Chapter Text
Jaron's Pov
The regents’ room that day was crowded with my regents. Prime Regent Harlowe sat beside me near the head of the long rectangular table, composed and attentive as ever while Tobias sat near the end, having lesser seniority than most of my regents. Around them sat my other useless regents, who were an impressive collection of titles and little else.
They spoke at length about borders that were already secure, about treaties no one intended to violate, and taxes that would never be quite sufficient to them. These were matters which rarely ever interested me and likely never would.
They droned on, one after another, each attempting to sound wiser than the last. Normally I would have entertained myself by needling them more than I ought to, by asking questions that exposed their ignorance or making remarks sharp enough to leave a sting. But today I didn't do it, because even that felt like too much effort. That was until now.
Lord Mead had been speaking for the past thirty minutes. I knew this only because his mouth was still moving. “… And therefore, Your Majesty, it would be most prudent to delay any further rebuilding near the western quarter until…”
“Until what?” I asked quietly.
Though my voice lacked its usual sharpness it stilled the room. Lord Mead blinked, clearly startled that I had noticed him at all.
“Until… until we have received additional assurances, sire,” he said.
“Assurances from whom?” I asked. “If the concern is structural, then speak it plainly. If not, then I fail to see what we are waiting for.”
Few regents shifted uncomfortably in their seats when they noticed my irritation. Ordinarily I might have taken some satisfaction in it, or leaned back to enjoy their discomfort. But today I did none of those things.
Lord Beckett cleared his throat for what must have been the tenth time since the meeting began. “Your Majesty, mockery won't advance this discussion.”
“No, it does not” I said, cutting in without raising my voice. “But what we are doing now won't advance our discussion either.”
Prime Regent Harlowe glanced at me, his expression calm as ever. “King Jaron perhaps you could propose an alternative course of action.”
I traced the edge of the table with my thumb, considering only briefly. “Rebuild the western quarter, carefully and intelligently.”
After a pause I added, “Continue on. I am sure it will be enlightening.”
Most of the regents missed the sarcasm.
“Also, there is one more thing,” Lord Hentower concluded, “we believe an increase in tariffs would—”
“Harm the very trade you intend to protect, right?” I interrupted.
Silence followed in the room. Lady Orlaine leaned toward Lady Porlowe and spoke in a hushed voice. Lord Hentower looked as though he had lost the thread of his own argument. Lord Skiff stared fixedly at the table, as if expecting it to supply the answers he could not.
Tobias shifted beside Princess Amarinda and opened his mouth as though to redirect the conversation but he closed it just as quickly, deciding to say nothing. Amarinda's hand brushed his, a small calming gesture. He glanced at her, uncertain, and she answered him with a small reassuring smile. But she didn't say anything to me. She might have guessed my mood better than most, and was wise enough to know when not to interfere.
The meeting wore on after that.
At some point my attention drifted toward the high windows where the pale light spilled across the stone floor. Kerwyn glanced at me, concern written plainly across his face. “Your Majesty, do you wish to postpone this matter?”
I had not realized how far my focus had wandered. I blinked, aware only then that I had missed several exchanges. “No,” I said after a moment. “Please proceed if you must. Or don’t. I doubt it will change anything.”
Kerwyn did not look convinced. Across the table, Darius briefly met his eyes. They exchanged a look I knew far too well. They surely understood that I was not quite myself today.
The meeting eventually ended, as such gatherings always did: with nothing resolved and an excess of satisfaction of the regents at having spoken at length. I rose first, ignoring the formalities, and left the regents’ room before anyone could speak to me.
Dinner at night offered little improvement. Tobias and Amarinda sat next to each other and spoke in low tones. Whatever tension had touched him earlier during the meeting seemed to ease in her presence.
For a moment I envied them without quite knowing why.
Fink appeared to be fighting the urge to speak just to release the energy trapped inside him. He opened his mouth, then looked at Darius, who glanced at him in warning and thought better of it.
My older brother must have noticed my terrible mood. He often did.
A servant served the meal before me. I cut into the meat, took a single bite, and set my knife down. “This is overcooked, again.”
The servant looked at Errol, standing behind me, who straightened and added. “Well, Jaron...,” he said, “It's made by a new chef. I can have something else brought to you.”
“That explains it,” I replied. “Tell him the meat is dead. There’s no need to punish it further.”
Tobias drew in a breath before he began to speak.
“For your own safety, Tobias,” I said mildly, “I would prefer you to sit farther away from me tonight.”
