled, cursing under his breath. His body sent blaring signals of alarm. The pain was dull, wrapped in wool. The nausea wasn’t. His vision blurred at the edges whenever he moved, like the world around him reached him a moment delayed. Dragan shivered, even when he was too hot in his own skin.

“Damn it…!”

Dragan let himself sink back against the nearest wall after all, his eyes fluttering shut. He swallowed hard as the room only spun more violently around him. One deep breath in, one out. Maybe he just needed a moment to compose himself.

Dragan direly hoped whatever the healers would do to him wouldn’t take too long. How utterly inconvenient.

Stars, if Roland saw him now, he would surely chide him. No, that wasn’t quite right… Dragan could barely pick out the image of Roland’s concerned expression from his jumbled thoughts. Roland had worried himself enough for a day – for a lifetime.

Dragan braced his hand against the wall behind him, the world around him melting like snow in the warm sun. If he could just pull himself together –

Roland flinched as a knock rang through the room, exchanging glances with Serenoa. He hadn’t moved from the lavatory yet, unsure whether shame or exhaustion bound him to the safety of the small, dim room. Had his absence been noted?

Serenoa stepped towards the door before Roland could react, opening it hesitantly at first. His gaze softened a moment later, stepping aside and allowing their visitor to enter. Roland tensed his shoulders, trying to appear less like a heap of misery as he met Frederica’s gaze. She frowned at him, her eyes evading him. What…?

“It’s about Dragan,” she explained, steadily, quietly, “He collapsed not long ago and has been brought to the healing chambers. They –“

“What!?” Roland hadn’t meant to interrupt her. He jumped to his feet, even if they felt unsteady beneath him.

He shouldn’t have allowed Dragan to go by himself. How could he have left him alone in a state like this?

Dragan… he had been right here. He should have only needed to walk a couple steps to request a healer. How was Roland only finding out about this now?

Roland took a wide step towards the door, but Frederica stopped him in his tracks, standing firmly in front of him.

“Pray, take a moment to calm yourself, Roland,” she said, put together, one hand clasped into the other.

“Calm myself!? Frederica, I –“

“I know.” She put a hand onto his arm, warm and gentle, but firm. It must be running in the family. “I know, Roland. Please, will you give me a moment to finish my explanation?”

Roland’s legs kept shifting as if they still wanted to carry him to where Dragan was in that moment, but he forced himself to remain still, nodding.

“Thank you.” Frederica took a step back, giving him some space. “They said he’s still quite out of it, but that he’s likely to recover given proper rest. He seems to have caught his fall, fortunately enough. They are monitoring him to make sure his condition doesn’t deteriorate.”

“Is he awake?”

“He was not when I left him.”

Roland wanted nothing more than to slump back down and let all the force drain from him. His legs trembled beneath him, barely keeping him upright. Serenoa reached out as if he wanted to steady him next, but Roland stepped back from the touch.

“I don’t understand.” His voice was quieter than he’d liked. “I told him to seek the assistance of the healers a good while ago. He… he should have gotten help right away.”

“They found him halfway to the courtyard, so it appears he aptly ignored your advice.”

Roland wanted to shout through the pressure that seized his chest. Preferably at Dragan, for being an impossibly stubborn fool. But Dragan wasn’t here – and if he was, Roland didn’t see himself having the resolve to do anything but hold him. He wasn’t sure how there could still be such burning anger in his chest after everything Dragan had put himself through the past night and day – after everything he had put himself through for his sake. Just like that, the fury extinguished into smoke, filling his tight chest.

“That… is rather like him,” Roland finally produced. He caught Serenoa shooting Frederica a questioning gaze. She gave him a caring smile and a knowing look in exchange. Good gods, Roland didn’t have the nerves to justify his outburst in that moment.

 “I… I will see whether his condition has improved,” Roland declared, “Perhaps the healers will have news on Cordelia by now too. I… need to know how she’s holding up.”

In truth, Roland was terrified, as if the sheer knowledge of ill news would make them come to pass.

“Would you like me to join you?” Serenoa inquired, soft and earnest as ever. Roland considered, uncertain whether the thought of his close friend being by his side when he could barely contain his misery was comforting or terrifying.

“Serenoa, I wouldn’t want to keep you from more important matters any longer,” Roland replied in the most dignified manner he knew.

“I believe we’ve done enough for today.” Serenoa stepped closer again, closing the distance Roland had created. “The situation is under control as of now. We should take some time to catch our breath.”

Serenoa made it sound so reasonable. Roland didn’t argue. “All right…”

Serenoa stood straight and firm, never wavering. He stepped to Frederica’s side for a moment, gently brushing over the crown of her pink hair before giving it a kiss. “You take a break too, my love.”

Roland’s gaze crashed onto the tiles below his feet, his chest seizing together and bursting apart all the same. He followed Serenoa silently as he took his leave, shooting Frederica an apologetic glance before he rushed outside.

Once Roland had confirmed both Cordelia’s and Dragan’s state, he finally dismissed Serenoa, urging him to lend his betrothed some company instead.

Dragan had been barely conscious enough to answer the healers’ questions and grumble out a complaint before he had crashed again. Roland had felt the urge to comfort him somehow, but he couldn’t have even held his hand without drawing unwanted attention. He had ultimately relented after confirming what Frederica had already told him with one of the healers.

Cordelia, meanwhile, hadn’t opened her eyes since she had collapsed into his arms on the deck of the ship. The healers had kept hovering over her even as they had long finished patching her up, checking her vitals over and over. Roland had stood and watched, losing any sense of time. His sister almost looked peaceful now that the healers had done everything to ease her pain, if a little pale around the nose still. Minister Lyla had insisted on talking to Roland herself. He had nodded through her explanation about recovering from the loss of blood and how lucky Cordelia had been that the weapon hadn’t done much damage to any of her organs. The weapon. Roland wanted to heave.

He wasn’t sure what to do with himself when he finally left the healing chambers, wandering the familiar hallways of the castle without a set destination. He could go and see what Gustadolph had done with his old room, perhaps. Roland’s stomach revolted at the thought. He couldn’t believe that dastardly dog had evaded them. Gustadolph must have abandoned the capital and returned to Aesfrost long before they even set foot on Whiteholm bridge.

When Roland neared the throne room, he caught a figure looming in one of the corners of the entry hall. It was hard to make out much but a dark silhouette with only the last afterglow of the dusk filtering through the tall windows. As Roland stepped closer, he found Hughette slumped against the wall. She straightened like an arrow the moment she looked up at him.

“Your Highness!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing in the quiet halls. Roland couldn’t help but smile, even as the corners of his lips barely agreed to being lifted. He gave her a dismissive wave of hand, though she barely relaxed her squared shoulders at the notion.

“It has been a while since we’ve last been here,” Roland remarked, stupidly. The memories filled his head unbidden – bodies of soldiers piling up inside the hall, their blood spilling over the parquet, blurring into a rusty haze. Roland tried to reel in his thoughts as the image of his brother bleeding out forced itself into his inner eye. He’d seen enough blood for a lifetime.

How thoughtless of him. Surely the memory of her fellow soldiers – of her friends – laying slain inside these very halls had drawn Hughette here to begin with.

“It… has been, yes,” she replied after a long pause. Her fists clenched at her side, trembling under the strain. “I was thinking…” She shook her head. “Forgive me, my king, now is not the time to burden you with my doubts.”

My king. Roland had yet to grow used to the sound of that. He did not make for the picture of a king, not like his father had with his regal stoicism. Roland was still trembling like leaves.

“No, continue,” Roland said, “I insist.”

“I… I’ve been keeping my fallen brothers in my mind and heart since that night, seeking to avenge them.” Hughette leaned back against the wall, her shoulders dropping. She looked less like a knight and more like a woman for the first time in a long, long while. “Seeking to set things right and not let their sacrifices be in vain. But now that we succeeded…” She crossed her arms as her hands began to tremble violently. “I have yet to shake the burden of shame for being unable to aid them.”

Roland’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Perhaps we are to carry it with us, to not forget.”

Hughette looked up at him, thinning her lips into a pale line. “I want to believe there’s a reason we survived that night.”

Her conviction was burdened by a clinging sense of desperation. Roland nodded, unable to be any more convincing than her.

“You should rest,” Roland proposed instead, “You’ve been on your guard all day and night.”

“So have you, Your Highness.” Her gaze flitted across the halls for but a moment before she straightened again, squaring her shoulders. “I cannot rest while you carry on. Such is my duty.”

He wasn’t sure he’d call his restless roaming carrying on, but he didn’t find it in himself to discuss with her anymore.

“Please, Hughette,” he sighed softly, “I do not ask as you’re liege; I’m asking as your friend.”

She pushed herself off the wall again, stepping forward to face him. “In that case, I must ask the same of you.”

She just about managed to draw a smile from him then. “Ever prudent of you, Hughette.”

Roland’s gaze drew towards the towering door that led to the throne room. The thought of entering brought a sense of terror, as if Roland would find the same massacre from that cursed night if he were to push them open. He had to see it with his own eyes again.

“I planned on paying the throne room a visit.” Had he? Something had drawn him here to begin with, hadn’t it? “I promise I won’t remain for long.”

Hughette eyed him, keen like a hawk. “Shall I accompany you?”

“No need to.” In truth, Roland wasn’t sure he could stand another worried gaze. “Go rest for the night.”

A moment of hesitation passed between them before Hughette gave a firm salute. “Your Highness.”

Roland was afraid she would never cease her formalities now that he was king. He listened to her steps until they turned into a quiet echo in the halls. For a moment, he could do nothing but pace in front of the door. General Avlora’s oppressive violence, Frani’s body, Cordelia falling to her knees with a broken cry – it all haunted Roland like phantoms, vivid in front of his eyes for a moment before vanishing into the shadows.

Roland pushed the door open.

His eyes searched the pristine floor as if he would yet find the bloodstains. The evidence of the massacre had long been wiped away, only yet clinging in the far reaches of his mind. Roland found himself wondering where they had buried Frani and his father, even though he didn’t expect paying them a visit would bring him any peace of mind. Would Gustadolph have had the decency to bury them close to his mother? When Roland’s thoughts drifted to Ser Maxwell getting swallowed by the Norzelia River like the debris that had fallen from the wreckage of Whiteholm Bridge, he finally set one foot in front of the other again.

The sound of his steps carried through the empty hall. The ceiling was impossibly tall, and yet seemed to bear down on him. It was too quiet. Roland had never been here all by himself, not once in his life. Part of him still expected his father to greet him with a firm voice. Roland was drawn to the throne, standing in front of it as if he was awaiting orders – orders he had usually thrown to the wind but expected to receive nonetheless.

He trailed the fine, golden details of the armrest as they caught the last light of the day. Roland’s body was locked in place, every instinct inside him screaming that he should turn away. But there was no more turning away now, was there? Roland braced himself against the armrests as he sunk into the seat. The throne didn’t seem to fit him, making him shift where he was seated. Or perhaps he wasn’t fit for it. Roland tried straightening his back, sitting firm and proper like his king father would, perfectly still. If his father was looking on from the afterlife, what would he make of the trembling figure of a boy trying to fill the space he had left behind?

Roland slumped back into the silky cushions, letting his chest deflate with a heavy exhale. What an unbecoming sight. It was a good thing Roland had insisted on being left to himself after all.

Self-pity, was it?

Roland shook his head, resting it within his hands. He couldn’t let himself drown now, not after everything. His people, his sister, his friends… They had all suffered so much – too much. Roland owed it to them to fill the role he was meant for after all they had endured for his sake. He braced himself through the discomfort his new position brought; he would have to until he’d set right all that had been broken.

Chapter Text

It was a deceivingly quiet day, the chaos from the prior battles and turbulations remaining as an echo in Roland’s mind. Of course, he had his responsibilities to attend to. Patriatte kept pestering him about what he was and – more often than not – was not supposed to do. He had to reestablish the trade with Hyzante, arrange for Whiteholm Bridge to be fixed as soon as possible, make sure his people received the help they needed after the unrest of war and occupation…

And yet, Roland couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to his loved ones. He had stolen a moment to check in with Dragan under the guise of keeping him informed regarding recent events. There was a grain of truth to it, seeing as Dragan was still confined to bedrest and kept begging for reports. While Cordelia was still barely escaping consciousness, Dragan had clearly gotten luckier. It was dumb luck, if Roland was being honest, but luck nonetheless. The bruises yet darkened Dragan’s pale skin, barely peeking out beneath the fresh bandages the healers had applied to his forehead, but he hardly seemed bothered by that anymore.

“I hope the Aesfrosti soldiers haven’t given you any trouble,” Dragan remarked. He was reclining against a couple pillows Roland had gotten him, flipping through a stack of documents that Roland had also handed to him – if much more reluctantly. “I should be the one to manage them, but the darn healers won’t allow me to move much yet.”

“They have a good reason for that, dear. Last time you snuck out, you returned as a heap of misery.” Roland let his fingers brush against the dark mark circling Dragan’s eye, careful not to apply too much pressure.

“It’s still… impractical.” Dragan sighed, letting the documents rest on his lap. It was the most organized report about the Aesfrosti soldiers Roland had managed to gather, including the numbers of supporters and troublemakers as well as details regarding particularly noteworthy individuals. As far as Roland was concerned, they should have treated every last one of them with caution. He wasn’t certain those that had pledged their alliance could be trusted to hold true to their words, not when disagreement would get them gaoled. Unfortunately, he couldn’t exactly deny the points Dragan had raised entirely; if they wanted to bring Gustadolph to justice, they needed more than their battered group of Glenbrook soldiers. If only the Holy State could be convinced to take action against Aesfrost outright. Then they wouldn’t have to make do with the scraps they had left in the first place.

“Those that have joined us have the right to receive guidance. Mine, preferably, but I hope you got them settled for now,” Dragan mumbled, squinting as he flipped the page. Roland let his fingers brush over the soft spot where Dragan’s neck met his shoulder, hoping to distract him before his lover overtaxed himself again. He only earned a soft hum in reply.

“They’re comfortable enough, I assure you.” Roland had made sure the group of soldiers wouldn’t be without guidance – or surveillance, as far as he was concerned, but that went hand in hand either way.

“Hm… Good.” Dragan leaned into Roland’s touch, his eyes never leaving the report. “I wish I could speak to those that have raised issues too. I may be able to convince them yet. I need to, sooner or later, if I want to unite Aesfrost under a new rule.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, my love, but some of them are beyond saving. You’re going to be better off without them causing you trouble.”

“Roland, you should understand better than anyone that I cannot treat my own people with such a blatant level of disregard.” Oh, he had Dragan’s full attention now. Dragan’s voice gained a firm edge, his piercing gaze finding Roland without fail. “There’s enough unrest between the different factions as it stands. I intend to settle that, not add fuel to the fire.”

Roland froze in place. His first instinct was to concede, though it didn’t sit right with him to let Dragan risk his own safety by appealing to those dogs. Before Roland could do either, Dragan’s gaze softened, then dropped to the pages on his lap. His fingers absentmindedly trailed the lines on the paper.

“But… I suppose I appreciate your concern,” Dragan said, “I know you mean well. You always do.”

“I do…” Roland absentmindedly let his fingers run through Dragan’s soft hair, trying to soothe himself as much as his lover. “Just be patient a little longer, my dear. The healers have given you a good prognosis, after all.” The way Dragan leaned into his touch helped Roland relax; he hadn’t even realized he was still holding that tension. “You should be back on your feet in a couple days – as long as you take their advice to heart for once.”

Judging by Dragan’s chuckle, Roland wasn’t as good as he had hoped at sounding stern. Dragan at least rested his eyes for a moment, his lids fluttering shut. “Well, if it’s my dear prince’s order, I can hardly deny it.” He gave a lazy grin, letting his hand rest against Roland’s wrist. The way Dragan’s voice softened when it was just the two of them made Roland’s heart flutter without fail. “Or, well, I suppose it’s about time I start calling you my king now…”

“Please don’t,” Roland replied, a little too gravely for his own liking, “I much prefer to keep it this way. It feels more… affectionate, I suppose.”

“I see I’ve conditioned you well…”

Roland gave Dragan’s shoulder a firm nudge, even when he could hardly deny it. He had gotten so used to it – the way Dragan would look at him like he was reading between his lines, the way he would seek out his touch with the passing brush of a hand, the way his voice softened when he teased him – and yet, it was still hard to believe Roland had earned all that, that he was allowed to keep it.

“I suppose you have…”

Roland startled upright when the door clicked open. His body froze – unfortunately enough, considering he was still firmly rooted beside Dragan, his hand buried in his hair. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or mortified when he spotted Serenoa. The way his stomach flipped upside down pointed towards the latter.

“Oh,” Serenoa sputtered, his gaze flicking across the room before landing on a shelve of medical supplies.

Dragan was the first to break them from their frozen state, resting back against his pile of pillows and straightening imaginary folds in his blanket. The light blush that dusted his cheeks was obvious against his fair skin, even as he reverted to a more dignified position.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Serenoa said, diplomatic as ever. It was still hard to miss the clumsy way he cleared his throat or the way his words tumbled out too quickly; Roland knew his old friend too well. “Benedict suggested surveilling the crown city and checking for any damages. I meant to ask whether you want to join us before heading out, and, well… I figured you’d either be here or with Cordelia considering the throne room was abandoned, but I didn’t take into account… Actually, never mind that.”

Oh, and now Serenoa’s measured replies were failing him. It wasn’t often he spoke quicker than his mind intended to.

Roland’s stomach was tied into knots. He fidgeted with the blanket – Dragan’s blanket. This wasn’t helping. He had half a mind to jump to his feet, but that would only draw more attention to how unusual their current position was.

“Um… that’s very thoughtful of you, my friend.” Gods above, now Roland’s voice had its turn to betray him, gaining a traitorous pitch. “I will join you right away.”

For a moment, it looked like they would all agree to ignore the wild boar in the room. Then Serenoa spoke up again. “The two of you should make a habit of locking the door. Anyone could walk in and get the wrong impression if you don’t.”

Roland nearly choked on his own breath. Part of him wanted to bolt out of the room with Serenoa in tow and ask him to please, by the gods, speak his mind. As long as it was up to Roland’s imagination to fill in the blanks, Serenoa might as well be condemning him. Roland remained perfectly frozen in place despite the fact, his face impossibly hot.

“So…” Dragan broke the awkward silence, “How much has Frederica told you?”

“Dragan…!” Roland’s voice broke on the last syllable.

“What? We were all thinking it.”

Serenoa – finally, blessedly – laughed. It was the kind of airy laugh he would give when he and Roland would jest and fool around. It unraveled one of the many knots in Roland’s stomach.

“She’s told me enough,” Serenoa assured them, “She didn’t want me to misconstrue the matter. I figured it would be more considerate to let you come to me on your own terms, but I suppose that didn’t quite turn out the way I had hoped for…”

Another knot came loose, allowing Roland to take a deep breath. “It’s quite all right. If anything, I’m the one who created this mess.”

Serenoa held no disdain for him, did he? Roland still wasn’t entirely sure whether the nervous energy he sensed from his friend was unease or just that – a simple matter of being confronted with something he wasn’t accustomed to – but he could live with that for now.

“Quit being dramatic,” Dragan insisted, “It’s all settled now, isn’t it?”

“Dragan…”

“No, you should listen to him,” Serenoa said, a gentle smile now supporting his words of reassurance, “He has a point.”

Finally, Roland’s insides settled back into place – as back into place as the general situation allowed them to anyways.

“You should go now,” Dragan remarked. He leaned in, and before Roland knew it, Dragan’s lips brushed against his own. “You’ve got more important responsibilities to mind.”

Roland’s stream of thought was still hung up on that kiss. This man would be the death of him.

