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Chapter Text

one.

Uncle’s hand is warm. His fingers, clean and adorned with glittering jewels, drag across the velvet lining of Laurent’s pants, right above his kneecap.

Laurent keeps himself still with great effort. The carriage is luxurious and spacious; it can seat up to eight people. Uncle doesn’t take advantage of this space: he presses close to Laurent, until Laurent is forced to wedge himself against the window.

Herode, seated in front of them, must take note of this. However, like Guion and Mathe, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, his eyes track over Uncle’s hand before he politely averts his gaze to somewhere over Laurent’s shoulder.

The carriage is silent except for the clink of Uncle’s rings every time he shifts his hand. He doesn’t stray too high. He seems fixated on a particular patch on the left of Laurent’s knee, where the bone is protruding. Uncle’s fingers dig into once, then twice. The noise of his rings echo in the space, so that everyone is aware of his movements.

If it is Uncle’s plan to make everyone uncomfortable through these micro aggressive gestures, then he should be feeling very accomplished, Laurent thinks.

Laurent knows Uncle is waiting for a reaction from him, whether it be a physical one or a verbal one. Laurent isn’t going to indulge him. He makes sure to keep his body straight and proper. He leans his head against the glass and watches the Akielon landscape roll by.

Outside, the sky is a vivacious blue. It’s cloudless and the sun is high in the sky, a bright yellow speck. When they left Arles, the farmers had been celebrating the rainfall.

Ios is a city of white: every building they pass is made in the same way, with wide, sweeping pillars the colour of chalk. The people, brown and large, are all adorned in white, sleeveless chitons. They stop and stare, curious, as their carriage rolls by. A small family stand at the edge of the dirt road, craning their heads to catch a glimpse inside. The woman, bare chested, has a child on her hip. She catches Laurent’s eye and quickly lowers her gaze. Laurent pretends not to notice.

Guion, however, leans forward. He makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, which he disguises into a meek cough, flushing red, when Laurent raises an eyebrow at him.

Uncle grips his knee tighter.

The dirt path gives way to a cobbled road a while later. There is still little colour in the heart of Ios, but now everything seems more vibrant. The buildings here are taller, grander, made with rich brown roofs that slope and limestone columns of ivory.

The Kingsmeet, a strong, wide column of intricately etched marble, looms over them in greeting.

Inside, it holds the reason for their visit. Laurent exhales soundlessly as they pass it.

His eyes move along the length of the pillar. Sculpted into the side of it is a figure Laurent has seen countless times in his readings throughout the years. King Arius’ depiction is incredibly detailed: his body is large and muscled, and he sits tall on his throne. The harpe sword is clenched tightly in his left hand.

Briefly, Laurent wonders about the artists responsible for creating this. How long had it taken them to capture their King this way? He imagines a group of faceless men and women, slaving away in the Akielon sun, perhaps unaware of how important this statue would become.

Behind the Kingsmeet lies a greater monument: the Ios palace.

Like all Akielon architecture, it is constructed with pillars and a sloping roof. Unlike most Akielon structures, it is, of course, a palace – a large, overbearing one, situated on the tail of Akielos, so it overlooks the entire city. Even confined in the carriage, Laurent can see that part of the roof has been carved out to accommodate the four figures instrumental in the Marlas War.

King Arius is in the middle, naked and tall, again wielding his harpe sword. Next to him stands King Phillipe of Vere, his famous bow and arrow slung over his shoulder. On Arius’ other side is Queen Gunhild from Vask. She’s portrayed as even taller than Arius. There’s a shield in her left hand, and a mace in the right. Next to her is Crown Princess Cassia of Patras. Her weapon, a spear, is thin but very long; it almost touches the carved ceiling.

Laurent has spent so long reading about the four of them, he feels like he could recite their entire history, verbatim, from the history books he was required to read as a child.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen them: each country has their own unique interpretation of these four. Arles also has a statue commissioned, except it’s painted, and it’s placed in a large water fountain right outside the palace gates. In the Vaskian portrayal, all the figures are naked and etched into the throne. The Patrans have an elaborate mural.

The carriage comes to a stop at the palace steps. Uncle’s hand finally leaves his knee.

There’s flurried movement outside. The Prince’s guardsmen are ushered towards the stables. The Regent’s men follow behind them. A small crowd of servants gather, ready to open the doors for them and lead them out towards the entrance of the palace.

Inside the carriage, it’s still. Laurent waits. He knows what’s coming.

Uncle, as always, is predictable. “Laurent,” he says. His voice is sombre, and Laurent hates it. Uncle speaks to him as though it is a burden to do so, and everyone on the Council emphasises with their darling Regent who has to deal with a petulant, spoilt nephew unfit to be King. “I want you to behave.”

“I will.” Laurent turns to look him in the eye. “You of all people should know how sweet I can be, Uncle.”

Herode’s fingers twitch. Other than that, the carriage goes silent.

Uncle’s nostrils flare. It’s the only sign of his annoyance. His expression, tone and eyes remain cool and unbothered.

“I mean it, Laurent. Any whisper of one of your tantrums or physical assaults, and I’ll send you off to Charcy before you can beg me not to.”

Laurent grits his teeth. “You can’t threaten me with Charcy forever, Uncle. Remember that.”

Uncle doesn’t say anything. He simply raises an eyebrow.

Laurent returns Uncle’s stare with an impassive one of his own.

When the silence stretches on for an uncomfortably long time, Herode clears his throat. He addresses Laurent. “Your Highness, it’s in our best interest not to delay our entrance any further. We don’t want to seem…reluctant to join the Akielon festivities.”

Laurent nods. Herode is right. The Akielon party, currently waiting for them on the top of the stairs, might interpret the still closed doors of the carriage as a deliberate form of rudeness at best, or an unwillingness to be cooperative at worst.

Laurent can’t have that. He’s come too far to let this be ruined now.

He straightens out the collar of his high-necked jacket – a poor fashion choice in this climate – and tugs at the creased line on his pants. He adjusts his circlet. He doesn’t wait to see if Uncle or the rest of the Council is ready.

The sun shines brightly on Laurent’s face when he opens the door. Immediately, a servant moves towards him, with the intention of helping him up the stairs. Laurent waves him off. He tries to be polite about it. The last thing he wants is someone to be offended.

Uncle has no such problem. He smiles, with teeth, at the servant that comes to his side – a young boy with tousled curls and a scar across his cheek. Laurent’s stomach rolls, but he keeps his gaze forward.

They go up the stairs in their appropriate rank. Uncle goes first, then Laurent. Herode is the last person in line. When Laurent is King, Herode will be right behind him.

Against the backdrop of white, shiny marble, the three figures at the palace entrance stand out even more.

Laurent is aware of how hard his heart is beating. His chest feels warm with nerves. For the first time in years, Laurent is excited.

He’s been waiting for this day since he was thirteen – since Uncle took him to Chastillon and Laurent realised, with dawning horror, that the only family he had left might not be the man Laurent always revered him to be.

Even flanked by guards on either side of them, Theomedes, Kastor and Damianos are by far the most physically imposing figures.

King Theomedes wears his age well. The only indication of it is the lighter hair on the sides of his temple. His beard, like Uncle’s, is neatly trimmed and dark. His chiton is a deep purple. His himation, secured to his right shoulder with a golden lion pin, is a beautiful blue. Both cloths have matching threaded gold borders.

Uncle bows his head to King Theomedes. It’s a shallow bob of his head. They greet each other wordlessly.

It’s different when Laurent greets Theomedes. He makes sure it is. Laurent bows his head properly and waits until Theomedes extends his hand to clasp it, in the traditional Akielon manner.

Laurent smiles. It’s his first genuine one in years. “It is an honour to meet you, Exalted.”

Theomedes smiles too. His hand comes up to rest on Laurent’s head. He pats it once and says, “I can say the same thing with ease, Prince Laurent.”

Laurent’s heart swells. He hopes Theomedes means it: he needs him to mean it.

They move down the line. Kastor is next, for whatever reason. He shouldn’t be; Kastor isn’t the Crown Prince.

Still, Laurent greets him favourably, even if he is a bastard. He supposes that unfortunate detail isn’t exactly Kastor’s fault.

Kastor is a replica of his father. Looking into his face, Laurent knows this is what Theomedes must have looked like at thirty-five. His nose is straight and long, and like his father, he has kept beard, although it is trimmed much shorter. Kastor’s chiton is also colourful: a darkened blue that almost matches the navy shade of Laurent’s own outfit.

Kastor is the one who bows his head to Laurent. He doesn’t extend his hand; he has probably been cautioned about offending Veretians. 

Laurent can’t have that. He needs to show everyone on these steps that he is different from the stories his Uncle has no doubt spread throughout his visits here over the years. As unnerving it is, Laurent extends his hand for Kastor to take.

Mathe makes a small noise that doesn’t go unnoticed.

Kastor hides his surprise well. He takes Laurent’s hand and briefly clasps it. He nods in acknowledgment. “Your Highness.”

Laurent does the same. This time, Kastor can’t quite hide his surprise.

From his peripheral, Laurent can see Uncle’s mouth forming into a tight line. It makes his own smile widen, just by a fraction.

Laurent’s heart – already beating too hard, too fast – quicken its pace even more when he turns to the last person in line, the man he’s been dying to meet for years.

Crown Prince Damianos is a large man. It’s impossible to not acknowledge his size; he towers over his father and half-brother, who are not small men by any means.

Damianos’ chiton is blood red and made of finely woven linen. Laurent knows in Akielon culture, only the most celebrated warriors wear this particular garment. His face is clean shaven, open and boyish; handsome. His hair is wild: it’s all dark, loose curls that flirt with the wind. When he looks at Laurent, his eyes are dark and filled with delight. Everything about Damianos is genuine, from the way his mouth splits into a smile, to the way he relaxes his body, so he isn’t crowding into Laurent’s space.

Laurent’s heart flutters.

There’s a lightness in his chest. It’s an almost foreign feeling. Laurent genuinely doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this – like he could run forever without break.

Damianos currently outranks him in status. It’s why Laurent bows his head first. He makes sure to dip his chin low enough. Damianos returns the bow, and then he reaches for Laurent’s hand.

He doesn’t clasp it. Instead, he turns it over, so Laurent’s knuckles are exposed.

Mouth dry and stomach twisting with excitement, Laurent watches Damianos bow his head again, much lower than his last one, until his lips press against the back of Laurent’s hand.

It’s a fleeting touch; Laurent barely feels Damianos’ kiss.

The greeting is meaningful, though; Damianos has chosen to welcome Laurent with a traditional Veretian gesture.

It’s unexpected, but thoughtful. It’s something that both the Akielon and Veretian party will take note of, Laurent is sure of it.

It makes Laurent smile. Damianos returns it, his teeth a slice of white on his face. It dimples his left cheek.

“I hope your stay in Ios is to your liking, Prince Laurent,” Damianos says.

Laurent nods. “Thank you, Your Highness.” He can’t manage any more than that.

Laurent pulls back and makes way for Guion to greet the Crown Prince.

He moves to stand next to Uncle, who has been watching him silently, hands clasped behind his back. Their eyes meet, just for a second. Uncle’s face is grim.

After the introductions are made, and Herode falls in line with them once more, the servants gather around them again. Laurent doesn’t like the way they move: small, silent footsteps against the marble, their heads bowed and backs bent. In Akielos, being a royal servant is an honour. It’s a coveted position that requires years of training. But Laurent dislikes their submissiveness. It’s unnatural. It unnerves him.

Damianos, Kastor and Theomedes remain on the palace steps – the Patran party will be arriving soon – as the young, scarred servant from earlier leads Laurent to his rooms. His name is Isander. He reveals it timidly when Laurent asks.

The Ios palace is opulent.  Everything gleams: the floor, in particular, made up of patterned tiles, is shiny and reflective. Unlike the exterior, colour lines every inch inside. The ceiling and walls are adorned in overlapping geometric designs of blues, reds and golds. There are pillars everywhere, although these ones seem more artistic in their placement, rather than practical. Statues of warriors line the wall: all of them large, naked, muscled and carrying weapons.

It’s not as flashy as the Arles palace – Laurent’s room has a diamond chandelier and the ceilings are all framed with actual gold, not just painted – but the simplicity of it is… nice.

Uncle is led to the north end of the palace; Laurent, to the east. Uncle squeezes Laurent’s shoulder before he rounds the corner. The look in his eyes is dark. He doesn’t like the thought of leaving Laurent alone, not when there are so many politically important, international figures roaming the palace.

Laurent sighs when he can no longer see Uncle’s hulking figure. This is the first time he’s been left alone in almost a week; between the three day ship ride, the carriage ride, and the preparation for the festivities, he and Uncle have had to spend more time together than usual.

Laurent’s room is at the end of a long hallway. It has very little in it; the bed, with its bronze frame, takes up most of the space. There isn’t even a vanity. Laurent suspects it might be in the baths.

The heat is more prominent now; it’s only midday but the sun is relentless. It’s not even summer, Laurent thinks. He unlaces his jacket with as much care as possible. The material is fine: Charls had spent months carting around the country to trade for the best material. All of Laurent’s outfits for this trip are expensive, silken materials, rich in texture and colour. They’re much more elaborate than Laurent is used to – but it’s a good way to show off Vere’s impeccable textile market, especially since delegates from all the neighbouring Kingdoms will be here, tonight.

From the balcony, Laurent can see the long blue stretch of the Ellosean Sea. Earlier, when they had travelled through the city, Laurent had seen houses built on the shoreline, dangerously close to the water. He wonders what that is like – to be constantly aware of the smell and sound of the sea. In Arles, Auguste used to sneak away to Belloy to swim in the river. Laurent would come too. He’d dip his feet into the cool water and read a book, sometimes peering over it to watch Auguste splash about with one of his guardsmen.

When Aleron found out about their trips, later that summer, he had been furious. It was one of the few times Laurent had seen Aleron belligerent towards Auguste. Auguste, seventeen, and still yet unable to grow a beard, had listened to their father’s reprimand with solemn eyes.

Later that night, Laurent who was nine and thought he knew most things by now, said, “I think Papa was very unfair. You’re not hurting anyone by going to Belloy.”

Auguste had smiled at him. It didn’t reach his eyes. “The life of a Prince is very unfair.”

Laurent couldn’t understand what he meant by that. They were a wealthy, affluential family. Aleron was a good King, who cared about his people. They were beloved throughout the country. He had everything he could ever want: if Laurent wanted a specific toy, Aleron would order the local blacksmith to make it for him. If Laurent wanted sweets for dinner, someone in the kitchen would rush to prepare him something. Most of all, he had Auguste, who never treated him like he was a second son, as Aleron sometimes tended to do.

And then months before his coronation, Auguste had been bedridden with a disease no one could identify. His body weakened, and he became delirious with fever. Laurent was not allowed at his bedside: Aleron feared he would catch it, too. Instead, Laurent waited outside his brother’s bedroom, for days on end, hoping that when it opened, Auguste would come out: healthy, happy and energetic.

The next time Laurent saw his brother, he didn’t recognise him. By then, Auguste had already been dead for ten minutes. Aleron had ushered him into the bedroom, his eyes red. Uncle was there too, sitting on an armchair by the bed, his head bowed. Laurent remembered how dark the room had been: it was the middle of the day, but the servants had pulled the curtains closed because Auguste’s eyes were too sensitive to daylight now.

The man on the bed wasn’t his brother, thought Laurent. He was frail, weak, his face gaunt, hair greasy and lacklustre. It was only when Laurent saw his eyes, still open and blue, despite the stillness in his chest, that he realised what he what he was looking at: his brother’s corpse.

Uncle hugged Aleron and then Laurent. He said, “Auguste has been in pain for a long time. Now, he is free of any suffering.”

Laurent had shut his eyes and screamed.

Six weeks later, Aleron, distraught with grief, took a dagger to his own heart.

The next morning, the starburst banners were taken down. In their place, red lined the castle walls.

Six months after that, Uncle took him to Chastillon for the first time.

For the last seven years Laurent has understood Auguste’s sentiment, the life of a Prince is very unfair, too well.

But, starting tonight, that is going to change. As he stares out towards the expanse of blue lining the horizon, Laurent thinks of the Crown Prince: his easy smile, his greeting, and the way he carried himself.

Laurent feels his face relaxing into a smile. Prince Damianos is his second chance, and Laurent isn’t going to lose it.

*

The ceremony is scheduled to begin an hour before the sun sets.

This late in the day, the weather is cooler. Laurent is once again, laced in a jacket, as he and Uncle are seated at the theatre. This one is white, embroidered with gold, and is made of silk from Kempt.

The theatre is a grand, open space set in the gardens of the palace. The seats are sloped, following the natural grooves of the hill they’ve been built on. They’re made of roughened stone. It’s rumoured that this theatre has been left exactly the way King Arius originally commissioned it. Some of the seats are chipped, or crumbling at the corners, but no attempt at fixing them has been made. Akielons are strangely committed to preserving history.

At least the seats the royals and delegates are in better condition; they’re made of dark, panelled wood.

The theatre is a cacophony of cluttered noise. The ceremony is open to viewing for everyone, so the gardens are filled with all kinds of civilians, from farmers to women from the brothel. Most of them are scantily clad: Laurent has seen enough exposed chests and thighs to last him a lifetime and some more.

The sky begins to colour gradually: it pinkens, and orange tinges the edges.

From a distance, a bell is rung.

That’s when the Akielon royal family step out from the arched entry near the stage. Their entrance is met with roaring cheers and claps. Prince Torveld of Patras jumps in his seat. Queen Halvik, seated next to him, snorts.

Theomedes, Damianos and Kastor have all changed their chitons. Their new ones are lighter, less colourful. Damianos’ one catches Laurent’s eye. Its design is almost identical to his own ensemble. It’s white, with an elaborate golden border, threaded along the hem of the chiton, and the sleeves. His laurel crown is thinner than the one he had on this morning; from here, it almost resembles the circlet Laurent has on.

Damianos is dressed like a King. Laurent is wearing his colours. Laurent feels like this is a coincidence only the Gods could conjure. It makes him dizzy; surely, this is a sign that Damianos is –

Damianos’ eyes meet his. Laurent is seated in the first row, with all the other royals, as is custom. It is Damianos’ duty to acknowledge everyone in this row, yet Damianos’ gaze doesn’t stray from Laurent. His eyes are dark as they take in Laurent’s outfit.

Uncle’s hand rests on his knee again and Laurent jerks. Damianos turns away. He seats himself in between his father and brother.

A bearded man walks forward. He calls for silence, and instantly, the crowd hushes.

“King Arius’ harpe sword will now be brought into the orchestra.” His voice rings in the space. He hardly needs to raise it. “Prince Damianos will enter the orchestra when he feels he is ready to do so and retrieve the sword from King Arius’ hand. If he is successful, he will be crowned the next King of Akielos tonight.”

The crowd cheers. Laurent claps so hard, his palms become red.

On the other side of the stage, a group of servants emerge, carrying a statue of King Arius. This one is the largest yet; it’s over nine feet, and at least four feet wide. The detail on it is amazing – the marble is carved so intricately, even the creases of Arius’ chiton are visible. Tightly clenched in his left hand, he has his harpe sword, except it isn’t the carved or painted version Laurent has seen over the years, in textbooks or on walls. It’s the actual one, that lives in the Kingsmeet.

Laurent’s breath catches.

He knows, through years of research, exactly what it looks like. The pommel is made of pure gold and encased with four gems: an emerald, a ruby, a sapphire and a diamond, to represent the four Kingdoms. The hilt of it is shaped like a roaring lion’s head, with small cuts of diamonds for its eyes.  The blade is shiny; according to legend, it never needs to be cleaned because it is incapable of rusting. It’s a long sword, much longer than swords that are in use now, but apparently, for the one the sword unsheathes itself, it is so lightweight, it feels weightless.

The origins of the sword are known to all. It’s recited everywhere. Even an illiterate child hidden deep in the forest could recount it, word for word.

It was one of Auguste’s favourite stories. He used to tell it so often, Laurent had it memorised by the time he was four years old.

It had appeared during the Marlas War. The War had been going on for more than ten years. Millions of people had been killed, tortured and held as prisoner. The Gods, who had trusted the humans to end the War on their own, decided to intervene. In the middle of Marlas – now a town known as Karthas – they buried a sword to the hilt in frozen ground. Only someone pure of heart, someone who truly wanted the war to end with minimal suffering, who could unite the Kingdoms as well as their own, could unsheathe it successfully.

In Vere, the term for this person is celui – the one.

One by one, the rulers of each Kingdom tried. First the women: Cassia, then Gunhild. Neither had been successful. Then Phillipe had stepped forward. His wrist almost broke with the effort to move the sword. Finally, Arius tried. The sword unsheathed effortlessly: in Akielon books, it is written that he had barely touched it before it gave way.

Using the sword, Arius had ended the war. He successfully united all four Kingdoms once again. The other rulers followed Arius without hesitation. Their cooperation led to a peaceful union.

Now, the sword isn’t used for such dramatic purposes. Every ten years, the heirs to the thrones – provided they are twenty one or older – compete for it. Each kingdom has its own set of games. In Vere, competitors engage in a daylong boar hunt in the forest. In Patras, the game is wrestling, although not the naked, Akielon kind. In Vask, the heirs have to climb to the top of an icy mountain, with only a mace by their side. In Akielos, okton is played, except it goes on for much longer than a traditional round would.

Ambassadors from Marlas are in charge of judging the Games, to keep things as unbiased as possible. Once an overall winner has been chosen, the next stage is this: to physically pull out the sword.

If Auguste had been alive, the ceremonies would have been held in Arles. There is no way Auguste wouldn’t have pulled it out.

King Theomedes’ early retirement announcement had prevented Laurent from competing. He’s still ten months shy of twenty one. The Ambassadors hadn’t made an exception for him, much to Uncle’s delight.

Uncle had competed for the sword this year. He did poorly in everything except the boar hunt.

Laurent doesn’t care, though. Although the sword’s purpose has changed, one of its core elements hasn’t. It still unsheathes itself for the pure hearted, the one person worthy of wielding it. The only person who could use it to continue guiding the four Kingdoms peacefully.

Damianos is that person.

He has been training his whole life for this, according to the gossip exchanged at Court. Laurent thinks that might be true. He remembers hearing vivid stories about the great warrior prince Damianos from delegates all around the Kingdoms since he was thirteen. He’s also watched Damianos compete in every event. He won them all with ease and with great skill.

It’s why Laurent has been so excited to meet him. If he can convince Damianos to help him, Laurent can successfully overthrow his Uncle. With Damianos on his side, Halvik and Torveld will pledge their loyalty to him, too. That’s how it’s always worked: the Kingdoms unite under the guidance of celui.

Seated in his uncomfortable chair, Laurent intensely watches as Damianos finally stands up. He kneels in front of his father, who kisses the top of his head, against the gold of his laurel crown. Then, he makes his way to the stage, where the sword lies waiting for its new master.

The crowd starts cheering. If it was thunderous before, it’s deafening now. Laurent swears he feels his seat shake.