He froze, then glanced helplessly at Amarinda. She studied me for a moment with quiet concern before turning back to him and murmuring something low that steadied him. He nodded, and offered her a small, grateful smile.
Mott sighed, already tired of the exchanges. “There are other dishes, Jaron.”
“I’m aware of it, Mott,” I replied. Fink opened his mouth again, clearly intending to fill the silence with his chatter. But he stopped and closed it again when Darius shook his head.
Across the table, Roden looked as though he had something to say—something that would almost certainly test what little patience I had left. But he leaned back, restraining himself with visible effort as Harlowe caught his eye and gave a slight shake of his head.
The conversation resumed after that. Fink eventually started his chatter while Tobias and Amarinda spoke quietly together, smiling now and then. I watched them, though I followed little of what was said.
I ate only a little. The noise of the hall pressed in on me, and after some time I could no longer bear it. Finally, I pushed back my chair. “I'd like to be excused.”
With that, I walked out of the room, though no one tried to stop me.
I escaped to the King’s Gardens which was quiet at that time. The bright spring time flowers were surrounded by tall, dense hedges and lined with plants of every variety. I leaned against a tree beside the fountain in the center of the gardens and closed my eyes letting the sound of water fill the void in my head. A dull ache lingered behind my eyes and my head throbbed faintly. But I didn't care about the pain.
The pounding in my head had been there all day but it was not the true cause of my foul mood. The real reason lay deeper.
I would be seventeen next month. The number itself meant very little to me, yet the nearness of my birthday pressed against my thoughts with an insistence I could not ignore. The court seemed determined to celebrate it but I felt none of it. Instead, I was tired in a way no sleepless night could ever make me.
The knowledge of my birthday settled over me like an armor worn far too long. Nearly two years had passed since I had claimed the throne. Though the path to it had begun weeks before my fifteenth birthday. It had been nearly as long as two years since I had first heard as Sage, that my family was dead. The truth had been revealed to me by Conner in his estate at Farthenwood. I had learned quickly how to pretend indifference to it like a shield I had worn well back then. Too well, perhaps.
Birthdays had a way of reminding me about the absence of my parents. I had friends here and a court that, however flawed still belonged to me. Darius’s return had eased my loneliness more than I might ever admit. But all I could think of was what I did not have.
I would never again have the chance to apologize to my mother for what I had said to her when I was ten. She had sided with my father's decision to send me away to Bymar to become a proper prince. I had agreed to leave for her sake but I had also told her that she would never see me again. I hadn't meant those words. I had been angry and had felt horrible even as the threat had tumbled from my mouth. But I was also hurt in a way I couldn't describe. Back then, I didn't imagine the words would come true in the cruelest way possible.
Mott found me a few minutes later. Of course he did.
“Jaron,” Mott said gently. “You left dinner.”
I opened my eyes but I barely looked at him and didn't answer him. He studied me for a moment, then added. “You should not be alone here tonight”
“I am rarely ever alone as king,” I stuck out my jaw. “Please allow me that Mott.” I preferred to be alone until I have calmed down.
I closee my eyes again, raised a hand and briefly rubbed my forehead, then opened my eyes to look at him. “I just need a moment.”
Mott hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. But not for long.”
After he left, I drew in a deep breath and stared up at the darkening night sky. I had been king for nearly two years. And yet, on nights like this, I felt very much like the boy who had been sent away six years ago – angry and, believing himself unloved by all, and unaware of everything he was about to lose.
I knew my father had loved me. But for four years I had been furious with him. I had never gotten over how he had made me an orphan after pirates had attacked my ship to Bymar, without even knowing that he was actually protecting me. It was only after my parents died that I had begun to understand my father even a little. But understanding did not remove my regrets.
A few seconds later, the rain began to pour without any warning.
I did not move. At first it was no more than a drizzle through the leaves above me. The branches of the tree caught most of it, and what little reached me felt deserved somehow, like a quiet penance I had not consciously sought but was unwilling to refuse.
When the rain strengthened, it did not trouble me. I remained beneath the tree, unmoving as I let the sound gather around and closed my eyes. A moment later, hurried footsteps approached me across the wet stone.
“Your Majesty,” one of the night vigils said, keeping a respectful distance from me. “You should come inside. The rain seems to have worsened.”
“I know,” I replied, without opening my eyes. “You may leave.”
He hesitated. I could vaguely hear it in the way he shifted his boots.
“I said leave.” My voice was harsher than I ought to but it did the trick as he left the gardens.