“You are important to me.” Roland’s voice barely carried, showing, more than he’d liked, that he still hesitated to acknowledge the simple fact when it wasn’t just the two of them. He had to get the words out still. Dragan deserved to see the care he had given him returned. In truth, he deserved much more than that, but it was all Roland could give him for now.

“Oh, I know,” Dragan replied, stretching lazily beneath the sheets, “But I’m quite comfortable right now, and you even brought me some riveting reading material. I’ll survive by myself – just barely.”

Roland wanted to say a lot of things at once. He wanted to commend Dragan for his grit and apologize for not being able to follow his example. He wanted to promise to spend more time with him and work harder – fight harder – at the same time. In the end, Roland just forced a smile onto his lips and nodded. “I suppose you will. I will ask the healers to check in on you ever so often, so you will not need for anything.”

“You fuss too much.” Dragan was beaming, even as he complained. It gave Roland the final push of motivation to pick himself back up.

“I’m ready when you are, Serenoa,” Roland declared, quick to rise onto his feet. His mind wanted to split apart and be everywhere at once – with his loved ones, with his people, and – achingly, burningly so – close to his enemies to finally bring them to justice. For now, all Roland could do was tackle the issues as they arose and pray his strength would last him until better times.

The healers hadn’t misjudged; Dragan was quick to be back on his feet – or so they had deemed it. For Dragan, the days spent waiting as the world moved on around him were pure torture. He was forced to watch Frederica and Roland come and go while he was confined to a couple of leisurely strolls a day. The worst was how his thoughts would circle back to his father; he was still in Aesfrost, still without him, and Dragan didn’t trust Gustadolph to show him much courtesy now that his charade had come to blow. Dragan had sent a letter to his father the moment he had come to his senses – with the help and penmanship of Frederica, seeing as his own body had still been reeling at every ounce of focus he had tried to muster. That had been days ago, and he had yet to receive a letter from his father in return. What reached him instead wasn’t at all what he had hoped for.

He divulged the news to the others the moment he was allowed to leave his chambers. Roland sat upon the throne – an unfamiliar sight to be sure, though it didn’t make him appear any less approachable. Benedict, Serenoa and Frederica had all joined the discussion while Hughette had insisted on standing guard in front of the throne room.

“This letter arrived but hours ago. It’s signed by the Archduke himself,” Dragan declared, waving the piece of paper in front of them.

Roland’s eyes narrowed the instance the words were out there. “What!?”

“I was hoping for a message from my lord father, but I suppose Gustadolph took it upon himself to reply in his stead.” Dragan crossed one arm over the other, crumbling the piece of paper in his hands. “He’s offering to accept me back into Aesfrost under the condition that I don’t raise any fuss about… recent events. He’s even willing to appoint me Prime Minister, seeing as the position remains vacant for now.”

Heavy silence befell the room. It was hard to miss the way Roland’s eyes widened. His fingers tightened their grip on the armrests. “Dragan…”

“Do you intend to accept his offer?” Benedict asked, straight to the point as always.

“Of course I’m not!” Dragan scoffed. He shot Benedict a glare before he caught himself; his simmering rage wasn’t directed at anyone that was present to receive it. “I don’t trust a single one of his honeyed words. Chances are he just wants to lure me into another trap.”

“Good,” Roland replied, “A dog like him can never be trusted.”

Dragan hesitated despite himself, picking at the edges of the paper. “I do still intent to make my way to Aesfrost shortly,” he revealed, “I cannot leave Gustadolph’s transgressions unaddressed for much longer. My people deserve a resolution to this pitiable conflict. Besides…” Dragan’s gaze dropped to the ground for a moment before he met Roland’s again. “I cannot leave my father to handle this crisis alone. Gustadolph didn’t even have the decency to mention him in a single one of his lines. I fear he might see my father as a threat.”

Dragan was speaking Roland’s language now. It was clear from the way Roland’s sharp glare softened, replaced by a quieter spark. “Gustadolph has wronged my people as well. It would be sheer cowardice not to avenge them.”

“With all due respect, neither Wolffort nor Glenbrook at large is prepared for another battle at the current moment,” Benedict cut in, “We need to focus our efforts on our own demesne. We are in no shape to meddle in the matters of other nations.”

Dragan took a quick, tight breath before he tried anew. “I understand that I’m asking much of you all. If anything, I am the one who is in your debt after you’ve sheltered me for so long. But what happens next in Aesfrost will not leave Glenbrook unaffected. Gustadolph will not accept defeat so easily; not with the salt mines at stake.”

“He’s as much on his backfoot as we are,” Roland added, “If we strike quickly, we may just catch him with his guard down.”

Dragan nodded. “I managed to convince a respectable group of Aesfrosti soldiers to join our cause. And those that have been… less cooperative have been imprisoned on King Roland’s orders. Their numbers might give us an edge.”

“Gustadolph knows this,” Frederica said, “The situation he found himself in is far from the unchallenged domination he had hoped for. He might be ready to make concessions if he’s desperate enough.”

“I would not count on that,” Roland remarked sharply, “Though I suppose we can crush him all the same once he shows his true colors.”

“Do you really intend to leave your people behind while chaos yet festers inside your own walls, Your Highness?” Benedict questioned, adjusting his glasses with a pointed tap of his fingers.

“The Royalists are already handling the situation,” Roland replied, his voice equally taut with tension, “The damage to the city was minimal, and the supply of relief goods is well established thanks to our allies from Hyzante. I have no excuse to hide from Gustadolph any longer.”

“Do you believe your people will support you in your blind rage? Their lives will be the ones on the line if you are to raise arms against the Dutchy.” Benedict was relentless today – or perhaps his words just hit Dragan point blank like well-honed daggers.

“Oh, you suppose they will take kindly to cowardice instead!?” Roland exclaimed, “Of what worth will I be to my people if I won’t even fight for them?”

“Roland, pray, calm yourself,” Serenoa interjected, “You as well, Benedict. I understand your concerns, but we will get nowhere by throwing accusations at one another.”

“Lord Serenoa, what is your opinion on the matter?” Dragan questioned. Roland and Benedict had been vocal enough. Frederica, while more reserved, showed her concern in every quiet glance and frown. Serenoa, however, hadn’t revealed his cards in the slightest.

Serenoa’s expression didn’t betray him, projecting the same calm he so often brought to these discussions. “I believe that it is not for me to decide what my king does or does not do with his own troops. However, I do wish to bring the matter to the attention of the war council. I rather my allies share their thoughts about involving themselves in another battle. We can come to a joined decision by consulting the scales. They have led us well so far.”

Dragan gave the suggestion some quick consideration. Roland was sure to vote in his favor and Hughette would most likely follow his lead. He may be able to appeal to Frederica before they made their choice. While Benedict was a lost cause, the rest of their retainers were wild cards to him. His best bet was trying to convince Serenoa in that case, as he was sure to influence his allies the most.

“By all means, discuss the matter within your own ranks,” Dragan affirmed, “Though I must implore you to consider the potential for a stronger alliance between our kingdoms, should you come to join my cause. After all, Hyzante might all too soon turn fickle if they were to become aware of the salt mine’s existence. And when that day comes, I can assure you you’d rather have a steadfast ally up north instead of another opponent.”

“I will take your words into consideration during our discussions,” Serenoa replied, “Rest assured that I haven’t forgotten the alliance Lord Svarog has offered us either. I shan’t make light of the promises we made.”

Dragan allowed the tension to drain from him for now. That was the most passionate response he had managed to elicit from Serenoa regarding the matter, at the very least. “You have my utmost gratitude – for all you’ve done. Remind me to treat you to some fine, Aesfrosti liquor once this conflict is finally set to rest.”

Serenoa smiled politely. “Maybe save the promises for after the vote is cast – or better yet, for after we’ve truly brought peace to our realm.”

“Very well. I shan’t forget that, my friend.”

Roland could finally breathe freely again when he left the throne room that evening. Their discussion had taken hours – hours he had spent butting heads with Benedict time and again. Serenoa and Frederica had been terribly indecisive, and their attitude had infected their retainers as well. When the sunlight had turned a deep shade of orange, Roland had finally managed to sway his friend’s heart on the matter. In the end, Hughette, Frederica, Erador and Geela had all cast their token in his favor, confirming once and for all that Serenoa’s troops would join them in the battle ahead. Benedict had given him a measured glare as he left, but that was a small price to pay for their support.

In a couple of days’ time, they would set out for Aesfrost’s border. They had agreed to let words speak before weapons in order to reach their compromise, but Roland was certain it wouldn’t take them far with Gustadolph. Gods, how he craved to finally put that despicable man to justice.

For the time being, Roland had to make certain everything was taken care of during his absence. He would call for Patriatte first thing in the morning. Considering the man’s insistence that Roland needn’t burden himself with making his own decisions, he would most likely not take too kindly to being confronted with a fate accompli. It mattered naught. Patriatte would not be able to stop his decree from taking effect whether he agreed with it or not.

For now, something else entirely consumed Roland’s thoughts; his sister was yet bedridden, barely strong enough to listen, leave alone speak or move. It pained him to see her in such a state, but it was a pain he would have to bear by himself, seeing as it was entirely self-inflicted. More than anything, Roland had to watch over her while he could.

When he entered Cordelia’s chamber, there was not a single candle burning to lend light to the dim room. The dwindling dawn had cast it into grey, nothing but dark shapes remaining. Roland still knew the castle’s layout by heart, easily navigating his way to his sister’s bedside.

“Oh… Roland,” Cordelia mumbled as he kneeled at her side, barely turning her head towards him. Roland found himself utterly incapable of holding her gaze. She hadn’t been conscious enough to acknowledge him the last time he had paid her a visit. Now that she did, it was both a balm and a dagger to his heart.

“You should be fast asleep. Darkness has already fallen,” he remarked, matching her soft tone of voice.

“I have slept enough for a lifetime since that day…”

Roland could not deny the truth in her words. Still, when he saw the haze clouding her eyes, he couldn’t help but wish to tuck her in and let her rest until the worst had passed.

“Apologies.” The word felt too small for what he was trying to say. “It’s my fault you’re bound here.”

“I… suppose it is… in a way.” Cordelia’s words were wrapped in wool, though that failed to soften the sting they packed. “I’m still happy to see you – alive and well. I thought I never would again…”

Roland smiled. He had to, even when the sight of her had his heart in a vice grip – for her sake.

“I wish our reunion would have gone differently. I only meant to protect you, not…” Roland shook his head, pressing his hands against his thighs to keep them from shaking. “Apologies, that won’t take the pain away either.”

“Roland…” Cordelia hushed, “What happened on that ship after…” Her eyes grew distant, flitting across the room. “What happened to General Avlora?”

Roland swallowed the hot words of anger that wanted to leave his tongue, forcing himself to reply objectively. “She jumped into the waves and hasn’t been seen since. The Norzelia River has claimed her for all we know.”

What little composure Cordelia had crumbled in an instant.

“Oh…” The sound escaped her in a sorrowful sigh, her body curling in on itself. She pressed her hand against her mouth, muffling the hitched breaths that followed. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, simply tensing until she quivered as if that was the one thing holding her together.

Why do you mourn her? The question burned on Roland’s tongue. Cordelia had been there when General Avlora had struck their brother. She had seen Frani bleed out, had cried and wailed for him. How could she hold even a shred of compassion for the woman that had done that to them?

Roland did not raise his concerns. How could he when his sister was hurting and on the verge of tears? He gently rested his hand on the crown of her head, brushing over her tousled hair in even strokes.

“Easy now. Steady breaths.”

Cordelia’s breath broke on the way in instead, coming back out in a quiet whimper.

“I’m so sorry. I should have never left you alone for so long.” Roland desperately wanted to hold her close like he would when she was little. She was so easily startled back then, crying thick tears at the mere roar of thunder. Whatever had befallen her heart now wasn’t as easy to chase away as that innocent fear. “I promise I won’t abandon you again. Never again.”

“Roland…” The word barely made it past the firm press of her hand, past the sobs and whines.

“It’s alright. I promise I will fix this.” It was a bold claim to make. Roland couldn’t bring back the family they had lost, couldn’t erase the pain his sister had to endure under Gustadolph’s rule – he couldn’t even make her forget for just this moment. But he meant it, every word of it. What kind of brother would he be if he couldn’t even protect his sister?

A pitiful one. Roland knew this, and yet he still clung to the hope that he could mend the ways he had broken her.

“You must be exhausted,” Roland hushed. His traitorous fingers trembled on the next stroke.

“I… am.” Cordelia wiped her wet cheeks, only for more tears to follow in their trail. “I am.”

“Do you need anything? Or do you simply wish to rest?” It was an odd way to put it. Simply. As if Cordelia’s pain could be packed away and saved for a more convenient time. It had drained the energy from her all the same. Her eyelids fluttered, tears catching in her lashes.

“Nothing you can give me, brother,” she replied, her body slumping into the sheets, “Just… will you remain? Only for a little while longer…”

“I’ll stay,” Roland replied without hesitation, “As long as you need me. I promised to, after all.”

Chapter Text

When their group arrived at Twinsgate, the passageway was firmly sealed for them. Gustadolph’s men must have seen their party coming; it was hard to miss them, considering they marched with battalions of soldiers in tow. Gustadolph stood atop the tall structure, his crimson mantle flowing in the stiff breeze. Dragan loathed the way he looked down on them, but stepped forward to speak up anyhow. “Archduke Gustadolph, we have come to negotiate a peace treaty. Our family feud only serves to tear our people apart. Surely, this cannot be what you strive for.”

“Negotiate?” Gustadolph tilted his head towards their troops. “If you’re intentions are to resolve this peacefully, why do you come here armed to the teeth?”

“You aren’t particularly well known for resolving matters peacefully,” Dragan replied, raising his voice over the howling of the wind, “Do you think us foolish enough to face you without the means to protect ourselves?”

It was hard to judge how many soldiers Gustadolph had prepared on his side. Dragan spotted a couple archers and hawkriders atop Twinsgate, but judging by the murmur of voices and the occasional clank of metal, Gustadolph had rallied Blackirons behind the gate as well.

“It doesn’t exactly signal pure intentions, but let us look past that for now… Why have you come here? To subdue me and take my place? Or have you come for your lord father’s sake instead?”

Dragan tensed his jaw, shooting Gustadolph a glare he hoped would carry through the thin veil of snow. “I would appreciate it if you told me where he is. Last time I checked, he was supposed to be the steward of this place.”

“Oh, it’s been a while since you’ve been home, hasn’t it?” Gustadolph replied, his distain thinly veiled behind courtesy, “It is bad practice to discuss matters concerning our family out in the open, wouldn’t you say, Dragan? Why don’t you join me inside so we can handle this in a civilized manner? After all, you seem so eager to… negotiate.”

Dragan bristled at the reply. Civilized? The bastard didn’t even care to tell Dragan whether his father was still alive, and he dared to scold him about what was proper or not!?

“I believe I have asked a rather simple question,” Dragan snapped. He had half a mind to let his fire speak instead of his tongue, however fruitless that would have been.

“Oh, but there’s some… baggage attached to the matter, isn’t there?” Gustadolph’s expression was impossible to make out over the blizzard, and yet, Dragan could still feel the glare hit him. “Wouldn’t you prefer to settle this eye to eye?”

“Dragan.” Roland’s voice caught his attention before he could even react to Gustadolph’s demand. He had a tight hold on his steed’s reigns, his knuckles white with tension. The horse stepped in place, clearly catching his apprehension. “You better not intend to agree with this preposterous suggestion.”

Dragan’s gaze flicked between Roland and the Archduke. If he were to comply and join Gustadolph inside, he could hardly force his way back out if anything were to go amiss. The enemy soldiers he could see before him and the mounting iron gate were enough to ensure that.

Yet, the fact remained that Gustadolph still had his father. Dragan didn’t know where he was or what Gustadolph had done to him, but the Archduke had certainly taken measures to subdue him. If Dragan were to provoke Gustadolph, would he show his father the same aggression that had nearly cost him his own life back when this all started?

“We did agree to prioritize an honest discussion…” Dragan didn’t fully believe it. It must have shown in his awfully quiet tone. Still, he couldn’t take the risk. His father may very well be helpless at the moment, but he sure as hell was not. “Very well, Gustadolph. Let’s talk.”

Roland’s eyes widened the moment Dragan said that, his hand drawing to his spear. Dragan knew the protest was coming in an instant, but he already rushed forward before Roland could react. Roland leaped off his steed as the tall gate creaked open, just enough for Dragan to slip through.

“Dragan, you can’t be serious!” Roland exclaimed, “Don’t you dare do this by yourself!”

Dragan wouldn’t come to find out whether Roland tried to push his way through as the gate was sealed behind him the moment he had entered.

Dragan had been right – the place was packed with Aesfrosti soldiers. At the very least, they let him pass without any issue, allowing him to climb the steps until he met Gustadolph face to face. The Archduke didn’t even take a single step to meet him halfway.

“I knew you’d listen to reason,” Gustadolph said. Oh, sure he did. Dragan forced himself not to grace that with a reaction, though he couldn’t quite suppress the frown that tugged at his lips. “Let’s continue this inside, shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Dragan mumbled, his jaw tense.

Gustadolph brought him into what should have been his father’s quarters. The Blackirons that guarded the door weren’t lost on Dragan, neither were the handful of swordsmen that joined them inside.

“I thought you wanted to talk eye to eye, just the two of us?” Dragan questioned sharply.

“You look like you want to tear me limb from limb, dear cousin.” Gustadolph’s cold, barely concealed glare was clear as day now that he stood right in front of Dragan. “You can’t blame me for being careful, can you? I must take the necessary precautions to protect myself as well.”

Of course Gustadolph would throw that back at him. Dragan sighed, rubbing his temple. Arguing about this wouldn’t yield any results. “Very well… Now that you got it your way, do you mind telling me where my father is?”

“That was our agreement, was it not?” Gustadolph’s fake smile was infuriating. “I had to see him gaoled. I’m not sure you are aware, but your father was involved in the illegal salt trade with Hyzante. He was less than cooperative when I confronted him with the fact.”

“Was he now?” Dragan swallowed down the accusations that wanted to follow, just for now. Gustadolph’s words confirmed that his father was still alive, at least.

“I’m wondering, Dragan, whether you will follow his example or show more reason.” Gustadolph gave him a sweeping glance, as if he was taking his measure. “You haven’t replied to the offer I sent you yet.”

“I have not. There’s a reason for that.”

“Ah, I suppose you two have ever been cut from the same cloth.” The way Gustadolph’s gaze hardened was dangerous. Dragan knew all too well. “It was such a gracious offer I presented you. After all, you’ve been raising arms against your own people, rallying them to fight one another. It’s nothing short of treason.” Gustadolph seemed to make sure the accusation landed, only continuing when Dragan’s body tensed, his hands balling into fists. “You should be grateful I’m willing to let you walk a free man, leave alone offer you the position you’ve been craving so direly. You were ready to betray those you call allies for this chance once. What happened?”

“I very nearly lost my life because of it… and because of you,” Dragan muttered, “That may have shifted my perspective.”

Gustadolph didn’t even grace that with an answer, instead motioning his guards into action with a flick of his wrist. “I suppose if you plan on being difficult, I will have you join your father. I’m sure your allies will understand that I couldn’t leave you to cause a ruckus.”

For one heartbeat, the impulse to draw his spellbook ran through Dragan. If he was quick and caused a big enough commotion, he may be able to break free and run out before they could take him to the dungeon. Would the guards outside attack him on sight? He was still separated from his allies. Then there was the issue of Gustadolph himself. He didn’t show his battle prowess as openly as General Avlora had, but word of mouth had it that he was the one man of their nation that could best her in combat.

If Dragan were to go along with this and meet his father, could they overpower a couple of guards together? If that failed, would his friends be able to free him…

The soldiers closed in on him.