Damianos’ stride is confident. He amps up the crowd, raising his arms and grinning widely. His cheek dimples. Hysterical cheers follow.

Uncle shakes his head. “He’s a complete and utter idiot,” he says in quiet Veretian. Guion laughs.

Laurent stares at the muscles in Damianos’ arms, shoulders and calves as his chiton moves. “I think he’s charming.”

“Your taste has always been poor, dear nephew,” Uncle sighs, as though Laurent has said something particularly offensive.

Laurent turns to him. He says coolly, “Perhaps if he were ten years younger, you would think differently, Uncle.”

No one around them hears it. Uncle’s eyes turn to slits. He reaches forward and grasps Laurent’s wrist. His grip is tight. It hurts. Laurent doesn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

“Watch yourself, Laurent.” Uncle says. His voice doesn’t rise.

Laurent yanks his wrist away. His cheeks burn in anger.

The crowd is still cheering. Damianos’ stands in front of Arius’ statue. He is almost as wide as it. He bows in front of it.

The bearded man from earlier raises his hand. Everyone falls silent.

Laurent’s hands are shaking.

Damianos stands up. His hand wraps around the pommel and grip of the sword in one smooth motion. He pulls.

It doesn’t move.

The silence this time is consuming. It wraps itself around Laurent’s head.

Damianos tries again. The sword remains stuck. He pulls harder. His muscles shift with it. The statue shakes. Still, the sword doesn’t move.

Laurent’s heart drops.

The crowd begins murmuring. An uneasiness has settled in the air. Damianos is the champion of the Games; he should be able to pull the sword.

Damianos finally steps away from the statue, his chest heaving. His eyes are wide and unsure. He looks to his father, who has gone completely still.

“Will the other heirs have to try now?” Guion whispers, casting a furtive glance at Torveld, who has gone pale.

From the end of the row, Kastor stands up. He’s met with quiet.

“I am Prince Kastor of Akielos, the first son of King Theomedes.” His voice is clear and calm. He speaks like a true Prince, but the look in his eyes is dark, almost feral. Kastor fixes his gaze onto the Ambassadors. “You have denied me entry into the Games this year because of my mother’s blood. I ask you now to let go of your prejudices and allow me to fight for my right to the throne.”

Uncle shifts beside him. Laurent swallows.

An old woman with a heavy ruby necklace speaks. “What are you suggesting Your Highness? The Games have already passed.”

“I don’t need the Games to prove my worth,” says Kastor. The lines around his mouth and jaw are tight. “Let me accomplish what my brother has failed to do. Let me pull King Arius’ sword.”

Laurent looks at Damianos, who has not moved away from the statue. His entire face is crumpled with shock. His eyes are on Kastor, disbelieving. Theomedes’ expression is identical to Damianos’; he looks at his son as though he doesn’t recognise him.

The Ambassadors murmur among themselves, heads bent low. It feels like their conversation goes on forever.

Finally, the old woman lifts her head again. “Alright, we have come to a decision,” she says. “You may have a chance to pull the sword, Your Highness. If you fail to do so, the next worthy heir will be called.”

Halvik, thinks Laurent. He feels weak-kneed.

Kastor nods. He strides to the stage with as much confidence as his brother, only his entrance is not elevated with cheers.

When Kastor reaches King Arius’ statue, Damianos takes a disorientated step back. He doesn’t leave the stage.

Kastor bows to the statue and then stands up. His mouth sets in determination as he holds the grip of the sword and pulls.

It unsheathes.

Chapter Text

two.  

The entire theatre stills. Kastor does not; he takes the sword and raises it high in the air. His muscles strain with the effort; perhaps the rumour of the sword’s weightlessness is false. The sword itself is beautiful: the blade is sleek and strong. It glints, even in the dying light of the day. The four stones shine bright. It would be hard to miss them, even from a distance.

One of the Ambassadors is the first to clap out of all the delegates. His applause triggers a reaction: the crowd is broken out of its shocked trance. Scattered applause rings in the air, and a group to the left cheer half-heartedly.

Uncle starts clapping politely, then nudges Laurent until he does so. Laurent palms are too clammy to make much noise. He can’t take his eyes off Damianos, who is almost as pale as his chiton. He hasn’t moved at all. He’s completely rooted to the ground, eyes bulging as he watches his brother parade the sword that should have been in his grip.

Theomedes watches his eldest son from his raised seat. His expression is multifaceted; as conflicted and shocked as it is, there’s a shimmer of pride there, too. Theomedes gaze remains on Kastor as Kastor continues to hype up the crowd – the same way Damianos did before him – and a touch of a smile kisses his mouth.

Damianos’ eyes travel from his brother to his father. Laurent knows he sees the joy on Theomedes’ face, because immediately, Damianos’ shoulders hunch. His features contort with embarrassment, and he finally moves away, back towards the entrance he came from. He doesn’t leave just yet; he stands in front the arched entranceway, gaze to the left, not watching anything particular.

Kastor lowers the sword. There’s a thin film of sweat gathering at his temples and jaw. Behind him, Arius’ marbled body seems to glow; the white of it looks almost new. It’s strange to see Arius without his legendary sword; it’s even stranger to see Kastor with it.

Or perhaps, strange is the wrong word. It’s shocking. Kastor holds the sword well, with relative ease. It seems like it was made for him, and Laurent knows that in a way, it has been. The sword regularly changes height, weight, sleekness to better suit its master. It’s one of the many properties the Gods have blessed it with.

The cheering peters out until the silence returns. It’s not so oppressive this time; it’s anticipatory.

Kastor’s eyes make a slow sweep of the theatre, of all the civilians he will now rule. The look in his eyes: it’s assessing, and a little arrogant, which is not a bad thing, Laurent reminds himself. He had heard plenty of stories of Damianos’ own arrogance over the years; it seems those anecdotes might have been true all along.

Kastor is celui. It hits Laurent for the first time; the bastard son of King Theomedes, who he has not been particularly interested in knowing, is his second chance.

As much as that thought disorientates him, it also excites him. It’s not the first time in his life that Laurent has been surprised. At least this surprise is not horrifying.

Kastor finally acknowledges the royal panel. Like his brother, his eyes lock on Laurent instantaneously. When Kastor smiles, it does not dimple his cheek. It does not reach his eyes. His smile is mechanic; it’s a smile that is understated.

Laurent smiles back. He feels like it is just as insincere as Kastor’s.

*

After the sword pulling ceremony, an elaborate dinner is to follow. The ceremony has rattled most people; now, the palace staff scramble to restore some normalcy again.

The dinner is in the main hall of the palace. King Arius’ statue has been dragged here, and he rests next to Kastor, who is on a platformed seat that overlooks everyone in the room. He’s been changed into a more traditional set of clothing: his chiton is almost identical to the one Damianos had been wearing. It’s cream, with gold bordering only on its hem. The threaded pattern is modest. On his head, he wears a gold laurel crown, the band thick, and the leaves curling into his hair. It is the crown of a King. His father had placed it on him during his coronation, the bells chiming in the distance, and afterwards Theomedes had kissed Kastor’s temple lovingly.

Damianos, seated next to Kastor, has also changed. He’s in a blood red chiton, deeper in colouring than the one he had on this morning. His laurel crown has been swapped for a myrtle one, made of actual leaves. He is still forlorn, but whenever he leans over to talk to Kastor, there is no bitterness directed towards him.

It makes Laurent pause every time he catches it. Damianos’ embarrassment, disappointment and discontent seem to all be self-directed. When he gazes at his brother, all those emotions disappear. They’re replaced with happiness and pride. Damianos’ smile is adoring; it reminds Laurent, painfully, of himself. He remembers how everything about Auguste caused his chest to swell with pride. The first time Laurent watched Auguste fight and win in the arena, he’d talked about little else for a month. Damianos strikes him as a man who would do something similar. The proof of it is right in front of Laurent: as disappointed as Damianos is, his chest puffs when Kastor acknowledges him.

Kastor, meanwhile, is indifferent towards his brother. He barely looks at Damianos – and doesn’t seem to appreciate how happy he is. He’s too busy talking to the Ambassadors, who have been seated at his table. The smirk on his face is lazy. The word arrogant comes to Laurent’s mind again and with great effort he squashes it. It’s not written anywhere that celui is a perfect individual; despite their flaws, celui is righteous. That’s why they’re chosen by Arius’ sword.

But… Laurent can’t shake the feeling that if Damianos had unsheathed the sword, Kastor would not be this reverent.

Damianos’ head turns to him. Laurent realises how long he must have been staring at both brothers with a sliver of mortification. Damianos, however, does not seem to mind it: he grins at Laurent with ease. It’s incredibly genuine. It also feels illicit. Laurent’s nape feels hot.

And then, he sees Kastor, who is also staring at him from across the room. Kastor doesn’t smile at him. His eyes remain dark, cool and assessing. Laurent’s stomach tightens. He isn’t sure why it does; is it excitement over the fact that celui has caught his gaze?

Kastor’s mouth curls. It’s unpleasant. Laurent frowns. It’s almost like Kastor is angry at him.

“I sincerely hope you aren’t going to eat all of that.” Uncle’s voice, a drawl, is still cutting.

Laurent turns his head, fists clenching. He glances at Uncle, and then his plate. There is a generous cut of steak on it, as well as a steady portion of bread and salted cheese.

Uncle raises his eyebrows and pointedly gestures to Laurent’s stomach. “It is unbecoming of a Crown Prince to look anything but… svelte.”

Laurent is svelte. And although his stomach is still tight, Laurent holds Uncle’s gaze and viscously bites into a liberal amount of the bread. It’s heavenly: baked fresh and soft. He takes another bite.

Uncle’s mouth curls. It is practically identical to Kastor’s expression. Laurent immediately dismisses the comparison; he doesn’t want to taint his image of celui by aligning it with Uncle.

Beside him, Torveld speaks up. His cheeks are flushed from the wine. “I think he’s lovely.”

Laurent wonders if Patras would declare war if he rolled his eyes.

It’s no secret that Torveld has been interested in courting him. Politically, it makes sense. Patras and Vere have always had a strong relationship, and they’ve been trading various goods for centuries, if not longer.

Torveld and King Torgeir had come to Vere when Laurent was fifteen to discuss the possibility of a betrothal. Laurent had refused to come out of his room to meet them.

In Council, Uncle had apparently said, “If you do not mind having to babysit a naïve, spoilt child for the rest of your life, then I will undoubtedly give you my blessing to marry my nephew.”

King Torgeir reconsidered. They left later that afternoon.

Then, during the Games, Torveld had been so enamoured after meeting Laurent, he had tripped on his way back to his station and dented his armour.

Laurent thinks if he were to marry Torveld, he would remain miserable until his last breath.

Now, though, Laurent just smiles, close lipped and eats as much as he can to spite Uncle.

It works. Sometimes, Uncle’s predictability is amusing; Uncle grows agitated watching him.

Dinner is cleared off their table a short while later. As servants quickly and efficiently gather their plates, another group of them place plates towered with cheese and honeyed fruits on the table.

Laurent expects everyone to remain seated to eat their dessert, but it quickly becomes apparent that will not be the case. Dessert is apparently the time to mingle: everyone stands up and shuffles around the room, eager to talk to people they haven’t had a chance to yet. One of the Ambassadors grabs a grape bunch and then moves to the other side of the room, where the Vaskian party is seated.

Laurent only wants to talk to one person, and he’s currently in the centre of a sizeable crowd of other delegates.

But Laurent also knows he can’t stay at the table; he’s eager to get away from his Uncle.

He reaches for a honeyed fig and a goblet of water and makes his way to the corner of the room, close to the only members of the Prince’s Guard he was allowed to bring: Jord and Orlant. Uncle warned him that if Laurent brought any more guards, it might look insulting. It was one of the few times Laurent had agreed with him. The ceremony is a sign of the four Kingdom’s peace. If Laurent had brought the entirety of his guardsmen, it could imply that he felt unsafe in Ios, or was anticipating an attack.

Jord is deep in conversation with Isander, who despite his colouring, is very red. Occasionally, Orlant rolls his eyes at whatever Jord has said that makes Isander grin bashfully.

The fig leaves Laurent’s fingers sticky. A passing servant takes his goblet and offers him a cotton napkin to wipe his fingers with.

Isander is still by Jord’s side. He wonders what Jord could be saying that has Isander so charmed; Jord, loyal and strong, is also a bore.

“Your Highness.”

Laurent jumps. For all his largeness, Damianos is adept at sneaking up to him; Laurent doesn’t think his feet made any sound on the coloured tiles.

Damianos has a goblet of wine in his hand. His mouth is stained. It draws more attention to it.

Laurent greets him with his formal title as well. Damianos smiles and Laurent’s belly swoops.

“Please, Damianos is fine. Or Damen, if you’re so inclined.”

Laurent isn’t. He just says, “Then you may call me Laurent.”

Damianos’ dimple reappears. For someone who has just lost his chance at being King, he seems remarkably pleased.

“Are you enjoying the festivities, Laurent?” He peers at Laurent’s empty hands. “I could bring you some more wine.”

“No, thank you.” Laurent says. “And yes, I have been enjoying the festivities.” He pauses, awkward. “…Have you?”

Damianos’ smile mellows. His body tightens, just a fraction. “I think I would enjoy it more if I were crowned King but…” He straightens himself, eyes brimming with determination, “if the sword has chosen my brother, then I will gladly follow his lead.”

He means it, Laurent realises. The conviction with which Damianos pleads his loyalty to Kastor is a true sign of how good of a man he is. This kind of unflinching loyalty… it’s rare. If Damianos had been named celui tonight… Laurent would have had a good chance at convincing him to turn against his Uncle.

It’s a shame Damianos isn’t, though. It truly is. Laurent feels… light when he speaks to him. He knows that if he were to say anything tonight, no matter how dull, Damianos would listen with unwavering attentiveness.

Laurent isn’t sure if Damianos possesses the qualities of celui because he has been trained since birth or if he just is this way all the time.

He supposes it doesn’t really matter, anyway. The sword chose Kastor for a reason. As good as Damianos is, Kastor must be better.

Damianos speaks to him for the rest of the night, alone in the corner. Laurent finds himself enjoying it. Damianos has a gift for telling stories; he recounts tales of his childhood like he is reading a storybook. He is charming and polite. He asks Laurent about his own life. Laurent doesn’t tell him much – what is there to say anyway? – but Damianos smiles like he has told him every possible detail.

Damianos speaks of Kastor very highly; it eases Laurent’s mind. According to Damianos, Kastor is callous because he has been treated unfairly his entire life. Laurent can empathise with that. It’s something he and Kastor have in common, being the second sons. Damianos, who has led an incredibly privileged, kingly life is probably immune to Kastor’s frustrations.

Laurent laughs when Damianos tells him about the time he drove an entire carriage into the water when he was sixteen. Damianos stops when he does; then, his smile crumples his entire face. He looks like a man who has won something grand.

For the first time in years, Laurent isn’t looking over his shoulder, waiting with bated breath for Uncle’s next move.

For the first time in years, Laurent is having fun.

As the night wears on, Damianos’ mouth stains darker. The colour of his lips match his chiton. He looks like the Pets in Vere who paint their faces before a performance. Laurent thinks of mentioning it, then not; the comparison might not be greeted favourably. Then he thinks it might be after all: everything about Damianos is so open and relaxed.

So, Laurent tells him. The reaction is overwhelming: Damianos’ head tilts back in a raucous laugh that turns a few heads. Laurent stares at the sharp jut in Damianos’ throat, the cut of his shaven jaw, and his face flushes.

When Damianos looks at him again, Laurent feels pinned by it. Damianos’ smile is tinged with amusement and fondness. He ducks his head; his whisper is conspiratorial as he says, “I have heard Pets publicly fuck in Vere.”

Laurent has heard – and seen – enough raunchiness in Vere to scandalise even the women from the Ios brothels. He’s known the word fuck since he was two… but hearing it come out of Damianos’ mouth makes his heart stutter. He thinks it’s because Damianos is so proper and nice.

Cheeks flushed, Laurent says, “Yes.”

Damianos’ smile transforms into a smirk. It’s lazy and attractive. It is a stark contrast to Kastor’s which was nothing but arrogant.

“Perhaps I should visit soon, then. To experience the culture.”

When Damianos leans forward, his knee, bare and hairy, bumps against Laurent’s. It surprises Laurent. He hadn’t realised how close they were sitting together.

Damianos’ knee presses more insistently against Laurent’s. The gold embroidered in his pants contrast well with Damianos’ skin tone. The touch is pleasant. Laurent remembers Uncle’s hand, and how unwelcome his touch had been.

He looks up, and Damianos is looking right at him.

“Laurent,” says Damianos. His voice is quiet. “Do you –”

Over Damianos’ shoulder, Laurent sees Kastor head towards the balcony. It’s the first time he’s been alone all night.

This is Laurent’s chance.

“Excuse me,” he says to Damianos, who startles and pulls away. His expression falls, although Laurent isn’t sure why.

Laurent is astonished to see that most of the patrons have cleared off, including Uncle; the few that are still mingling are either drunk, or about to leave. It’s unlike Laurent to not be aware of how late it is, but his conversation with Damianos had distracted him too much.

Kastor is on the balcony, elbows pressed to the balustrade as he stares out into the Sea. The sword is hitched to his belt. He’s not completely alone; the only people with him are a handful of servants and lower level noblemen, who have pressed themselves against the far wall.

Laurent approaches Kastor. He makes sure his footsteps can be heard; he doesn’t want it to seem like he’s sneaking up on him.

“Exalted,” says Laurent.

Kastor tilts his head but doesn’t turn. The wind plays with his hair, a teasing touch.

Laurent steps closer, until he’s adjacent to Kastor. Kastor finally looks over to him. He smiles, but it’s a dutiful gesture, not a friendly one. He seems tired, though, so Laurent doesn’t take much offence.

“Prince Laurent,” Kastor’s voice is hoarse. It’s clear he’s spent the entire evening talking and not drinking enough. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Laurent is glad Kastor asks him that. It makes it easier.

Since he was thirteen, Laurent has planned this speech countless times. He’s recited it in his head at every possible moment. He knows it’s important for celui to support a just cause, so Laurent has spent years polishing his words so they will be impactful.

He needs Kastor to listen to him. He needs Kastor to believe him.

Laurent inhales sharply. He says, “Yes, actually.”

*

The Veretian party is scheduled to leave early in the morning the next day. They are the only party leaving so soon; Uncle has important business to attend to, apparently.

Uncle is not speaking to Laurent. He claims Laurent embarrassed him last night with his ‘indecent behaviour’. When Laurent had asked him what exactly he had done wrong, Uncle had only given him a cold, bored look.

Uncle’s demeanour isn’t off-putting. Laurent is in a great mood; he feels… happy, relaxed. Last night, he and Kastor had talked well into the night. Eventually, one of the servants had to rush off to find a lantern, since the ones in the main hall had been extinguished.

At the end of everything, Laurent’s chest had felt physically light, like he’d unloaded a great weight.

In the flickering candlelight, Kastor’s face had been sombre, but thoughtful. Throughout Laurent’s speech, he had not interrupted once, only listened with a heavy gaze. Laurent had debated telling him about Chastillon; in the end, he thought it was irrelevant. If Kastor ever came to Vere, he would be subjected to Uncle’s fetishes soon enough.

At the end of it all, Kastor had simply said, “I will discuss these matters with the Kyros. With their agreement, I can launch an attack on the Regent. I know Patras and Vask will follow through, too.”

Breathless, and a little lightheaded, Laurent could only say, “Thank you, Exalted.”

Kastor’s smile this time was a little warmer.

Now, Kastor addresses Laurent with a bored expression as they say goodbye on the palace steps. Laurent is strangely hurt by it. Then he is grateful; if Uncle sees him interact with Kastor with anything other than indifference, he’d become suspicious.

Perhaps Kastor is smarter than Laurent initially thought.

Damianos is the last person to say goodbye to him. Their farewell is conducted the same way as their greeting; Damianos kisses the back of his hand and Laurent’s breath leaves him for a few seconds.

He pulls his hand back, inspecting the skin. He can’t help but think of Damianos’ mouth from last night, red and dark. Laurent finds himself wishing for Damianos to have left some of that same colour, imprinted on the back of his hand, like a seal.

After staring at Kastor’s face for hours yesterday, Laurent is taken aback by how handsome Damianos truly is. It’s not as though Kastor is an unattractive man, but compared to Damianos… well, there really isn’t a competition.

Laurent finds himself lingering at the palace steps. “I hope you’ll come and visit Vere soon,” he says.

Damianos seems surprised, then pleased. “Only to watch the Pets fuck.”

Behind him, Herode coughs.

Laurent bites his lip to hide his smile. Damianos’ eyes flicker to it. “It will be the shortest foreign visit in Veretian history.”

Damianos laughs. It’s a booming laugh, deep from his chest. “I could be convinced to stay longer.”

“We’ll see,” Laurent says, only to see if Damianos’ smirk will make a return. It does.

Uncle makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. Laurent sighs and bows his head.

“Until next time, Laurent,” says Damianos. He pronounces Laurent’s name perfectly.

Laurent nods, throat too tight to speak. He casts another glance at Kastor, but Kastor doesn’t return it.

Back inside the carriage, Laurent pulls back the curtain. He tells himself he wants another look at the white, intricate pillars, but his eyes are drawn to Damianos, tall and imposing. Laurent keeps watching him until they turn around the corner.

*

It’s actually quite easy for Laurent to fall asleep on the ship. This time of year, the Sea is quiet and calm, and the ship barely rocks. Once Vere properly sets into winter, that won’t be the case anymore.

Laurent is startled awake a few hours later; there’s heavy knocking on his door.

Laurent sits up, disorientated, heart lodged in his throat. “Yes?”

It’s one of the Regent’s men. Behind him, Laurent can see Orlant, who looks displeased.

The soldier averts his eyes to the floor. “Your Highness. You are requested at your Uncle’s bedside. He says it is a matter of urgency.”

Something unpleasant coils in Laurent’s throat as he processes the words Uncle’s bedside. He hasn’t stepped inside Uncle’s bedroom in – years.

“What is it?” says Laurent. “If he is sick, wake up the physician.”

“No, Your Highness. He is requiring help with something.”

Laurent closes his eyes in exasperation. No doubt this is about the meeting Uncle has tomorrow. He hasn’t shut up about it once.

Laurent dismisses the soldier. He takes a moment to regroup himself. Then, he laces his tunic. It’s cold, this late at night, so Laurent pulls on a jacket as well. It doesn’t do much: it’s a sheer, linen one Charls had made for the Akielon heat. He leaves the laces trailing at the back.

Uncle’s cabin is further along the ship than Laurent’s. It’s close to the where the Regent’s men have been ordered to sleep.

Uncle is sitting on his bed; unlike Laurent’s room, it does not have a desk.

The door shuts behind Laurent. Uncle is still dressed in his jacket from earlier; it’s obvious he hasn’t gone to sleep at all. There are dark rings around his eyes and his mouth is slack from the wine at dinner.