The rain grew heavier and slipped past the branches, darkening my sleeves. It soaked through the leaves, my hair and through the collar of my shirt. But I remained where I was. That was until the sound of footsteps returned which were faster this time, followed by a far more familiar voice.
I did not need to look to know it was Mott.
“For the love of the Saints, Jaron!” he said sharply. “Are you trying to catch your death?”
Though I kept my eyes closed, I felt a cloak settle around my shoulders, heavy and warm in the rain.
In a softer tone Mott added. “You are soaked. And don’t pretend you didn’t notice it. Get inside. Now.”
Finally, I opened my eyes. “I was under a tree. That should count as something.”
“It counts as foolishness,” he snapped. “You are king, not a garden decoration left out in the rain. Also you are shivering. You are coming inside.”
“I have been worse Mott.”
“Do not try to be clever right now.”
“I wasn’t trying to be clever.”
I sighed and finally pushed myself upright. The movement sent a shiver through me that I could not hide. Until now I didn't realize how cold I had become. Mott noticed, of course. He always did. He let out a long, resigned sigh and took my arm firmly enough that left no room for argument. Any resistance on my part would have been pointless. So with the rain still clinging to my clothes, I allowed myself to be dragged away from the gardens.
Inside the castle, Roden caught sight of us in the corridor; me wrapped in a cloak, water dripping from my hair onto the stone floor and Mott beside me, scowling like a man preparing a lecture. His hand remained fixed on my shoulder, as if he suspected I might bolt straight back into the storm the moment he let go.
Roden took in my damp state with my hair plastered across my face and the cloak sagging from my shoulders. He frowned. “Should I even ask? Were you swimming in the moat this time? Or perhaps you fell into the fountain again like last time?”
To be accurate, that last time I fell into a fountain was because of him when he came to assassinate me. But I didn't bother to correct him. Instead, I looked at him and grinned. “I was bathing at night in the rain. It’s a royal hobby. You should try it Roden.”
He stared at me, clearly unimpressed.
A beat passed, then I added. “I’m quite modest about it.”
His eyes widened at that. After another beat, he looked away and I thought I heard him mutter something about sanity, under his breath, before he began to walk away. “You are not worth it,” he said, more to himself than to me.
Mott arched an eyebrow, then drew in a slow breath as we began to walk again. The lecture that followed was thorough which involved responsibility, recklessness, kingship, common sense, the weather, the rain, illness, general foolishness and my usual infuriating behavior.
By the time he reached the end of it, I was still shivering as my wet clothes had clung uncomfortably to my skin.
“Jaron, you, of all people, should know better than to risk illness because of your stubbornness.” Mott finally said.
Water dripped from my hair into my eyes. I pushed it aside impatiently. “You have already made your point Mott.”
“I have not finished.”
I set my jaw forward. “I am freezing.”
“That's what happens when you stay out in the rain.”
That made me sigh. “I already know all that you have said about me right now,” I said, because it was easier than arguing.
“You always do,” Mott replied. “And still you always do it anyway.”
“You should know me better by now.”
“Perhaps I do.” He stopped walking, then looked at me fully. I knew that look and I probably deserved it.
Darius appeared at the end of the corridor, took a glance at me, and sighed. He did not say anything. I suspected he could already guess what might have happened.
At that moment Errol hurried over with a towel, looking concerned. “Jaron you are wet.”
“Make sure he changes,” Mott said firmly. “I’ll see if I can arrange something warm for him.”
“I am coming with you.” Darius followed Mott and left with him.
Back in my room, I waved Errol off weakly. “I’ll change myself.”
He did not move. He never did when I said it. Though once I had changed into dry clothes, he seemed satisfied. I sat on my bed, then leaned back against the headboard and pressed my hands to my temples.
“Get me some tea,” I muttered to Errol.
Errol turned to comply, but paused when the door opened before he could reach it.
Darius entered with one of the cooks who was carrying a steaming mug on a tray. The cook bowed, then placed the tray carefully on the table and left. Errol lingered long enough to cast me one last worried glance before he followed him out.
Darius sat beside me and handed me the mug. “Drink this,” he said.
I wrapped my fingers around it and stared at the surface of the liquid as steam curled upward in the air.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The fire crackled softly in the hearth while the rain tapped against the windows. My thoughts drifted to my birthday for a brief moment until the door burst open.
“Jaron,” Fink said, all in one breath, “I was looking for you everywhere and Darius said you were back and Mott was angry and also I heard you were in the rain which is why I thought maybe you might catch a fever again because you were in the rain and then I thought what if you aren’t well enough for your birthday and your own coronation anniversary then—”
“Enough, Fink! I don't need reminders of my own birthday. If you are worried, worry quietly,” I snapped.