“Your spellbook, Dragan,” Gustadolph urged him. Dragan glared daggers at him. He wouldn’t be able to fight properly without his tome. Then again, it was already too late to catch them by surprise.

Dragan reluctantly unfastened his spellbook from its holder, giving it to one of the guards. Stars, if Roland needed to get him out of this predicament after all, he wouldn’t be hearing the end of it.

“I will go without a fight,” Dragan promised – and just for now, he followed through on those words.

Gustadolph had left Dragan to his guards, returning his attention to sweet talking Roland and the others instead. Good luck with that, Dragan thought to himself. He was dragged along by a stern swordsman, broad and about a head taller than him. Most likely able to restrain him if he were to put up a fight, Dragan noted. He had a younger soldier accompanying him to boot. As his arm was locked in a death grip, Dragan had already complained about the rough treatment, though he had only earned a grumble in reply.

The cells were located in the lower levels of Twinsgate’s towers. Dragan had rarely gone here when this had still been his home. He had had no reason to visit the cold, harsh halls, seeing as they had only sparingly been filled with the odd smuggler or bandit their scouts had caught. The torches were few and far between, their light flickering over the iron contraptions that moved the heavy gate.

The moment Dragan entered the gaol, his father bolted upright, stepping to the edge of his cell. “Dragan!” He grasped the iron bars separating them tightly, shooting the tall soldier a glare. “Let go of him!”

“No can do, my lord. Archduke’s orders,” the soldier replied flatly.

Dragan quickly scanned the room, considering his chances of escape. There was a third soldier, quietly standing at the far end of his father’s cell. Dragan had almost missed him with how he lurked in the shadows.

He caught the younger soldier throwing his tome into a chamber by the entrance, likely too far away for him to reach – at least while this damn brute was still holding onto him.

“Hey, careful with that!” Dragan complained, but he was aptly ignored once more. The only acknowledgment he got was the grip on his arm tightening into a bruising force. Dragan didn’t grace it with a reaction, simply enduring it and keeping a close eye on the situation.

The youngest of the soldiers unlocked one of the unoccupied cells. Was that key a universal one? Either way, Dragan had to pick his priorities fast if he didn’t want to be thrown in there and locked away for the time being.

He needed a distraction if he didn’t want to get overwhelmed and swiftly subdued. A controlled magical attack wasn’t an option without anything to channel it with, but maybe something less refined would do the trick…

Dragan gave it his best attempt to gather some raw energy in his palm. It didn’t need to do damage as long as it was flashy enough.

Dragan didn’t bother aiming, squeezing his eyes shut as he let the spell burst apart all at once. The flashing light shone through his lids, a sharp bang echoing off the stone walls. Dragan slipped out of the soldiers grasp the moment he faltered, catching the shine of the keys as they fell to the ground. Definitely more feasible than sprinting across the room without getting caught; his spellbook was a lost cause with the two of them still surrounding him.

Dragan quickly picked the keys up from the ground, throwing them his father’s way and hoping he could get a hold of them. He couldn’t even affirm that much before he was shoved, his arms catching the brunt of the impact as he banged against the metal bars. He grasped at the cold iron, trying to steady himself. When the taller soldier tried to push him into the cell instead of securing him again, he realized that he had just gotten incredibly lucky.

Dragan stumbled a couple steps, still holding onto the post as if his life depended on it. It was enough to keep him upright, the momentum allowing him to turn around on his heel. The iron bars now firmly separated him and his aggressor.

Dragan’s arm just barely fit through the bars, but that was enough to get a grip on the soldier’s collar and yank with all his might. The harsh impact knocked the soldier’s visorless helmet straight off, the clank of metal against metal ringing through the air as he went to the ground.

The younger soldier watched it happen with wide eyes. For a moment, Dragan wasn’t sure whether he would fight or bolt. Dragan braced himself when the man reached for his sword, taking a measured step back. Before the situation could come to blow, the soldier was dragged aside with a short yelp; Dragan’s father had managed to free himself after all, shoving the aggressor against the wall.

“I would advise against that,” his father declared, his voice low but resolute. The younger man immediately relented, holding his hands up into the air in a gesture of surrender. “Good.”

Dragan breathed a sigh of relief. His arms ached, but at least he had gotten away with just some bruises this time around. Not that they were done fighting yet, judging by the shouts carrying in from the other side of the wall. Dragan was fairly certain he could make out Roland’s voice. It may have been inappropriate, but he couldn’t keep himself from smiling. They were on the same page then, seeing as Dragan was seething after Gustadolph’s infuriating, little game.

“Thank you kindly,” Dragan said as he stepped out of the cell, right over the knocked-out soldier. His father shoved the unharmed one into the cell, closing it firmly shut. Judging by the crumpled figure at the far side of the room, his father must have taken care of the third soldier while Dragan had been struggling, leaving them free to move as they pleased.

“That was either exceptionally brave or madly reckless,” his father remarked, “But I suppose you did get us out of here.”

Dragan grinned, earning a smile in return – if a slightly exasperated one. “I did indeed! Which means we can join the battle now. We can’t leave all the fighting to our friends from Glenbrook, now can we?”

“Yes, that would indeed be inconsiderate,” his father affirmed as he stepped away from the cells.

Dragan immediately went to retrieve his spellbook. Fortunately for them, the chamber Dragan had spotted earlier turned out to be a small armory – more notably, they had thrown his father’s battle hammer in there too, so neither of them had to face the enemy without a proper weapon. Dragan just hoped Gustadolph hadn’t done too much damage while he was gone – neither with his weapon nor his words.

“How did they get a hold of you to begin with, my boy?” his father asked as they made their way outside, starting their climb up the stairs, “You had your allies with you, had you not?”

Dragan didn’t really feel like giving the full story; his father would most likely not be pleased with Dragan risking his freedom and safety for his sake.

“I tried being diplomatic with Gustadolph, but it didn’t exactly work out in my favor,” he explained, giving his father a sheepish smile. To his surprise, his father laughed, deep and hearty.

“Ah, I see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

It was reassuring to know it hadn’t just been him at least. Dragan looked up at the gate’s contraption as it gave a low groan, cogwheels and chains shifting ever so slightly in the dim torchlight. Must have been the commotion outside.

“We should be able to open the gate once we get out of here,” Dragan remarked, deep in thought, “If Gustadolph hasn’t unleashed his men already, that is.”

“We should, yes. We can’t stay trapped in here without support.” His father considered for a moment. “I will keep an eye on the enemy. You focus on making it to the mechanism.”

Dragan nodded, pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs. “I’m ready to go.” After the long way here, calling him ready was an understatement.

Roland hardly had the patience to listen to Gustadolph’s drivel, leave alone grace it with an answer. Every bone in his body told him to go on the offence, to break something – preferably this self-absorbed bastard, but Roland could hardly harm him when he was still perched atop Twinsgate.

Gustadolph had said Dragan had been difficult. Roland didn’t exactly doubt that there was a grain of truth to that, but he was certain his partner had had a damn good reason for pushing back. He couldn’t get Dragan out of there with a mountain’s worth of iron and stone separating them, and Gustadolph refused to release him, spewing nonsense about how Dragan had conspired with Glenbrook to betray him and Aesfrost.

“He only came to us because you wished to have him killed! And for what!?” Roland shouted, his voice echoing off the ravine. Gustadolph seemed hardly impressed by the outburst.

“Brother, please, do you not tire of this bloodshed?” Frederica questioned. What a pointless effort to try and reason with this man. “This war has brought nothing but grief and loss upon Glenbrook and Aesfrost alike.”

“Oh, you must misunderstand, Frederica. I do plan on ending this – once I’m free to lead this realm into a new era.” Gustadolph’s voice lowered, barely carrying over the howling of the wind. “You’ve always had a soft heart when your kin had ones of iron. I’m uncertain whether to respect or pity you for it.”

Frederica’s lips thinned into a frown as if she actually took the words to heart. Roland was moments away from kicking this damn gate, if just to let out his frustrations, when the thing jumped into motion with a low groan.

Gustadolph faltered at the sudden motion, kneeling down to steady himself; he surely had not intended for that to happen. Roland’s gaze flitted over the area, finally spotting Dragan in the middle of pushing his weight against a large iron wheel. Roland’s heart jumped in his chest, fluttering as if uncertain whether to be seized by relief or worry.

“Dragan!” Roland tightened his grip on his spear, already rushing through the opening Dragan had created for them. He had to get to his side swiftly – or to Gustadolph. It was about the same right now.

Serenoa had enough foresight to command their hawkriders to lend support atop the gate, led by Hughette and Flanagan. They were far outnumbered by the Aesfrosti ones, and that wasn’t taking the other soldiers that filled the area into account. It mattered naught. They only needed to cut through to Gustadolph. Once he was bested, the other men would surely lose their will to fight.

Roland thrust his spear towards the first swordsman he ran into, hitting the ground instead. Good enough; the retreating enemy left an opening for Roland to slip through.

“Roland, careful!” Serenoa exclaimed. He rushed to Roland’s side, cutting down another soldier just as he raised his weapon.

“We mustn’t hesitate,” Roland replied sharply, “If we overwhelm them, we can cut our way through!”

He had to take a reluctant step back after all when a broad Blackiron blocked his way, or he would have caught the blunt force of his shield. A blast of Frederica’s fire drove the Blackiron back, engulfing him and his brothers in arms in a fierce blaze.

Damn it, it was a whole hoard of those Aesfrosti curs. The way to the stairs was short, but if soldiers kept filling in for their fallen and injured, they wouldn’t allow Roland’s group to advance.

“Gustadolph!” Roland exclaimed, “Get down here and face me you coward! This is your doing… Are you not ashamed to let your own people lay down their life for you!?”

“I could ask you much the same, Your Highness.” Gustadolph barely finished that sentence before Roland registered a touch of frostbite licking at his fingers. Why now…?

“Roland!” Dragan caught his attention in an instant. He tried forcing his way down the stairs – his father by his side. The brunt of Lord Svarog’s hammer knocked a Blackiron to the ground, but that still wasn’t enough to pave a way through the chaos. “Step back! Now!”

Roland faltered, falling back a couple of steps without thinking. Veins of ice crystals sprouted in the air moments later, bursting so close Roland could still feel the frosty shards hit his face. One of the Blackirons fell to the ground with a shout, caught in the crossfire. It appeared Gustadolph wielded magic just as naturally as his sword. This would shape up to be an arduous process.

They had to cut through man after man to push forward, their crimson blood staining the snow. It was a drawn-out struggle, both fought in blade and word. Dragan and Gustadolph started exchanging arguments in the midst of battle. Dragan was heated from the start, spilling all the accusations Gustadolph deserved. At least he and his father had managed to join their lines before Gustadolph could get to them. Roland could fight easier with them safely by his side.

“Do you see now the kind of man that stands before you?” Dragan questioned the Aesfrosti soldiers that stood in their way, “Gustadolph’s greed drove him to betray his allies, sacrifice his own kith and kin. He cares not for you. All that matters to him is how you can serve him in his quest for power!”

“Bold words coming from a traitor.” Gustadolph still stood atop the stairs, casting ice magic from afar while his men fought and bled for him. “Were you not willing to leave Aesfrost behind in search of recognition in Glenbrook? That you stand here today, side by side with the enemy is prove enough.”

“You drove me away by your own actions. I was no longer safe in my own home because you could not stand to be challenged!” Dragan’s voice carried over the blaring cries of battle, his gaze fixed sharply on the Archduke. “The only one that has earned my ire is you, Gustadolph. I never wanted to bring harm to our people; I only wish to free them of your callous rule.”

Roland jumped in to block an incoming swing of a swordman; Dragan seemed to have noticed too late over the heated discussion. “Dragan, they won’t listen to reason.”

His words fell on deaf ears as Gustadolph kept droning on about his own merit. “You may disagree with my methods, but that does not change the outcome; under my rule, Aesfrost expanded its influence. I would have led our nation into a new era if you and yours had not stood in my way.”

“No. Your conquest was always doomed to fail,” Dragan insisted, his words as fierce and unyielding as his fire, “You treat your allies as nothing but pawns in the best case – and obstacles to be removed in the worst. This path spelled your doom the moment you embarked on it.”

Gustadolph’s mask of indifference only began to crack now as his men faltered, an uneasy murmur going through the crowd. Some backed away, their tight frontline beginning to show weak points. It took Roland off guard, enough to give him a pause when he should have seized the opportunity and cut his way through the instance it happened.

“Do not back down now!” Gustadolph ordered, “Any that lay down their weapon will not live to see the morrow, I promise you that.”

Gustadolph finally stopped covering now that his forces thinned, perhaps in a last-ditch effort to rouse his wavering men. He wielded his claymore as if it weighed nothing, bringing it down on their frontline with the kind of speed and brutal efficiency that should not have been possible with a blade that heavy. Two of their men were cut down within a blink of an eye, another wavered.

“Fall back!” Roland ordered sharply, “Seek out a healer immediately.”

The Archduke didn’t pause his assault for a moment. He must have saved his strength while he let his men grind them down.

No matter. He was but one man. He wouldn’t get the better of them – never again.

Roland had come to predict Gustadolph’s magic by now, spotting the veil of ice crystals around the Archduke’s blade whenever he readied himself. Gauging where it would hit was another matter entirely.

Frederica let out a cry when the ice creeped up her arm, sending a violent tremble through her that made her drop everything. She clutched at her arm, though it failed to ease the shaking. She didn’t need to be told to retreat, certainly seeking out a healer.

Roland gnashed his teeth as his stomach revolted. His own sister. What kind of monster…?

“Focus,” Dragan snapped him out of it, “We got Gustadolph on his back foot now. Don’t falter.”

Roland gripped his spear until his knuckles turned white, nodding.

“This isn’t over yet,” Gustadolph said. His air of confidence wavered, a touch of emotion sneaking in – frustration, or even outright fury? “You will not get the best of me!”

Gustadolph drove his sword forward, too fast for Roland to escape its reach. It was only thanks to Erador he didn’t get struck. The cry of metal against metal was deafening as the towering shield bent out of shape.

“My lord, now’s your chance!” Benedict assessed with his keen gaze. Serenoa didn’t hesitate, lunging to strike Gustadolph head on. Their blades met. Gustadolph wavered, even as he pushed Serenoa back.

“Pathetic,” Gustadolph snarled, “Have you not yet realized how futile your efforts are?”

He raised his sword high, the shards of ice sparkling as they gathered around it. It was all too well telegraphed; they were starting to wear him down. Dragan reacted before it could become a threat, evaporating the creeping ice into mist with a burst of his fire magic.

“Are you truly that delusional?” Dragan questioned, “Or desperate?”

He couldn’t connect an attack outright, nothing but a layer of fog to show for his efforts. The lack of vision must have been enough to give Gustadolph a pause.

Lord Svarog’s battle hammer hit Gustadolph square in the chest, sending him to the ground with a sickening crunch. The Archduke sputtered. Red specks splattered against the snow with a wet cough. Roland knew an opportunity when he saw it.

He surged forward, driving his spear into Gustadolph’s shoulder and pinning him to the ground. The pained grunt the Archduke gave wasn’t enough to quell the fury simmering inside Roland – like a drop of water on a scalding hot stone. Roland dug his heel into Gustadolph’s chest for good measure, lifting his spearhead to rest against the Archduke’s throat.

“You’re beaten, Gustadolph,” Roland proclaimed, “Any final words?”

The battlefield was shrouded in silence for one heavy moment, the cry of both steel and men dying down. Gustadolph simply glared. He didn’t cover, didn’t plead, didn’t break. It made Roland’s blood boil.

“No,” he replied, too casual to fit the broken gurgle in his chest, “I lived how I deemed fit, and I shall die just so.”

Roland gripped his spear impossibly tight, drawing a trickle of blood from Gustadolph’s throat. “So be it.”

“King Roland, wait,” Lord Svarog interrupted. Roland did give him the courtesy to pause, even when his weapon trembled with barely contained fury. He did not take his eyes off the man before him for a moment. The one who had taken everything from him, broken, bleeding and still sneering at him.

“Your reign has only begun,” Svarog reasoned, “You needn’t sully your hands with this foul deed. Allow me. I’ll finish this on behalf of Aesfrost.”

He was offering his aid. Roland knew – part of him knew. It mattered naught. His bottled-up rage had nowhere else to go, had it? If he finally saw the life drain from Gustadolph, blood and spirit spilling like Frani’s had, would that finally quell the burn?

“Father.” Dragan’s voice was a blur over the rush of his own pulse in his ears. “Gustadolph has taken much from him – more than any of us. He deserves to see this through, doesn’t he?” Roland’s hands trembled like leaves, barely keeping their grip on his spear. “We’ve brough death upon better men to get here, have we not?”

Roland’s composure snapped like a string drawn too taut. He buried his spear deep in Gustadolph’s throat, pushing all his weight onto his weapon to pin him down. A gurgle left Gustadolph’s mouth as the steel cut its way through. His eyes widened after all – fear, base instinct. Roland twisted his spear deeper.

Gustadolph’s chest heaved, though Roland did not waver. The struggle only lasted for a few broken breaths before Gustadolph went still beneath his boot. Roland caught the moment the spark of life extinguished in his eyes.

“It’s over.” Roland’s voice was a fragile whisper. His legs quivered, the fight draining from his body all at once. Was this… satisfaction? Roland could barely feel his own limbs, leave alone the emotion curling around his heart.

He watched the blood seep into the snow, deep crimson on pure white.

It was over. The thought echoed in Roland’s mind. Finally, truly over. He had secured the safety of his kingdom, of his loved ones. At long last, he had avenged the family Gustadolph had taken from him. Roland would finally be able to speak of his actions with pride. If only that had filled the emptiness that remained when the fire of revenge burned out.

Chapter Text

Dragan felt a sense of freedom unlike any other when the battlefield went quiet. They had already removed Gustadolph’s body from the scene, but Dragan’s eyes kept drawing back to the specks of blood in the snow as if he still expected him to raise his voice. He had waited months for this, banished from his own home and stripped of his agency. No, it had started further back than that, hadn’t it? All that time ago when Gustadolph had banished him and his father to this abandoned place, dangling rewards in front of him he was never allowed to reach. It was no surprise then that he could hardly believe it was over.

The others didn’t seem to fare much differently. Dragan and his father had already calmed the soldiers as best as they could. None of them put up any protest now that Gustadolph had been cut down. Dragan direly hoped that was a good sign.

Roland was leaning against the tall gate, his gaze fixed on the blood-drenched snow. Hughette was by his side, as silent as her liege. When Dragan tried snapping him out of it with a soft greeting, Roland straightened himself and spoke for the first time since the Archduke had fallen. “It’s hard to believe it’s truly over.”

Dragan replied with a humorless laugh. “How peculiar, I was thinking just that.”

Roland’s mood was impossible to read, his eyes deep and dark as a lake. “Thank you for staying with me until the end.”

“No need for gratitude. I couldn’t have possibly made it here without you either.”

Roland nodded, his eyes drawing back to the stains of blood.

“Are you feeling well, Roland?” Dragan inquired after a moment of hesitation, “You haven’t gotten injured in the fray, have you?”

Roland sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “No, nothing like that. I’ve gotten lucky this time.”

Lucky, huh?

“I fear His Highness isn’t feeling talkative right now,” Hughette remarked with a small, knowing smile that told Dragan she had already tried, “Maybe we need to afford him a moment to gather his bearings.”

Roland finally looked up at that, putting on a smile. “What do you two keep fretting about? We should be celebrating, shouldn’t we?” It didn’t take long for his smile to waver. Roland let go of a deep sigh, resting back against the wall. “I suppose I just never realized how tired I was until now.”

“Right, apologies, Your Majesty.” Hughette’s voice was soft. She stuck so close to Roland’s side, quiet and steady. Dragan felt like he should have done something more too. He yearned to wrap Roland into his arms and give him a taste of warmth and comfort in this frigid place. Not that it was a possibility in front of so many prying eyes.