“Come here,” Uncle says, patting the space next to him. The sheets are rumpled.

Laurent carefully controls his expression. “No.”

Uncle sighs, deep and solemn. “Please, Laurent. We have much to discuss.”

“Let’s discuss them from here.”

Uncle’s eyes narrow. “I will not ask again.”

Laurent considers it. If he acquires now, he will most likely go back to bed in a few moments. He strides to the bed, and gingerly sits on the edge, as away from Uncle as he can be.

Quietly, Uncle says, “There. Isn’t it better to just listen to me? You were such a sweet boy once upon a time; you used to hang off my every word.”

Laurent remembers hot breath against his ear, late into the night, you’re such a sweet boy, you were made for this.

“Just tell me what you want.”

Uncle’s fingers touch his wrist. The sheerness of the fabric showcases the colour of his skin. Laurent is pale everywhere, except for where Uncle is currently touching. The skin of his wrist is bruised a dark blue, tinged with a pasty yellow.

“I hurt you,” Uncle says. He sounds surprised.

Laurent yanks his wrist away, mirroring his response during the ceremony. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he snaps. “Tell me what you want or I’m leaving.”

There’s a small pause. Uncle’s eyes track along Laurent’s face, the slope of his neck and then to his chest.

His voice is soft when he says, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Laurent deliberately doesn’t react. He keeps his hands still, even as his heartbeat quickens.

“You dirty, conniving bitch.”

Laurent eyes snap up. Uncle’s voice is venomous. It’s a tone Laurent has rarely heard. Uncle’s anger has always, in the past, been weak and directed at matters that don't need it. 

Hearing it now, in this cabin with its dark wood and low lighting, Laurent is overwhelmed with a foreign feeling. He realises what it is a moment later: fear.

Laurent has never been scared of his Uncle. Even – even back then, Laurent had only been angry and betrayed. 

There’s a dangerous, animalistic look in Uncle’s eyes. It’s dark and feral. Kastor’s eyes had looked the same way before he had pulled out the sword. But his look had also been highlighted by determination. Uncle looks like a man who –

Beneath the high, fluffy pillow, Uncle removes a long, thin blade. Its design is similar to the one Laurent keeps by his bedside in Arles. 

Laurent stands up. His knees buckle. “What –” he starts, chest heaving. He doesn’t have a weapon. Uncle is close enough to lunge at him. Even if he were to shout out, only the Regent’s men – men who are not loyal to him in any form – would hear him. 

Uncle raises the blade and plunges it into the meat of his own thigh.

His scream is a short, sharp cry. Laurent’s own throat opens up in a shout.

Blood washes over Uncle’s pants. There’s so much of it; it coats the fine material and the guard of the blade. Uncle’s face is pale, twisted with pain.

Laurent stumbles forward. He falls to his knees. “Uncle –”

Uncle has not let go of the hilt of the blade; he twists it in deeper. 

Laurent presses his hands to Uncle’s thigh. His blood is sticky, warm. It colours Laurent’s fingers. Underneath Laurent’s panic is an overwhelming amount of self-loathing; he hates himself for caring about Uncle’s pain. But it’s as though his brain can register no other thought: Uncle is in pain, and only Laurent can help him.

Then, Uncle’s voice, horrified, “Laurent, what have you done?”

Laurent stares at his face, the neatly trimmed beard, the lines by his eyes, which are now wide with alarm.

“I – didn’t.” Why can’t he just think? 

The door bursts open. The Regent’s men enter, swords drawn, and Laurent finally understands.

This is what Uncle wants them to see.

It doesn’t take long for the Regent’s men to piece the scene together. Laurent, kneeling on the floor, hands gripping his Uncle’s thigh. The thigh that has been pierced by a dagger identical to the one Laurent has been known to carry. 

The soldier from earlier steps forward. “You have been caught in an act of treason against the Regency. Stand down.”

Laurent stands up again. “Tell them,” he hisses at his Uncle. “If you have any sense of decency left –”

The first soldier strikes him down. Laurent falls to his knees once more, and even as he struggles, the Regent’s men circle around him, holding him tight. There’s only two of them, but they are big, strong men who have not been given any boundaries. They restrain Laurent’s hands behind his back.

“Let go of me,” Laurent gasps. “I am the Crown Prince of Vere, your future King and I –”

“There is only one King in this room,” Uncle says. His face is completely white from blood loss; his lips are dry and chapped. “And it isn’t you, dear nephew.”

“No,” Laurent struggles against the binding around his arms. The first soldier drives his fist into Laurent’s temple.

The second goes to Uncle. He removes the blade. Uncle hisses.

Laurent’s chest is boiling with hatred.

“Get Paschal,” Uncle says.

The soldier rushes to do so. The soldier restraining Laurent gets up too; he forces Laurent to stand up, sword pressed to his lower back. As he’s dragged out of the room, Laurent watches as Uncle rearranges himself on the bed, lying down, his forehead shining with sweat.

Laurent hopes Paschal lets him die.

The night is still. It’s incredibly dark; there are no lights on the deck. If Laurent can manage to get free now, it will be to his advantage; there is only one soldier escorting him now.

He manages to twist his shoulder enough that the guard, at first, is caught by surprise. His grip loosens on Laurent and then –

Laurent hears him go down.

He whirls around. Orlant looms over the soldier’s body, his sword rammed through the man’s neck in a clean cut. Jord is with him too; he moves towards Laurent, sword raised.

Laurent takes a step back. He doesn’t know if he can – he doesn’t know who to trust anymore.

“Your Highness,” Jord’s voice is measured, but soft. “I need to cut you free.”

Laurent pauses. He nods once, and Jord starts moving in case. Laurent keeps his fists clenched in case he needs to strike him.                                                                                  

Jord’s sword swipes through the binding with ease. Laurent staggers, and Jord’s hands gentle him.

“Your Highness,” he says. “You need to leave immediately. Your life is in grave danger.”

Laurent, despite himself, snorts. “What gave it away?”

“You need to leave now,” Jord says again.

Laurent shakes his head. “No. There is only one of the Regent’s men left and two of you. Together, we can –”

“There are more men waiting in the hold.”

Laurent stops. “What?”

“Did you think the Regent would honour the rules of the ceremony? He brought his entire guard; they’ve been hiding here for the last two days. Orlant saw Govart out on the deck last night, talking to the Regent, when everybody had left the hall.”

“Govart,” Laurent repeats, stunned.

For the first time, it crosses his mind: Uncle wants me dead.

He’s never considered it before. Uncle is vile, repulsive, manipulative… but he isn’t a murderer.

Laurent realises how stupid he has been all these years. He’s underestimated his Uncle, one of the most dangerous men he knows.

There’s commotion at the end of the deck. A hatch opens; the click of it is loud.

A figure emerges. Laurent instantly recognises him: he’s a celebrated soldier in the Regent’s guard. Two more figures climb out of the hatch behind him.

Orlant suddenly grabs Laurent, gripping him by his biceps and practically carrying him to the wooden railing. He looks into Laurent’s eyes, expression firm.

“Prince Laurent,” he says, “do you remember when we used to go to Belloy every summer?”

Laurent nods. He thinks of Auguste’s hair, long and braided, wet in the water.

“Do you remember when I taught you to swim?”

The men are approaching fast. Laurent sees them over Orlant’s shoulder.

Orlant shakes him. “Do you remember, Your Highness?”

Laurent meets his eyes. “Yes.”

“Remember the first rule?”

Laurent nods again. “Don’t panic.”

“Good,” says Orlant. He grips Laurent tighter, lifting him high until Laurent’s feet skim the wood beneath them.

And then Orlant throws him overboard.

Chapter Text

three.

When Laurent plunges into the water, it’s the temperature he takes note of first. The water is icy. It immediately washes over everything, even the inside of his mouth, ears and leather covered feet. It feels like it seeps right into his skin, chilling the bone. And despite the calmness of the Sea, the waves are high and tumultuous. Overhead, Laurent can hear the faint sound of swords clanging against each other, and then a loud shout.

He starts swimming as another wave rolls over him. Laurent keeps his strokes as strong and even as possible; Auguste was the one who was the better swimmer between them. The water always made him happy: he’d count the days until they could visit Belloy and that special river. In the water, Auguste was someone else: relaxed and young, like any man from the village. He always looked so natural when he swam, like it was the one thing that gave him peace. When Aleron forbid them from going Belloy, Laurent is sure now that it broke Auguste’s heart.

As he gasps for breath, Laurent finds himself thinking of Auguste’s funeral. It had been Aleron who had insisted on not burying Auguste, as was tradition. Instead, they’d dressed him in his finest clothing, painted his face, and set him on a riverboat. Then, Aleron and Laurent had pushed it into the Sea together.

It’s eerie to think of it all now; Laurent doesn’t know why, but he almost expects to see Auguste’s corpse float by him. The thought scares him.

His fingers are getting numb. Laurent is out of practice; he hasn’t had chances to swim properly since he was nine. He’s also never had to swim in the Sea.

The water is vast and continuous. It’s so dark, Laurent cannot see how far it goes. The line where the sky and the Sea meet is obscure; it feels like he’s trapped in a bubble of black.

He doesn’t know how long he can keep swimming. His arms and legs are already tiring, and the waves are relentless. Every time he takes a breath, he swallows more water. It makes his chest clog with a tightness that is unbearable.

Laurent realises it then: being thrown overboard might have prevented his death, but not for very long. There is no land for miles. They left Ios in the early hours of morning. Almost a full day has passed since then; they’ve travelled too far into the Sea. There is no possible way Laurent can survive.

As that understanding settles itself into the crevices of his mind, Laurent breaks the first rule.

He panics.

It’s unintentional. Laurent’s body stops cooperating. His strokes lose its rhythm. His chest tightens further; it becomes too painful to breathe. Still, he tries, desperately gulping in air that stings the back of his throat. It hurts to breathe; it’d be worse if he stopped. His legs ache: the muscles in them burn. It’s like he’s on fire, even underwater.

Eventually, Laurent’s already weakened rhythm completely gives out. He physically can’t push himself any further. The water continues to move around him, but Laurent finds himself stilling. His eyes are stinging. It’s an effort to keep them open.

He feels the same way he did in Uncle’s cabin: unsure, frightened. Then, he’d been willing to fight – but now, the thought of continuing on seems futile.

Uncle’s men have probably already killed off Orlant and Jord. They are both talented soldiers, but they aren’t a match against the Regent’s entire guardsmen.

Laurent imagines the ship: bloodied and torn apart. The fight had probably woken up Herode, Guion and Mathe. He wonders if Herode had looked for him first, before realising what had happened. Perhaps one of Uncle’s men had driven their sword into him to silence his demands to see the Prince. He imagines Uncle, in his cabin, nursing a self-inflicted wound everyone else would believe to be Laurent’s doing. Paschal, worried and scared, but not dead, because Uncle would need a witness from one of the Prince’s men.

He imagines how it would look for the ship to pull up on the port at Vere, without the Prince and his men. Uncle’s booming, sombre voice would tell everyone of Laurent’s treachery. He’d tell the Council that he had no choice but to pass orders to kill his unstable, reckless nephew.
Laurent wonders if Uncle will have his portrait taken down in the hall. He wonders if the scholars will come to the Palace, ready to imprint into history books that Crown Prince Laurent of Vere, sixth of his name, is nothing but a venomous, traitorous snake.

The only person who can fix any of this – who can stop Uncle’s politics darkening the four Kingdoms – is Kastor.

Kastor will see through Uncle’s lies. Kastor will know something is wrong – especially after everything Laurent told him. Kastor will probably take his army to Vere to challenge the Regency. So would Torveld and Halvik. Damianos would be there too – kind, strong Damianos, who behaved just as well as celui. It would be an honour to have a man like that fight on his behalf, Laurent thinks.

If Uncle challenges any of them, he’d lose. Laurent is sure of it.

The sound of rolling waves is soothing now. Laurent closes his eyes, just listening for a moment. An image of Auguste, floating on his back, eyes closed in the sunlight, comes to his mind. It’s been seven years since his brother died. Laurent doesn’t remember his voice too well – just the deepness of it – but he remembers Auguste’s laugh. It was such a happy sound: ringing and loud. Laurent’s belly would pool with warmth whenever he heard it. As the waves rock him, Laurent thinks he can finally understand why Auguste loved the water so much: even in its most vicious state, there’s an undeniable tranquillity to it.

Laurent’s body loosens. He’s not giving up… he just needs to rest. Sometimes, Auguste would be so still in the water, it was as though he was asleep. If the waves wish to carry Laurent further, he’ll let them, regardless of the direction. It’s futile to fight it; he needs to gather his strength.

When the sun comes out, it will be even harder to swim. Laurent has heard of novice fishermen in Vere returning from their trips, red with heat and delirious from dehydration.

The water lulls. Laurent is still motionless in it. His eyes stay closed; it truly is too painful to keep them open. The wind also starts to pick up. It’s so cold. Laurent has always preferred the cooler months, but these conditions are painful.

There’s a sudden, glaring light. It’s so bright, even with his eyes closed, Laurent’s vision becomes red and spotty. It’s a quick flash; almost as soon as it appears, the light seems to fade, but not completely disappear. In the darkness, it’s difficult to miss.

Laurent can’t think of what it could be. There’s no logical reason why there would suddenly be light in the middle of the Sea. The only thing he can think of is a passing boat, its captain holding a lantern. But Laurent knows he isn’t so lucky.

Slowly, Laurent opens his eyes.

There’s a man standing on the water. Physically standing on top of the surface of water, without the wood of a boat beneath his feet, as though he is on dry land. He’s quite far away; Laurent has to squint to see him properly. He’s also glowing a bright, steady blue and his entire body is translucent. Laurent can still see the stretch of the Sea through him.

Laurent doesn’t scream. He can’t – his throat is too dry, and the noise gets stuck in it. He also doesn’t swim away; his body is still too weak.

All Laurent can do is stare. The man is tall. His hair is long, but the colour of it is undetectable through the shining light. His beard is fashionably kept: it’s trimmed and neat.

As Laurent watches, the man’s hands, clasped behind his back, slowly raise. He lifts it towards the sky.

The Sea purrs. Laurent swears – it makes a content noise, like the cats outside the palace grounds that are happy being fed leftover meat from the kitchen.

Around him, the water shifts. Laurent’s body moves with it. It’s as though the water is pushing him away. And then Laurent realises that no, the water isn’t pushing him at all – it’s carrying him.

It’s carrying him towards the man.

“Fuck,” says Laurent. It comes out as a throaty cough. “Fuck. No, no, no don’t –”

His protests seem to make it worse; he goes even faster.

Laurent thrashes wildly, but nothing comes of it; he doesn’t even make a splash. It’s like the Sea is holding onto him; the water wraps around his wrists and ankles. It should be impossible, and yet Laurent can’t break away from this strange, unnatural grip.

The man watches him through all this. Laurent can’t make out his features but there’s a stoicism to him that is unnerving. The closer Laurent gets to him, the more he struggles.

“Stop,” he snaps at the water. It feels ridiculous to give it commands. “Take me back – don’t –”

Nothing changes. The water continues to carry him. Laurent struggles even more, despite the burning ache in his legs and arms.

And then he comes to a stop in front of the strange, glowing man.

Laurent’s eyes widen. He knows this man. He’s seen him before – in books, on murals, and recently, as a sculpture.

King Arius looms over Laurent. He is built like a tower, and the lion pin – the symbol of the Akielon royal family – rests over his right shoulder. There is a long, jagged scar sliced across his cheek, down to his collarbone. Laurent doesn’t think a single painting or mural or statue has ever shown it.

Arius makes another hurried gesture with his hand and the water lifts Laurent until he stands upright, feet weightless on the water’s surface. Then, with another gesture, all the water leaves Laurent’s body until he’s as dry as he was on land.

Arius’ face remains impassive. He does, however, give Laurent a small nod. “Crown Prince Laurent of Vere,” he says. His voice is not as deep as Laurent expected it to be. It is scratchy, like a man who has spent a lifetime shouting demands. “I feel like I know everything about you already; your brother has spoken of little else for the last few years.”

“My brother,” says Laurent. It is the only thing he can latch on to. Everything else is too surreal: the water and its ability to shift, the transparent silhouette of a great, dead King, his own body, nice and warm.

“Yes, former Crown Prince Auguste of Vere, third of his name,” Arius says. “He is your brother, is he not?” He leans closer to Laurent, eyes moving over his face. “You both have your mother’s colouring. She is a lovely woman – very kind. Your father is also a good man.” He nods approvingly at the end of his sentence, a small bob of his head.

Laurent gapes. “What…” He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. When he opens them again, King Arius’ ghostly silhouette has not moved. “What is this?” says Laurent. He tries to make it sound like a demand, but his voice sounds breathless. “How do you know so much about my –” Family; he can’t say the word. “Am I – is this what happens when you die?”

“You are not dead,” King Arius says. He sounds amused. “I am.”

“Then why are you here?” This time, Laurent’s voice comes out sharp, brittle with fear. “Why have you come to see me?”

Arius smiles. It is a very kind one. In Laurent’s readings, Arius has always been written as a callous, fierce leader. There have never been any hints of his kindness; it is just as unnerving to see it now, as it is to see him in general.

Laurent is losing his mind; there is no other alternate explanation.

Arius says, “Do not be frightened, Laurent. Spirits do not come to the mortal world to terrorise the living. I am here because the Gods have asked me to guide you.”

“Guide me.” Laurent repeats. He thinks: the Gods? Surely, they don’t care about him. If they did, his mother would not have died, or his father, or brother and Uncle would be –

“At first they considered sending your brother,” Arius continues. Despite the scar, his face is very handsome and young. “He can control the Sea much better than I can. But then they reconsidered. The Gods feared you would be desperate enough to join him in the Great Beyond once you spoke with him.”

Laurent knows what he means. There is a popular fairy-tale that is known across all the Kingdoms. A young Crown Prince loses the love of his life too soon. In desperation, he turns to dark magic to see her once more. When she returns to the land of the living, she is – like King Arius is now – transparent and colourless. He cannot touch her. He becomes distraught; it is like he has lost her all over again. To be with her, he decides to take his own life. The Gods are displeased with this; the Crown Prince had been destined to become one of the greatest Kings of all time. But because he evades his destiny, the Gods punish him, and he is sent to an unknown realm, unable to reunite with his lover even in the Great Beyond.

It is a very cliché, boring story. Laurent has never cared for it.

“That is a fairy tale,” Laurent says. “I am not going to – I am not an idiot like that Crown Prince. Just let me see him. Please.” His voice breaks on the last word; his tone is pleading, unbecoming of a Crown Prince.

Arius shakes his head. His hair moves like a curtain with the movement. It has been unfashionable in Akielos to have long hair for years. “No, Laurent.” He is patient as he says it. “The Gods always know best. It is not in their nature to reconsider their decisions.”

“These same Gods also let millions of people die before they bothered intervening,” Laurent snaps. “You of all people should know all about that.”

Overhead, lightning suddenly flashes in the sky.

Arius raises his hand again. The sky calms. He peers at Laurent intensely. “I do know all about it. And I can still confidently say: the Gods know best. Always.”

Laurent closes his eyes. He wants to scream as loud as he can – to know that there was a chance to see his brother again… his throat tightens.

“Can I ask you something?” Laurent says quietly after a moment. He realises he hasn’t addressed King Arius with his honorifics at all; somehow, he can’t bring himself to. “Is he… are they happy over there?”

The kindness on Arius’ face makes Laurent feel worse. “Yes, they are.”

Overwhelmed, Laurent says, “Oh. That’s…”

“But they would be happier – much happier – if you were too.”

Laurent doesn’t know what to say to that.

Arius waits a moment before he says, “It is imperative to your family’s peace and happiness that you complete your destiny. This is the part of your journey I can help you with.”

Laurent looks up at the sky. It’s clear and dark. He knows that spirits in the Great Beyond don’t watch over the mortal world – it is, apparently, a distraction – but he imagines it all the same: his parents and brother, silently watching, willing him to succeed.

“Alright,” says Laurent, eventually. “What is my destiny?”

The sky lights again. This time, the colour of it is warmer, a stunning purple. It makes Arius smile. He leans forward, bending his head slightly so he can properly look into Laurent’s eyes.

“This is your destiny, Crown Prince Laurent of Vere: you will be one of the greatest Kings in history. You will rule peacefully and have the loyalty have been yearning for. You will be beloved by all.”

Laurent’s breath catches.

“But this destiny will change if you do not reunite with the sword and take it to the place it needs to be.”

Laurent says, “The sword is with Kastor, in Ios. Shouldn’t you be telling him this?”

“The sword needs your guidance,” Arius says. He looks sombre. “It needs your help getting to the place where it needs to be.”

“And where is that?”

Arius shakes his head. “That is something you need to figure out yourself. The Gods trust you to.”

Laurent can only nod. Already, he is thinking of Kastor, and how he is supposed to explain to him that they need to journey together to take the sword somewhere other than his Kingdom.

“I am going to take you back to Ios,” Arius says. “But before that – your brother has a favour to ask.”

Laurent’s heart stops. He sways on his feet, suddenly breathless. He looks around, anticipating. “Where – Is he going to come down, too?”

“No,” Arius says. His voice is laced with apology. “He asked me to tell you this when the Gods decided I should be the one to come before you.”

“What is it?” Laurent says breathlessly. He wants to say: I’ll do anything, don’t you know that, Auguste?

Arius’ expression is still grave. “He wants you to take a swim in the river in Belloy. His spirit visits it occasionally – and he comes back frustrated when he does not see you.”

Laurent has heard of this before. There are some spirits who return often to the mortal world to visit a place that meant a great deal to them. As long as they do not reveal themselves, the Gods allow it.

It’s fitting that Auguste’s spirit is drawn to Belloy, and not Arles.

But still, his mind shutters: Laurent has not been to Belloy in years. He hasn’t had the courage to do so. Even now, the thought fills him with dread. Swimming in that river – the same river Auguste had last been himself – Laurent doesn’t know if he can.

He finds himself floundering. “I –”

When the sky lights this time, it is a warm shade of gold. It reminds Laurent of the glazed sweets found in the Veretian markets.

“We do not have much time,” Arius says. “The Regent will be arriving in Vere soon.”

“How do you know that?” Laurent looks at the golden sky. “Oh – that’s probably a stupid question. Do you know if any – if my men are alive?”

“We do not have much time,” Arius repeats. He grips Laurent firmly by the biceps, an echo of Orlant’s touch. Laurent hopes he won’t be thrown back into the Sea. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Prince Laurent, truly. I hope you succeed in fulfilling your destiny.”

“Thank you,” says Laurent, oddly touched. “It was nice to –”

The sound of waves crashing is like a roar. It makes Laurent jerk in surprise; only King Arius’ hold keeps him from moving. Around them, the water rises, higher and higher, until Laurent has to crane his neck up to see the start of the wave. It is like they’re being trapped inside a cave, or a giant mouth, Laurent thinks. Auguste used to read him a story about a young girl who ventures into the forest to find a giant that will take her across the sea.

The wave comes crashing down. Laurent, instinctively, closes his eyes and mouth.