The words came out sharper than I intended and were far harsher than Fink deserved. He stopped short as his face crumpled almost instantly, surprise giving way to hurt.
“I… I was just—”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” I cut in. “I don’t want surprises,” My tone was brushque. “I don’t want celebrations. I don’t want any of it. Is that clear Fink?”
A horrible silence followed in the room as Fink’s eyes filled with tears. He looked down and bit his lip, then nodded quickly. A moment later he turned his face away, blinking several times, hoping to push away his pain. Only then the full weight of what I had done struck me. I should not have spoken to Fink like that. He was my younger brother now. I immediately regretted my words but they still hung in the air and I could not pull them back. Once again I might have caused pain to those who were close to me, without wanting to, just like I had always done before in the past.
Before I could speak, Darius reached out and placed a steady hand on Fink’s shoulder. “He’s not well,” he said gently. “He didn’t mean it Fink.”
I did not contradict him because he was right. I hadn't meant to be cruel to Fink. The sharpness in my voice had come from somewhere deeper than anger, and was something I had not yet managed to master, but it had hurt him all the same.
Fink wiped his eyes with his sleeve and nodded again, smaller this time. Darius guided him out of the room, murmuring something low and reassuring as they went. Though he paused in the doorway and glanced back at me once more. “You should rest for now,” he said softly before the door closed behind him.
The room felt too large now as I sat alone with the mug still warm in my hands. Much as I wished to sleep the days away, sleep didn't come to me.
In the weeks that followed, I buried myself in work. It was not a conscious decision so much as a convenient one. Though I disliked the idea of being tied to a schedule, I had hoped it would help me distract myself and keep my thoughts at bay. My days filled from morning until dusk with meetings— reviewing papers, listening to reports and settling disputes which no one else cared to resolve.
That evening I sat with Prime Regent Harlowe, Kerwyn, Tobias, and Mott, in one of those many meetings. Roden stood nearby, his arms folded. He was watching me closely though he made an effort not to appear too obvious about that. I pretended not to notice it. More than once, he caught me staring past the table when my thoughts strayed beyond my control. He frowned openly at me, which was his way of showing concern.
Harlowe reported me on the grain stores and border patrols, followed by Kerwyn’s updates on court appointments and the ongoing reconstruction of the kingdom two years after the war. Finally, Tobias offered his suggestions, though he spoke cautiously, as if he feared my temper might warm at any moment.
I listened. Or rather, I tried to listen. I spoke when required and yet my attention slipped more often than it should have. As it drifted once again, slipping away like water through my fingers, Kerwyn’s voice reached me from somewhere far away. “Jaron.”
I blinked and looked up at him. “Yes?”
“Your mind was elsewhere,” he said gently. “We were discussing about the western levies.”
“Oh, were we?” I replied, suddenly becoming aware of the meeting room. “My apologies.”
“You are distracted, Jaron,” Harlowe said, his voice filled with concern.
“It’s nothing,” I said quickly before he could ask anything more.
Darius, seated a little farther away, caught my eye across the room and furrowed his brows together.
Mott leaned back and studied me for a moment. “Perhaps we should conclude for the day. Nothing here is so urgent that it cannot wait until tomorrow.”
“No.” The word came quicker than I intended. “Let us move on.”
They exchanged glances, but no one argued. Mostly because they all understood well enough by now that arguing with me when I sounded like that rarely ever improved matters for anyone. So we continued the meeting.
A few days later, Fink burst into my path with all the sudden force and wild energy of a summer storm.
“There’s a fair near the market square in Drylliad,” he said. “There’s music, stalls, and performers from every corner of Carthya! They've got games going, too. Jaron, will you come?”
“I’ll pass,” I replied.
He stared at me for a while. “You always come.”
“I know,” I forced a small smile to my face. “But I’ve a great deal of work today.”
He blinked twice. “Oh. But, Tobias and Amarinda are going there. They want to hear the singers.”
Darius was leaning against the doorway, watching me. I did not turn, but I felt the his gaze on me all the same.
Finally I said softly. “I’m sorry, Fink.” And I meant it. He had expected me to say yes and I wished I could have. I hated refusing him but I doubted I would find any enjoyment at the fair.
He hunched down. “So you are not coming.”
Thankfully, Mott intervened for me. “Go there with Tobias and Amarinda. You’ll enjoy it.” He said. From his tone alone, I could tell he it was clear he had sensed my reluctance and knew better than to press me about it.