“Perhaps our victory will finally allow you a good night’s sleep. You look like you need it,” Dragan remarked, earning a soft smile, a spark of something genuine. Yes, perhaps Roland truly just needed a moment to process what they had accomplished before he could shine that bright smile of his again.

“Enjoy the moment of quiet. You’ve more than earned it,” Dragan insisted, “We will talk more later.”

Roland perked up ever so slightly, easy to miss if one wasn’t looking for it. “Yes, let’s.” Roland’s gaze finally wandered over the entire scene instead of drawing down. “You should go and see how Frederica is doing. She did get injured in the fray.”

As opposed to me, Dragan concluded. He didn’t dare admit that he was still worried for Roland. That would only serve to put his partner into a dour mood all over again.

“Of course, I was going to do just that,” he replied instead, already looking for Frederica’s telltale, pink hair. She was standing just at the other end of Twinsgate, seeking cover from the harsh wind in the nook where the gate met one of the towers. Serenoa was right by her side, coming as close as he could to lending her warmth without touching her. Geela was with them, though Dragan did not yet know whether that was a good sign. He gave Roland one last glance as if to affirm that he was still staying put by his loyal guard’s side. “Until later.”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it.” Roland really had to add that and make Dragan’s stomach flutter in anticipation, did he? Dragan swallowed against the sensation, giving Hughette an acknowledging nod before he joined Frederica and the others instead.

“Are you feeling better?” Dragan asked as he approached them.

Frederica perked up when he spoke, that familiar, warm smile on her lips. She was still steadying her arm that Gustadolph’s spell had hit earlier, slowly moving her fingers as if to test whether they were working. “I am, thank you. It is a boon to have such gifted healers on our side.”

Geela chuckled softly. “I appreciate the praise, though my job was made a world easier since we treated the injury so quickly. I loathe to think what would have happened had the frost settled deeper.”

“Let us just be grateful we all made it out safe and sound,” Serenoa insisted, finally resting his arm around Frederica’s waist. The fact that he was so at ease was somehow more reassuring than Geela’s assessment of the situation; if Frederica’s injury had been something to fret about, surely, he would be doing so already.

“Just so, my love,” she affirmed, relaxing against him. She looked calmer than Dragan had feared, especially after how hesitant she had been to raise arms against Gustadolph.

“Of course, that’s finally some good news.” Dragan eyed Frederica for a moment. “Still, that must have been a rather unpleasant sight. My apologies.”

“Ah.” Her smile began to show an edge of strain, though her voice didn’t falter. “It’s a shame it has come to this, I will admit. Though, Gustadolph said it himself; he chose this path – as we did ours. I do not regret the decisions that have led me here.”

Dragan was frozen in something close to awe for a moment. He should have known better than to doubt her after all he’d seen her accomplish. Perhaps it was sympathy that had overtaken him at the memory of the small, Rosellan girl that clung to her big brother’s coat in a crowded room. When Frederica’s gaze didn’t so much as waver, her smile tired but determined, he saw that he had worried over nothing.

“I’m most glad to hear that,” Dragan replied, finding his cheer again, “We should all use the remaining day to rest. Perhaps things will return to something close to normal by the morrow.”

“Yes, that would be wonderful.” Frederica lightly nudged Serenoa’s side. “Perhaps we can even have a proper wedding soon.”

“True that,” Serenoa replied, “I’ve kept you waiting long enough.”

“Oh, I think we could all use a proper celebration,” Dragan added, his spirit already lighter at the thought. Part of him was aware that there was still much that needed to be done before they could truly rest, but the simple fact that they could discuss this again was relief enough.

“Ah, apologies. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” His father caught his attention. Dragan shook his head no right away.

“Nothing like that. Is something the matter?”

“Nothing’s amiss, if that’s what you’re worried about. I was simply hoping I could borrow you for a moment.”

How convenient; Dragan had meant to discuss their course of action with his father anyhow. “Of course, father. I’ll be right with you.”

“As for you…” He gave Frederica and the other’s an acknowledging look, “Why don’t you and your friends get settled in for now, Frederica? You must all be exhausted after that battle.”

“Thank you, uncle. That would be most appreciated.”

“Think nothing of it,” his father insisted, “I will call a couple of guards so they may lend you a hand. It wouldn’t be appropriate to leave my guests wanting for anything.” Once that was settled, his attention returned to Dragan. “Come with me, my boy. We have much to discuss.”

Dragan followed his father into his quarters, the very same ones Gustadolph had lured him into not bells ago. The tension from before had vanished with the former Archduke. Even if Dragan’s feelings regarding this desolate place were mixed – to put it mildly – his father’s study had always held a certain air of comfort. Maybe it was the crackling of the large fireplace in the background, a rare warmth in a place of frost and bare stone. Dragan leaned back against the desk, the lingering tension draining from him.

“It’s good to have you back, my boy.” His father gave his shoulder a hearty pat, drawing a laugh from Dragan.

“It’s good to be back – and without the need to hide behind a mask this time.” Dragan stretched his heavy limbs, pushing himself up onto the desk to give his legs some rest. “You wanted to discuss something with me?”

“I wanted a chance to speak to my son, seeing as he’s been gone for far too long,” his father remarked, only half serious, “But, yes, that as well. It is important that we are in agreement about how to proceed.”

Dragan didn’t have to consider for long. “I assume you will step up as Archduke, now that the position is vacant.” He couldn’t quite keep himself from smiling, the excitement breaking through his earnest voice. “Further, I suppose you will need a new Prime Minister to help you bear the burden.”

“Very much so. I assume you don’t have any objections to filling that role yourself?”

“Of course I don’t!” Dragan jumped back to his feet with renewed spirit. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been anticipating it, but hearing the words from his father’s mouth was another thing entirely – the final signal that he had made it after a treacherous journey.

“Very well. I will count on you, my boy,” his father chuckled, “We will make an official declaration by the morrow once everyone has gotten their well-earned rest. You can stay in your old room one last time before we move to Ironstone.”

As exciting as the prospect was, Dragan’s mind started running at that. Of course, his father wanted to make the journey to the capital together. Yet, there was so much he needed to do before he could even think about letting himself get comfortable.

“Father, if it is not too much to ask, I’d like to pay the Grand Norzelia Mines a visit,” Dragan explained with new-found determination, “Someone will have to break the news to Gustadolph’s remaining men there. Besides, I’d like to resume the mining operation posthaste.”

Dragan considered how to continue his line of reasoning. He couldn’t exactly give it to his father straight why he wanted to return to Glenbrook sooner rather than later, now could he? “We should see to it that both Aesfrost and Glenbrook will benefit from the crystal salt this time. I suppose Hyzante is a worry for another day, once we’ve recovered from the past battles. I don’t see them taking kindly to competition…”

“I see you are more than ready to take on your duties,” his father remarked, “And you raise a fair point; we shouldn’t leave the mines unsupervised for too long. I can’t imagine anyone better suited than you to get the venture back on its feet.”

“Just so,” Dragan affirmed, “I will take some of our soldiers there – just to be prepared if Gustadolph’s men prove to be difficult. After that is settled, I was thinking… I best head to Glenbrook to assure the trade between our nations can resume without issue.”

“Do you deem that necessary, my boy?” his father asked. Luckily, he seemed to genuinely consider his suggestion instead of harboring any suspicions. “We could settle the necessities with King Roland while he’s still here. Maybe he can even extend some of his men to us, so our nations may reclaim the mines together.”

“That would be wonderful…” Dragan admitted, trying to keep the tell-tale pitch change out of his voice, “However, I’d rather make certain that no issues arise between our nations after the damage Gustadolph has dealt to our relations. Besides, as your Prime Minister, I am to assist you with our nation’s foreign affairs. I best settle into my role without delay.”

His father gave a hum of consideration. “Of course, it is admirable that you’re handling the matter with the necessary diligence. Be that as it may, it is of utmost importance to me that you build a good reputation with our own people. It would not be wise to delay your official return any more than necessary.”

“Ah, you do have a point…” Dragan’s mind drew back to Roland’s downcast expression, completely unbidden. Tired, he had said. Perhaps Dragan had also gotten into the habit of worrying too much. Roland would likely bristle if he were to find out that Dragan considered abandoning his duties back home for a chance to tend to him. “Very well, I will leave the diplomatic ventures for after I’ve settled into Ironstone, then.”

Breaking that to Roland later did not promise much joy, but he would figure something out.

“I’m glad we find ourselves agreeing,” his father said without missing a beat, “I trust your judgment, my boy. I am certain you will settle into your new role in no time at all.”

“Just so. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, father.”

That earned a laugh, warm and unguarded. “I see you are in a jesting mood. You know well that you could never disappoint me.”

Dragan had indeed spoken in jest, throwing out a quick remark to help him recover from the lingering anxiety. The attempt at levity vanished the moment his father’s reply settled in. If Dragan had instead spoken the truth – the full truth – would his father have assured him all the same? Or would that have held enough weight to sway his opinion on him? The thought was enough to turn Dragan’s stomach queasy, even when his father was still looking at him with that same, steadfast pride.

Stars above, Dragan was too spent to waste energy worrying about this.

“You look tired, my boy.” His father read him like an open book, leaving Dragan with the lingering hope that he wouldn’t read between the lines.

“I am. It has been a long day – some long months if I’m being all honest.” Dragan forced himself to straighten up when he caught his shoulders slumping. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix!”

“Indeed, that sounds like a fine idea.” His father let his hand rest on his shoulder, just enough to reassure him of his presence. “Go rest. I want you in high spirits by the morrow.”

“I shall take that to heart.”

At the very least, Dragan would accomplish naught by wasting time on worries and what-ifs. He had promised Roland an evening together to boot – a commitment he very much intended to honor. Dragan was well aware that it would only become more difficult to make time for just the two of them from here on out. All the more reason to cherish every stolen moment – if just to show his prince that he had nothing left to worry about.

Chapter Text

Roland’s body was numb when Dragan guided him into his room. His hands were cold as ice, prickling as the heat of the fireplace began to creep beneath his skin. Roland mustered them for a lack of full sensation, only to tear his gaze away at the sight of blood staining his skin and clothes.

“You really do look exhausted.” Dragan stepped closer, giving him a thorough once-over. “We best take care of that, shall we?”

Roland’s lips tugged into a smile, though he wasn’t sure how convincing it was. “It’s all right. As I said, I’m just a bit tired…”

Roland took a deep breath, trying to break whatever restraint had wrapped around his chest. This wasn’t like last time. It hadn’t been a painful struggle for survival, hadn’t been a tragic massacre. This was justice. At long last, something to ease the fire of revenge burning in his chest.

Roland’s hands continued to tremble.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Dragan remarked, resting his hand between Roland’s shoulder blades to push him into motion. Roland complied without question.

“Thank you for letting me join you,” Roland said as they stepped into the washroom. Dragan was already rushing all over the place, filling the stove with fresh firewood. The lavatory wasn’t too big, most likely thanks to the limits of the narrow tower. The bathtub was squeezed against the stove, a large barrel with a basin on top barely fit against the opposite corner.

“Let’s not pretend I’m anything but ecstatic to have you.” Dragan’s fire magic curled around the pieces of wood until they crackled under the heat. “If we are to part by the morrow, we might as well make the most of the night, wouldn’t you agree?”

Roland’s smile failed him as the reminder tugged at his heart. How childish of him to get upset. He had known this moment would come. It was inevitable. Yet still, Dragan had become a constant at his side during the war. Roland wasn’t sure whether the thought of spending his nights alone or that of Dragan moving on without him stung more.

“Hey.” Dragan’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. “No making that face now. It’s not like I’m leaving forever.”

“I know. Apologies…”

Dragan studied him, his sharp gaze sending shivers down Roland’s spine. Gods, how he had fallen for those keen eyes.

“I spoke to father earlier, about how to best distribute our duties going forward,” Dragan explained. He was already moving again, taking the basin and filling it to the brim with water to heat on the stove. “There are some matters that need my attention back home, but once that is settled, I’m sure I will have ample time to visit you in Glenbrook. After all, no one will doubt the need for diplomacy after how callously Gustadolph has broken our alliance. Father assured me that I have his full trust regarding the matter.” Dragan gave Roland a smile, wide and genuine. “You’ll get to enjoy my presence again all too soon, my prince. Do not worry yourself.”

“Dragan…” Roland took a step closer, wrapping his arms around Dragan before he knew it. He held him tightly, letting his lover’s warmth ease the last of the frigid tingles. The lingering fright still clawed its way up his chest whenever Roland recalled the uncertainty that had followed Dragan vanishing behind the gate. He should have scolded his partner for his needlessly reckless behavior, but the bone-deep exhaustion made it hard to bother.

Dragan’s scent was buried under the smell of soot and copper, but Roland found himself breathing in deeply anyhow, letting it soothe his frayed nerves. He only realized that his hands were yet muddled with drying blood when he had already managed to rub it onto Dragan’s jacket, leaving some blotchy stains. “Apologies –“

Dragan caught his arm before he could pull back, keeping him close. “It’s quite all right. I need to get these cleaned anyhow.” Dragan’s fingers drew shapes on Roland’s wrist, making him relax back against him. “I do need to mind the water, however, or we’ll never get the bath set up.”

Roland gave a hesitant hum before he let go of Dragan. “Let me handle that. You deserve a break too, my dear.”

Dragan gave a dramatic roll of his eyes, but stepped aside anyhow, his smile not slipping for a moment. They got into a steady rhythm. Roland poured the warm water into the bathtub before fetching some fresh water to heat while Dragan grabbed some soap and fine oil from his room. It was easy enough to get lost in the simple task. Roland had never had to tend to a bath himself like this back in Whiteholm. Dragan seemed used to it on the other hand. How odd that Roland envied him in that moment.

“I think that will be enough for the two of us,” Dragan declared as Roland poured another basin worth of water. He began stripping without hesitation, catching Roland off-guard. Dragan’s jacket was tossed to the floor first. When he started undoing his shirt, Roland found himself mesmerized by his effortless confidence.

Dragan’s pale skin really did show every bruise; fresh ones had bloomed on Dragan’s lower arms, dark purple. Roland’s eyes kept drawing to it, wishing he could ease them somehow. He believed Dragan looked skinnier than he had months back as well, though it was hard to say for certain, considering Roland hadn’t had the pleasure of enjoying Dragan bare for too long. He stepped closer as Dragan tossed his shirt aside, trailing the sharp edge of his ribcage before moving up his chest. He wanted nothing more than to spoil Dragan rotten then.

“You’re getting distracted already,” Dragan hummed, stuck somewhere between a statement and a question. It brought a gentle smile to Roland’s lips.

“You can’t truly blame me for that.”

Roland brushed Dragan’s bangs aside, catching a glance of the scar lining his forehead. He gave the mark a light kiss, finding himself drawing nearer before he realized it.

“Hm…” Roland murmured, “I suppose I should at least let you undress before I get too carried away.”

“You’re impossible.” Dragan cupped his cheeks despite his words, pressing a kiss to Roland’s lips. Roland’s eyes fluttered shut that instance, his body tipping towards his lover.

He still didn’t complain when Dragan took a step back, kicking off his shoes before undoing his trousers. Roland wanted to keep staring more than ever, but he forced himself to follow suit, shedding his own clothes. Dragan was done long before him, not even bothering to cover his decency. In return, his gaze flicked over Roland’s chest as he exposed it. Dragan’s attention kept drawing back to him, even as he lowered himself into the bathtub with a soft sigh. His features finally relaxed fully, making Roland breathe a little easier; when had he gotten so tense?

“Hurry up and join me,” Dragan mumbled, crossing his arms over the edge of the tub and resting his chin on top. Roland couldn’t help but chuckle as Dragan’s gaze raked all over him, though the sense of urgency still made him fumble with the buttons of his pants.

“I thought we had the whole night. What’s the rush for?”

Dragan let out a raspy laugh, bright and genuine. If it hadn’t been for that, Roland would have believed Dragan meant to chide him when he flicked his wrist at him, just enough to make a couple drops of water soak into his pants. “Come now, my prince. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Dragan’s eyes lit up when Roland finally brushed off the last pieces of clothing. It wasn’t as nerve-wracking as it had been the first time around, though Dragan’s rapt attention still made Roland’s pulse drum against his chest. He eyed the tub for a moment before deciding that his best option would be to settle in between Dragan’s legs. Dragan let out a pleased giggle as he did, chipping off another bit of tension from his shoulders.

Dragan’s arms wrapped around him, his fingers greedily seeking out the lines of Roland’s chest. Roland let himself lean into the touch, taking a deep breath. Steam and fragrant oil overpowered the stench of battle. It finally managed to lift the blood off Roland’s fingers, dyeing the water a faint shade of rust before it dissolved. Roland tried to pretend the misplaced unease that clung to the back of his mind lifted with it.

“I missed getting to touch you like this,” Dragan hushed, his voice low and honest. Roland would miss it in the days to come too, but he didn’t feel like complaining right now.

“Me too, my love,” he replied instead, feeling Dragan’s arms squeeze him tighter. Roland took Dragan’s hand into his own, raising it until his lips pressed against the root of his lover’s palm. Hopefully, Dragan would recognize the small tokens of his gratitude. Roland couldn’t possibly give Dragan enough of his love to make up for all he had done for him.

Dragan nuzzled against Roland’s shoulder as they got comfortable against each other, brushing Roland’s braid aside to make room. His fingers raked over his hair, undoing it just as he pressed a kiss against the exposed base of Roland’s neck. The ghost of the touch traveled down Roland’s spine as his hair fell loose over his back.

“You’re warming up again,” Dragan mumbled against his shoulder.

“All thanks to your fire, my dear.”

Dragan’s soft chuckle and the firm squeeze of his embrace was all it took for the cold to truly loosen its grip on him.

Dragan had frustratingly little freedom with the way he was pressed against Roland’s back. He was dying to crawl on top of Roland, to pepper kisses and touches all over his sun-kissed skin. It was maddening to feel his bare body against his own without being able to give it the full attention it deserved.

Dragan offered Roland a towel when they stepped out of the bathtub, changing his mind and drying off his prince himself a moment later. Roland gave a surprised laugh but didn’t resist, allowing Dragan to squeeze his hair dry before he moved on to his neck and shoulders.

“You’re being awfully helpful today, my dear,” Roland cooed. Dragan decided to take that as a compliment.

“Well, I want to make a good impression before I leave you to your own devices. We can’t have you forgetting me while I’m gone.”

Roland’s gaze softened, dipping towards the ground. His wet bangs clung to his forehead, still dripping onto his nose and cheeks ever so often. “You know that won’t happen. I won’t be able to get you off my mind until the day we reunite.”

“You’re a flatterer and you know it.”

“I’m honest before anything else. You know that as well.”

Dragan couldn’t argue with that – not that he felt the need to. Roland’s eyes were all on him now, nothing like the distant gaze from earlier. Dragan wouldn’t trade the unfiltered attention for anything in the world.

“We need to get you dry too,” Roland remarked, stretching for one of the towels on the shelf, “You can’t join me in bed while you’re still soaked.”

A wide grin spread on Dragan’s lips at the idea of finally dropping into bed together. “You raise a fair point.”

Dragan sighed at the soft touch of fabric, wielded so expertly by his dear prince. It was hard to focus on his own task over the sensation, though they somehow managed to dry the both of them not long after. Dragan betrayed his own impatience by dragging Roland to his bed, pushing him down with just enough force to make Roland comply without resorting to shoving him. He didn’t waste time getting on top of him, his hands trying to claim Roland’s body bit by bit.