The silence, afterwards, is what makes him open his eyes. He staggers backwards when he does so: he’s in an unfamiliar, darkened corridor. He’s alone: King Arius is no longer in front of him, only a set of wide, double doors. His clothes are still dry; it is as though he never touched the water, even when it seemed to swallow him. He doesn’t know where he is, just that it is somewhere in Ios.

There’s a small window at the end of the corridor. Laurent can see the sun is starting to rise. Outside, he can hear the familiar call of farmers and other civilians, ready to start their day. It is almost like he is back in Arles, in his palace, but Laurent knows no corridor there is lined in white marble like this.

He needs to find Kastor. If he can find celui, his destiny will be fulfilled.

You will be one of the greatest Kings in history.

Laurent shivers with excitement. Even with everything that has happened to him within the last day – hope buds in his chest. The Gods have given him the opportunity to fight for his Kingdom, and for his throne.

Auguste would readily take on this mission, and so – Laurent will too.

For now, Laurent needs to leave this ominous corridor. He wonders if he should head towards the window and see where it will lead him, or if he should try and open the doors.

The decision is made for him. The doors open; light spills out into the corridor, but it is lovely, buttery slabs of sunlight.

Laurent takes another step back. He wishes he had a weapon; even with the rules of the ceremony, he should never have been naïve enough to travel without one. He lifts his eyes and he can’t quite stop his mouth from opening on a gasp.

Damianos stares at him, wide eyed. He is dressed in a plain chiton, ready for the day. Behind him, Laurent can make out a large bed, the sheets rumpled. Someone naked is still sleeping in it.

“Prince Laurent,” Damianos’ voice is coated with shock. His voice is still roughened with sleep. His hair seems curlier than usual.

Laurent’s chest fills with a pleasant warmth. He thinks it might be his hope growing. Even though Damianos is not celui, it is still nice to see him.

“Hello,” says Laurent. “May I come in?”

Chapter Text

four.

Too late, Laurent realises how inappropriate his request is. It makes him conscious of the little space between them, and how his words dangle there, without answer. He is an unchaperoned Prince in a foreign land, asking for permission to enter the bedchambers of another Prince. A Prince who has been intimate with someone else last night.

Laurent’s face is warm. He knows the sunlight will only highlight the blots of pink on his face. “I apologise,” he says formally, after a moment, when the silence becomes too long, too uncomfortable. “What I meant was — Where is Kastor?” He keeps his eyes level, high up on Damianos’ face, near the curl of hair on his temple. If he looks anywhere else, he fears his eyes will, mercilessly, be drawn to the nut-brown of Damianos’ bare shoulders and chest.

Damianos stares at him, his mouth parted enough that Laurent can see the pink of his tongue and the white of his teeth. “Kastor?” Damianos repeats, as though he has never heard of the name. His voice is hoarse, rough with sleep.

Laurent nods. He is unsure, suddenly, of why Arius has left him here, in front of the bedchambers of the wrong brother.

Behind Damianos, the person in his bed stirs. Laurent recognises her; she had been one of the delegates from Vask. She had barely left Halvik’s side during the Games.

Damianos follows his eyes. There’s a hint of embarrassment on his face; Laurent knows in Akielos, it is uncommon for people, particularly royals, to publicly share who they take to bed.  

Damianos closes the doors to his room behind him. In the corridor, he stands very close to Laurent. 

“Laurent,” he says, voice still rough. “I thought you had left yesterday morning.” 

“I did,” Laurent says. He doesn’t offer anymore. He finds himself unable to; nothing he could say regarding his Uncle, the Sea or King Arius would be… believable, even to a man as diplomatic as Damianos.

Damianos frowns. “And you came back… for Kastor?” His tone is light, deceptively careful, but underneath it, there is a controlled bitterness.

I came back for the sword, and for my throne, Laurent thinks. He says, instead, “Yes. I — I was directed here, but I think there’s been a mistake.”

The sudden darkness is unsettling. Outside, through the small window, the sky is an unnatural shade, close to azure, and similar to the ornamental gems Veretian Pets weave through their clothes and hair.

There’s a muffled shout from the distance; a frightened servant, perhaps.

Laurent casts his gaze to the chalky ceiling, biting back a sigh. “A mistake I committed, of course. The layout of the Palace is… difficult for me to navigate through.”

Golden, warm sunlight fills the corridor. Damianos’ hair shines it, the tips of his curls aureate.

Laurent stares, his chest swelling. His palms begin to sweat and with great subtlety, he presses them down flat, against the sides of his thighs.

Damianos does not seem to acknowledge the sky, and it’s unnatural, shifting colours. He only stares at Laurent with a look Laurent has seen many times; Damianos’ eyes are wide, glazed over, his jaw slack.

It’s a look Laurent has received from Pets, from noblemen, from courtiers, from men of all ranks and backgrounds. It’s a look he hates.

In this moment, he doesn’t.

Laurent finds himself overwhelmed. He retreats his gaze back to Damianos’ temple. He wants to ask for Kastor again, but the words, inexplicably, become stuck in his throat.

Damianos’ eyes are dark, but warm. Something in them shifts as he continues staring at Laurent. His voice is disarmingly loud in the sudden silence. “Kastor is currently in a meeting with the King — with my Father.” Damianos corrects himself sheepishly, his skin flushing a brick red.

“Ah,” says Laurent. Before the words, “Can you take me to him?” can come out of his mouth, Damianos takes a step closer.

“I was on my way to the courtyard,” he says. “It’s where I usually have my breakfast.” Damianos’ eyes are very intense as he says, “It would be an honour if you joined me, Laurent.”

“I.” Laurent pauses. The urgency he has been feeling this entire time is still there, brimming just underneath his skin, but it’s overshadowed by the warmth in his chest. “I wouldn’t mind breakfast,” he says cautiously. After all, he reasons, Kastor is in a meeting. This is a productive, rational task to do in the meantime.

Damianos smiles. Then, standing to his full height, he tips his head forward. “After you, Your Highness.”

The sunlight, at this point, seems purposeful. It catches Damianos’ hair once more, until his face is shadowed, and all Laurent can focus on is the length and colour of it.

It’s so different from his own, Laurent thinks. He knows his fair skin and golden hair are unique features in Ios; amongst slaves, they’re treasured.

Blinking, Laurent says, “I need a scarf.”

*

Damianos leads them through corridor after corridor. He’s greeted by almost everyone he passes; the guards, in particular, seem to be eager for his attention. They straighten their backs when they see him, chests puffed out, their lion heads pinned to their left breast. Damianos nods in acknowledgement, hand raised. He walks like a King.

Laurent, behind him, keeps himself inconspicuous. The Palace is still full of delegates from Vask and Patras. The lack of Veretians is prominent, and no doubt something the Ambassadors will take note of. Laurent tightens the scarf around his head; it’s made of such fine silk, it glides over his fingertips. Its colour is rich, a gold that matches the hem of Damianos’ chiton.  

When they step outside, the sun is so bright, Laurent has to pull the scarf down further, so it covers his eyes. Damianos continues walking, his stride tall and confident, as he trails down a wide, cobbled path lined by trees. It leads to a small clearing, where a pavilion structure with a wide, arched opening stands. It reminds Laurent of the bricked gazebos in the Arles Palace gardens.

Inside, a thin table is erected in the centre. It’s covered with food: platters of neatly cut fruit, bowls of yogurt and honey, and thick slices of white, flat bread. It is so much food, Laurent wonders if somehow Damianos managed to tell the servants to prepare for his arrival, too. Then, his eyes wander over to the thickness of Damianos’ torso, the powerful muscles of his thighs and biceps and he concludes faintly, that no, perhaps not.

When the servants catch sight of him, they dutifully bring a second pitcher and plate. Their movements are graceful, but controlled, designed to not attract the eye. Laurent grimaces watching them.

Damianos calls one over, a young woman with tight ringlets, and tells her to inform Kastor that his presence is required here after his meeting.

“Tell him it’s urgent,” Damianos says, his command ringing through the space.

Laurent clenches his hands. He remembers how Lord Berenger had described Damianos after returning from a political meeting in Marlas: He commands men just by breathing. It had thrilled Laurent so much.

The stoned seat is cool under Laurent’s pants. He realises in that moment that his outfit is not the same as the one he had been wearing when he had been thrown into the Sea. It’s an ensemble he doesn’t recognise, the sleeves embroidered with small, silver stars. He’s not sure what to make of it.

Damianos piles nearly everything onto his plate. One of the servants reaches to fill Laurent’s plate, but he declines. He reaches for a peach and bites into it.

Once Laurent starts eating, he can’t stop; his hunger feels consuming. Damianos eats with the same enthusiasm, his lips shiny from the olive oil. Laurent catches himself staring, then makes sure to keep his eyes on the plate until he finishes.

In the lethargic contentment that follows after their meal, Damianos says: “You ran away.”

Laurent lifts his head, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

Damianos’ posture is relaxed, easy, his strong thighs spread wide under his chiton. His eyes are half-mast as he gestures to the scarf around Laurent’s head. “You’re hiding. You’ve been on edge this entire time. You showed up outside my room without alerting a single guard or servant — meaning, you must have snuck back into the Palace, somehow.” He lists off everything one by one on his fingers. “All this leads me to believe that you ran away. What I’m trying to figure out is whether it is your Uncle you ran from, or your Kingdom.”

Laurent swallows down the rest of his water. “I didn’t run away,” he begins slowly. He squints against the sunlight. “It’s complicated, and I’d rather share the story once Kastor is here, too.”

Damianos’ expression shutters. “Of course,” he flushes.

Laurent isn’t sure why, but after that the silence seems more tense. Damianos’ shoulders remain tight.

It’s a while before Kastor shows. Laurent sees him emerge into the clearing, and he stands, nervous, to be in the presence of celui once more.

Damianos remains in his seat.

Kastor walks with a lazy deliberation. It strangely suits him; he looks regal, like a man worth watching, as he strides up to them. He’s in a plain chiton, but there’s a thick belt secured to his waist. Laurent is surprised to see the harpe sword attached to it; it’s usually kept in the Kingsmeet when it is not needed.

Kastor’s eyes widen when he sees Laurent. His eyes flicker to his brother for a brief second, before they swivel back to Laurent. He seems in disbelief.

“Prince Laurent,” Kastor says, stepping into the arched entry, “I didn’t realise you would be back to visit so soon. Was it our fine architecture that called you back?”

Laurent knows Kastor is teasing, but his tone is too mocking, too stiff to pass as a joke.

He tampers down the instinct to snap at Kastor; instead, he dutifully bows his head. “Exalted. I hope you are well.”

Damianos shifts closer to Laurent to make room for Kastor on the bench. “I am well,” Kastor says. Now, his voice is warmer. Like his brother, he spreads his legs as he sits, his posture grand and lazy simultaneously. “I take it you are going to explain why you are suddenly back in Ios?” He peers at Damianos. In Akielon, he says, “You are not courting him, are you?”

Damianos keeps his eyes forward, over his brother’s shoulder. He doesn’t answer Kastor’s question.

Kastor sighs, as though he is dealing with a petulant child. Laurent feels wrong footed here. He remembers how warm Damianos had been at the celebratory feast; now, Damianos is a mulish, tense figure in Kastor’s presence.

Laurent ignores Damianos; he can’t afford to become distracted, again. He sees the servants, lined outside of the structure, and says in Veretian, “Could you send them away, please?” He hadn’t spared the servants and low ranking noblemen a second glance on the balcony when he had been alone with Kastor. Laurent isn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

Kastor does so, with a small flick of his hand. When he shifts, the hilt of the sword catches the light. It makes Laurent take a deep breath. With both brother’s eyes on him, he tries his best to recount the events that brought him here: how his Uncle had framed him and brought his entire guardsmen, in violation of the treaty, and how he had been saved by Arius. He tells them of Arius’ prophecy, how the sword needs Laurent’s guidance to take it back to the place it truly belongs.

That aggravates Kastor. “It belongs with me,” he growls, eyes flashing. “How dare you suggest —”

“Don’t talk to him like that.” Damianos snaps, his mouth tight. “He’s not some common man. He’s a Crown Prince.”

Kastor turns to him. “You fucking —”

Laurent cuts him off quickly. “The sword is rightfully yours, Exalted,” he says, and those dark eyes fall on him again, still hard and angry. “You pulled it out of King Arius’ hand. You are celui. But King Arius suggested — the sword needs guidance.” In his recount, Laurent hadn’t mentioned Arius’ prophecy, where Laurent becomes King if the sword is returned to where it needs to be. It still doesn’t feel real.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do once I’ve returned the sword to this magical place? Leave it there?” Kastor says through gritted teeth.

“I —” Laurent hesitates, unsure. “Well, the sword — there is no longer any use for it, anymore. The Kingdoms have been at peace for centuries.”

Kastor scoffs. “Are you listening to yourself? You speak of your Uncle’s betrayal, and then have the naivety to think there is peace?”

Laurent flushes, livid and hurt at the same time. He doesn’t understand why Kastor is being so belligerent.

Lowly, Damianos says, “Enough, Kastor.”

Kastor stands up. “I am your King, Damianos, before I am your brother. Remember that.”

Damianos stands too, fists clenched. He towers over his brother. “All I am asking is that you treat our guest with a little more respect.”

“Respect,” Kastor spits. “You dare tell me to show respect to a Veretian, when their fucking archaic country has done nothing but treat me like I’m dirt under their boots just because of my mother’s blood?”

Laurent closes his eyes, shakes his head. He tries to keep his tone placating, “Exalted. I have nothing against you or your blood.”

Kastor’s laugh is an ugly, sharp sound. He turns on Laurent, his full height threatening and overbearing. When he speaks, it is with such venom, Laurent winces, “I think, Your Highness, that you are nothing more than a liar — like your Uncle has claimed many times over his visits.” Laurent’s eyes widen, and Kastor smirks. “Spirits don’t just show up in the mortal world, especially in modern times. The Gods don’t interfere with our affairs any longer. That is something that only exists in children’s books. And besides — why would one of the greatest Akielon Kings visit you?”

Damianos turns red, his teeth bared like an animal.

“I know it sounds impossible,” Laurent starts. His hands are shaking, and he clenches them. He tries to keep his voice even, to elevate the cloying tension.

Kastor doesn’t let him finish. He begins to walk away. “I’m not in the mood for this childishness.”

It happens so fast. As Kastor steps into the entryway, the sky begins to darken, a rich, unnatural shade of red. It suddenly changes to pitch black, until it is impossible to see anything. Then, in a quick series of flashes, the sky brightens in various shades of anomalous colours: a forest green, a shimmery silver and a muddy brown. Finally, as the sky is painted blue once more, a single strike of lightning flashes through the roof of the structure. Damianos jumps back, but it hits only one spot: the part of the bench where Kastor had been sitting. It becomes black and charred, and the smell of smoke is suffocating.

Kastor’s face loses its colour. White lipped, he stares at the marked spot, where he had been sitting a few minutes ago.

Damianos is pale, too. Laurent knows he is as well.

All three of them stare at the sky, now clear and unassuming.

Damianos is the first to speak. His voice grates against his throat. “I think the Gods do interfere.”

Kastor clutches the hilt of his sword, eyes wide. His face is still white with shock. Slowly, he lowers himself onto the bench, careful to keep his distance from the blackened area. It is still smoking.

“Where —” He clears his throat as his voice cracks, “Where does the sword need to go?”

Both brothers look at him. Laurent shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

“Is there a way to figure it out?” Damianos asks, frowning.

“I don’t know,” Laurent says again. His mind is racing; he can’t think.

Like before, it happens too fast for Laurent to catch. He blinks, a split second, and then King Arius appears in front of him. He stands in between Kastor and Damianos, hands behind his back. Neither of them acknowledges Arius.

Laurent blinks again. Arius remains standing, eerily transparent, his scar still very visible.

“Hmm…” Arius’ eyes fling from one brother to the other. “I’ve never seen my ancestors from this close before.”

Kastor and Damianos don’t appear to hear him either.

“Laurent?” Damianos says, after a moment. “Are you alright?”

Oh Gods, thinks Laurent, suddenly lightheaded, Damianos is bigger than Arius.

“Yes,” Laurent says breathlessly, watching Arius. “Sorry, I —” He cuts himself off.

Damianos says, exceptionally gently, “I was saying that perhaps we should go and see our father. Find out if he knows anything. Maybe he can offer some advice, at the very least.”

Laurent thinks of stoic, traditional Theomedes listening to his sons and a foreign Prince speak of a colour changing sky and Spirits — and he feels a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest.

King Arius finally meets his eyes. “Did you know, Prince Laurent,” he says lightly, “that Ios has the world’s largest collection of books? Oh yes, much more than your collection in Arles.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “It’s an interesting thought, no?”

Laurent nods, and Arius smiles. He disappears as quickly as he arrived.

“You agree we should visit Father?” Damianos says.

Laurent snaps his eyes to Damianos. There’s nothing but kindness on his face. “No,” says Laurent. And then, with more conviction, “No. We need to go to the library.”

*

After the Palace, the Ios library is the grandest building in the city. It rivals the Kingsmeet in its intricacy; the white pillars are etched with scenes from well-known poems and novels. Laurent has not studied much Akielon poetry, but he still recognises the two naked, entwined figures on the door as Dinos and Myron, two slaves who defied their masters by eloping. It is very romantic and well written; Laurent has read it countless times over the years.

In Akielos, it is uncommon for royals and members of Kyros to read for pleasure. Unlike Vere, it is slaves and servants who are usually encouraged to learn to read, so that they may entertain their masters. Akielon education for royals consists of learning foreign languages, history and fighting.

That is probably why the patron in the library, an older woman with a shock of silver hair, seems surprised to see the King and the Prince enter. Laurent steps in after them, face shadowed by his scarf, as he looks around in wonder.

The Arles Palace library is an exquisite place, filled with large, wooden bookcases stuffed with heavy tomes and other notable forms of literature. But Arius had been right; as rich as Arles’ collection is, it pales in comparison to Ios’.

Every inch of the library seems to be covered in books, all pragmatically labelled and sectioned. The aisles are narrow to accommodate space for the bulky bookcases. It should feel cramped; it doesn’t. Laurent feels like he could live here, hidden behind piles and piles of books for the rest of his life.

“We need every book you have on King Arius’ harpe sword,” says Damianos. “It doesn’t matter how insignificant the text is, as long as it mentions the sword, we need it.”

The elderly patron nods, hands shaking. Without a word, she takes them through to the end of the library, her footsteps silent and quick.

Dutifully, she begins pulling out all kinds of books. Her hands shake more persistently as she handles a large, leather-bound tome, its pages wrinkled and yellow. Laurent helps her with it, and then under her direction, gathers more books in his arms. After a while, on his other side, Damianos begins helping too. Laurent, suddenly aware of the heat of Damianos’ body on his right, feels his nape prickle.

Damianos manages to carry far more books than Laurent. His muscles shift as he rearranges their weight in his arms.

Kastor, meanwhile, secures them a table under the window. As Laurent and Damianos place the books on it, he says, “There are only three of us. There is no way we will manage to go through all of these.”

Laurent eyes the stack. He understands Kastor’s concerns; it’s intimidating.

He says, “We just need to see if there’s any place that is significant to the sword and its history. Or —” Laurent looks out the window, at the sky, “Somewhere that was significant to Arius.”

Damianos nods. “The original evgenis,” he says, using the Akielon word for celui.

Kastor sits down directly next to the window, muttering something lowly to himself.

Laurent takes his seat. He expects Damianos to sit next to his brother, but Damianos sits next to him instead, so close that their elbows touch; Laurent has to carefully school his surprise.

Laurent pulls the closest text towards him, an old book that assesses the design of the sword by a renowned scholar. Beside him, Damianos picks up a greying book of fairy tales.

Hours pass. Outside, the sun begins to set, washing their scattered pages with orange and pink.

Laurent is tired. He rests his cheek on his propped knee, barely retaining anything he reads. Some of the texts had been incredibly interesting, but most of them just retell the legend of the sword the same way that has been taught for centuries.

Laurent closes his eyes in frustration. He wonders if Arius directing him to the library was something he only imagined. Perhaps it had been a strange hallucination, fuelled by his nerves and fear.

When he opens his eyes, Damianos is staring at him.

He averts his gaze as soon as Laurent catches him. His cheeks flush. His colouring disguises most of it, but Laurent still finds his eyes drawn to Damianos’ skin, the smoothness of it, except across his jaw, where his beard is beginning to grow again. His lips are pursed in concentration. Laurent remembers that mouth, smiling, pressed to the back of his hand.

This time, Damianos catches Laurent staring. Laurent doesn’t look away when Damianos does; he can’t. He feels pinned beneath those eyes: so dark, intense, but warm. Always warm. Damianos stares at Laurent as though there’s nothing he’d rather do. It feels illicit; too intimate, as Damianos takes in his face, like a lover would.

Kastor slams his book shut. Laurent and Damianos both jump.

“This is pointless,” Kastor says, voice coated in frustration. He regards the table with contempt. “The only place ever mentioned is Karthas, and it’s always in passing.”

Laurent nods quickly, his face on fire.

“Karthas is mentioned in all these too,” Damianos says, gesturing to the texts on his side of the table.

“And here,” Laurent says.

All three of them pause.

“Do you think…” Damianos trails off. He hedges on: “It seems almost too easy.”

“Karthas is where the sword first appeared,” Laurent says. “Maybe… it wishes to return there?”

Kastor’s mouth presses into a long, thin line.

Nothing is said for a while. Laurent bites his lip, thinking: Karthas is a long trip, and the man crucial to this entire prophecy has been nothing but hot headed about almost everything.

He wishes he could tell Kastor: Let me take the sword to Karthas. It needs me.

But even if Kastor somehow agreed to that, it would be futile. The sword yields itself only for celui.

It’s Damianos who breaks the silence. He addresses his brother like a warrior on the field. “Kastor, I think you realise, more than anyone, how important this prophecy is. You will never be taken seriously as a King, as a ruler, if you undermine the Gods.” He throws Laurent a small glance. “Our brothers in Vere need our help.”

Kastor’s expression doesn’t change as he regards Damianos. Everything he does is carried out in careful movements: he touches his hip, where Laurent knows the sword rests, then flicks through the open pages of the book in front of him. He looks at Laurent with bitterness, and then, finally, stares out the window, where the sky is dark.

He nods, face twisted.

Laurent’s shoulders loosen. He hadn’t realised how tense he had been. When Kastor isn’t paying attention to them, Laurent mouths thank you, in Damianos’ direction, keeping his face as open and sincere as possible.

Damianos’ follows his mouth. He smiles, and it overtakes his entire face, creasing it and contorting it with joy.

I did that, thinks Laurent, delirious, and wishes he were brave enough to return Damianos’ smile.

*

They decide to leave that night. Laurent overhears Kastor and Damianos discussing — arguing — over it in one of the narrow aisles of the library, while Laurent helps the patron clean up their mess.