Fink hesitated, then nodded at him before he left. Mott watched him go, then followed after him without a word. He didn't even look at me in disapproval for disappointing Fink. That was when I knew that something had changed. When even Mott did not lecture me, something was definitely wrong with me.
Outside Jaron's POV
Roden did not wait long after Tobias and Amarinda returned from the fair with Fink.
He grabbed Tobias's arm as he entered the castle, pulling him aside, then motioned Amarinda and Fink to follow him.
Tobias scowled. “We just got back Roden. What is this about?”
“You’ll see,” Roden replied.
He led them to a small room in a quiet corner of the castle. Once inside, Roden closed the door firmly behind him. Darius was already there, his arms crossed, having arrived at Roden’s request. He glared at Tobias which was his usual expression for him.
Tobias stared directly at Darius. “Why is he here?”
Amarinda, in contrast, took a seat, looking more rather confused than annoyed. She turned to Roden. “Why have you brought all of us here, Roden?”
His response was interrupted by a knock before Mott was admitted into the room. He paused when saw the others. “What is going on here?”
“Good,” Roden said. “You’re here too, Mott.”
Fink stared around them, curious, then beamed. “Are we doing something exciting?”
“Sort of,” Roden said. He hesitated, then added, “It’s about Jaron.”
Tobias folded his arms at once. “Why did you drag us all here, Roden? Jaron is in the middle of a discussion with Kerwyn and Harlowe. If he finds out we are talking about him without him, you know how angry he will get.”
“I know. But it's about the way he’s acting lately,” Roden said. He drew in a slow breath, then added. “He’s been off all week — snapping one moment, then being distant the next. He is unusually attending every single meeting rather than missing them. And he refused to go to the fair today. Also just a few weeks ago, he was in a terrible mood, standing all alone in the rain in the King’s gardens.”
The room sobered at once. Fink nodded in agreement. “Yes! He’s not himself these days. Even when he jokes, it doesn’t feel real. And even when he smiles it's not real either.”
Amarinda folded her hands. “He hasn't looked happy lately.”
No one contradicted that. They all had figured out that much by now.
“It must be his birthday. It is only four days away,” Tobias spoke in a gentle and low voice. “And his parents’ death anniversary passed two weeks ago.”
Roden glanced over at him. “Then we should do something for him. He needs to smile.”
“It won’t be easy,” Darius said quietly.
“I assumed that already. That’s why I’m planning it and that's exactly why I need your help,” Roden replied.
Mott’s eyes narrowed. “If your plan involves challenging him to a duel or injuring his leg again—”
“It does not,” Roden said quickly. “I won’t fight him Mott. And also I won’t touch his leg, I promise. This is… different.”
A string of ideas began to form after that, consisting of games, charades and music. Fink suggested all three of them, in a single breath, without even pausing long enough to be understood by others.
A smile crept onto Darius's face. “Jaron can sing and play instruments pretty well, you know.”
Tobias stared at him. “Jaron?”
“Yes,” Darius said.
“But Sage—” Roden began to say something, then stopped. After a beat, he added. “Sage was terrible at music. That was an act too, wasn't it?”
“He must have done that on purpose,” Darius replied. He hesitated. “Jaron does not like to sing. Because singing reminds him of our parents.”
Silence filled the room. After a few seconds, he pressed his lips together and then added, “Mother was a fine singer but Father… well, he loved music far more than he could play it. Though he wasn't good with the fippler, he enjoyed playing it anyway. Mother loved him all the more for it. He once told me that he wanted to be a musician. But our grandfather discouraged our father from playing and believed it was a waste of time. Because of that, eventually, Father had to give up his dreams of becoming a musician.”
Tobias listened to it all, then shook his head slowly. “After we learned Sage was Jaron, I thought the story about his father being a musician was just another part of his disguise.”
“It wasn’t,” Darius said. The room fell silent again.
A moment later, Tobias murmured, “So Jaron wasn’t lying about that either.”
Mott drew in a slow breath. “We must not do anything grand. He wouldn't like it, and also it might only make things worse by reminding him of everything he has lost.”
“Agreed. Whatever we do it must not overwhelm him,” Amarinda said.
Roden nodded. “Then we should plan carefully. Just something small that can give him joy, even a little.”
A quiet understanding passed between them and they nodded, one by one. They began to plan for Jaron while somewhere beyond, Jaron worked late into the night, convinced that duty was the only thing that could help him forget the past and not yet realizing how many people were determined to make him genuinely smile again.