Roland was firm beneath his fingers, his chest rising and falling with every quick breath. Dragan could put his weight onto Roland’s shoulders without making him falter. He wondered whether Roland was strong enough to move him as he pleased, even when Dragan had the leverage on his side. Not that Roland was likely to try; he practically melted into the sheets beneath Dragan, pressing himself into the grasp of his hands.

“You want to try taking the lead this time, dear?” Roland questioned.

Dragan’s hands froze on the spot. He wasn’t sure why that question took him off-guard. Roland had already made the offer last time. Stars, Dragan had teased him with the idea himself. The butterflies tickled Dragan’s stomach all the same. He wanted to pretend it was from excitement alone, though part of him was catching those darn nerves all over again. At least Dragan had figured a thing or two out about doing this right when Roland had taken him, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself too much.

“Oh? Got the guts?” Dragan teased, letting his fingers run down Roland’s chest, over the muscles lining his stomach towards the valley between his hips. Roland sucked in a sharp breath, arching into the touch.

“Well, you made it look very appealing last time,” Roland replied, his voice taking on a husky note, “Maybe you just want to keep all the fun for yourself.”

Dragan chuckled. “Of course not! I’m all eager to share if it’s with you.”

Roland opened his arms as if to invite him closer, his fingers brushing Dragan’s cheek, his neck. “Go ahead. Try me.”

Dragan was all in at the sound of that. He let his weight sink against Roland, soaking in the sensation of his warm skin, his tight embrace and, stars, the maddening pressure of his arousal. He let his lips graze Roland’s jaw on the way down, nipping on his neck. Roland had a way of unraveling him with the simple touch of a hand and soft sets of kisses. It was only fair for Dragan to return the favor.

It was hard to judge which spots Roland preferred when he reacted to every little shift. Dragan blew a kiss to his voice box and he shuddered. He sucked on the spot where his shoulder met his neck and Roland’s breath hitched. When Dragan nibbled on his earlobe, Roland jolted beneath him, losing a needy whimper. Ah, that was it then.

“Dragan…” Roland whispered his name like a prayer, dripping with reverence. Even Dragan had to admit that the sense of confidence it sparked was dangerous.

“You have to give me full sentences, Roland. I haven’t learned to read your mind yet.”

Roland buried his fingers in Dragan’s damp hair, pulling him up into a kiss. Roland’s lips crashed against his, all need and utter devotion. “I meant it when I told you to try me,” Roland hushed against his lips, “No false shame now, love. It doesn’t suit you.”

He canted his hips up as if to make a point, sending a shiver through Dragan when his arousal rubbed against Roland’s. Dragan’s hands caught onto Roland’s hips on the way down – and then it finally connected that Dragan had Roland all to himself for the night.

“I suppose I needn’t go easy on you then.”

Dragan’s gaze lingered on Roland for a moment before wandering over the room. They needed something slick; that had helped last time. Perhaps one of the oils he had sifted through earlier would do the trick. If it was good enough to keep his skin from drying out, it would most likely get the job done. Unfortunately, that also meant he’d have to get up and grab that now.

Dragan sighed, allowing himself to sink against Roland’s warmth for one short moment longer before he pushed himself up. “One moment, my prince…”

Roland’s fingers found the nape of Dragan’s neck, making his downy hair stand on edge. “I’m not so certain… I quite like where I have you as of now.”

“Well, I find myself agreeing, but we won’t get anywhere like this.”

Roland hummed, pulling him into one more, deep kiss before he released him. “Very well, love. But you best be quick.”

“You say that as if I’m any more patient than you are.” Dragan sighed in mock protest, forcing himself to slip out of the warm bed. Roland wasn’t quite so shy about watching him anymore, trading the skittish glances he had given him in the washroom for something that he could have teasingly called out as ogling. Dragan didn’t dare complain, least he’d make Roland stop.

He sorted through the couple of vials quickly, grabbing some plain oil he deemed well suited. The mattress swung beneath him when he let himself drop back onto the sheets, though Dragan didn’t pay it much mind, already plopping the cork off the small bottle. Patience truly wasn’t his strong suit; the moment Dragan had prepared his digits with the oil, he pressed himself back against Roland’s side, rolling his hips before he could stop himself. He let his fingers brush over Roland’s hard length on the way down, drinking in the soft gasp that spilled from his prince’s lips.

“It’s important that you stay relaxed,” Dragan hushed, “But I suppose you know that as well as I do.”

After a moment of hesitation, Dragan let his fingers slip lower, rubbing the slick cup of his index finger against Roland’s entrance. The muscles were tight. Forcing his way in didn’t exactly seem ideal…

Dragan didn’t press it, trying to soothe Roland before he went any further. Roland’s pulse drummed against Dragan’s lips when he kissed his neck, a quick, heavy rhythm. Dragan felt it reverb through his chest when he pressed closer.

“Easy… All the time in the world, remember?” Dragan hushed. Part of him wanted to calm his own, racing heart as much as Roland’s – though admitting to that wouldn’t solve anything. Dragan tried his best to stay patient as he sprinkled kisses over Roland’s warm skin, his fingers still drawing absentminded circles against his entrance to ease him into the act.

He sucked on the soft spot at the base of Roland’s neck, letting off with a smack of his lips to shift position and repeat the process all over. Roland’s soft huffs and hums made the heat bloom in his chest. Dragan pressed closer, worked his lips and tongue more urgently. His efforts left red, petal-shaped bruises over Roland’s neck and shoulder. It slowly made Dragan forget what he was trying to accomplish. At the very least, he succeeded in soothing the bothersome spark of nerves.

“Dragan?” Roland hushed, “You don’t have to be so careful; I’m not quite as fragile as I look.” His voice was quiet, breathy. For a moment, Dragan was fully convinced he hadn’t caught that right. “If I can take a beating every now and then, I can handle whatever you want to do to me.”

The sentiment startled Dragan upright, his brows furrowing. He drew both his arms up to lean over Roland, eyeing him as if he had just gone mad; he certainly sounded the part.

“What kind of brute do you take me for?” Dragan’s voice came out louder than he intended. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself as he continued. “Will you cease complaining and let me take my time with you? I want to make this good for the both of us.”

And you’re not helping! Dragan swallowed that down, even when he still felt like pouting.

“Oh…” Roland’s gaze wavered, flicking to the side. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Roland…” Dragan let himself sink against Roland’s chest with a sigh. “We don’t have to do this right now if you’d rather not. We can just rest… or do whatever will get you out of your dour mood.”

“That’s not it. I just…” Roland groaned, lazily throwing his arm over his face. “The last thing I wanted to do is burden you with my worries. I don’t even know why my nerves are acting up all of a sudden. It’s not like you’ve given me any reason to.” Roland peeked out from beneath his arm, his cheeks a soft shade of pink. “You didn’t feel like a nervous wreck when I did this to you, right?”

Dragan swallowed against the urge to sputter, clearing his throat instead. He did recall the nervous flutter in his chest, the risk of embarrassment that had warred with his eagerness. It was hard not to, when that same flutter filled his chest at this very moment.

“Well… I suppose it was a lot to take in at once… Poor choice of words.” Dragan’s voice lowered into a mumble. He busied his hands with tracing the outlines of Roland’s muscles. “Nothing I cannot handle of course – though perhaps you made it easy for me to give in.” Dragan felt the protest coming before Roland could so much as open his mouth. He didn’t leave any room for it. “I want to make it easy for you as well. Will you finally stop brooding and let me?”

Roland mustered him, frustratingly doubtful. The gentle touch of his hands surprised Dragan – brushing through Dragan’s hair, pulling him in until they nuzzled together. “Apologies.”

“I will ban you from using that word.”

Roland chuckled. The lightness of it cracked through Dragan’s tension. “You’re too kind to me, my love.”

“That phrase’s prohibited as well,” Dragan mumbled against Roland’s neck.

“Oh, a–“ Roland caught himself, his voice softening. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Good. Now lean back and enjoy this for crying out loud!”

“Yes, my love.” The utter devotion made Dragan shiver. It lingered in Roland’s eyes too, softening his features.

Roland buried his fingers in Dragan’s hair, pulling him into a gentle kiss. He barely left Dragan enough room to shift, effectively pinning him against his side. Dragan made it his objective to deepen the kiss, rolling his tongue against Roland’s. He didn’t relent until he was dizzy from the sultry air, his lips tender. Roland melted into the sheets when they came up for air, giving Dragan the courage to try anew.

Dragan carefully pressed his fingers against Roland’s entrance, managing to slip one past the tight muscles at last. Roland’s breath shook, his fingers curling in Dragan’s hair.

“Is that all right?” Dragan pressed a feather-light kiss to Roland’s flushed lips.

“Yes…”

“Truly?”

Roland returned the affection, nipping at Dragan’s bottom lip. He managed to take Dragan’s finger deeper when he eased out. “Yes.”

Dragan carefully moved his finger in and out, testing the slick drag. He hadn’t expected Roland to be so hot inside. He could feel every tremor that ran through his partner, every slight twitch as he continued to adjust. Dragan’s arousal ached at the thought of burying himself inside him.

“You’re doing well,” Dragan murmured, taking on a steady rhythm, “No need to fret anymore. Not like there ever was.”

“Hm… Thank you.”

Well, that was somewhat more pleasant than the apologetics. As a matter of fact, it sent a shiver down Dragan’s spine, making him squeeze closer to his lover. “You’re welcome.”

Dragan distracted the both of them with another deep kiss when he pushed a second finger inside. A tremor ran through Roland, though he took it well this time, relaxing with a huff moments later. Stars, Dragan was going to melt at the sound of that. His hips rolled against Roland’s side before he knew it. He couldn’t exactly soothe the buzz of arousal any other way.

A gasp escaped Dragan when Roland grasped his hips, pulling him back in. The spark of pleasure momentarily made his thoughts go blank.

“You’re eager,” Roland remarked, nudging Dragan’s hips into a steady rhythm. Dragan naturally matched it with the thrust of his fingers.

“It’s hard not to with my dear prince lying so pretty.” The smooth talk managed to bring a smile to Roland’s lips. Dragan tried to focus on the motion of his fingers when Roland’s every touch vied to steal his attention.

Was Roland enjoying this? He seemed relaxed, at least, more content than he had been all evening. When Dragan kissed him, Roland eagerly met him halfway. He kept pulling Dragan against his body until Dragan’s arousal was flushed with need. It was nice to be wanted so damn unconditionally – but Dragan could do a little better than that.

He carefully adjusted his angle, trying to read the soft pants and hums Roland huffed against his lips. He remembered how Roland had managed to pick him apart with a touch of his graceful fingers. Dragan curled his digits at the memory, finally managing to draw a choked moan from Roland, almost too quick and shallow to catch. Roland’s fingers tensed against Dragan’s hips, his lips pressing flush against Dragan’s tender ones as the soft sound ebbed off.

“Dragan, love…” Stars above, Roland’s eyes were all on him. The haze of pleasure couldn’t cloud the spark of attention and need; Dragan even thought to find unshaken devotion in the way Roland was drawn to him.

Dragan only realized that his motion had faltered after the fact, quickly resuming his ministrations and hoping Roland hadn’t noticed. He didn’t complain either way. Roland’s mouth wrapped around a silent O, his forehead resting against Dragan’s. They were still damp, maybe from the bath, maybe from the effort. It was more pleasant than the stench of battle had been either way.

“Dragan,” Roland repeated, his gaze flicking down for a moment before meeting Dragan’s all over again, “I think I’ve had enough teasing for one night.” Roland’s warm, hushed voice against his lips made him shiver. “I want to feel you inside me, my love.”

The words hit Dragan harder than they had any right to, like the slam of a Blackiron’s shield. He tried to keep himself composed as excitement and nerves traded blows inside him, settling on a grin he couldn’t suppress instead. Dragan aired the flutters out in a soft chuckle, savoring the feeling of Roland’s tight heat around his fingers for a short moment longer. “But of course, my prince. I’d loath to keep you waiting.”

Dragan tried to ignore the tremble in his fingers when he drew back, grabbing a generous dab of the oil and spreading it across his own length. He swallowed the heavy pants that wanted to break from his throat, letting off himself as quickly as he had begun. One deep breath in, one deep breath out. Dragan hadn’t realized just how wound up he had become through all the soft words and touches. The constant rutting was the most likely culprit, if he was being honest.

Dragan pressed on. He couldn’t very well admit that he was nervous about his stamina, after all, not when he had just gotten Roland so pliant beneath his touch. Roland spread his legs wider the moment Dragan shifted, letting him settle comfortably between them. His fingers found Dragan’s arm – more calloused the longer their battles drew out – drawing him closer. Dragan took the hint.

He lined himself up carefully, letting his hand rest against Roland’s hip for comfort more than anything else. The moment he began sinking into his lover, he had to bite back a moan. Roland’s fingers weaved through Dragan’s hair, a slight tremble within the graceful motion. That was enough to draw a soft sigh from Dragan’s lips after all.

Goodness, his prince was handling this with more poise than he had. Roland’s muscles clenched around Dragan when he pushed deeper, only to ease out a moment later. Before Dragan knew it, he was buried to the hilt in Roland’s heat, drowning in the feeling of it. Dragan tried to suppress the shudder that ran down his spine, afraid that any small motion might tip him over the edge all too prematurely. Roland didn’t protest the pause, didn’t move, simply letting his fingers trail over the taut muscles of Dragan’s arm; Dragan only realized how tense he was when Roland eased it out of him.

For a moment, Dragan simply allowed himself to appreciate the sight before him. Roland was relaxed into the sheets, golden hair framing his head like a crown. His sun-kissed skin was dusted with a fine shade of pink – all effort and no shame now from what Dragan could tell. Dragan’s fingers trailed the shape of Roland’s body, up to the dip of his waist and over the lines of his muscles. There were fine scars there too, barely lighter than his skin and still faintly pink in some places. They were much easier to find with the touch of his fingertips. Roland’s arms had gotten the worst of it, dozens of small marks from when he had thrown himself into the fray. It was a small wonder Roland hadn’t sustained anything more grievous than that. Dragan thanked his lucky star as he followed the calloused scar tissue along Roland’s arm, leaning down into a deep kiss.

Dragan dared to roll his hips after all, drawing soft sounds of pleasure from them in unison. He sought out his lover’s heat, sinking down again and again. Roland’s body reacted to each slow thrust, squeezing and unclenching around him, drawing him deeper. Heavens, it was going to cost Dragan his sanity.

Dragan paused when he felt his pleasure rise higher, ready to come to a boil. “Roland…” Dragan let his fingers knead into his lover’s thigh, drawing him closer with a clumsy pull. “Can you touch yourself for me?”

Roland didn’t seem to mind the selfish demand, letting his fingers slip down over his own chest with a spark of intrigue in his eyes. Dragan poured his focus into not coming apart at the soft sighs of pleasure and the sight of Roland’s slim fingers stroking over his own length. He tried to bide his time, keeping his hips locked against Roland’s rear as he showered him with kisses.

Easy now. He had all the time in the world.

The sounds Roland spilled for him were sweet and smooth like honey, even as they lodged in his throat. His voice box bobbed with a thick swallow. His breath hitched when Dragan sucked his lower lip between his. Dragan gave his hips a slow, measured roll, biting back a groan as Roland squeezed around him.

“Dragan, love,” Roland hushed, barely a feather’s width left for their shared breath, “You mustn’t hold back. You already made me feel so very good.” Roland cupped Dragan’s face with his free hand, letting his thumb brush over his cheeks. His eyes were glued to his, clear and unfiltered. Dragan shuddered. “I want this to be good for you. I want to feel how much you want me.”

Stars above, how was Dragan supposed to resist that? He allowed himself to thrust into Roland’s heat, letting his moans be muffled against his lips. Roland’s legs wrapped around his waist, a shudder running through his lean frame when Dragan stopped holding back. Oh heavens, that would do it.

Dragan pressed his tender lips flush against Roland as the wave of pleasure broke over him. Roland huffed a delighted, little hum turned whimper against him, his hands burying deep in Dragan’s hair.

“Roland…” Dragan barely managed to get his name out over the press of lips and daze of a shared breath. He kept rolling his hips, more needy than he liked to acknowledge as he spilled himself inside Roland. Only when the rush ebbed off did he slow down, backing off just enough to catch his breath.

Roland was looking up at him with big, earnest eyes, his cheeks flushed a fine shade of pink. He was still touching himself, running his slender fingers up and down his own length. Dragan tried to keep going for him, but the spark of overstimulation made him quit a moment later.

“Damn it…” Dragan grumbled as he pulled himself out, somehow lamenting the loss of touch even when it was already too much. He let his fingers wander down without a second thought, slipping them easily into Roland’s heat. Roland’s reaction was immediate, a jolt running through his body. His thighs twitched around Dragan’s sides, his back arching with a breathy whimper.

“Dragan… Please, yes,” Roland hushed as if he didn’t already have him wrapped around his finger. Dragan let his fingers sink deep into the slick heat, trying to find that sweet spot again in an attempt to guide Roland over the edge. The choked moans he could draw from Roland left him entirely too pleased with himself, only making him try harder. Roland clasped his free hand over his mouth, the other still impatiently tugging at his own cock. It barely managed to muffle the groan when he started spilling himself over his stomach moments later. Dragan worked him through every pulse, only ceasing his efforts when Roland began to shake and whimper.

“Hey, easy now,” Dragan hushed, pressing a soothing kiss against Roland’s cheek. His prince was a vision like this, his lean body shivering and a gleam of pleasure flickering in his sky-blue eyes.

“Mhh… See? That was good, love,” Roland murmured, his voice still raw. He wrapped his arms around Dragan, tugging him closer. It drew a light chuckle deep from within Dragan’s throat.

“One thing after the other, Roland. Let me clean up the mess first.” Dragan couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “It’s not becoming of my dear prince.”

Roland huffed out a short laugh, still not letting go. “Someone’s proud of themselves.”

“A little bit, I admit.”

Dragan gently brushed off Roland’s arms, ignoring the small frown in favor of moving quickly. He wasn’t exactly happy about stepping out of bed either; the room was frosty compared to their shared warmth beneath the sheets, and his legs protested the strain with a slight quiver when he put his weight on them. Dragan tried to mask it with swift steps, grabbing a clean washcloth from the lavatory and dipping it into some fresh – albeit cool – water.

Roland was already shifting towards him when Dragan sat down on the edge of the bed, brushing the blanket aside. He must have regretted his decision a moment later as his body froze in place at the cold touch of the cloth.

“Apologies, it won’t take long,” Dragan assured him, trying to make the clean-up swift. The sooner he was done, the sooner they could rest for the night. Roland gave him a soft grumble in reply but didn’t protest further, leaning back as Dragan wiped the aftermath of their passion away.

It indeed didn’t take long for him to finish and discard the cloth with the pile of dirty clothes they had left behind in the washroom. The moment he was back within reach, Roland already pulled him under the sheets. Dragan put up no signs of protest, chuckling as Roland’s arms wrapped around his waist and pressed them snug together. The affection was enough to warm him right back up; Roland nuzzled against his neck, peppering kisses over his yet sensitive skin. Dragan was certain he’d be getting a couple of love bites himself if Roland continued like this.

“Let us rest while we have the chance.” Dragan kept his voice a soft hush, not daring to break the quiet. Roland stilled anyways, immediate and soundless like when he readied himself for battle.

“You’re right, of course…” He was back to normal like nothing had happened at all, giving Dragan’s neck one soft press of his lips after the other. It lulled Dragan in, more than a warm blanket or the crackling of a fireplace ever could.

“Rest, my love. You’ve more than earned it.” Roland’s voice was like silk to his mind, soft and luxurious like the touch of his fingers and the clear blue of his eyes. Damn this cursed war for ever muddling that.

“I could say the same to you.” Dragan nuzzled into Roland’s hair, letting the sleek strands slip through his fingers. “You’ve earned it twofold.”