Kastor had insisted on leaving in the morning, with their guardsmen in tow. Damianos had rejected that idea immediately; it was best to remain unimposing. The journey would be quicker with only three men. And yes, they had to leave at night. What would the Kyros say if Kastor suddenly left in the morning, in full view of all the visiting delegates and Ambassadors?

The one thing they had agreed on was that informing Theomedes of their departure would be foolish.

“I’ll leave a note,” Kastor says now, “Tell him I’ve taken you to the border for extra training.”

Damianos nods, and Laurent watches them shake hands. It’s so strange to see; Laurent has never seen brothers act so formal with each other. Auguste and he had a similar age gap, and Auguste never treated him like he was a distant afterthought.

It’s a warm night. The moon is very bright; it lights up the courtyard and stables.

It’s Damianos, not a stable boy, who brings out a horse for Laurent to ride. She’s beautiful, a young, sturdy mare with a glossy coat and dark mane. Laurent pets her face slowly, lets her get used to his touch, his presence.

Laurent has been riding nearly his whole life. He could do it in his sleep; it is one of his favourite activities. And yet, he lets Damianos help him swing up on the horse’s back, as though he is a novice.

Damianos’ hand is like a brand as he lays in on Laurent’s flank and then his leg. Laurent is flustered by it, and he knows that his cheeks are red once he straightens up.

Damianos smiles at him again. From his cloak, he produces a sword, much too short to be used effectively by a man of Damianos’ size. For one heart stopping moment, Laurent’s mind flashes to that dark cabin, Uncle’s hand around the hilt of a dagger before he plunged it into his own thigh. The memories make him dizzy.

But Damianos isn’t Uncle. He hands the sword to Laurent, who takes it in his clammy palm. “To protect yourself,” Damianos says, low.

Laurent is too overwhelmed to say anything.

Mounted on his own horse, a little to the left of Laurent, Kastor hisses, “Hurry up.”

Damianos’ mouth purses in annoyance. He pats Laurent’s knee, fingers lingering, before he walks over to his own horse.

As they begin their journey, Laurent can’t help ruminate over how different Kastor and Damianos are.

Everything Damianos does, the way he speaks, his impenetrable attitude — all of his qualities are comparable to the qualities of celui.

But the sword had rejected him. The sword chose Kastor instead, and for the first time since the ceremony, Laurent is desperate to know why.

*

They ride on through the night, the moon hanging over them and guiding them through the sandy trails.

It isn’t until the sun begins to reappear over the horizon, that Kastor suggests they stop.

The town they are in is rustic and small, with wooden buildings that seem to shake with the slightest breeze. It’s charming; it reminds Laurent of a scene from a children’s novel. It also reminds him, disconcertingly, of Belloy; the town near the river had been quaint, like this, with flower fields and dirt paths.

There is an inn not far from where they stop. A stable boy eagerly rushes forward when he sees them, and Kastor dismounts. He looks tired, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced, and his eyes are red rimmed.

Laurent is sure he looks the same — maybe worse, since he failed to sleep the night before as well. Damianos, too, is spent; he doesn’t notice the coquettish, long lashed gaze of the stable boy, and simply waits for Laurent to dismount his horse.

Damianos falls in step with him, Kastor just a little ahead as they make their way to the entrance of the inn.

Kastor pays the burly man guarding the door a sum that must be more substantial than he is used to, because he personally ushers them inside, with the same fumbling eagerness of the stable boy.

Inside, it is cool; the windows are open to let the breeze in. The dining space is chaotic and lacklustre: all the tables seem to be precariously standing, and most of them are filled with people eating, despite the early hours.

Kastor, practically swaying on his feet, instructs the inn head, a truly stunning woman, to give them separate rooms. 

“Don’t wake us up before noon,” Damianos adds, and she nods, awed.

Laurent’s room is the first on the second landing; Damianos’ is in between Kastor and Laurent’s.

It’s quite possibly the smallest bedroom Laurent has ever been in his life. The bed, lumpy and well worn, is pushed up against the far wall, and it still manages to take most of the space. Other than that, Laurent doesn’t get a good look around. As soon as the door shuts behind him, he collapses on the bed and falls asleep instantly.

*

Laurent wakes up well rested, sated.

The sun beams down onto his bed as Laurent spends a few more moments relishing in the last tendrils of sleep. Although the sheets are scratchy, and the mattress hard, Laurent is hopeful. It feels promising to be here. They are so close to fulfilling the prophecy, Laurent can taste it. He thinks of Uncle, back in Arles, speaking of Laurent’s treachery and his death, unaware that Laurent has managed to not only live, but gain the trust of celui and the Prince of Akielos.

It is rare Laurent is this jovial, but when he comes downstairs, he doesn’t bother hiding his happiness.

Kastor is already up, seated in a corner table, a woman tucked under his arm. She seems very enamoured with him; Laurent watches her gasp in amazement as Kastor shows off his sword.

Laurent means to sit by himself in a table of his own, but Kastor catches sight of him, and to Laurent’s surprise, waves him over with a smile.

She must be a good fuck, Laurent thinks to himself. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Kastor like this, beaming and relaxed. Or maybe Kastor’s cheerfulness has to do with the attention he is receiving; everybody in the inn cranes their necks towards him, excited to see the new King in their presence.

Laurent is thankful he didn’t forget to wear his scarf. Still, he knows everyone’s eyes are on him as he seats himself across Kastor.

Kastor kisses the woman and tells her: “Why don’t you fetch us some more food?” and she nods, subservient.

“Is Damianos not awake yet?” Laurent inquires, when the silence between them becomes strained and awkward.

Kastor shrugs. “I think he’s in the baths.”

Laurent nods. He needs one, too, after breakfast.

Their meal comes then, not as indulgent as the breakfasts at Arles or Ios, but it’s clear that the cooks in the inn have prepared beyond their usual menu for Kastor’s sake.

Laurent reaches for some bread, generously dipping it into olive oil. If Uncle were here, his remarks would be nothing short of condescending.

Halfway through their meal, Damianos still hasn’t arrived. Laurent wonders where he is.  Maybe he went back to his room after his bath to sleep more. Or — Laurent notices the woman Kastor had been with, now in the corner, and realises that perhaps Damianos is preoccupied by something else. After all, that is how Laurent found him just yesterday morning; sheets rumpled around a lover.

Laurent puts his bread down and frowns.

He thinks of going out for a walk. He normally rides to clear his mind, but he knows they will be leaving soon, in an hour or so, and he doesn’t want to exhaust his horse.

Kastor says, “How long has it been since your brother’s passing?”

His gaze is inquisitive, not necessarily harmful, so Laurent swallows his immediate biting retort and says, “Seven years.”

Kastor’s eyebrows rise in — surprise, Laurent thinks, but it is hard to tell.

“Has it really been that long?” He muses, popping a grape into his mouth. “I was fortunate, then, to meet him not long before his death.”

“You did?” Laurent says, surprised. “When?”

He can’t remember a time when Auguste had gone to Ios. Aleron was the only one who ever went, and he always came back with wonderful gifts: fragrant oils, gold, and a very bitter coffee that had burnt Laurent’s tongue.

Kastor says, “In Marlas.”

Ah. A wave of bitterness cloys Laurent’s throat. He remembers those meetings at Marlas; Auguste and Aleron had gone for weeks, as had the heirs from the other Kingdoms. They had gone to meet up with the Ambassadors, to organise the Games and the celui ceremony.

Aleron had planned to retire from the throne by the end of the year. Like Theomedes this year, his early retirement had sparked the need to find the next celui.

It was obvious who that was going to be.

The only competition Auguste had for the sword was the warrior Prince Damianos, who was still two years too young to compete for it. Kastor, also like this year, had not been allowed to participate in the Games.

When they had come home, the preparations for Auguste’s coronation had already started. Everyone knew he was celui, and nobody could stop talking about it.

Auguste had lifted Laurent up in his arms as he’d told him, even though Laurent insisted he was too mature to be hugged by his brother. Even Aleron had kissed Laurent, twice on his forehead. There had been a feast that night, in Auguste’s honour, and Laurent recalls the pure happiness he’d experienced then. It felt like, finally, their family was whole again.

Kastor lets Laurent wallow in his silence. He doesn’t seem bothered by it. Instead he says, lightly, “You are nothing like him.”

“I know,” says Laurent carefully, though he doesn’t mask his anger well. His jaw clenches.

Kastor’s mouth quirks a little. “I mean no offence by that, Prince Laurent. It’s just… your brother always behaved like he was already a King. Born to rule. You on the other hand….” Kastor bites into another grape, languid. “You still act as though you are nothing more than a second son.”

Laurent doesn’t let Kastor know how deep his words cut. It’s like he’s back in the opulent dining hall in Arles, listening to Uncle berate him.

In fact, listening to Kastor talk is so similar to Uncle, it twists his guts. It’s why the words come out of Laurent’s mouth, unbidden and harsh. “You are just as much a second son as I am, Exalted,” Laurent says. He tilts his chin, looks Kastor in the eyes. “But unlike you, I don’t need a sword to prove my worth to my own Kingdom.”

He stands as Kastor’s expression changes into something truly ugly. Laurent isn’t interested in being here, with his man, any longer. He doesn’t care if he’s — the one.

Laurent makes his way out the door, to the paved area near the courtyard. It’s where he knows the stables are.

His horse is tied up against the first post, contently eating. Just seeing her calms Laurent a little. He pats her down gently, hands running over her mane and body. He desperately wants a ride.

She nickers softly as Laurent touches a spot just above her nostril. “Oh, you’re lovely,” Laurent says, suddenly missing Sophie, his own mare, gifted by Auguste. “What are you called, hmm?”

He’s about to call out to the stable boy when he sees it. Over the horse’s shoulder, in the shadowy corner of the stable, there’s a quick flash of something transparent.

Laurent stills. He waits a beat, staring intently at the spot. There’s another flash, like something shifting out of the way. Tentatively, Laurent says, “Exalted?”

King Arius doesn’t show. But Laurent is certain it is him. He makes to step forward. “Arius?”

“She doesn’t have a name.”

With great effort, Laurent manages not to startle. He glances behind him. In the courtyard, sun shining down on his head, Damianos stands tall. He’s in the same chiton as yesterday, but he’s much fresher, and his curls are still wet.

Laurent glances once more at the corner of the stable, then turns to Damianos. “I’m sorry?”

“You were —” Damianos takes a step closer, gestures to the horse. “I overheard you asking about her name. In Akielos, it is an uncommon practice to name horses.”

“Oh.” Laurent says.

“Are you alright?” Damianos asks. He’s concerned.

Laurent hasn’t had anyone care about him this much, like this, in seven years. The fact that this concern is coming from a man who isn’t even worthy of being celui, but seems to be just as good as everything celui is supposed to be, makes him irrationally angry.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice tight. “If you plan on eating, best to do so now. We’re leaving soon.” He turns back to the horse; she nickers again under his attention.

Laurent senses Damianos wavering, unsure, even though Laurent’s dismissal was clear cut.

Finally, Damianos says in a soft voice, “I know my brother can be difficult —”

“Your brother is not worthy of the sword.”

It just… comes out. It’s unintentional. Laurent had meant to keep silent, let Damianos fester alone until he went back inside. But the thought that’s been plaguing him since last night — and maybe, truthfully, even before then — it comes out.

The only sounds for a while are the horses eating, and a hushed argument between two men in the courtyard.

He expects Damianos’ anger for insulting his brother. But all Damianos does is sigh, bitter and upset, “I know.”

Laurent looks at him, wide eyed.

Damianos says, “I’ve trained my whole life for it. To be evgenis. I wanted it so bad I —” He cuts himself off, with a shake of his head. “But it’s not my fate. It’s Kastor’s. All I can do now is advise him to be the best King he can be.”

“It still won’t be enough. He’ll never be the kind of King you would be.” Laurent’s face heats as he says it.

Damianos’ stare is hungry. “What kind of King would I be?”

Fair. Strong. Brave. Passionate.

“Like Auguste,” Laurent says in a whisper. Mortified at the tears in his eyes, he closes them and grits his teeth.

There’s another small pause. “Thank you,” says Damianos. “It means a lot to me, to hear you say that; I remember what an honourable man he was.”

Laurent thinks he might scream — or pass out.

But Damianos continues, “Kastor did not spend his whole life training to be evgenis, the way I did. He’s still angry over all the mistreatment he’s faced. If we are patient with him… I believe he will be worthy.”

Laurent’s hands are shaking. He’s never wanted someone to be right so much in his life. “Go inside and eat,” he says.

This time, Damianos goes.

*

Laurent supposes, instinctively, he should have seen this coming.

Damianos is a stubborn man. Laurent imagines how his conversation with Kastor must have gone. Damianos would have mentioned Laurent’s honour, Kastor’s pride, and then something about mutual respect, he’s sure.

It’s why Laurent isn’t surprised to see Kastor outside his bedroom door after he comes back from the baths.

Kastor is scowling, but his tone is genuinely remorseful. “I wanted to apologise,” he says, formally, eyes roaming somewhere over Laurent’s shoulders. “My comments earlier today were unnecessary.”

It’s not the best apology — but definitely not the worst. He appreciates Kastor’s efforts; most of his anger from before has faded, anyway.

“I’m sorry too,” Laurent says. “I was inappropriate.”

Laurent attempts a smile. Kastor returns it, tentative.

Despite himself, Laurent finds himself believing in Damianos. Kastor needs guidance; the prophecy said as much. As long as Laurent remains civil with Kastor, he is sure they can fulfil their destiny, dethrone Uncle, and form a proper, peaceful alliance.

There’s a sudden, excited shout from downstairs. Someone runs up the stairs, and then there is more shouting. Kastor’s hand immediately reaches for his hip, where his sword is.

A young boy appears on the landing, chest heaving, face red with excitement. He can’t be older than seven; he is missing a tooth and his curls are soft, tumbling, but covered with dirt.

He stares at Kastor with awe. Kastor removes his hand, staring back at him as though this is his first time seeing a child.

The woman from breakfast runs up the staircase, behind the child. “Steven,” she hisses. Seeing Kastor, she pales, head bowing. “Exalted, I apologise. My son — he wanted to meet the new evgenis but I told him to wait until after his lessons.” She throws Steven a glare; he grows sheepish under his mother’s scolding, but the worship in his eyes, directed at Kastor, is evident.

Kastor clears his throat. “It’s fine.”

“Exalted,” Steven says, voice high and breathy. “I know everything about King Arius’ sword. Please, please may I see it?”

“Steven.”

Kastor shifts on his foot, glancing from Laurent to the child. “Uh —”

“Please.”

Laurent watches on in quiet amusement.

After a long moment of deliberation, Kastor nods. Steven jumps in the air, fists pumping, like he has won something truly amazing.

Kastor unclips the sword from his belt with great care. Then, he unsheathes it. He crouches low, balancing the sword on his open palms, so Steven can take a good, proper look at it.

All of it astounds Laurent; he never thought Kastor would be the kind of man who would easily indulge a child like this.

It’s exactly the kind of thing Auguste would do.

“Whoa,” Steven says, mouth falling open, eyes large and round. Although she has already seen it, his mother gasps again.

Seeing the sword this close makes Laurent’s breath catch. It’s beautiful; the aesthetics of it are so unique, so unlike any weapon used today. His eyes roam over the shininess of the blade, brand new like it has never been used, the golden pommel with the detailed lion head carved in it. And the jewels: bright in colour and cut precisely.

“It’s beautiful,” says Laurent, and Kastor nods in agreement, a carnal expression scrawled across his face.

Steven and his mother retreat back downstairs after profusely thanking Kastor.

Once Kastor has sheathed the sword again, Laurent says, “That was nice of you to do.”

Kastor shrugs. They stand in unfamiliar silence for a moment before Kastor makes his way to the stairs. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

In the courtyard, Damianos helps Laurent mount his horse once again. Once again, Laurent lets him.

Laurent has decided to name his horse Amalie. He thinks she likes it; she sighs when he says it. When he tells Damianos, his mouth drops a little.

“Should I not have named her?”

“No!” Damianos says quickly, swallowing. “No, that’s… it’s —” He clears his throat and starts again. “I’m glad you like her enough to name her.”

“Damen,” Kastor calls from atop his horse.

Damianos casts Laurent a heated look that warms Laurent from head to toe. He doesn’t know what face he makes in response, but it satisfies Damianos; his face splits into a grin, his dimple deepening his cheek.

Kastor leads. In the sunlight, the pommel of the sword glints against the plainness of his chiton. It garners them attention; everyone is stunned to see celui in their midst.

The sword really is beautiful, Laurent thinks. He’s researched every inch of it for years, has seen its details and intricacies in paintings, murals, sketches from history books. He could describe it, envision it with his eyes firmly shut.

The sword at Kastor’s hip is missing two cuts of diamond.

Chapter Text

five.

Unlike their previous ride, Kastor declares they should stop once it is nightfall.

The town they arrive in is lively and bustling — and close to the border. Despite the late hour, there are stalls lined across the footpaths, wooden and jammed right next to one another. Cloths of various sizes, jewelery, heavily scented oils and colourful bags lines the walls of each one, spilling out in the small space.

Damianos and Kastor eye the vendors with great interest. As they had dismounted, Damianos had told Laurent that their father had never allowed them to visit the marketplaces in Ios. Laurent, tired and distracted by Kastor’s watchful gaze, hadn’t replied.

Now, he watches both brothers linger by the stalls, fingers grazing over the toys and bags laid out, the vendors eyeing them with wonder. They attract a fair crowd; some of the vendors leave their own stalls unattended to step closer to Kastor, a reverent evgenis falling from their lips. Kastor smirks at them, pleased and arrogant with the attention. His false sword is like a beacon; everybody hovers around it to see it. A father pulls his son onto his shoulders so he can catch a glimpse of it.

Damianos seems proud as he watches on, but his expression is dulled; his eyes assess Kastor critically, like a tutor overseeing his student’s work.

As the crowd grows, Laurent covers his hair and turns away, mouth tight. He makes his way to the entrance of the inn, which is structurally more sound than the last one. The tiles are marble, the walls painted a lovely shade of blue; it reminds Laurent so much of Arles, he almost falters in the entryway.

But once he is directed to his room, Laurent only has one thought: he needs to leave, now. He’s angry at himself for being so ignorant, for relying on anyone but himself. He keeps trusting the wrong people: Uncle, and then Kastor. Uncle, who undoubtedly filled Kastor’s head with pretty, tempting lies to secure the thrones in Arles and Ios.

Laurent can’t believe how stupid he’s been. Had he really thought that a lowly servant or nobleman had overheard his and Kastor’s conversation on the balcony and told Uncle, when the only person in hearing range was the man in front of him? Had he really thought that Uncle would never gather allies? Kastor had never been celui and yet Laurent had ignored every instinct in his body because he had been too weak, too frightened to fight Uncle on his own. Gods, until three days ago he had never considered Uncle would ever kill him. At every point in his life, Laurent had undermined Uncle, and now he will pay the price for it, as will Ios and Arles. A false celui will take the throne. A celui that will side with Uncle and destroy all four Kingdoms.

Laurent packs frantically; he had stolen a bag from the woman at the inn, just as they had left. He stuffs it full of things he will need for when he crosses the border into Marlas: a map outlining the roads to Karthas, which he had swiped from Damianos’ bag, a cloak to keep himself obscure, and enough food and water to last him his journey. The sword Damianos had given him is still at his hip.

The one thing Laurent knows is that the King Arius’ sword — the real one — is not here. He doesn’t know how, but Uncle and Kastor must have hidden it somewhere. This is what the prophecy meant, Laurent is sure of it; the sword needs his guidance, needs to be taken to where it belongs, back to the Kingsmeet, in Arius’ hands.

With his scarf wrapped tight around his head, and an old, beige cloak around his shoulders, Laurent deems himself inconspicuous enough to flee into the night.

Laurent shoulders the bag. As he does so, King Arius appears on the tiny bed. He hovers above the sheets, ghostly and transparent as usual. It’s the first time Laurent has seen him sitting down; like this, Laurent is taller than him.

“Prince Laurent,” Arius greets him amicably.

Laurent says, “I don’t have time for this. Unless you can transport me to Karthas in the next few seconds, I really do have to be on my way.”

The sky flashes garnet, so dark it bleeds into the room.

“That is getting very predictable,” Laurent says after a moment. When the sky colours to a emerald green, he says, “See?”

King Arius nods. Then he peers at Laurent’s attire with a scrutiny that reminds Laurent of his father. It briefly winds him. “Running off into the night, I see.” Arius says. “My fourth son — Cosmas, you know him, yes?”

“Of him,” Laurent frowns. “I think I may have missed him by a few centuries.”

Arius waves his hand. “Yes, yes. Well, one night, the Palace guards informed me that he had run away. Apparently, he had become fond with a older maiden in the neighbouring town and was convinced he was going to marry her. He was only thirteen, can you believe it?”

Laurent stares.

“Anyway,” Arius says, shaking his head, “he came back the next morning, devastated. She’d already been married for ten years! I said, ‘Why didn’t you find that out before you left, you idiot? It’s important to know all the facts before pulling a stunt like that!’” Amused by his own memories, Arius chuckles, stroking his chin. “Cosmas later ended up marrying a very charming noble from Patran. Strange isn’t it, how these things work out?”

Laurent fingers the strap of his bag. “You have a very roundabout way of speaking. Is there a point to this story?”

“There is always a point to everything, Prince Laurent,” Arius stares at him with piercing, colourless eyes, “Even the most tragic, inane events have a point to them.”

Laurent thinks of Auguste, suffering, dying in his bed. Had there truly been a reason for that?

“What is your point this time?” Laurent asks, his voice suddenly raspy.

Arius doesn’t mention it. He says instead, “It’s important to know all the facts before pulling a stunt like…” He gestures to Laurent, “that.”

Laurent bristles. “I do have all the facts. My Uncle is reprehensible. Kastor is a fraud, and every bit of a bastard his blood deems him to be. He isn’t celui, and the sword — your sword — is missing.”

“Those are some of the facts,” Arius says. “Like I said, you do not have all of them.”

“What else is there?”

Arius says, “Throughout your entire journey, from even before you first stepped into his home, there has been one man who has, to his very core, supported you and believed in you and your throne.”

Laurent closes his eyes, overwhelmed. Swaying on his feet, he says weakly, “It isn’t the stable boy is it?”

Arius’ smile is very kind. “The sword is also instrumental to Crown Prince Damianos’ success. It is as part of his fate as much as yours.”

The weight of Arius’ words almost knock Laurent down. “It’s him, isn’t it?” He says quietly. “He won the Games. If he had — if the sword had been there during the ceremony, he would have pulled it out. Right?” Laurent swallows. “Damianos is celui.”

Arius makes a broad, sweeping gesture with his hands. Its carelessness infuriates Laurent and suddenly he is yelling at one of the greatest Kings in history. “How could you allow this to happen? Any of it? You should have stopped my Uncle from the very beginning!”

The room darkens; it becomes impossible to see.

It angers Laurent more.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, and he isn’t sure who he directs it towards: the Gods or Arius or even Uncle.

He hears Arius sigh. “He’s upset,” he says in quiet Akielon. “I think we can excuse his behaviour tonight.”

Several moments pass; the darkness lingers, suffocating and strong. Laurent’s fist clench, waiting.

When the darkness lifts, Laurent refuses to say anything. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to. Arius says, “Damianos is integral to the prophecy, too. It would be unwise to leave without him.”

“You think he would leave his brother’s side for mine?”

Even as the words leave Laurent’s mouth, he knows the answer. After everything, it inexplicably lightens the weight on his chest.

Arius dips his head. “You may ask him right now. He’s outside your door.”

As expected, there’s one, sure knock on Laurent’s door. It rings in the room. Arius vanishes as quickly as he arrived.

Laurent squares his shoulders and opens the door.

Damianos still manages to catch him off guard. He’s in a brand new chiton; no doubt one of the vendors had draped it on him. The fabric of it is poor in quality, but Damianos wears it as though they are finely woven ceremonial robes.

He’s also carrying a plate of bread and cheese. He holds it out to Laurent, expression shy and boyish. “They serve meals here at specific times. I didn’t see you downstairs so I thought…” Damianos stops, his ridiculous, handsome face scrunching up as he peers at Laurent’s state of dress. “Are you going somewhere?”

Kastor comes up the stairs just as Damianos asks the question. His expression turns curious, head canting over his brother’s shoulder to stare at Laurent as well.

Laurent says the only thing he can think of: “Yes. I was coming to visit you, actually.”

“You were?” Damianos’ eyebrows scrunch further together.

Kastor is still on the landing, watching them. His expression is shrewd.

Laurent stares at Damianos, trying to communicate as subtlety as he can that he should just step inside the room. Damianos, however, seems incapable of espionage; he continues to blink slowly at Laurent.

So, Laurent angles his body away from the doorway to make room for Damianos to enter. “Yes,” he says, in response to Damianos’ question. Then, he tilts his head down, so the light catches his eyelashes and emphasises the gold in them. He makes sure his gaze is coquettish, amorous, the kind of look he has seen countless times on Pets in the Court. “But since you’re already here…” He steps aside more meaningfully.

Damianos stares, mouth open. After a long, drawn out moment, he steps forward, dazed.

Once he has stepped over the threshold, Laurent makes sure to give Kastor the most sincere smile he can muster.. Then he shuts the door in his surprised face.

Standing in the centre of the room, still holding onto the plate of food he’d brought up for Laurent, Damianos seems to be in disbelief. He’s also excited; it radiates off him, and it makes Laurent wholly aware of how much space he takes up.

“Laurent,” says Damianos, and his voice is pleased, shy. “I hadn’t realised I was being so obvious.” He smile is warm and pleasant. “I’ve been researching proper Veretian customs, and I was going to formally ask you after we returned the sword whether you wanted to —”

“What are you talking about?” Laurent interrupts. “Listen, we don’t have much time. Put that away.”

“Oh.” Damianos carefully represses his expression as he sets the plate on the small bedside table. “Uh.”

“Sit down,” Laurent says. He’s not looking at Damianos. Through the gap in the door, he can still make out Kastor’s shadow, waiting, listening.

Damianos sits down. The bed creaks under his weight, like Laurent hoped it would. At the sound, Kastor’s footsteps finally retreat.

Laurent makes sure to wait a few more minutes. When he is sure Kastor is back in his own room, he turns back to Damianos, who looks more forlorn than Laurent has ever seen him.

“I need to tell you something,” Laurent begins. Strangely, at that, Damianos actually seems hopeful. Laurent isn’t sure why, so he continues, “It’s about your brother.”

“Oh,” Damianos says in an undertone.

Laurent sighs. “You won’t like it. But you just have to… trust me.” He flushes.

Damianos straightens, the surprise on his face evident. “What is it?”

*

The bread is terrible, dense and stale, but Laurent picks at it anyway as Damianos paces around the room, thinking.

He had been quiet the entire time Laurent had spoken, his mouth set tight, the line of his jaw clenched in anger. Laurent is sure it had taken everything in Damianos’ willpower to keep himself still.

After Laurent had stopped talking, Damianos had simply stood up and began pacing, his strides large and fast. He still hasn’t said anything.

Laurent wonders if he should. Perhaps Damianos wishes for comfort? He decides against it immediately; Laurent would be terrible at that.

By the time Laurent has finished most of his plate, Damianos finally stops pacing and faces him.

Damianos says, “This is my fault.”

It is quite possibly the most foolish thing he’s ever said. It is such an endearingly selfless thing to admit, too, and it makes Laurent want to shake Damianos.

Damianos barrels on at the look on Laurent’s face. “No, it is. I — before all this, before you returned to Ios, I had a suspicion that the sword… that there was something not right.”

“What do you mean?”

Damianos sighs like a man who has been carrying a large weight for a long, long time. He levels Laurent with an intensity that makes his toes curl. “I already mentioned that I didn’t believe Kastor was worthy.” When Laurent nods, Damianos continues, “Part of that was because of the way he behaved around the sword. It was — he was always on edge. In our culture, it is tradition for evgenis to show the sword off to the townspeople the morning after the ceremony. It’s so our people know that our loyalty, and our ability to protect, extends to them as well.”

Laurent nods. There is a similar custom in Arles. After the ceremony, the sword is displayed outside the Palace gates, so anybody can come up and take a good look at it. It’s supposed to remind everyone of the sacrifice the four Kingdoms went through to achieve peace. But like Damianos said, it’s also to reassure civilians that they will always be protected.

Damianos says, “Kastor refused to do it. He wasn’t just adamant about it — he was hostile. He even yelled at one of the Ambassadors. Father had to step in and deescalate the situation.” He lowers his voice. “And I noticed how possessive he was of it, like he was afraid someone would take it away. He never wanted it out of his sight. I heard —” Damianos shakes his head. “I overheard from one of the kitchen maids telling her friends that a servant had seen Kastor sleeping with it in his bed. I’m sure it’s something he’s been doing here, too.”

“Well, I think it’s fairly obvious now why he’s always with it, no matter what,” Laurent says.

“I should have said something,” Damianos says, running a hand through his thick hair.

“Like what?” Laurent says. He’s trying to be soothing; he isn’t sure it comes out that way. “There isn’t any way you could have known why Kastor was behaving so… abnormally. It was pure luck that I found out.”

Damianos still looks disturbed, so Laurent says, “We have other things to focus on right now, anyway. You are celui. You — we need to find the real sword and return it to Arius’ statue.”

Damianos nods. At the mention of celui, his chest puffs out. For the first time since learning the news, he looks happy… and relieved. Laurent is too.

Laurent gestures to his packed bag. “Go back to your room. Pack your own bag, and we’ll leave while Kastor sleeps.”

He doesn’t hide his surprise when Damianos says, “No.”

“No?”

“No.” Damianos says, eyes apologetic, but his tone is Kingly, full of command. “I know my brother — I know him enough,” Damianos corrects with a grimace, “to know that he would immediately do everything to regain control once he realises we’ve left.”

“Regain control?” Laurent asks.

Damianos begins listing things off his fingers as he talks. “The first thing he’ll do is contact your Uncle. Then he will ride back to Ios — and let everyone know that we betrayed the throne. Your Uncle has spread word of your reputation in Ios; Kastor will use that to his advantage. Perhaps he will say how I was too weak to resist you… that I was foolish enough to be bewitched by you. He will change the narrative as much as he can. And the worst part is — no one will disagree with evgenis.”

Laurent closes his eyes in frustration. Everything Damianos has said is pragmatic and right. “What do you suggest we do then?”

Damianos stares at him for a moment. His eyes are dark, assessing, as he calculates something in his mind. The words leave his mouth slowly as his plan forms,“We need to go to Karthas with Kastor. Make him believe that we don’t know anything about the sword. Then, once we’ve returned it, we — I — will tell him that I wish to spend a few days alone with you, in the countryside. It will give us enough time to search for King Arius’ statue and sword.”

Laurent frowns. “Only the sword is missing.”

Damianos’ smile is dry. “I am certain that neither Kastor nor the Regent managed to pull the sword out of King Arius’ hand. They must have moved the statue, with the sword still attached to it.”

He’s right, Laurent realises. The sword only unsheathes for celui. Despite himself, he feels a trickle of hope; a towering, nine foot statue would be much easier to locate than a sword, surely.

Then, the other part of Damianos’ words catch up to him.

“Kastor will never believe that.”

“Believe what?” Damianos’ brows furrow.

Laurent tries not to flush. “That you would want to spend time with me alone. We’re not friends.”

It’s perplexing to see the smirk on Damianos’ face, especially with the severity of what they’re discussing. Nevertheless, it makes Laurent’s face colour further.

Damianos says, “I wasn’t thinking of spending time alone with you as friends.”

Laurent carefully shutters his face; still, he knows the colour of it will betray him. He means to say something clever, but with genuine curiosity he asks, “You bed men?”

Damianos looks utterly pleased by the question. “I do.” He pauses, unsure. “And you?”

Laurent blinks. “Yes.” It takes everything in Laurent to admit it. It feels almost shameful, to be so blasé about his preferences after —

Damianos grins. His posture completely relaxes, as though he’s received wonderful news. “That is good.”

“Why?”

“Oh,” Damianos’ eyes widen. “What I mean is — it is nice for you to — that is —”

“It will be more plausible for us to pretend to be lovers?”

“Yes,” Damianos sags in relief. “Exactly that.”

Laurent smiles at him. Damianos returns it with a force that makes his toes curl; his chest tightens so much it hurts.

The room bathes in gold, a colour so syrupy and sweet, it warms the room. Damianos’ eyes match it. He seems to glow in the colour as it washes over him.

His eyes don’t leave Laurent’s.

Laurent stares back, wide eyed. Oh, he thinks. And then again, oh.

*

Laurent makes sure he is the first to wake up the next morning. It’s too early; only the kitchen maids in the inn are awake. Laurent can hear them downstairs, shuffling and speaking in hushed whispers, as he laces up his tunic.

The stables are empty. Amalie greets him with her usual enthusiasm.

“Morning,” he whispers, stroking her mane, then the place above her nostrils which she favours.

Laurent looks up at the sky. It is still not light yet, and he is unsure of how to call Arius. Arius has only ever come to him.

He tries the easiest, most obvious way first. Feeling distinctly stupid, Laurent peers at the sky and says, “Exalted?”

Nothing happens. Laurent waits a couple more minutes; still, the sky remains darkened.

He tries again. “King Arius? Exalted?”

Alone in the stables, Laurent feels as though he is being watched. It’s a hard notion to shake. Then, in the corner, where the feeding troughs are lined, a translucent shape hovers. Laurent peers at it; it’s so white, so blinding, it’s hard to discern what it exactly is. It should put Laurent on edge — but strangely, whatever this is, it’s a calming, peaceful presence. And then Laurent can make out hands, large and strong like a man’s, and long hair, like a sleek curtain. Laurent squints.

“Exalted?” he calls again and the figure, the shape — whatever it is — flashes, like it’s trying to disappear from view.

“You called for me, Prince Laurent?”

The voice comes from behind him. Laurent feels a wave of deja vu as he keeps himself from jumping.

When he turns around, King Arius stands before him, tall and intimidating. Taking in his appearance, it takes Laurent aback. Arius is transparent, a blue, glowing figure. Whatever had just been in the stables, hadn’t looked anything like this. The only reason it doesn’t panic Laurent is because he still remembers how he felt just a few seconds ago: so calm, he could have floated.

“Prince Laurent.”

Laurent blinks. Arius is staring at him, frowning.

Laurent shakes himself off with great effort. He bows his head. “Exalted.” Clearing away the scratchiness of his throat, he addresses the King formally, “I wanted to apologise for my behaviour last night —”

King Arius waves him off. His hair shakes with the movement. “There is no need for that. Tell me why you called for me; I was in the middle of a chess game with Phillipe.”

“Oh,” Laurent says. It’s too surreal to even imagine; he wishes he could witness it for his own amusement. “Are you winning?”

Arius’ mouth pulls. “No.”

Laurent tries his best to hide his smile. He knows he isn’t successful from the unamused expression on Arius’ face. So, he clears his throat again and says, “I wanted to request a favour from you.” It feels bold to say it; already, he is thinking of how many times Arius has helped him. Somehow, it seems wrong to ask for more.

But Arius says, “Of course,” as though it’s something he genuinely doesn’t mind. “My duty is to help you claim your throne.”

You will be one of the greatest Kings in history.

It steels Laurent. He straightens his back and says, “Today we will reach Karthas.” Arius nods in agreements. Laurent says, “When we do, and Kastor returns his false sword… can you… Would it be possible for you to make is seem like the Gods are pleased with him, with us? We need Kastor to believe that Damianos and I know nothing of his treachery. If the Gods are pleased with us, it will provide Kastor with believable confirmation that no one suspects him of anything.”

Arius hums under his breath. Then he squares his shoulder. “Consider it done.”

Laurent sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

Arius smiles. “You are close, Laurent. Keep your chin up.”

He vanishes. Laurent stares at the space, the dirt on the ground, heart thudding.

*

Karthas is unlike any place Laurent has ventured. It’s a town that is trapped in time; everything has been preserved for centuries. The buildings are phenomenally constructed, with pillars of colour and greying ashpalt; a wonderful blend of Akielon and Veretian architecture, from when there had only been one united Kingdom. There are lush, green fields of flowers, with beautiful statues of depicting the victory of the War, the paint fading, but not yet dull.

Laurent feels privileged to be in a place that is so culturally important to his own history. As he passes a maze of roses, he can’t help but think, It’s no wonder our ancestors fought for this place.

Kastor has been nervous all morning. Like his brother, he is incapable of keeping his emotions to himself. Or, perhaps now that Laurent knows what he is supposed to be looking for, it is hard to miss how pale Kastor’s complexion becomes the closer they ride to where the sword first appeared. The only thing Kastor had said this morning was directed at his brother in rough Akielon: it had been a scathing comment about bedding Veretians. A passing wagon had prevented Laurent from hearing Damianos’ reply.

It takes a while to reach the stretch of land where the sword was originally pulled from, but it is an easy ride. No buildings or statues have been built here; the ground is flat and green, a perfect landscape for battle. It’s chilling to realise how many people died here.

The only indication that this is the sword’s birthplace is a small shrine. Carved into it are four weapons: a mace, a spear, a bow and arrow, and of course, a sword. It is the only weapon that has been painted.

They dismount their horses. Damianos’ expression is pulled; he crosses his arms in front of his chest, frowning at the shrine. It makes the muscles in his biceps shift. Laurent doesn’t realise he’s staring until their eyes meet; Damianos raises his eyebrows in question, but Laurent shakes his head, turning to Kastor who is white-lipped and wide eyed.

The air is heavy with an auspiciousness. They all seem to realise, at the same time, how sacred this place is.

There is sweat beading along Kastor’s temple. He looks to Damianos for direction, and when he doesn’t find it, those dark eyes lock on Laurent’s.

“Should I just leave it here?”

Laurent swallows: he honestly doesn’t know. He gestures to the ground, then Kastor’s sword. “Perhaps you should sheath it. The same way it was found.”

Damianos nods at that. Kastor exhales harshly through his nose and unsheathes his sword. He holds it ineffectively; his palm is positioned incorrectly on the pommel, but Laurent knows why now: if Kastor were to shift his hand, the missing cuts of diamond would be obvious.

Damianos realises this, too. His expression is thunderous, angrier than Laurent has ever seen it, even when Kastor had insulted him back in Ios.

Kastor stabs the sword into the ground in one, swift motion. It pierces the grass and dirt easily. Kastor keeps pushing it down, until the pommel, and the lion’s eyes are buried.

Laurent’s jaw ticks.

Kastor steps back, lips pressed together. His eyes shift, moving over the land and the shrine, not focusing on anything in particular.

Nothing happens for a while. Laurent waits, patient.

The sky colours in a brilliant shade of blue, so rich and lovely, it looks like silk bed sheets have cloaked it. The colour deepens but remains bright: it is so similar to the starburst banners, it is jarring.

And then, the last person Laurent ever expected to see in his lifetime appears.

King Phillipe is tall, slender, but muscled, like an adept swordsman. His features are very Veretian; rounded nose, large eyes, a small mouth and his hair is dark, but not curly like Damianos’ or Kastor’s. Instead, it falls, fine and straight across his forehead. Aleron — and by extension, Uncle — are his replicas. It serves to remind Laurent of how much his mother’s Kemptian features have passed onto him; his only resemblance to Phillipe is in the high cut of his cheekbones. His eyes, too; Laurent cannot see their colour, but he is sure they are blue like Aleron’s.

Phillipe’s transparent, blue shape startles Kastor and Damianos. Kastor takes a step back, hand reaching for a weapon that isn’t there, and Damianos’ body goes tight.

Laurent manages to hide his own surprise well. He is, truthfully, more fascinated than frightened.

Phillipe’s voice washes over them. “Well done to all of you. The Gods are pleased with your journey. You may return to your homes, and eventually, you will be rewarded beyond your heart’s desires.” His eyes roam over each of them, but he addresses Laurent when he says, “I wish you well.”

Damianos or Kastor don’t say anything, or they can’t. Laurent says sincerely, “Thank you, Your Majesty.” He dips his head.

King Phillipe returns his bow with a shallow one of his own. And then he is gone; they sky clears above them. Laurent mouths a quick, silent thank you, hoping Arius can see it.

No one says anything for a while, mindful of breaking the sudden silence.

Eventually, Damianos says, “That was…” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe that happened.”

They all pause, ruminating, the tendrils of disbelief still in the air.

Kastor no longer seems to be on edge. Laurent wonders what is going through his head. Kastor’s arrogance knows no bounds; perhaps he is thinking of how clever he is, to have tricked the Gods and ancient Kings alike. No doubt Uncle would be.

With Kastor’s fears evaporated, he stands straighter. “I have fulfilled my duties to the Gods,” he says, eyes alight. “I will be returning to my throne, now. Let’s go, Damen.” He doesn’t acknowledge Laurent, except for a belated nod in his direction.

Damianos’ gaze shifts from his brother, inscrutable, to Laurent’s.

Laurent attempts a reassuring nod. It works; Damianos sqaures his shoulders. Again, Laurent cannot help it as his eyes fall on his bicep, the shifting muscles in his shoulders.

“Actually,” says Damianos. “I’m going to stay back here for a few days. With Laurent.” The way Damianos lingers on his name is meaningful, illicit. Laurent shivers unintentionally.

Kastor frowns. He looks at Laurent, then his brother. “You can’t be serious,” he says in flat Akielon.

“I am.” Damianos tilts his chin, as though daring for Kastor to disagree.

Kastor’s mouth tightens. “Father will never allow a Veretian to be by your side. Even one so pretty.”

“It’s fortunate that I am so persuasive, then,” Damianos says lightly.

Kastor barks out a laugh. “You have always been incredibly stupid, Damianos.”

“And you have always been incredibly supportive of me, haven’t you, Kastor?” Damianos phrases the question with a hard, biting bitterness. He is angry, stupidly so; Damianos does not hide it.

Kastor senses the tension. He takes a step back, but the smirk on his face is truly ugly, nasty. “You think too much with your cock, dear brother.”

Damianos stares at him for a long moment. “Just my heart this time.” The sincerity in his tone is very convincing.

Laurent feels strangely protective of Damianos because of it. He steps forward, close to Damianos, closer than he would normally dare, so their shoulders, arms, and elbows touch. If Damianos is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

Laurent speaks to Kastor. He keeps his voice cold, but polite. “We’ll send you the wedding invites as soon as they’ve been printed, Exalted.”

He doesn’t know what expression Damianos makes, but Kastor openly scowls at him, his fury evident. Wisely, though, all he says is a curt, “Good luck.” It isn’t clear who he directs this to, but Laurent doesn’t care.

Kastor walks back to the horses, alone and without his sword.

Laurent and Damianos watch him leave in silence, still standing far too close.

Once Kastor is a speck in the distance, Laurent turns to him. “Are you alright?” he asks because he knows, despite everything, Damianos takes his brother’s words to heart.

Damianos keeps his gaze forward, on Kastor’s retreating back. “You know the way he was looking at me during that conversation? Angry, disgusted, disappointed?” Damianos laughs, but it’s hollow. “I’ve just realised that’s how he’s always looked at me, for as long as I can remember.”

“I’m sorry,” Laurent says, and he means it.

Damianos smiles at him; it’s small, but sincere. “It doesn’t matter. We have bigger things to deal with.”

“Yes,” but for the life of him, Laurent can’t think of what they are.

Damianos doesn’t move either, his gaze sharp as it slowly, surely roams Laurent’s body.

The sky flashes gold. Damianos peers up at it in surprise, but Laurent’s eyes fall behind him, where Arius is standing.

“This is getting very boring,” Arius says. Damianos, like last time, doesn’t hear him. Arius continues, “Why don’t you two book an inn room, fuck, and then move on and find the sword?”

Laurent flushes red, caught off guard. Damianos notices. “What is it?”

“Nothing!” Laurent says quickly, mortified, even though Arius has departed. “I —” He stares up, and up, at Damianos, mouth dry, and says, “We should find an inn.”

*

There is only one inn in town. It’s a relatively new building, compared to its neighbouring structures. But it’s small, haphazardly built; there are missing pieces in the stonework, the door needs to be propped open with a stick, and the dining room is suspiciously sticky and filled with broken chairs, tables and lanterns.

Damianos books them separate rooms and Laurent swears the sudden gust of cold air through the window is not an accident.

They don’t retire to their rooms, though; Damianos guides him to a patio that has been barred for their privacy, with a wide, simple stone balcony. The Ellosean Sea stretches out in view, and Laurent is disorientated by his own memories; the seeping cold, the high waves, threatening to swallow him whole. Uncle’s hand on his wrist, pressing down on fresh bruises. He feels disgust, remembering his own concern as Uncle bled. He also thinks of Orlant, who saved his life over his own.

Damianos is watching him carefully when he turns. The map they had marked in Ios in unfurled in front of him, pinned to the table with four rocks, all different sizes.

Laurent sits down across him, tries to compress his expression.

Damianos offers him a tentative smile before he clears his throat and says, “To be honest, I don’t even know where to start.”

Laurent says, “Do you think there’s a possibility they didn’t move it at all? It seems impossible to think they could carry a statue that size out of the Kingsmeet.”

The way Damianos shakes his head is resigned. “They moved it.” His tone is sure. “One of Kastor’s duties is overseeing the artefacts in the Kingsmeet. He spends quite a lot of his time there. He’s friendly with most of the guards in the Palace. I’m sure that for a price — or loyalty to Kastor — he convinced them to… set King Arius’ statue aside for a while.”

Laurent nods, thinking. It’s difficult to discern anything; the timeline is too broad to narrow down when Uncle and Kastor moved the statue and sword. Based on the fact that they commissioned a replica of Arius’ statue and sword, it must have been a couple of months back, at least.

He knows Uncle didn’t speak to Kastor during the Games, because he had insisted on accompanying Laurent nearly everywhere. Besides, moving the statue then would have been too risky; according to Damianos’, the number of guards at the Kingsmeet had tripled.