He meant it. Stars, after everything he’d seen Roland put himself through, he more than meant it. If luck finally decided to bless them again, Dragan could soon rest knowing he’d seen Roland through it.

Chapter Text

That night, Roland was back in the blizzard. One haze of white, blurring his vision at the edges. Looking around awoke vertigo. He didn’t need to; his target was right in front of him. As Gustadolph’s gaze bore into him like cold steel, he wondered whether that was how he had looked at his father when he had seen him slain like a criminal.

Roland didn’t hesitate. One sharp thrust of his spear and it was buried in Gustadolph’s throat. The life spilled from him in a steady flow. Red blood on white snow.

Red on white.

Red on white.

“Bro-ther…”

Roland froze. Cordelia!

Red blood on white silk. Her knees hit the ground, eyes wide and searching as if that would grant her any answers.

Roland tried looking away.

Vertigo.

Frani, spilling his life onto the parquet floor, his heaving chest going still. An executioners blade. A blood-stained mask.

Red on white.

Too many fallen soldiers to count. Roland couldn’t take a step without hitting one. A scream built in his chest, but the sound died before it could burst from his tight throat.

The next shift was the most disorienting.

It was pitch dark, like ink soaking into the fabric of the room, impossible to make anything out. The air was too hot and too cold all at once. Biting shivers crawled down his spine. Roland tried to move and got tangled up in something soft.

There was a weight that settled against his shoulder. Warmth. Roland’s mind clung to it, clung to the steady circles that rubbed against his back.

“Easy, Roland. ‘Twas a simple nightmare.”

Dragan. Right, they had gone to bed together – after the battle had ended.

Dragan’s voice was yet husky from sleep, his head resting heavily on Roland’s shoulder. Roland’s mouth opened and closed in silence before he found his voice.

“Apologies,” he whispered, his voice grating against his sore throat, “I did not mean to wake you.”

Dragan gave it a dismissive wave of hand. “I’ve lost sleep for much worse reasons.”

Roland was yet trembling, clutching the sheets for any sense of composure. Dragan rested his hand on his, a steady, comforting weight. Firm and gentle all at once. What had Roland ever done to earn this?

“Tell me what you were dreaming about,” Dragan requested, quiet but steadier than before, “If you don’t set these shadows free, they may just return to haunt you. We can’t have that.”

“It was… nothing more than a nightmare,” Roland muttered, “It made little sense.”

Cautiously – as if he didn’t trust himself to handle Dragan right – Roland returned his affection, cupping his cheek. It was difficult to make out his expression with what little moonlight came from the dreary sky outside. Roland just barely caught Dragan’s eyes fluttering shut when he brushed his thumb over his soft skin.

“Tell me anyways,” Dragan insisted, “It might come as a shock, but I’m not half bad at listening – every once in a while.”

Roland heaved a heavy sigh. Dragging the memory back up made him shudder, even when bits and pieces had steadily resurfaced either way.

“It… started with Gustadolph, I believe,” Roland began, his voice barely audible even in the quiet of the night, “I killed him once more. With conviction. But instead of peace, I simply… found more blood.”

Hot and cold shivers ravaged him as he recalled Cordelia’s choked whisper of betrayal, Frani’s dull eyes as the life had left them.

“Just… a trail of blood,” Roland realized, “My family, my master, the soldiers that fell in my name… It’s my own shortcomings that doomed them, and nothing I do will ever make it right again.”

For a moment, Dragan was quiet, letting Roland’s trembling fingers rest on his cheek even when they had long since frozen in place.

“It’s not you who doomed them,” Dragan replied, steadfast as ever, “You’re shouldering enough these days. Don’t take Gustadolph’s sins upon you as well.”

“And deny my part in this cursed war?” Roland’s hand dropped back onto his lap. His voice joined the trembling.

“Roland, you know it’s not your fault they were killed.” Dragan’s words lingered somewhere between a statement and a question.

“Is it not?” Roland loathed himself for the sharp edge in his tone. “During the night of the attack on Whiteholm Castle, all those moons back… Father and Frani stayed behind. Father… he tasked Ser Maxwell with protecting me. And now they’re all…”

The tears burned as they welled up in Roland’s eyes. His breathing tore. It was as if a noose was steadily closing around his neck.

“If they hadn’t protected me, they might have escaped with their own lives,” Roland spilled out through his frenzied attempt to contain his sorrow, “If Frani had survived in my stead, he would have been stronger.”

Dragan kept looking at him. The details were a blur when Roland’s vision was dark and cloudy, but Dragan didn’t turn away from him. Roland couldn’t stand it, averting his gaze the moment the first hot tear rolled over his cheek. He let his bangs drape over his face as if that would save him from the shame that followed. He wasn’t sure whether Dragan would find it disquieting or pitiful to watch him crumble like this, and he was in no mood to find out the answer.

“Roland…” The soft edges of Dragan’s voice spoke of pity. Roland longed for the ground to swallow him as a frail sob broke from his throat. Dragan’s hand came to his cheek, wiping away the tears even when more followed in their path. One more piece of Roland’s composure chipped away. His heart burst at the seams, overflowing with that pitiful sorrow that made him spill one tear after the other.

“It’s all right,” Dragan hushed when it was anything but, “You don’t have to hide this from me. Not ever.”

Roland’s breath hitched in a sorry, little hiccup. Like a child seeking attention and a warm embrace. Roland didn’t find his voice to apologize. He leaned into Dragan’s touch, burying his face in the crook of his neck as he held onto him for dear life.

“There you go.” Dragan’s voice was soft in the quiet night, and yet filled the room all at once. His hand stroked across Roland’s head. For a moment, it was just the steady rhythm of Dragan’s touch and the ragged sounds of Roland’s crying.

“You care too much at times,” Dragan said. Roland flinched at the sudden remark. “Many others wouldn’t hesitate to send their men to battle for their cause. I can’t imagine your brother would have had any qualms about it, if I’m being frank. Your subjects can consider themselves lucky that they have a king who worries for them.”

Dragan patted his back as he continued undeterred. “If you can’t curse your brother for that, don’t curse yourself for what happened.”

“Dragan…!” The sound of protest got mangled in Roland’s throat.

“What? Have I spoken anything but the truth?”

“That’s not…” Roland’s breath hitched. “I… I don’t know.”

Roland knew not how to answer, how to explain the emptiness in his chest that words couldn’t fill. There was a suffocating pain at his very core, carving him hollow from the inside out. Grasping onto one of the ragged thoughts it left behind was like trying to catch a wild bird with his bare hands.

It hurts.

How was he supposed to say that without sounding needy? Like a spoiled brat that wouldn’t cease wallowing in self-pity as countless people were suffering like this and worse in his name. Roland choked on the bitter sentiment.

Dragan was quiet. It was almost unnerving. One stroke brushed across Roland’s hair after the other, like the tick of a metronome.

“Right,” Dragan finally sighed. Roland only noticed the tension as it left Dragan’s body. He wrapped his arms around Roland tightly – tightly enough to make breathing a touch more difficult yet. Roland drew the air in deep anyhow, making his lungs burn. As he let it go, the last bit of resistance left him as well. He let his weight sink against Dragan in a final gesture of surrender, his whole body quaking in the aftermath.

“I can’t pretend I’m not glad it was you who came back that day,” Dragan said, his voice muffled as he nuzzled into Roland’s hair. His breath was warm, so warm. “I know that’s selfish too, but… maybe I don’t mind being selfish about this. I can hardly imagine what would have become of me had you not returned.”

Was Dragan being earnest, or was he trying to coddle him?

“I…” Roland tried to clear his burning throat. “I’m certain… you would have figured it out by now.”

“Hm… Perhaps,” Dragan mused, “Or maybe I would have left Wolffort and suffered the consequences of my own stubbornness… but that’s not the point.”

Dragan firmly cupped Roland’s cheek, slipping his thumb beneath his jaw. A pang of alarm hit Roland right in the gut as Dragan made him meet his gaze, though he didn’t have it in himself to fight it anymore. Roland’s eyes flitted over the shapes of black in the corner of the room, his heart rattling violently in his chest.

“The point is that you did come back,” Dragan continued, “And that I thank my lucky star every day that you did. As long as you’re still with me, we can carry on and fight together. That’s more important to me than I think you realize.”

Finally, Roland gaze brushed Dragan’s.

Dragan wasn’t scrutinizing him. The edges of his eyes had mellowed out, and yet his gaze hit Roland deeper than the sharpest blow. Roland stilled for a moment, trying to process the messy wave of comfort and fright that broke over him. His sobs stubbornly bubbled back up in his throat.

Roland was bright enough to recognize the love shaping Dragan’s every look and touch, the soft notes in his usually so pointed words. He wanted to grab hold of it, squeeze it in his grasp even if it meant bruising and breaking it under the stress – as long as it didn’t slip away from him. He pulled Dragan closer, his fingers digging into his shirt.

“I… love you,” Roland managed to stumble out between all his blubbering.

A brush of warm fingers over his cheek, a soft smile of approval. “I love you too.”

Again, Roland wanted to beg. Maybe if he heard it often enough, he could make himself fully believe it. Maybe then that abhorrent, gaping emptiness in his chest would finally be filled.

Roland leaned onto Dragan, trying to press closer as if he could crawl beneath his skin in his search for comfort. They ended up as a pile of limbs atop the mattress, Dragan buried between the bed and the weight of Roland’s body.

“Apologies…”

“You say that as if this is unpleasant.” Dragan squeezed him closer, giving Roland something to ground himself with.

“You should be asleep,” Roland reasoned. The tears slowly started to still, just as a deep exhaustion devoured him from the inside out.

“I can sleep once we are apart.”

Apart. It tore at Roland’s chest, finally clawing its way up his throat. “I will miss you.” He didn’t mean to make this Dragan’s problem. “I will miss you so direly, my love.”

“I will miss you too.” Dragan cupped his cheeks that were still wet and flushed. He pressed their foreheads together, then their lips. Roland could barely breathe through it. “I will be back for you soon, my prince. You have my word.”

Roland didn’t know how to answer as gratitude and guilt blurred until they were one and the same. He nodded, barely even a motion. Holding onto that promise felt like the only thing that would get him through the morrow.

By the time the dull morning sun woke Dragan, the heavy remnants of sleep yet clung to his body. Roland was still half pinning him to the mattress; his arm wrapped around his waist though his grasp had long gone slack. For a split second, Dragan almost buried himself back against Roland’s chest and let the exhaustion run its course. While he could hold onto Roland, his old room felt more like home than it ever had.

Of course, they couldn’t afford to dally around. They were to depart from Twinsgate today, and their respective journeys demanded time.

For one more, indulgent moment, Dragan let his gaze linger on Roland’s features. Roland seemed more at ease now than the night before, his expression blank of that gripping fright and sorrow. I will miss you so direly, my love. Stars guide him, Dragan didn’t have it in him to wake Roland and remind him yet.

He tried slipping from Roland’s grip without being noticed, though the moment he so much as sat up, Roland’s fingers grasped for his shirt and his body gave a languid stir. A short beat passed between them. Dragan froze as Roland’s eyes fluttered open, close to ink blue in the sparse light and finding him without delay this time around. From that alone, it was impossible to discern whether Roland’s worries had truly eased or simply dug themselves in deeper.

“Apologies, I did not mean to wake you,” Dragan hushed, letting his hand stroke over the crown of Roland’s head. The corners of Roland’s lips twitched, though it was hard to tell what the small motion intended to become. For a moment, he looked like he’d slip right back into sleep.

“It’s all right, love,” Roland murmured, his voice muffled against blankets and lingering drowsiness, “We best both get ready.”

Before Dragan could raise any pointless protest, Roland already kissed him good morning. It was soothing – of course it was – but over in the span of a heartbeat. Roland was already halfway to his feet by the time Dragan’s mind caught up with it. That was the moment Dragan decided to let the past night’s turmoil rest. The morning slipped away from them after that.

They hurried to freshen up and get dressed, trying to beat the morning rush when soldiers, servants and nobles alike would get ready for the day ahead; the last thing they needed was anyone spotting them sneaking out together at the dusk of morning.

After that, they returned to their duties without delay. Dragan spent most of the morning at his father’s side, officially declaring him Prime Minister to their people and addressing some of their concerns. Roland, likewise, must have returned to his friends from Glenbrook in the meanwhile.

By the time they parted for good – Dragan starting his trek towards the mines while Roland boarded a ship that was Whiteholm bound – there wasn’t room for anything but courteous goodbyes. Everything else would have to wait until Dragan could make his way to Glenbrook – back to Roland’s side.

Dragan tried to keep a cheer in his step during his journey, hoping that would shake the lingering worry from his mind. Seeing as the dull track offered sparse distractions, maybe striking up a conversation would take his mind off things.

“Thank you again for joining me, Serenoa,” Dragan remarked as he fell into step beside him, “I much appreciate your company.”

“No need for gratitude,” Serenoa waved off, mellow as ever, “This is my duty as much as it is yours.”

He had insisted as much when he had decided to join Dragan earlier. The visit to the mines would only delay Serenoa’s return to Glenbrook by a day or two, and even if that weren’t the case, he had been entrusted with handling the logistics around the mining operation in his demesne’s name. Serenoa could easily establish the supply chain towards Glenbrook, leaving Dragan free to focus on his duties back in Aesfrost for the time being. How convenient…

“That is one way of looking at it…” Dragan let his gaze wander skyward. The clouds and snowy haze had cleared up the further south they had ventured, the snow beneath their boots making way for earth and some particularly hardy sprouts. “Either way, that we have the time to settle this at long last is a sign of good things to come in and of itself. It almost feels like old times again, back before the war ever started.”

“True that. It really has been that long since we’ve last paid the mines a visit, hasn’t it?”

Dragan hummed in affirmation. It was hardly a day he remembered fondly, though that mattered naught now that fate had finally turned in their favor. Perhaps all that they had accomplished would reveal their struggles to be worthwhile in due time.

Luckily, the mines weren’t far from the Aesfrosti border. Their group already arrived by mid-day, leaving them with ample time to handle their task – time well spent on caution.

They observed the cave’s entrance from atop one of the surrounding hills before ever daring to draw near it. The mines were barely in view from their outlook, but it would have to do. At the very least, there were enough pines and undergrowth around to lend them some cover.

Hughette’s scouting skills would have come in handy, though she had returned to the capital at Roland’s side. If Dragan was being all honest, he preferred it that way. Knowing that Roland had a close friend to accompany him was worth more than the boon Hughette could grant them here.

The entire time they watched, Dragan barely saw a soul leave the mines, and the ones that did seemed quick to return into the caves maw. Anna affirmed as much when she returned from her short scouting sessions; the Aesfrosti soldiers Gustadolph had stationed there seemed determined to stay inside. Perhaps Dragan was worrying himself too much, but the thought that Gustadolph might have chosen his most loyal men to handle such a delicate matter filled him with apprehension.

“They haven’t shown any activity in a while,” Anna remarked.

Benedict nodded in approval, adjusting his glasses as his brows furrowed in concentration. “At least from what we can observe out here…”

“We should try speaking to them,” Frederica suggested, “It would be unfortunate if they were to take note of us and assume we are a threat to them.”

“You have a point,” Dragan affirmed, “It’s not like we can change much by biding our time here.”

Whatever the soldiers were doing in there could only be inconsequential at best. Besides, if these men even remotely followed reason, it shouldn’t take long to convince them. Gustadolph wasn’t present to give them conflicting orders anymore, after all.

“Let us go inside,” Dragan declared, “I’ll take the lead and see whether they can be reasoned with.”

“Very well,” Serenoa affirmed, motioning his group to follow.

They had no choice but to come out of hiding then, swiftly making their way down the hill and towards the mouth of the cave. Nothing. The only thing that could be heard were their own murmuring steps on the grass and the occasional chirp or rustle of the wildlife around.

Dragan hesitated for a short moment before he stepped inside. Frederica remained glued to his side, even when he motioned her to stay back, and Serenoa wasn’t much better – most likely following his bride-to-be’s lead. Dragan relented and let them, even when the worry about getting them involved in a potential ambush gnawed at his stomach.

The mines were as quiet as the forest surrounding them. Their slow steps echoed off the walls, soon overtaking the sounds of life from outside. Still nothing from within. That boded ill, considering they had seen at least a couple of soldiers return inside.

Dragan quickly scanned his surroundings for any signs of danger. They had done good work on these mines since he’d last been here, hollowing out the mountain’s maw into a wide cave that split off into plenty of tunnels. They had even finished setting up the mine carts, their rails now snaking through the cave and disappearing into the blur of flickering torchlight.

Most notably, Dragan spotted one of his bombs placed by the wall, then another further back. It was a nonsensical way to arrange them, set down in a neat line along the cave’s wall – another row trailing the opposing site. Storing them like this was out of the question, which meant they had to have been placed that way for another reason. If one were to set these off, the integrity of the entire cave would be compromised – to put it mildly. Dragan was fairly certain the damage would be enough to leave it collapsing atop their heads.

“We should gather the explosives,” Dragan declared, “It’s rather unsafe to leave them lying around like this.”

Even as they split to pick up the bombs, the mines remained silent. Dragan stayed on high alert as he picked up the nearest bomb, placing it by the entrance where they could better guard them. Their group had fallen quiet, nothing but footsteps on hard ground telegraphing their presence. Even Erador seemed to have gotten the hint and didn’t spill a word.

From the corners of his vision, Dragan caught a small spark that hadn’t been there before. The sight immediately seized his full attention. He didn’t seem to be the only one who spotted the Blackiron lighting one of the bombs; before he could even jump to his feet, let alone warn the others, Anna had already flitted towards danger and forced the soldier to back away with a flick of her knife.

“Douse the fire!” Dragan exclaimed, breaking the silence. Luckily, Anna didn’t need to be told twice, suffocating the small flame between the tips of her fingers.

Dragan rushed to her side, almost tripping over the tracks in his hurry. “Stop this at once! You are going to bury us all at this rate!”

The Blackiron still stood in the shadow of a tunnel, a couple silhouettes behind him. There must have been more of them just out of sight.

“So, it’s true what they say,” the soldier remarked, eyeing Dragan cautiously, “You truly do yet live.”

“As you can see for yourself…” Dragan stood his ground, motioning his friends to stand back. “I am here to inform you that Gustadolph has fallen. My father has taken on the role of Archduke in his stead.”

“’s that so?” The soldier remarked, tilting his head at Dragan. “I have a hunch that you’ve had a hand in that, my lord.”

“Stop that!” Another soldier hissed beneath his breath, “You’re going to get us all in trouble.”

“I have no intention to harm you,” Dragan declared, “I’d rather settle this peacefully and see you all return home.”

A beat of silence went through the tunnels. The soldier that had lit the fire to begin with was the first to speak up. “You think he’s tellin’ the truth?” He took a half-step back, his eyes never leaving Dragan. “If the Archduke yet lives, abandoning his orders will mark us all as traitors. We’d be dead regardless.”

The soldier pulled something from behind his mantle. It was hard to make out in the dim cave, though what little torchlight bounced off the metal showed Dragan that it was another bomb. He tensed, fighting the urge to rush in and seize it for himself. “Surrender those explosives at once. You’d be forfeiting your chances of making it home here and now if you were to set these ablaze.”

“We were prepared for that,” the soldier remarked, still holding onto the bomb, “Archduke Gustadolph ordered us to destroy the tunnels if we were to spot troops from Glenbrook. We were ready to bury ‘em with us. For Aesfrost, he said. For our families back home…”

Dragan didn’t leave the silence any room this time. “That’s absurd! I can’t believe he would ask you to lay down your life just to inconvenience the enemy.”