Laurent remembers all the trips Uncle has taken over the last year; Laurent had never concerned himself with where he went, and now he regrets it. But he vaguely remembers how many times Uncle left Arles: six times in the winter, four times when the months were warmer, and maybe, three or four times right before the ceremony.

Laurent pushes back his hair. “Uncle only travels if he can take a ship,” he starts slowly. “So if he was involved in moving it…”

“It left the country.” Damianos finishes.

Damianos dutifully notes down all of Uncle’s trips in broad, flat strokes on some parchment. Then he lists Kastor’s. Kastor had only left Ios twice, and both those times he went to Isthima to deal with his mother’s properties.

“Maybe they didn’t work together,” Laurent suggests, after a long stretch of silence.

“They must have. Only the Akielon royal family and a few other guards are allowed anywhere near the statue. Even if Kastor brought your Uncle into the Kingsmeet, there is only so far he can go.”

“So Kastor provided the statue and Uncle provided the ship on which the statue was carried away,” Laurent muses with a bitter chuckle.

“Yes,” says Damianos, his expression equally as dark.

Did Uncle hide the statue alone, then? Laurent wonders. The Regent’s men were loyal to a fault; how many of them had turned away from Uncle’s fetishes despite their own distaste for it? Or maybe Uncle had blackmailed them into hiding away one of the most auspicious artefacts in the Kingdom’s history. Maybe Kastor had been nothing but a pawn in Uncle’s game.

“Where would your Uncle hide the statue?” Damianos asks, when Laurent voices his concerns, carefully omitting Uncle’s… tastes.

“Not in Arles,” Laurent says, “That would be incredibly stupid, even for him.”

“And obviously not in Ios,” says Damianos.

It’s the only solid conclusion they can make. It’s frustrating that they can’t figure it out; Laurent almost wonders if he could call Arius again. But then he thinks, If he wanted me to know where the sword is, he would have already told me.

Damianos points to the map again after some time. He begins to circle territories along the border. “They might have not wanted to move the statue too far from the ports,” he says. He’s tactful as he marks down Fortaine, Ladehors, Marches, and then back down, towards Sicyon and Mellos.

“It will take us months to go down the borders alone,” Laurent says.

Damianos sighs. “I know,” he murmurs, tone heavy.

Laurent closes his eyes, feeling murderous. Everything seems impossible suddenly; they don’t have men or supplies or even a concrete plan.

Damianos continues marking the map, his brows pinched together.

There are footsteps outside the patio. Damianos is swift when he pulls out his sword; Laurent barely sees him move. He stares, dazed, as Damianos draws himself to his full height, weapon raised high. It doesn’t even occur to Laurent that he should pull out his own sword.

It’s laughably anticlimactic to see the old innkeeper walk inside. He’s holding a large silver platter in his hands. When he catches sight of Damianos, his eyes widen and his hands tremble, so the food on the platter shakes violently.

Damianos lowers his sword. “My apologies,” he says, but he peers down at the innkeeper. “I had requested for us to be left alone.”

“Y-yes, Your Highness.” There is sweat beading along his temple and upper lip, soaking into the grey hair. “The cooks have pr-prepared you this wonderful f-feast. I - I thought I would —” He bows low, extending the platter to Damianos like an offering.

“Oh, yes,” Damianos says. “Uh, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

Laurent rolls the map out of the way as the innkeeper sets the platter down. Laurent can smell the sickly-sweet meat and he scrunches his nose delicately.

The innkeeper practically flees once he’s dismissed. Laurent watches him go in amusement.

Damianos sits down. Even like this, he takes up so much space. It makes Laurent heady.

He looks at the platter with interest. “I’ve never seen boar prepared this way.”

“It’s very common in Arles,” Laurent says, nose still scrunched. “We eat this all summer long, since boar is the only thing Uncle likes to hunt.”

Damianos who had just been about to place a bite of meat into his mouth, stops, his expression pensive as his eyes drift over Laurent’s shoulder.

“What?” Laurent says, his nape prickling in anticipation. He turns around, but the patio is empty. He doesn’t know why, but it had almost felt like…

Damianos shakes his head, frowning. He sets down his fork. “It’s nothing. I just remembered something.” He stares down at the platter, lips pursed.

“Well?” Laurent says, a little impatient, when the silence lingers for far too long.

“Oh, sorry,” Damianos shakes himself off. He looks back at Laurent. He speaks slowly, “The second time Kastor went to Isthima, it was right in the middle of winter. He came back with enough boar to last us a whole week. At the time, I thought it was strange, since Isthima isn’t known to have many boars. But Kastor had said…” Damianos stops. With visible effort, he starts again. “Kastor had said it was nothing more than luck that had led him to a group of boars. But now I wonder…If it was winter in Ios, it was summer in Arles.”

Laurent’s mouth opens in realisation. He remembers how, despite the heat, Uncle and his men would leave for days at a time, hunting and honing his skills for the Games.

“How long was Kastor’s trip?”

“He was gone for a while; more than two weeks,” says Damianos and Laurent’s breath leaves him.

“That’s enough time to get to Vere and back.”

Damianos’ eyes widen. Again, he unfurls the map, movements harried. “Where exactly does the Regent hunt?”

Laurent can point out the place with his eyes closed. He draws a neat circle around the dotted area that is labelled The Great Northern Forrest.

The Forrest is so large that even the most renowned cartographers haven’t managed to label its size on official maps. It’s too hazardous to venture completely in it; with its dense trees, uneven terrain and wild, dangerous animals, even the most skilled riders are unable to get through. Only a small section, near the Arles border, is marked for hunting and riding.

As a child, Laurent would have nightmares about being left alone in the Forrest. When he was old enough, Auguste took him riding there frequently. It’s one of his favourite places. Of course Uncle would ruin even this for him.

“It’s the perfect place to hide,” Laurent says. Even in daylight, the Forrest is still and dark. And the shrubbery is so thick, it would conceal anything, even the statue and sword of a great King.

Damianos exhales soundly. “All this fucking effort and for what?” he mutters to himself in Akielon.

“For their own benefit, of course,” Laurent says, his own Akielon stilted. “So even in adversary, no one could question their claims to the throne.”

Uncle has spent years cultivating Laurent’s image to the Court, to suitors, to delegates. Even if he had taken the throne, rightfully, Laurent is sure he would have been met with backlash, with enough opposition to sully his position.

“He is my brother,” Damianos bites off, and the way he says it, it is like this is the first time he is realising the extent of Kastor’s treachery.

At least Laurent has known of Uncle’s heinousness for seven years.

Laurent wants to say something to comfort him. He really, truly does. But the words don’t come. Instead, Laurent finds himself acting uncharacteristically; he leans forward in his chair and reaches for Damianos’ hand.

It’s awkward, the movement stiff. Damianos’ knuckles are warm, and Laurent presses his own cool palm over it. His fingertips press over Damianos’ wrist, the hair on them coarse to touch.

Damianos looks at him in surprise, then awe. He leans forward too.

Laurent doesn’t move away as Damianos leans even closer; the space between them fractions in size and Laurent feels both tethered and ready to float. He’s suddenly mindful of the table; it’s in the way, and isn’t Damianos going to move it? Should Laurent move it? He doesn’t think he has the courage to.

“Laurent,” says Damianos warmly. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Laurent’s chest collapses. Breathing becomes a hardship. In this moment, he knows if he were to tell Damianos to stop, he would. In his heart, he knows.

It’s why Laurent says, “Don’t stop.”

Damianos smiles; it is heated, warm, tender. He has to push his weight onto his elbows to reach across the table for Laurent.

But then Damianos’ expression shifts and he snaps his head to the end of the patio, where the view of the Sea is.

“What’s wrong?” Laurent asks, winded and — he can admit it to himself, at least — hurt. Had he misinterpreted the fact that Damianos was about to kiss him?

Damianos immediately turns back to him. “I’m so sorry,” He is quick to apologise. “Forgive me. I thought I had heard — it sounded like someone was calling me.”

“Oh.” Laurent says. Then he hears it too: an unfamiliar man’s voice calling him.

It’s coming from the Sea.

Laurent stands up. He rushes over to the balcony, hands pressed to the concrete railing, peering out into the blue vastness. Damianos moves too; he can feel him on his left.

“You hear it too?” he asks, and Laurent nods.

He thinks of Arius, standing on top of the Sea, commanding it, but the Sea seems unassuming. Nobody is standing on top of it. The sun is its only companion, slowly sinking in the sky.

“I can hear laughing,” Damianos says, frowning. He watches the waves, scrutinising.

Laurent thinks he can hear it as well. He strains his ears, but it is a faint sound, like a whispered noise in the background.

It reminds Laurent of simpler times. It reminds him of his brother, the golden curtain of his hair as it fell across his shoulders. Whenever he went riding, Auguste would tie it in a low ponytail, with a blue ribbon taken from their mother’s collection. He only ever braided it when he was swimming. The Sea and the laughter; all of it reminds Laurent of summertime, when he had known nothing but happiness.

The sun sets over the horizon. The sky is kaleidoscopic in its colouring. Laurent can’t help it; his eyes are drawn to Damianos, who looks best in this kind of light.

That’s when it occurs to Laurent. Staring at Damianos, it comes to Laurent, the one place Uncle would take the sword, knowing that Laurent would never set foot in it.

“The sword isn’t in the Northern Forrest,” Laurent says, and Damianos turns to him, confused, but ready to listen to whatever he has to say.

“Where is it, then?”

Laurent swallows, heart heavy with the truth. “It’s in Belloy.”

Chapter Text

six.

On the map, Belloy seems inconsequential. Damianos marks it with the same efficient strokes, tracing the route out with unwavering concentration.

By now, the sun has completely set. The patio falls into darkness, but there are diligent maids who light lanterns for them, heads bowed despite their curious eyes. Laurent shifts in his seat, the stress of the next journey hanging heavy in his mind.

Laurent has consciously tried not to think of Belloy properly for years. Every time his mind wanders to it, to the images of Auguste in the water, he is careful and quick to suppress it. Laurent has always understood Belloy as Auguste’s, an extension of his brother’s personality, the part that had no ties to the throne. The thought of visiting it without Auguste is unquestionable; despite Auguste’s wishes, this is something Laurent can’t do. He feels like it will kill him if he does.

It’s exactly why Uncle chose this place to hide the sword. Only Uncle could be this cruel.

Laurent continues watching Damianos silently. He’s already made his decision, but voicing it seems to be another matter entirely.

It takes a while, but Damianos finally seems to realise that Laurent is staring at him. He offers a grin that is dull; Laurent wonders if that is because of the pressing task or because the airy atmosphere that had lingered, moments before their… kiss has dissipated completely. Laurent isn’t sure they can go back to it.

“You’ve been quiet,” Damianos says, but Laurent can detect the question underneath: Are you okay?

Laurent waits. The weight of his words make his palms itch and the back of his neck reddens. It’s hard to keep himself composed, and Laurent is oddly grateful for the last few years he has spent in Court, navigating his every move. It’s why he can say steadily, like a Prince, “I think you should go to Belloy on your own.”

Damianos pauses. His feather quill rests against his fingers, still dripping with ink. When he speaks, his voice is unsure, laced with surprise. “Oh? Is there a particular reason?”

For a brief, tantalising moment Laurent toys with the idea of telling Damianos about Auguste. Something about it feels… right. Safe. After all, Damianos has lost a brother, too. Surely, of all people, he would understand. But Laurent knows he can’t: Damianos, despite the betrayal he has faced, is unwaveringly optimistic. It would take an embarrassingly short time for Laurent to be convinced to go, despite his worries.

So, he says, “There’s little point in me going. Belloy is a small town; the sword will be easy to find. And when you unsheathe it, we — you can go back to Akielos to reclaim your throne.”

Damianos eyes him. “And what will you do?”

Laurent looks over to the Sea once more. “I will face my Uncle.” Since he was thirteen, Laurent has never thought of facing Uncle alone. He’s always imagined it would be by celui’s side. Now, with Damianos’ own throne under threat too, it seems likely that this is where they will have to separate.

Even as the thought finishes in his head, Laurent knows Damianos will rebut it.

It’s why it’s no surprise as Damianos says firmly, “I can go alone and retrieve the sword, if that is your wish. But we will face the Regent and my brother, together. And we will rule Akielos and Vere together. That’s my promise.”

Laurent has to consciously take a breath. He feels his face freeze, but it makes Damianos’ soften, his mouth dropping into a easy, charming grin that heats Laurent’s gut.

“You sound so sure,” Laurent says, and his voice lacks the teasing tone he was aiming for.

Damianos says, “I’m always sure about the things that matter.”

Laurent swallows. He is suddenly envious and in awe of Damianos’ confidence all at once. Laurent has never had that surety in his life, even with Auguste by his side.

He doesn’t respond; he finds himself unable to. He turns back to the Sea, its calming waves, the wind playing with his hair.

“Is it an old lover?”

At first Laurent is confused by who the question is directed to; it’s so abrupt and out of place, it takes him too long to realise that no, Damianos is addressing him. “What?”

Damianos’ expression is twisted. He pushes the words out carefully as though they bitter his mouth. “Are you wary of going to Belloy because of a jilted lover?”

It’s such an endearing prospect, Laurent almost laughs. It takes all his effort not to. Instead, Laurent says, “Is that the reason you usually avoid towns?”

Damianos shrugs, boyish and open. “Usually.”

Laurent takes note of that, even though he’s not completely sure whether Damianos is joking or not.

Laurent looks down at the tabletop, tracing the carvings in the wood. He doesn’t dare mention Auguste; his chest closes just at the thought.

“It’s not because of a lover,” he says.

The relief on Damianos’ face is unmissable.

*

The sky darkens to a violent shade of red when Laurent enters his bedchambers alone.

Laurent is sure it has something to do with the fact that Damianos hasn’t fucked him, but in this particular moment, he doesn’t care. It’s late, Laurent is tense, and Damianos’ eyes have shadows underneath them; nothing about their current situation makes Laurent randy.

When Laurent comes out of the baths, his towel around his shoulders, he’s not shocked to see Arius on his bed, peering out the window.

Arius says, “Good evening, Laurent.”

Laurent returns the salutation. In this lighting, Arius seems more transparent; the blue around his outline seems faded, washed out.

“I wanted to thank you properly — for earlier.” Laurent says, when Arius remains still and silent. “I think having King Phillipe coming down was a nice touch.”

Arius nods. “Yes, he insisted. Never wants to miss an opportunity to cause drama, that one.” His tone grows somber. “Besides, we’ve all become rather invested in you.”

Laurent opens his mouth to ask: Who, the Kings and Queens? Or my family? Then he decides against it; he already feels too off centre to think any more about his family.

Laurent addresses the sky; the colour of it bleeds into the room. It makes everything look sinister. He gestures to it and it darkens even more, until there are large patches of black dancing across the floors, the walls and over Arius. “Is this because I didn’t invite Damianos to my room?”

He wonders if it is normal for Gods and a handful of dead royalty to be so fixated on this… relationship he has with Damianos.

But Arius’ face grows dim. For the first time in a while, Laurent can see the King he has read so much about: unyielding, tough and menacing.

Arius says, “You do not listen, Laurent.” The coolness behind his eyes straightens Laurent’s back.

“What do you mean?” Laurent asks, rushing to add: “Exalted,” when he notes how tightly Arius has set his mouth.

“The prophecy is about you,” Arius says, standing, so he towers above Laurent, as easily as Damianos does. Unlike Damianos, Arius’ height, in this moment, seems threatening. “You are the one who needs to go to Belloy. Why are you evading your destiny and sending Damianos out there alone?”

Laurent swallows, eyes wide. “You don’t understand,” he starts, and then stops. The words don’t leave his throat.

Arius considers him for a moment. “I think I understand more than you realise.”

Laurent thinks he knows what Arius is referring to. He remembers reading of one of Arius’ greatest betrayals: how he was stabbed in his sleep by his brother in law, a man he loved like his own brother — but this isn’t the same.

Arius continues, “Crown Prince Auguste needs peace in the afterlife, as do the last King and Queen of Vere. Only you can grant them that.”

It is imperative to your family’s peace and happiness that you complete your destiny.

“That’s not fair,” Laurent says, throat constricting. “They shouldn’t rely on me to — for that.”

The life of a Prince is very unfair.

Arius doesn’t comment on Laurent’s tone, his wavering voice, or the tears slowly, but surely gathering in his eyes. All he says is, “You haven’t disappointed your family yet, Laurent. Do not start now.”

Arius disappears. Like always, it happens so fast, Laurent misses it in a blink of an eye. The room stays crimson. Laurent closes his eyes, his heart beating rapidly in the dark.

*

In the morning, Damianos does little to mask his joy when Laurent tells him he has changed his mind, and that he will be going to Belloy, too.

Laurent wishes he could reciprocate his happiness — only so he can see the lines around Damianos’ eyes crease — but he physically can’t. His gut is twisted and he barely manages to take a few bites of the bread Damianos places in front of him for breakfast. He’s also tired; last night, he’d finally gone to bed when the sun had been rising. He’d woken barely an hour later.

Damianos, on the other hand, is brimming with energy. He’s refreshed, eyes clear with purpose. Even Kastor, in his finest moments, hadn’t seemed so put together, so Kingly. Damianos’ status is unquestionable; it’s incredibly obvious that he was born to rule. Laurent wonders how anyone could look at Kastor and really believe he was celui, when next to him, Damianos is made for the throne.

Damianos pays for their meals, much to the embarrassment of the patrons who seem to be appalled at the thought of taking money from a foreign Prince. Laurent, in the meantime, prepares the horses and supplies.

Belloy is not a long ride from here. They will only need to spend one more night on the road. That, more than anything, is what terrifies Laurent; how close he is now to everything: the sword, the statue, his brother’s spirit.

Laurent takes a breath, slowly stroking Amalie’s mane. It’s silky underneath his fingertips, and genuinely calms him down. Above them, the sky is clear and blue, except for the sudden flash of something transparent.

Laurent can’t get a good look at it; doesn’t even bother to, because his eyes fall on Damianos, who walks towards him in powerful, purposeful strides. Despite himself, Laurent’s breath catches and his chest tightens in a now familiar way. The hem of Damianos’ chiton flutters in the wind and Laurent briefly catches the sight of his thighs, strong and covered with dark hair. It’s where Laurent’s eyes had been drawn during the ceremony, too.

Damianos smiles at him with ease. “You ready?”

It’s an innocent question, but it makes Laurent even more acutely aware of what they’re about to do, and where they are going.

He steels himself and nods. Now or never, he thinks.

*

Belloy is a small town, sandwiched between the two major cities of Vere. Laurent didn’t think he would remember much of it besides the river, but as they cross the border into Belloy, he stiffens at the sight of the patchy grass and the formidable sculptures made of poorly cut rock. He used to climb those as a child; most of the Prince’s guard pretended not to notice, except for Jord, who was not shy about scolding him.

Belloy sits close enough to Arles that mounted on his horse, miles away, Laurent can still see the jutting towers of the Arles Palace. In the distance, it rests along the border of mountains and the Forest, magnificent. Laurent has not been particularly attached to the Palace in years, but now, here, like this, it makes his heart tug. It’s the first time he’s truly missed it; the only home he’s ever known. Until now Laurent hadn’t realised he might not see it again.

Over the border, to the far left of the Palace, the silhouette of another impressive building is visible. The Chastillon Fort is incredible; its towers and open balconies loom over the horizon.

Amalie jerks, distressed; Laurent’s grip on her bridle is too tight. He makes a conscious effort to loosen it, but his fingers remain white knuckled.

Damianos rides on ahead of him. Like this, it is like Laurent has been transported back in time, riding behind his brother until they reached ground that was flat enough for racing. Of course, Auguste let him win every one of them; Laurent was nine by the time he caught on and with his ego bruised, he hadn’t spoken to Auguste for more than a week. Laurent doesn’t remember what Auguste did to appease Laurent, and now he wishes desperately that he could.

As they ride along the sloped terrain, with its unkempt flower beds and half-built structures, Laurent hears it before he sees it: the water running smoothly against the rocks in the riverbed.

It’s so jarring, Laurent stops. And then he can’t do anything more; frozen to the spot, he wants to leave, wants to run from the place where he will be confronted with the past.

Damianos notices almost immediately; it’s strange to think how attuned he is to Laurent despite how little time they’ve spent together.

He says, “We can rest for a while, if you want.” Damianos’ eyes assess Laurent’s clenched fists, his rapidly falling chest. “There’s no rush.”

“Isn’t there?” Laurent says and he’s not surprised by the harshness of his voice; already his defences are going up, every movement in his body an effort to keep Damianos away.

But Damianos is just as stubborn as he is. “No there isn’t,” he confirms firmly. “The Regent could announce war right this minute and we would still not fight until you are ready to do so.”

The sentiment lingers in the air. Laurent closes his eyes, frustrated by how touched he is. “Don’t tell me you would waste an opportunity to brandish your sword the first chance you get.”

Damianos smiles. And Laurent gets his wish — the creases by Damianos’ eyes appear, as does his dimple.

Laurent stares. Damianos returns it, and everything about him is soft, in spite of all the characteristics that could make him anything but.

It’s what makes Laurent says quietly, “This was my brother’s favourite place. We used to come here, every summer to swim in the river. I’ve been told — ” Laurent’s breath stutters out of him, a violent noise in the quiet. “I’ve been told his Spirit often visits here and he wishes to see me swim again.”

Saying it out loud doesn’t lessen the pressing anxiety Laurent feels. But he doesn’t feel like he’s made a wrong choice in confiding with Damianos, either.

“Would it make you feel better if we did it together?” Damianos asks, once Laurent has composed himself a little more.

Laurent grips the bridle again. “Did what together?”

“Swim.” Damianos uses the Akielon term. His eyes flicker over Laurent’s head, above the sky, contemplative. “For a very long time,” he starts slowly, still in Akielon, “I refused to go to the Gardens that my mother had planted before she died. I’m not sure why, but I think it was because she was never mentioned by my Father. The timing was never right. But then I realised —” Damianos turns back to him. “I realised that I was afraid to get to know her, to see what she had been like. The first time I went to the Gardens, I took a friend, and my fear lessened.” Damianos offers a wistful smile. “And now it’s one of my favourite places to go.”

Laurent knows how special this is. Damianos is not a man who gets vulnerable; Laurent has heard many rumours on it, has seen it firsthand, too.

“It’s not the same,” Laurent says eventually.

Damianos shrugs, diplomatic. “I know.” He pauses for a moment. Laurent can see him thinking, deliberating over his next words. And then Damianos says, voice careful, “I also think your brother would not ask you to do something that would harm you, or be too difficult for you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s why I said I think,” Damianos counters.

“Don’t be coy,” Laurent snaps.

Damianos shrugs again. The smile on his face is playful, despite Laurent’s tone.

Laurent inhales sharply, trying to relax. Internally, he can admit how sincere Damianos’ offer is and in turn, how grateful Laurent is for it.