That the soldiers had accepted their supposed fate was just as baffling to Dragan. What a pointless way to die…

The soldier let out a humorless chuckle, his shoulders dropping a hunch. “All so that our people could prevail against Glenbrook.” He paused for a short moment, eyeing the bomb in his hands. “But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”

Finally, he extended his arms towards Dragan, allowing him to take the explosive. The moment Dragan’s fingers closed around the metal, he let out a heavy breath of relief. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

“No point fighting if all it gets us is the new Archduke’s ire.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

A hint of tension lingered in the air, even as the Aesfrosti soldiers surrendered the remaining explosives. Dragan caught Anna and Benedict standing by, watching them closely. If Dragan was being honest, he too kept checking behind his back. It didn’t ease his apprehension one bit that the shadow of the last fight they’d had in these tunnels still hung in the room.

No matter his caution – or perhaps because of it – the Blackirons didn’t give them any more trouble. Dragan promised to let them join him on the way back home. It was more than obvious that these men’s spirits were sorely lacking from just a glance. Perhaps some time spent with their loved ones could remedy that. Dragan too felt the pressure ease off his chest at the thought.

Convincing these men had been the final triumph over Gustadolph he had needed, the last tendril of his control severed. At last, Dragan could pour his undivided attention into fixing what Gustadolph had so carelessly broken.

The caves were quiet as a chapel when Dragan and the others stepped into the heart of the mines. The miners had only dug deeper while Dragan had been away, unearthing a fresh vein of the salt crystals. They filled the gaping cavern out with a sense of abundance that still made Dragan’s mind stagger the second time. Crystals taller than him sprouted from the ground and ceiling both, shimmering in a pale rose glow in the torchlight.

“Anna told me of this the night after we came here,” Serenoa said, his eyes wandering over the treasure that was laid out before them, “She described the way the crystals towered over her. Yet, I still find myself in disbelief even when seeing them for myself.”

“I feel much the same, and I was present when we first discovered them,” Dragan replied.

Benedict and Serenoa dared step closer to inspect the salt deposit, discussing something that Dragan had half a mind to chime in on. Having people whisper when he couldn’t hear always left him ill at ease. That thought vanished when he caught a look of Frederica, still frozen in the middle if the cavern. While Anna similarly stood quietly by the entrance, she occasionally broke from her stasis to scan the tunnels with her keen eyes. Frederica was utterly petrified in comparison. She still had one hand clasped in the other in a display of composure, though the light quiver in her limbs betrayed her entirely. Her eyes were wide, revealing the surprise that still clung to her as the others had moved on.

“Frederica…” Dragan trailed off, uncertain where he was going with this to begin with.

“It’s… near endless.” Frederica’s voice was barely a hush, ever so slowly flaring up as she continued. “So many people have fought for this – suffered and let down their lives for this – yet it was buried right beneath our feet this entire time.”

Dragan didn’t have to ask to know exactly what Frederica spoke of. It was hard not to recall what they had witnessed at the Source when the precious resource the Roselle slaved away for greeted them in abundance. The salt lake had been so different from this place; the sun had almost been blinding, making the fields of water and salt sparkle like a thousand diamonds. The air had been rich with the mineral taste. It didn’t compare to these dusky tunnels, and yet, the memory of the Roselle that barely hung onto their lives evoked a deeper sense of darkness than this place could.

“It is hard to believe, I know,” Dragan replied, considering his words for a moment. “I wish for these mines to become a place of hope for our people – all our people.” Dragan wouldn’t make the same mistake once over. He wouldn’t ever lose sight of what he had to protect again. “It has the power to end all this senseless suffering, of that I am sure. We’ll just have to see it through to the end.”

That seemed to hit the mark, stoking the fire burning in Frederica’s eyes. “Yes, together we’ll have the power to face Hyzante with our heads held high. Soon, my people shall follow our example.”

“Just so!” Dragan affirmed, his voice echoing off the quiet walls, “You need only say the word for me to fight by your side. I still owe you my gratitude, after all.”

“You best be aware that I will hold you to that.” There was a hint of jest in Frederica’s voice now, a sense of her unbreakable spirit. Dragan would make sure to shine just as brightly in return.

By the time Roland returned to Whiteholm Castle, Cordelia’s bed inside the infirmary was vacant. The sight of the neatly made white sheets was enough to freeze the blood in his veins, even when he knew that alone told him next to nothing about her whereabouts. He hastened through the halls until he caught the attention of one of the healers, praying his distress wasn’t showing too obviously. Roland kept one arm firmly crossed over the other to mask the heavy quivering as he inquired the medic about Cordelia’s state, though that wasn’t enough to chase the trembling from his voice. “I was looking to pay my sister a visit. Pray tell, has she been relocated to a different room?”

“Your Majesty.” The healer bowed his head with that steady patience his ilk usually had about themselves. “Princess Cordelia has been permitted to return to her private chamber, seeing as she’s been regaining her stamina. I can assure you that our healers are steadily monitoring her even now.”

The weight on Roland’s chest lightened a touch, allowing him to breathe deep in relief. “These are joyous news indeed. Thank you kindly.”

Roland had already taken a half-step towards Cordelia’s quarters before the medic spoke up again. “Ah, Your Majesty! I believe Princess Cordelia was on her way to the courtyard earlier, if you wish to see her.”

“Is that so?” Roland remarked. Cordelia’s condition really must have improved if the healers allowed her to wander about. “Very well then. I wish to personally inform her of my return.”

“But of course.”

Roland gave the healer one last, acknowledging nod before he hurried outside. He barely contained himself from running through the castle halls; that would hardly have been becoming of a king. Roland would have to leave that habit behind with his boyish days.

Luckily, it was a short walk to the palace gardens. It didn’t take long to spot the bright white of Cordelia’s gown against the greenery. Her eyes were wandering over the roses, trailing deep red petals with the tips of her fingers. Yet, her gaze seemed to slip right through the flowers and leaves, as if it clung to something in the far reaches of her mind instead. Her head snapped towards Roland the moment he stepped closer.

“Brother… You’ve returned.” For a moment, she just blinked at Roland as if he had just woken her from a dream. The smile that followed didn’t quite reach her eyes. Not in the same way it had when they’d been younger – when Roland had had nothing better to do than sneaking out to play games with Serenoa, and Cordelia had greeted him with a cheerful embrace the moment he had returned to her.

“I have,” Roland replied, “And I intend to stay this time, just as I promised.”

Cordelia’s eyes flickered with something close to understanding. “I take it the Archduke has been dealt with.”

There was no horror in her voice, no hesitation. Not this time.

“Just so,” Roland affirmed, “I’ve put him to justice for his crimes. With him gone, perhaps our nations can finally start healing.”

“We will make it so, brother. We must.” Cordelia was far more composed than he had expected. Roland even thought to see a spark of satisfaction in her eyes, though it was hard to read over the veil of calm. His sister had always been an open book to him, but now it was all shrouded in uncertainty, like ink staining the pages.

She had cried so direly when he had told her about General Avlora’s demise. If it hadn’t just been blind naiveté that had made her mourn their enemy, then what had possessed her?

“I hope the news can grant you a measure of peace,” Roland remarked, dodging her gaze out of habit, “I know it won’t bring father or Frani back, but at least you won’t suffer his cruelty any longer.”

Cordelia nodded, resting her closed fist over her chest as if to gather herself. “It does… I had made plans to dispose of him myself, though those were not without risk. Knowing the matter has been dealt with does bring me some relief.” Her smile seemed a little more genuine now. “We can focus on helping our people now. Those are glad tidings indeed.”

It should have mended Roland’s bruised heart to see his sister beam with genuine hope. Selfishly, the ache only clawed deeper.

Cordelia had been alone all this time. While Roland had cowered under his friend’s protection, Cordelia had been in enemy hands. There had been no friends or family to comfort her, no one to show her the way when she had found herself at a loss. Yet, after all the pain that must have brought her, she was the one who kept marching on without so much as a stumble in her step.

“You need to rest,” Roland insisted, “You’ve endured enough. It is my responsibility to guide our people now, as their king.”

There it was again, that stubborn waver in his limbs. Roland clenched his fists in an effort to suppress it. He couldn’t say whether Cordelia caught it or not. Heavens, he couldn’t even say whether she still had some love left for him after all that had happened or if it was nothing but obligation now.

“No one man can shoulder this alone,” Cordelia insisted, “Allow me to help you. If not for yourself, then for my sake.” Her gaze didn’t waver for a second as she implored him. “I tire of being made to feel useless. I’ve been nothing but a doll to this court for as long as I can remember. All Gustadolph did was tie me onto strings he could pull.” She took a step closer, practically forcing him to meet her gaze. “Please, brother… I can’t bear the thought of you keeping me trapped as well.”

“That… Has never been my intention.” Gods, Roland could barely bring his voice to carry. There was so much pain lacing Cordelia’s words, and yet, she had spoken with nothing but conviction.

Roland recalled feeling trapped inside the castle walls himself, running off whenever he couldn’t bear it anymore. Cordelia had never been able to follow him on his ventures – down towards the river, to the woods in the Wolffort demesne. She had hardly even gotten the chance to mingle with their people in the crown city like Roland had. She had always seemed content with that, though perhaps she had merely lacked the assertiveness to make her grievances known back then.

“Very well. You may visit the city as you please,” Roland relented, “But you mustn’t leave without guards to accompany you, and I expect you to put your recovery above all else.”

The last bit of darkness cleared from Cordelia’s expression like clouds after a drizzle. She took his hands into hers, squeezing them as if she hadn’t even realized that he’d been trembling. “Of course, I won’t be careless.”

Roland tried to return her smile, tried to fully take her hands into his without holding on too tightly. A myriad of questions still burned on his tongue – about what had happened while they had been apart, about how it had come to change his little sister so profoundly. Selfish, all of it. Cordelia had just started smiling in earnest again. The last thing Roland should do was prod at wounds that had just started to heal.

“I’m counting on it,” Roland said, steadily regaining his footing with each word he spoke, “Pray, if you find yourself in need of anything, let me know. You’re alone no longer.”

“Thank you, brother.” Her grip on his hands tightened, the corners of her mouth twitching around her smile as if it wanted to widen yet. “The same goes for you. I’m not a mere child anymore. I can assist you.”

“I know that.” Roland could see that much plain as day. It didn’t exactly bring him any comfort to see her grow so suddenly, but who was he to take that from her? All that mattered was that they were reunited once more, that they didn’t lose sight of each other again. Roland had complained to her day in day out about how their father had barely graced them with his presence. (The very memory served to make him sick now.) He couldn’t abandon her after all that.

“Brother, if you can spare some more of your time for me…” Cordelia broke him from his thoughts, “There’s something that’s been concerning me in your absence, regarding the Royalists…”

Roland perked up at Cordelia’s grievous tone. While Roland was hardly fond of their group and oft found himself at odds with Patriatte, he hadn’t expected any trouble to arise in his absence. The Royalists had experience governing their nation after all – more than Roland could claim for himself at that.

“But of course,” Roland affirmed, “Please, tell me everything.”

Cordelia glanced around the courtyard before she continued, “Would you mind continuing this inside? I find myself fatigued by my stroll through the gardens.”

The matter was that sensitive then. Roland nodded, determined to shoulder his sister’s worries. “Very well. Allow me to accompany you to your room.”

Chapter Text

Dragan only realized how he had missed his home when he returned to it. As if to greet him, the sunlight poured over the bright white landscape, chasing away the last few snowflakes that fell from the sky. The snow crunched softly beneath his shoes, drowned out by the murmur of voices and distant clangs of ironwork. The City of Aesfrost felt a touch livelier than he remembered. Maybe it was that Ironstone’s presence had lost its oppressive touch with Gustadolph and his lot gone. Certainly, the people talking as he passed played their part in it.

Dragan was used to catching the attention of citizens, though he had usually been the one to initiate conversation. Now, people practically flocked to him, greeting him and shooting him not so subtle looks. Had it not been terribly rude to leave his father waiting, Dragan would have lingered and talked to them for a while.

The guards gave a prim salute when he stepped into the castle, which Dragan acknowledged with a pleased smile. When he spotted his father upon the throne, Dragan felt like he could truly let his guard down inside these stone halls for the first time.

“Greetings, father,” Dragan exclaimed, his voice echoing off the walls, “I return with glad tidings.”

His father rose from his seat, meeting him halfway down the steps before Dragan could scale them all.

“So I had hoped.” His father’s booming voice filled out the vast hall, warm and welcoming. “Pray, tell me what happened while I show you to your new room. You must be tired after your long journey.”

Dragan had half a mind to protest that his journey hadn’t been that terribly long, though with how rapidly events had kept turning this past moon, he could hardly claim so in earnest.

“I would like to see it for myself,” Dragan affirmed as he fell into step beside his father, “Though I’m hardly tired yet. If there’s anything I can do for you or our people, I’ll gladly see to it once I’m settled in.”

His father gave him a knowing smile. “You’re all too eager to establish yourself, I take it.”

“Guilty as charged,” Dragan admitted without a stone of hesitation.

“I suppose some things never change.”

His father led him down a row of hallways Dragan vaguely remembered from visiting Frederica. The ceiling wasn’t towering at quite so lofty a height here, though the corridor was still wide, adorned with red tapestries and intricate, black candleholders.

“I take it none of the Blackirons gave you any trouble,” his father remarked.

“Indeed. I was gladly able to convince them without a fight,” Dragan affirmed, “The men Gustadolph stationed in the mines seemed to be in rather low spirit. I invited them to come home with me for the time being. Lord Serenoa and I chose some of our soldiers to guard the place in their stead, so we need not worry about that. We could, however, do with recruiting some new miners.”

“We will see to that in due course. For now, you’ve done well in securing the mines for us, my boy.” His father’s words paused, nothing but the echo of footsteps filling the halls for a moment. “I would love to tackle the mining venture in earnest, though it may be in our best interest to lay low for a while longer. The more people we get involved, the more likely information will trickle through to Hyzante. As it stands now, we can ill afford an allocation with the Holy State.”

“That thought has crossed my mind more than once,” Dragan admitted, “Though I doubt any of our people would want to get Hyzante involved in the matter to begin with. The more affordable salt we can distribute to our people, the better. Should that not be our priority?”

“I’m not too worried about anyone revealing our secret directly, my boy. Though, the more people come to know, the more they will talk. Excitement and carelessness are how rumors spread without the need for any ill intend.”

Dragan hummed contemplatively. He wished they could put the Holy State in its place outright, though he knew as well as his father did that their people were too tired for another fight. For a moment, Dragan recalled the promise he had made to Frederica. The sooner they took action, the sooner they could free the Roselle. Though, was that reason enough to send his own people to battle at a time like this? Dragan was responsible for them now, after all.

“For now, let’s simply make sure we can gather the necessities,” Dragan suggested, “We could use the salt to make more explosives as well. Those may aid us in battle.”

“I have not a doubt in my mind that they will.” His father stopped in front of an ivory door, motioning Dragan to enter. “We can settle the specifics later. You said you were curious about your room, did you not?”

Dragan perked up, glancing between his father and the doorway for a moment. “Of course I’m curious!”

Dragan had always dreamt of having a place within Ironstone. It only fully hit him that he’d made it at that moment, when he pushed the door open.

The room immediately struck him as more spacious than what he’d gotten used to in Twinsgate, and brighter than what the rest of the castle would imply thanks to a vast window. The bed was most definitely bigger than his old one and yet didn’t cramp the room at all. One corner was entirely dedicated to a study and a large bookshelf. His old one had gotten overfull with time, leaving Dragan to stack books atop each other until it was nearly bursting at the seams. This one would take him a good while longer to fill to the brim. Dragan found himself smiling at the thought.

Before Dragan could get too distracted looking at what his father had brought along, a soft thrill caught his attention, then a bright flick of motion.

“Snowflake.” Dragan kneeled to greet the cat as she rubbed up against his legs. When he let his hand run over her back, she stretched herself up into the motion. “You brought her home with you as well.”

“I could hardly leave her behind with both of us gone,” his father remarked, the smile shining through in his words, “She already made a habit of complaining after you left. She must have missed you.”

“Ah, my apologies.” Dragan picked her up into his arms, letting her claw at his jacket as she nuzzled closer to his chest. The warmth was comforting, especially after walking through the cold for so long. “I’ll be around more often from now on, I promise.”

“I was hoping to hear that.”

Dragan focused on the approving smile his father gave him and the warm weight in his arms. He could spend time with them and still pay Roland a visit whenever his duties allowed it. Once the aftershock of war settled down, it may even come to be a nice change of pace. It would keep him on his toes, that much was certain.

“Are you certain you do not want to rest, my boy?” his father inquired, snapping him from his thoughts, “You do look like you could use it.”

Dragan shook his head, bowed it to let Snowflake nuzzle closer. “Nonsense, I’m much too excited to rest yet.” He stepped deeper into the room, skimming titles of the books his father had brought along. The Fundamentals of Ironwork, how nostalgic. “If you have the time to spare, would you stay with me a bit longer? There’s still much we haven’t discussed.”

“I’d like nothing more, my boy.”

One strike of the bell passed after the other as they talked, as if they were trying to make up for the months apart. Dragan oft found himself seeking his father’s company in the days that followed, speaking until his tongue grew tired. He only realized how much had gone unspoken when he tried to put it into words.

They discussed how to proceed in guiding their nation, made certain to examine every possibility inside out before making any rash calls; Dragan hoped he could leave those in the past. As they were on the topic of another battle looming on the horizon, his father showed him the plans he had made for a new weapon for the first time – the Deathsknell. His father had only mentioned it in passing before, though now that Dragan gave the plans a closer look, he understood why his father had resorted to buying Sorsley’s illicit salt.

It was a beast of a weapon, forged from the intricate ironwork his father was so experienced with. A cannon that would far tower over their heads, powered with the explosives he had developed… Dragan had thought long and hard on how to best utilize his invention for battle, though he hadn’t imagined anything this grand. He could not deny the spark of scientific curiosity the idea lit. Besides, a cannon of that caliber may very well have the power to shatter even the Goddess’s Shield, which they had long assumed impregnable. If they hadn’t agreed to let their nation heal for the time being, Dragan may very well have found himself tempted to put the Deathsknell to the test.

As the days grew older, they would find themselves talking about the more mundane things. His father was seldomly in the mood to speak of the days he had spent alone, though he would encourage Dragan to tell the tales of his time in Glenbrook.

Dragan told him how he had recollected his studies, about the things he had learned training his magic. His father would ask him all about the battles they had fought, though Dragan made sure to make even the more distressing moments sound heroic; the last thing he wanted was to burden his father with worry now that things had started calming down.

Dragan found himself stumbling over his tongue whenever he happened to mention Roland. He had no doubt his father could tell he thought highly of the newly crowned king from the way he narrated their shared struggles alone. Yet, Dragan pulled back whenever he found himself sharing too much. The words weighed on his tongue, wanting to slip free whenever he wasn’t careful. Then he’d catch an approving smile or fond remark from his father, and he couldn’t run the risk of having that slip away.

One day, Dragan told himself with each evening that came and went. Perhaps when the last of their worries were taken care of, he could bring himself to burden his father with the full truth.

It hadn’t needed much convincing from his father for Dragan to decide that it was time to brush up his ironwork knowledge. The sooner they finished the Deathsknell, the better. It would be one more tool in their hands to deal with Hyzante should they make an attempt to claim the salt mine.

The scent of well-worm books welcomed Dragan as he stepped into the Archives, mixing with the quiet murmur of researchers and the warm flicker of candles and lanterns into a familiar, soothing atmosphere. During his youth, this place had been like a second home to him. He had certainly spent more time in its halls than any other place within the Aesfrosti capital – including the inns he used to sleep in.

Dragan found his way to the right section through towering bookshelves by heart. While it had never been his main focus, he had dabbled in the intricacies of ironwork before. He’d needed it to complete the design of the explosives, and while his father had certainly been of help, Dragan hadn’t much liked the idea of not understanding his own invention inside out.

The sections storing books on ironworking and other practical fields had always been livelier than those dealing with matters like history or advanced magic. Dragan was glad to see that hadn’t changed since his last visit. It wasn’t just dedicated researchers filling the halls, but blacksmiths and common folk looking to pick up a new skill as well. Of course, they were still expected to keep their silence to not disturb anyone reading, but Dragan had always found the more down-to-earth company refreshing.

The quiet that hung between the bookshelves made it easy to pick up any words that were raised over a hushed whisper regardless.

“Tsk, back here as if he’d never left, ey? Who does he think he’s fooling?” The muttered voice of a woman made Dragan perk up. Were they talking about him or had it been a mere coincidence?

“Shh, he’s going to hear you…!”

Dragan found the source of the voices immediately. It wasn’t much of a challenge; the young man that must have tried to silence his companion froze the moment their eyes met, bowing his head in an apologetic gesture. Beside him stood a woman, tall enough to tower over both of them, standing her ground with broad shoulders. Judging by the practical attire of the pair, they were most likely blacksmiths by trade. The woman’s leather apron still had soot sticking to it. Perhaps the adolescent was her apprentice?

“Pardon?” Dragan replied, keeping his voice down, “If you have any issues with my person, I’d prefer it if you raised them to me directly.”

The young man’s expression quivered in quiet shock for a moment before he composed himself. “Apologies, my lord. She didn’t mean it like that.”

The man shot her a pleading look, which only earned a scoff from the woman.

“Neither of you are in trouble if that’s what you’re worried about,” Dragan continued, “I’d just rather talk face to face than have you do it behind my back. I can hardly settle any grievances you may have if I’m not made aware of them.”

“Right, if you say so,” she sighed, though the tension in her squared shoulders remained, “I guess it does grind my gears a tad to see you waltzing in here like nothing ever happened. Can you blame me? It’s hard to feel at ease around someone who’s had their back turned on Aesfrost for the past months or so.”

Dragan had to admit that the accusation that lined her words stung, though he forced himself to reply calmly. “It was not my intention to leave my home behind. I would have never done so willingly had the former Archduke not chased me away.”

“Hm…”

Tense silence hung in the air. The young man fidgeted with his gloved hands. His gaze flitted back and forth between them, though he did not try to raise his voice again.

“Be that as it may, you chose to stand with Glenbrook during the war,” she pointed out.

“Out of necessity.” Dragan took a step closer, foreseeing that this conversation wouldn’t be over quite so quickly. “My grievances only lied with Gustadolph. I did not much care for how he treated allies and his own like nothing more but pieces in his game.”

“You speak ill of him, but was he truly in the wrong? At least he knew to put Aesfrost first.”

Dragan bristled at the reply. He had half a mind to ask her what she would have had him do if not fight back. Roll over and perish? Justified as his reasoning may be, she did not seem to care enough for him to be swayed by that argument.

“Gustadolph was the one who started this war,” Dragan replied instead, “It’s thanks to him all this blood was shed, Aesfrosti and Glenbrook alike. There was never a need to advance against our allies in such brutal fashion.”

“At least he made an effort to fight for us.” She raised her voice into a harsh mutter. “He won. Maybe that would have finally gotten us out of the mess the Saltiron War left behind. We won’t find out though, seeing as you and your companions back in Glenbrook made sure that effort was all for naught.”

“Someone had to put an end to this pointless violence.” Dragan refused to back down, even as he struggled to keep his voice calm. Whatever had possessed her to think like this, surely he could make her see reason if he kept trying.

“After so many of our children and friends died for our cause?” She scoffed, spitting out the words like they tasted bitter on her tongue. “If Gustadolph had prevailed, at least their sacrifices would have meant something.”

“If Gustadolph cared so much, perhaps he should not have forsaken them to begin with.”

The woman’s lips thinned in the wake of Dragan’s words, her eyes piercing him like daggers. Before she could open her mouth to speak, the young man stepped between the two.

“My lord, p-please, we’re all still on edge after recent events.” He tripped over his words once before finding his rhythm but pressed on valiantly. “Apologies for any offense we may have caused. I know you’ve been hard at work for us, as always.”

Dragan’s shoulders relaxed as he considered the young man’s words. Did he speak in earnest or was he merely trying to butter him up?

Before Dragan could decide on a reply, the woman spoke up again, “What are you apologizing for? He’s the one who asked my opinion to begin with.”

“True that.” Despite Dragan’s affirmation, the tension lingered in the young man’s form, his back ramrod straight and his shoulder drawn.

“What are you afraid of anyways?” The woman didn’t mute her voice anymore in the slightest, shooting Dragan a measured glance. “No need to cover in front of Glenbrook’s dog. I bet he’s all bark and no bite anyways, especially without his royal benefactor around to coddle him.”

Dragan froze in stunned silence. Judging by how her gaze lingered on him, she must have caught the way Dragan flinched at the words. Curses, she didn’t need to know that she had hit a nerve. “What –“

Dragan’s words were cut short by the sharp hush of a researcher. Right. The Archives weren’t the most apt place for an argument. Dragan swallowed, trying to will the burning agitation back down. “Apologies.”

“Right, right, sorry about that,” the woman added, schooling her voice into a whisper. Her eyes still didn’t leave Dragan. “Won’t happen again.”

She turned to leave a moment later, nudging her companion into motion. The young man mumbled something into Dragan’s general direction, most likely an apology. Dragan should have followed them outside and made his case clear, though the lingering looks and hushed remarks of the people around them pinned him in place. Dragan shifted, trying not to pay it any mind.

The fact that he hadn’t gotten a proper chance to defend himself should have gnawed at him more than anything. Yes, the words left unsaid stung in the back of his throat, and the thought of some of his own people mistrusting him to this degree was troubling, to say the least, but that wasn’t what Dragan’s stomach was dropping for.

She had condemned him for his ties to Glenbrook – for his ties to the crown. Dragan was reading too much into it. He knew, logically, that his heart was beating out his chest over nothing, but the thought that people might look too closely, that they might notice and drag it out into the open, that they’d condemn him for it –

Dragan rubbed his temple as he tried to reel his thoughts back in. What a pointless thing to wreck his head over. Once their nation healed from the war and things started looking up again, no one would have any reason to doubt him still, right?

Dragan had hoped that the people around him would lose interest after the commotion had died down, though they still eyed him with thinly veiled curiosity. Great. He’d never be able to focus with all those looks boring into the back of his head.

Dragan rushed outside with quick steps, taking a deep breath of frosty air. At least that somewhat cooled his temper.

He couldn’t get ahead of himself. The curiosity had most likely been about the argument itself instead of anything regarding Dragan’s person. Even if some of them held a personal distaste for him, it was most likely related to recent events instead of his private matters. It was nothing he couldn’t fix given time. Why, then, did the nausea keep gnawing at his stomach?

He couldn’t tell Roland about this, that much was certain. Roland’s nerves were stretched razor thin to begin with. If Dragan were to make him believe that their closeness itself might create issues, Roland’s apologetics would be the least of his worries. What if Roland decided to cut him off entirely? Dragan wouldn’t put it past him to go to such lengths in a misguided attempt to alleviate the situation at this point.

Dragan leaned back against the Archive’s outer wall with a soft sigh, watching some light snowflakes drift through the air. The woman most likely hadn’t even meant much by her remark and had raised more urgent points besides. What Dragan should really be doing was inform his father about those more immediate frustrations. He wasn’t yet sure how many of their people shared her dissatisfaction, but making his father aware wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe if Dragan were to tell his father the full truth…

He had meant to tell his father eventually, hadn’t he? In contrast to Roland and himself, his father might be able to provide an unbiased perspective as well. They had to tackle the matter discreetly, if just to ease Dragan’s stubborn nerves, and his father might just have the cool head needed for such considerations.

Yes, that was quite logical, wasn’t it? Perhaps the harmless startle had been just the push Dragan had needed to gather his courage.

The closer Dragan got to his father’s quarters, the more his haste turned into apprehension. It had started with half-ran steps that echoed through the walls of Ironstone. By the time Dragan spotted the door, his legs were stiff, barely agreeing to move. It was a ridiculous reaction. The last time Dragan had frozen like that, he’d been face to face with a blade – not his own father.

Dragan took a deep breath, trying to shake the tingles from his limbs. Too much blasted tension.

Perhaps he should discuss with Roland before seeking out his father, just to confirm that his partner had no issues with Dragan sharing their secret. Putting his request into written words was out of the question; letters could be dug up and snooped around in. His only option, then, would be to wait until his return to Glenbrook.

Dragan took a step past his father’s door. He sharply turned heel, took a step back. He wasn’t pacing. His legs weren’t prickling with restless energy, and his heart certainly wasn’t trying to punch out of his chest with violent pulses.

He was simply weighing his options – the risk of getting himself into trouble without his father’s aid once over versus the risk of dragging Roland into the mess with him. Though, perhaps it was a little too late to be concerned about that…

Dragan staggered a step back when the door swung open. The high starting pitch of a yelp escaped him, though he quickly swallowed the rest, clearing his throat to rid himself of the lingering tension.

“Ah, Dragan.” His father appeared almost as surprised as he was. “Pray tell, is there something I may help you with?”

Dragan swallowed, fiddling with his glove; he tugged at the fingertips first before pulling it back into a snug fit. “Perhaps…”

His father shook his head, though his smile showed no real signs of irritation. “You know you can knock on my door at any time. No need to pace out front like a restless cat.”

Dragan muttered some words of protest beneath his breath, though his father already stepped back from the doorframe to invite him in. Dragan didn’t hesitate, hoping his steps looked steadier than they felt. The door clicked gently into lock behind them. For a moment, Dragan hoped his father would return to his study and give him some air to still his stilted breaths. He lingered instead, regarding Dragan with a keen look.

“Did something happen, my boy?”

Dragan was back to tugging at his gloves. His hands had gone damp beneath the thick fabric. “Something like that… To be honest, I’m not certain where to start.”

He forced a short laugh, trying to make his words appear a little less grievous – a little less frightened. His father hummed, taking a half-step back while still mustering him closely. “I’d say it would be best if you started at the beginning.”

“Right.” Dragan took a deep breath, like he needed it for all the words that were waiting to spill from his tongue. He was pacing now, no two ways about it. His father made no effort to interrupt, leaving only the clack of his shoes against stone for a moment.

“There is… something I’ve been keeping from you,” Dragan began – at the beginning, like his father had insisted, “During my time spent in Glenbrook, I…” Dragan’s pulse knocked up his throat, forcing him to clear it before he could continue. “I… fell in love.”

His father’s eyes lit up the moment his words had landed. Dragan regretted them instantly. He should have breached the topic some other way. Now he would be swimming against the tide of his father’s expectations.

“That is not something you need to confess, my boy; ‘tis something you share.” He insisted. One hearty pat on his back was nearly enough to knock the air from Dragan’s lungs. “Do I know the lucky lass?”

Dragan had half a mind to make up some nonsense about a common woman from Wolffort, though he couldn’t bring himself to lie through grit teeth. He’d choke on the words if he kept swallowing them down at this rate.

“You do,” Dragan affirmed. His voice came out airy, as if his father might dismiss what would follow if it was spoken in passing. “Though it is not a woman I speak of.”

His father’s expression dropped, and Dragan’s stomach plummeted with it. His smile vanished, replaced with the kind of focus he would apply to a particularly puzzling equation. He eyed Dragan up and down, like he’d start making sense again if he just solved it.

“Father?”

A beat of silence, enough to hold an array of pulses from Dragan’s hammering heart.

“Are you certain that you…?” A clarifying question. His father didn’t even finish it.

“Certain?” Dragan repeated. The short laugh that bubbled up his throat was as much disbelief as it was sheer blank nerves. “Of course I am certain! I would have never let the thought flourish if I wasn’t.”

His father only gave a low hum in reply, his brows furrowing in concentration. Dragan loathed the silence. If his father didn’t speak his mind, how was Dragan supposed to know where they stood? Then again, it wasn’t too difficult to discern that his father wasn’t pleased with the reveal.

“It unnerves you.” Dragan didn’t need to ask to know it. His gaze dropped to the ground, his heart heavy in his chest – everything inside him seemed to be sinking slowly and steadily like a stone into dark water.

“I will not deny that it… puzzles me,” his father admitted. Now, that was a more tactful way to put it. The implications hardly changed. His father was still studying him as if working out a way to fix him, like a kink in one of his ironwork projects.

“Pray tell, my boy, why would you willingly take such hardship upon yourself?” his father questioned, “You know well how reckless this is, do you not? You would not have hesitated to tell me if you didn’t.”

“I’m… aware.” Dragan had come to his father seeking aid, after all. He tried to stand his ground, tried not to shy away from honesty. “I suppose matters of the heart rarely follow reason, wouldn’t you agree?”

His father exhaled a sharp breath that may have been intended as a laugh. “That I can see… If this were to reach the public eye…”

“I know,” Dragan cut in, “That’s what I’ve been trying to prevent.”

That’s why he had come here to begin with, hadn’t he? In hopes that his father might help him navigate the situation.

“And yet, you do not tackle the issue at its source.” His father’s words made Dragan freeze in the middle of the room. His fidgeting seized, as did his restless steps. Was his father implying…? “Do you care to tell me who’s got you so headless, my boy?”

“Father, this discussion need not involve him.” Dragan took a quick, choppy step closer. “It was never my intention to burden him with the concerns you might have.”

Stars knew that Roland had enough on his plate already. He didn’t need to handle Dragan’s problems on top of it.

“Very well. Will you tell me if I promise not to raise issue with… him?”

Dragan considered. His father wasn’t one to break his promises. If he gave him his word, Dragan would trust it.

“I will, as long as you do not tell another soul.”

“Of course, I shan’t.”

“It’s…” Dragan paused, clearing his throat. He shouldn’t be ashamed to acknowledge the bond he and Roland shared. His cheeks burned up under his father’s scrutiny all the same. ”It’s King Roland, if you must know.”

“Oh?” The small remark left it ambiguous whether his father was genuinely surprised or whether the situation just started slotting together in his mind. “And he shares your… sentiment?”

“He does. We’ve been at each other’s side for a short while now.”

For some untold reason, that earned Dragan a laugh, rough around the edges as it made its way out of his father’s throat. “You’ve earned yourself the heart of a king? Under different circumstances, I’d congratulate you.”

Dragan only realized how thin his nerves had been stretched when they snapped at the jest. He couldn’t mask the frown that crossed his features. His hands balled into fists when he wasn’t sure what else to do with his body anymore.

“This isn’t a joke to me, father,” Dragan snapped, “Do you understand I have been agonizing over this?”

His father looked at him with something Dragan could only call pity. If it was supposed to ease his agitation, it did a horrendous job at that.

“If it pains you so, perhaps you should have chosen a different path.”

“Is that truly what you believe?” Dragan swallowed against the knot in his throat. He could not let his voice break now. “You taught me to pave my own path, even in the face of adversity. Does that only hold true as long as it pleases you?”

“This does not concern what does or does not please me. It is about what is good for you.” His father took a step closer – slowly, as if to not startle a skittish pet. Dragan flinched either way. “I know I can’t make this decision in your stead, but that won’t stop me from worrying. You are oft too brazen for your own good. I believe you know that as well as I do.”

“Father?” Dragan took a measured breath, finally meeting his father’s gaze without dipping his eyes a moment later. The soft notes of pity were somehow worse than the calculating edge had been. “Do you believe me when I say my feelings are genuine?”

His father fell silent for a moment, likely pondering the question.

“I do believe it may look the part from your perspective. I can tell you’re not lying after all. Why would you?” The pause that followed was heavier than the last. There was something dark in his father’s eyes Dragan couldn't quite pinpoint. “The past moons must have been difficult for you. I suppose if he stood by your side during a time like that, that may have shaped your opinion of him. I cannot truly blame you for seeking… comfort.”

“He was. We have been standing by each other’s side through the worst of it,” Dragan affirmed, trying to not let the heavy tone layered over his father’s words get to him too much, “His spirit has a way of touching me at my core. But I suppose that’s not what you want to hear from me.”

“What I do or do not want to hear has never concerned you, my boy.” That almost managed to sound affectionate after everything else. It was more the fond exasperation Dragan was used to as opposed to…

“I…” Dragan’s gaze fled towards the floor. “I suppose not…” What else was there to say? “I’m not leaving him if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

“As I said, I can hardly force you to,” his father replied. His voice was steady. If he was still uncertain, his words did not betray it. “You’re a smart man. I’m sure you’ll see reason eventually.”

“Right…” The words only squeezed Dragan’s heart more harshly, wringing another bit of composure out of his frayed nerves. Fidgeting did not ease the discomfort any longer. “That was… all I meant to tell you.” It hadn’t been, though Dragan didn’t find it in himself to continue when each word clawed at his throat on the way out. He’d be able to manage by himself either way. “If you may excuse me, father?”

For a moment, it almost looked like his father was going to stop him. Dragan wasn’t sure whether he dreaded it or yearned for it anymore. What followed was merely a heavy sigh, then permission. “Of course, my boy. You must have had a long day.”

Dragan replied with a noncommittal hum. He stepped towards the door with that familiar, swift restlessness, trying to get out before the shaking could catch up to him again. “Good night, father.”

“Aye, good night.”

The moment Dragan closed the door to his room behind him, it was as if his strings were cut. He sunk into a crouch as quickly as his shaking legs would allow him, hugging his own knees tightly.

This was ridiculous. He hadn’t been yelled at, had hardly been scolded even. His throat tied up into a knot all the same, his eyes burning with something he didn’t want to acknowledge.

You know you could never disappoint me.

Dragan had half a mind to throw the word back in his father’s face, though he doubted they would change anything. Of course his father hadn’t foreseen a reveal like this. Even if the reminder could move his father one bit, Dragan didn’t trust himself not to cry after all if he faced him now. How pathetic.

Dragan rubbed his eyes with the roots of his hands, grumbling at the hint of wetness. His chest squeezed tightly, barely letting him breathe. Maybe it was better that way. Small, controlled motions might keep him from knocking anything loose.

Dragan flinched when something brushed against his leg, nearly losing his balance and falling onto his backside. He blinked, a little too quickly, still trying to chase the fog from his vision.

Snowflake looked about as startled as he was, frozen in place a hand’s width away. The darkness of the night painted her fur gray like ash, though that didn’t dull the shine of her big eyes.

“Apologies,” Dragan murmured, reaching out to give her head a slow pet. The gesture appeared to reassure her, seeing as she climbed into his lap a moment later. Dragan squeezed her gently, swallowing against the lump in his throat. There was something brimming in his chest, like waves breaking against a dam.

What in the name of iron was he doing? Wallowing in self-pity wouldn’t make him feel any better.

Snowflake gave a short trill as Dragan rose to his feet and lifted her with him. He couldn’t keep moping around. He had to keep moving.

Dragan set her down onto the bed, giving her one last pet before he started packing – enough clothes to last him a week or two, some books and notes he could work on. He was finished so swiftly, he had half a mind to set off then and there.

Tomorrow morning, he reasoned with himself. He would send Roland a short notice of his arrival, gather the courage to inform his father of his trip, and start his journey come early morning. Leaving without a word would have been so much easier, though it was hardly appropriate for the Prime Minister to run off just because he was sulking about private matters.

Dragan dropped onto the bed with a sigh, letting Snowflake cuddle up to him to keep him distracted. His mind drifted to Roland anyways. I will miss you so direly, Roland had told him. Dragan did too. He had tried not to, but it was a losing battle. Maybe the silence of nightfall wouldn't be eating away at him so if they had spent it together.

Was Roland thinking of him too as the day came to an end? Dragan didn’t doubt it, though the mental image of Roland lost in his thoughts all alone didn’t lend him any comfort either. Dragan’s heart squeezed as if it hadn’t been wrung out already.

Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Tomorrow, he’d see Roland again.