Still, as lovely as Damianos’ offer is, Laurent knows what the right thing to do is.

He says, “No.” After a brief pause, he adds, shyly, “Thank you.”

Damianos nods. His smile is understanding. Laurent feels weak from it.

The sky is warm, and the air is clear. They keep riding.

There’s just enough light outside by the time they’ve made camp in another inn. This one is very Veretian in its architecture; the doors and windows are painted with bright, bubbly colours that shine in the light. It distracts away from the spiders webbing in the ceiling, and the hole in the dining floor.

Once again, they get separate rooms; aside from a sudden flash of red, nothing much happens, but they both linger by the hallway.

Damianos peers out across the window at the end of the hall, where the rolling green fields seem minuscule in scale. Laurent remembers rolling down them while Auguste was in the water, and how irritated the chambermaids would be with him as they tried to clean off the grass stains from his trousers and jackets.

Damianos says quietly, “I think now would be the best time for you to go.”

“Yes,” Laurent agrees, just as quietly. The light will fade soon, and they will be busy the next morning. This strange, oddly peaceful limbo of time is something Laurent should take advantage of.. He almost reconsiders Damen’s offer. Then he remembers Arius’ anger, the way he held himself as he berated Laurent, and instead he straightens his shoulders, tries to act like how Auguste would have.

Damianos mouth quirks, just enough that his dimple shows again.

“I’ll see you,” Laurent says.

“You will.” Damianos makes it sound like a promise.

Laurent nods once, then turns to leave, because he knows if he stays, he’ll linger — not to make excuses, but to bask in Damianos’ presence.

*

Belloy’s river is not exceptionally long; in fact, it’s one of the smallest rivers in Vere. Laurent had read it in a book on Vere’s geographical landscape when he was seven, and when he’d told Auguste, Auguste had remarked, “You’re right. It’s not very impressive, is it?”

At the time Laurent had felt like he was being made fun of; sometimes Auguste and Aleron used to look over at each at the dinner table while Laurent recited something unorthodox, and it made Laurent want to break a chair in anger, humiliation. But Auguste always said the same thing every time Laurent brought it up: “I’d never make fun of you Laurent. Never.” It was the way he used the word ‘never’ twice that usually made Laurent relent.

Still; even after all these years, and remembering that conversation, Laurent cannot fathom why Auguste was ever drawn to this place, with its haphazardly kept gardens and statues.

When he approaches the river, it truly feels like nothing has changed; Laurent has to fight the instinct to peer over his shoulder, as though Jord and Huet will be there, watching him closely.

The river is a stunning cerulean; even in lighting like this it’s vivacious. Laurent can see its mouth from here; there are rocks piled high, jagged and menacing, but still the water runs over them without disruption.

Laurent steels himself. Over the hills, the sun is beginning its descent. If he lingers for any longer, it will be too dark to swim.

Undressing is not an easy task; the river is the centre of the town, wide and open to all; Laurent knows the only reason it had always seemed like a private sanctuary with Auguste was because of the guardsmen, who were under orders not to let anyone pass through.

Laurent’s hands tremble as he unlaces his jacket; first he pulls at the ones by his neck, then his wrist and then his flank. He’s methodical about it, even as his heart races under his skin, too fast; he feels dizzy because of it. After a moment of deliberation, Laurent takes off his trousers too; underneath, he is wearing a sheer, lace hose that wraps down all the way down to his knees, as is protocol. Auguste used to shed this layer too, until he was in his undergarments. It was very scandalous for a Prince. Laurent wonders if the guardsmen ever thought so, too.

At the edge of the river, Laurent takes a moment to process everything: the grass underneath his feet, its dampness and warmth, the soothing sound of the water lapping against rocks, and the sun on his face. It feels like summer, like Auguste will call out to him any moment to join him in the water, even when he could see Laurent was reading.

Laurent jumps off the edge.

It’s not a very long jump; the water isn’t deep. Laurent’s toes skim the bottom of it, and he can’t remember if that had ever happened before; back then, the water had always seemed neverending.

The water isn’t what he was expecting; it’s so warm, it’s as though he’s back in Arles and the servants have just drawn a bath for him. Laurent’s skin flushes pink because of it.

It’s harrowing at first, once he thinks about himself, chest deep in the water, alone, with the world silent around him. The Belloy river never meant quiet. If he focuses on that thought for too long, Laurent knows he will inevitably panic, although he’s been taught not to.

Auguste used to swim the length of the river multiple times. Sometimes he would race his own guardsmen; Auguste beat them every time, and Laurent knows it’s not because they let him. Most of the time though, he’d float on his back, face tilted towards the sun, the ultimate picture of serenity.

Laurent closes his eyes, opens them. Then, he begins swimming.

It’s easy to fall into the mechanics of it. Laurent closes off his mind and lets his body take over. When he completes the first lap, it lightens his chest, his shoulders physically relaxing.

After his fourth lap, Laurent feels it; that first inkling of emotion, something close to happiness. He doesn’t know what’s triggered it, but he suspects it is to do with ambience of the place; every sound is like a whisper, so gentle it calms Laurent instantly. The water moves across his body like a caress. This place is so detached from everything, it makes Laurent feel… safe. Like he could start his life again.

He understands, in that very moment, why Auguste was in love with this small, meaningless river in Belloy.

Laurent slows down after his fifth lap. The sun is close to setting; the sky is purpling around the edges, slowly seeping into darkness. Laurent’s eyes trail over the colours slowly, leisurely.

Arius settles himself on the rocks. “It’s getting late, Your Highness.”

“Yes,” Laurent says. He feels even safer now, with Arius here. Like this, it’s as though he has become untouchable, too secure for even Uncle to hurt him.

Arius smiles at him; the last time, he had been so angry, but right now, his smile is warm, and colours him a bright blue. It almost matches the water. “Auguste says he is proud of you,” Arius smile grows fonder as Laurent’s breath hitches. “I am too.”

Laurent’s chest becomes tight. “Is he watching me?” — because he can’t acknowledge anything else.

Arius’ eyes crinkle. There’s so much of his face in Damianos’. “He always is.”

Laurent looks up to the sky. “Can he — is he allowed to show himself? Just for a moment?” Already, his throat is closing up, because he knows what the answer is. For me, he wants to say, but can’t.

Arius’ answer surprises him. “Not physically, no.”

Laurent doesn’t have time to ask for clarification.

There’s a sudden, strong gust of wind. It blows through Laurent’s hair, but it’s gentle, despite how powerful it is. It travels across his skin, behind his ears, over his fingertips. Auguste’s laughter rings in his ear, short and sweet, exactly like Laurent remembers it.

Arius is still smiling at him. Laurent returns it, even as his vision blurs, and his heart squeezes itself.

*

When Laurent makes it back to the inn, on skittish legs and with damp hair, Damianos is in the dining room.

He’s the only person in it; seated in dying candlelight, Damianos is a striking figure. His elbows rest on the tabletop as he peers over a thick, leather-bound story book. He’s not reading it though; his eyes are stationary, and as soon as hears the inn door creak open, his eyes snap over to Laurent.

Laurent realises that Damianos must have been waiting for him. It weakens his legs further.

Damianos can’t seem to tear his eyes away from him. He stands up slowly, making his way over to Laurent in sure strides. Laurent stays rooted to the spot, pinned. Damianos stops too close to him; Laurent is eye-level with his bare chest, the strong slope of his shoulder.

“What?” he asks, for the first time, conscious of the way he must seem: unprincely, disorientated. His laces are trailing; Laurent hadn’t bothered to do them again, and his hair is pressed flat to his nape, the tops of his ears. His skin is still flushed from the water and from his tears. He knows he looks —

“I’ve never seen you so happy,” Damianos says softly.

Laurent meets his eyes. “Happy?”

“Yes,” Damianos says, eyes roving over Laurent’s face, like he’s committing it to memory. “It suits you.”

Laurent doesn’t know what to respond with. Idiotically, he thinks of saying, thank you?, but before he can, Damianos starts speaking again.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you when I first saw you at the Games,” he says; voice still soft, gentle, and Laurent’s heart beats erratically. “My mind was such a mess, I thought I was going to lose my first round in okton.”

Laurent swallows. He tries to make his tone sound careless, unaffected. “The rumours about my frigidness didn’t bother you?”

“I judge as I find,” says Damianos, easily. His eyes fall to Laurent’s mouth for a second before he pulls them up again. “I thought about approaching you then, talking to you, asking you to have dinner with me in the courtyard — and then I thought — I thought that I should wait.” Damianos inhales, his throat rolling. “I thought I would approach you after the ceremony, after I had the sword so I could prove that I was worthy — worthy of you.”

Laurent sways on his feet, disbelieving.

Damianos continues, “I got cocky, of course.” He smiles, but it falls flat. “I asked the Regent for permission to court you formally long before the ceremony happened; I know that’s how things are done in Vere, traditionally. But the way your Uncle spoke about you — it made me reconsider. He said you were cruel, spoilt, selfish. He said you would ruin my life and I believed him.”

Laurent closes his eyes. His heart crumbles in his chest, a sensation that is so painful, he wonders if he’ll ever be able to repair it. This is it, Laurent thinks. The moment Damianos will say: The Regent was right.

The hand on his nape startles him. Laurent opens his eyes again. Damianos eyes are like two drops of coffee, rich and warm. His thumb strokes over Laurent’s cheek, fingers running over the hair on his nape.

Damianos says, voice low, “And then that night, I saw you defend a slave when his master acted unjustly. The next morning, I saw you in the stables, offering the stable boy food. I saw you laugh with your guardsmen. I watched as you helped a nobleman’s daughter onto her horse. I saw you cheering for me in the stands at every event. Every time I looked at you, you were contradictory to everything the Regent said you were. It felt like… I wanted you so much — and it killed me when I didn’t pull out the sword because I knew it meant I couldn’t have you.” Damianos’ fingers stroke Laurent’s hair. “But then you sat with me that entire night. You laughed at all my jokes. You told me things about yourself I had been dying to know. I was about three seconds away from asking you to my bedchambers before you left me.”

Laurent feels faint. He vaguely thinks of all the situations Damianos brought up; in his mind, they seemed like such small, insignificant events. Erasmus needed defending because his master was a callous idiot, the stableboy was hungry and Laurent had bread rolls tucked into his satchel, the nobleman’s daughter needed help and everyone around her had been too incompetent to —

Laurent steadies himself with a breath. In an act of self-preservation, he says, voice free of trembles, “Well. You certainly found someone to warm your bed soon enough.” He remembers the Vaskian delegate, her naked back and chest, how she looked tangled in Damianos’ sheets.

Damianos doesn’t deny it; his expression grows somber, and Laurent’s self-destructiveness feels vindictive in ruining this moment.

Then, Damianos says, thumb still sweeping across Laurent’s cheek, his jaw. “I was thinking of you that morning you know,” he muses quietly. “As I woke up, as I was getting dressed. I wanted to go back in time, gather the courage to ask you to stay in Ios a little longer, with me. And then,” Damianos leans closer, so that Laurent has to wrap his hands around Damianos’ wrists to keep from falling back. “I opened my door, and you were there, standing in the golden light, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I knew — I knew the Gods had heard me, and that’s why you were there. I knew then what my real destiny was.”

Laurent can’t bear it. The gasp he lets out is too loud, but it doesn’t keep him from rising on his toes, arms wrapping around Damianos’ shoulders, his fingers gripping Damianos’ curls as he kisses him.

Damianos’ mouth opens under his; despite how enthusiastically Laurent initially kissed him, Damianos is gentle, his tongue slowly pursuing Laurent’s mouth, licking over his lips, easy and warm. Laurent feels everything dissolve around him; he can only focus on this: Damiano’s hand on his jaw, the other strong and tight around his waist. Laurent loses himself in it; there’s no self-consciousness to be felt, because Damianos’ mouth keeps breaking the kiss to start another, and then another, and then another, like he can’t get enough.

They break apart slowly, naturally. Damianos rests his forehead against his. They’re still so close, Laurent can feel the warmth of Damianos’ breath on his mouth.

In Akielon, Damianos says, “You don’t know — how much I feel for you.”

“I do,” Laurent says in Akielon, his accent wonky. “It’s the same for me.”

The room bursts into a deep shade of gold, like the starbursts woven into the banners when Aleron was King. Damianos watches the room in wonder, the colour dancing off his skin.

Laurent kisses him again. The colour lingers behind his closed eyelids, but he pays it no mind.

*

In the morning, the light that washes over the bedroom is still golden, just more rusted in its shade, like a well worn crown.

Laurent opens his eyes to it and feels nothing but warmth. It lingers in the air, and makes Laurent’s chest full with a kind of joy he hasn’t known in years. Outside, it’s clear the day is just beginning; there are low, rumbling sounds of wagons being pulled and windows being opened, but Laurent is content to lay here for the rest of the day. Even the thought of the missing sword and statue isn’t enough to rouse him.

When Laurent tears his eyes away from the bustling commotion outside, Damianos is already awake, watching him, his expression warm, fond. There’s a slice of disbelief there, too, like he can’t fathom the thought of Laurent being in his bed with him. It’s a feeling Laurent shares — and he knows his own expression is equally besotted, or worse.

“Morning,” Laurent says now, voice deepened with sleep. “We slept?”

“We slept,” Damianos confirms, mouth tilting. Their legs tangle together underneath the mess of the covers. Damianos’ hand rests at his waist, pulling him close, until they’re chest to chest.

Last night, Damianos had tugged him into his room, neither of them fond of the idea of separating. Damianos had hovered above him on the bed, kissing Laurent with an intensity that had made Laurent lax, sinking into the rough bed sheets.

They’d kissed and kissed, and only stopped when Laurent pulled away far enough to tell Damianos about his swim in the river, about Auguste. Damianos listened like he always did; with thoughtfulness and understanding. He told Laurent about how sometimes he could feel his mother’s Spirit in the Gardens, and how much it meant to him that she was still there with him. Then they’d started kissing again, except it had turned to a slow, sinuous rut, Damianos’ clothed cock rubbing against Laurent’s own.

Laurent knew, then, that they were going to fuck, that Damianos was going to mount him. His own willingness surprised him. But all Damianos did was unlace his trousers, and take Laurent’s cock in his hand, kissing Laurent until he came. Laurent’s orgasm had been so pleasurable, he could hardly believe the sounds of ecstasy in the room was coming from him. He had expected for Damianos to ask him to return the favour, but Damianos gripped his own cock, tugging at it, fervently watching him.

Laurent had spread his legs, wide enough so that his hole was visible in the light of the lantern. Damianos’ eyes had drawn to it, helpless. Laurent pressed his finger against it, teasing the opening. He watched Damianos fist his cock, then looked into his eyes and said, “Here. Get me wet.”

Damianos had closed his eyes, his groan long and loud, before he buried his face into Laurent’s neck as he came, his cum hot and sticky as it landed on Laurent’s skin, the inside of his thighs, his cock, and his hole.

Now, Damianos watches him with that same open hunger, and Laurent knows his mind is flooded with memories of last night, too.

Damianos presses a kiss to Laurent’s neck, which, as they had discovered last night, was particularly sensitive. Laurent’s toes curl at the sensation of Damianos’ stubble across his already reddened skin.

They end up in the same position as last night, Laurent writhing beneath Damianos, who slowly takes off Laurent’s undershirt, the laces open and trailing.

Damianos reaches for the vials of oil on the windowsill. “Fucking Veretians,” he mutters under his breath.

“You’re about to,” Laurent quips, and he’s rewarded with a bite to his neck.

Damianos’ cock is a specimen; large and hard between his thighs, it’s beautiful. He’s careful about opening up Laurent with his tongue, his fingers, then his tongue and fingers.

When he presses into Laurent, Laurent comes. It shocks him, this kind of unbridled pleasure.

Damianos begins a slow, dirty slide into Laurent. His kisses, however, are gentle. The sound of their slick skin, of Damianos’ grunts in his ears, and his fist around the Laurent’s cock — all of it is too much.

Laurent comes for a second time in ten minutes. Into the bedding, he gasps, “Damen.”

Damen comes too.

*

They head out much later than they had initially planned; it’s just past noon, and the sun is a high, bright dot in the clear sky.

Laurent is rejuvenated. There’s a quiet, steady hum beneath his skin, a sign of his contentment. It’s a dangerous feeling; Laurent should be focusing, but all he can think about is the marks Damen left along his skin, on his collarbones, his neck, his hips, his thighs. It’s like he’s been claimed, and Laurent doesn’t detest it.

But his satiation is short lived. At first, he and Damen walk hand in hand through Belloy’s landscape. They trace the obvious areas first: the hills, where the ground is soft enough to be dug up, the damp ground near the river, the wooded area of trees, which is sparsely laid out.

Every area comes up blank. He and Damen stop holding hands; instead, they separate. Damianos heads north, beyond the mouth of the river, where the land is dry and barren. Thoroughly, Laurent checks the tightly packed clumps of vegetation, growing near the back entrance of the inn, even though he knows it’s futile. Uncle is not a stupid man; he would not hide something so critical to the four Kingdom’s history in an area where anyone could stumble across it.

Several hours later, Laurent wants to scream in frustration. He’s sweating; he can feel it gathering across his temple, his back, underneath his blouse, making it sticky and uncomfortable. The sword and statue are nowhere.

“Can’t you help?” he snaps up at the sky at one point. Predictably, it darkens, and there’s a flash of lightning.

But Laurent also feels a cool breeze, gentle as it plays with his hair. His heart hurts. He forces himself to calm down, even as his palms start to sweat.

Damen finds him a little while later. He’s as disheveled as Laurent is; there’s mud on the hem of his chiton, and a streak of it across his forearm. He looks exhausted, and the expression on his face is one Laurent has never seen before: defeat.

Laurent swallows, throat tight. He’s perched on a log that’s meant for the fireplace in the dining hall, and when Damen sits beside him on it, Laurent says, “I think I was wrong.” He eyes Damen. “About the sword being in Belloy.”

Damen shrugs. “We haven’t searched everywhere yet.”

Laurent shakes his head. “This town is only so big.”

Damen’s hand comes up to push back Laurent’s hair. “If it’s not in Belloy, then we will search every land between here and Ios to find it.” He kisses Laurent’s forehead. “I haven’t given up.”

“Think of everything Uncle and Kastor will do in the meantime,” Laurent says, abashed. “We’ve wasted so much time here.”

He lets himself be kissed when Damen leans forward. Laurent is surprised by how much it calms him, even more than Auguste’s presence just a few moments ago.

Laurent peers up at Damen when they break apart. “Why did you do that?”

Damen smiles. His mouth is red, the bottom lip dented from where Laurent had bit into it. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for months. Now that I can, I can’t be expected to help myself.”

Laurent stares. It’s humbling to know that he can have this effect on someone like Damen, who is so powerful, so Kingly, so good.

It twists Laurent’s insides — because Damen doesn’t know everything. He’s disillusioned by what kind of man he thinks Laurent is. But whatever Damen assumes he is — Laurent isn’t. He’s not like Damen at all, and can never be. It’s why, after they find the sword, Laurent is going to make sure they separate. They’ll rule their respective Kingdoms, and only correspond about matters regarding political affairs. They will meet every so often at a banquet or international meeting, and they won’t do much beyond nodding their heads in greeting. Damen will settle down with a woman who will give him heirs and he will be happy. Laurent will be too — just without Damen.

He doesn’t say any of that now. All he can do is kiss Damen again, until their hands begin to wander, and Laurent feels the swell of Damen’s cock, slowly fattening up.

Damen pulls back with great effort. “Let’s eat,” he says quietly. “Then go to bed.” The way he says bed implies that they won’t be sleeping. “And then tomorrow, we’ll search again. It’s a new day.”

Laurent nods. He can’t do much else.

*

Sometime after their fourth round: a lazy, indulgent fuck that had Laurent clinging to Damen’s shoulders, nails running down his back, legs wrapped tight around Damen’s hips, they venture out again.

It’s not as late as last time; the day is only just starting. Laurent watches Belloy come alive before him: the milkmaids scramble with their cart, the farmers slowly drag their produce to the market. There are even bright orange wagons going down the road, the kind used by cloth merchants.

Damen reaches for his hand. Laurent lets him lace their fingers together as they walk down the dirt path.

However, soon it becomes evident that today will follow in the same fashion as the day before; by noon, they’ve made little progress, and although it is not summer in Vere, the sun and heat seem relentless.

Hunched over another hole they dug up, near the foot of a hill, Damen says, “I need a swim.”

Laurent stills. It takes conscious effort not to lash out. Instead, he says, “Alright. You do that. I’ll follow the trail southwards, and see if there’s anything close to the border.”

“You need a break, Laurent,” Damen says gently. Before Laurent can say anything else, Damen assures him, “I’ll swim. You can sit in the shade. It’ll only be an hour or so.”

It’s so different to anything Auguste used to tell him. His brother was always cajoling Laurent into the water, even though they had a pact that Auguste could not disturb him once Laurent had pulled out a book. Laurent usually gave in a few hours in, sometimes before, if Auguste played his cards right.

Laurent thinks about it; it was hard enough to visit the river that first time. To go back again is —

Damen’s smile is soft. Laurent knows that if he hesitates any further, Damen will retract his offer, with nothing but compassion.

Laurent nods. Then he says, “I think you’re too tall to swim in it.”

Damen smiles. “I’ll take my chances.”

Damen holds his hand again as they make their way to the river, his smile wide and relaxed.

Laurent seats himself underneath a large tree, taking refuge under its branches. It’s the same tree he used to sit under before.

The shade is nice, cooling. Laurent’s face is warm and the heat of it is more apparent, sitting here on the ground.

Damen — and by extension — all Akielons, have little shame. It’s why Damen unpins his chiton at the shoulder and at the waist, so it falls to the ground, leaving him completely naked, despite the fact that it’s daylight, and so, there are plenty of civilians walking around.

Laurent doesn’t mind nudity. Nudity without a purpose, however, is still a strange concept.

As it is, Laurent doesn’t mind the current view. Even seated here, he can see the marks left from his fingernails in a trail down Damen’s back.

He flushes just looking at it.

Leant against the tree trunk and watching Damen, Laurent can see that he was right about the water’s depth. Damen looks comically large in the river; the water only reaches his hips. Still, it doesn’t seem to deter Damen; he dunks his head underwater, then resurfaces, shaking his head like a dog.

Laurent isn’t sure how much time passes: not a lot, because the sky is still clear and he can still make out the sounds of the inn, and the wagons on the road, but he realises he must have drifted off.

He opens his eyes, bleary eyed and sated, and his heart leaps to his throat when he catches sight of Damen.

“What is it?” he asks, panic sharp in his voice.

Damen is still in the water, but he stands close to the edge, hands pressed to the grass along the bed, wide eyed, as he stares at something off to the distance. His expression isn’t twisted in fear, but there is a real, thrumming apprehension there.

Laurent follows his gaze, his breath leaving him in a rush when he spots the tall, transparent figure standing behind the tree he’s rested against.

Queen Gunhild is a severe figure. Her hair is long, past her hips, and tightly wound in a thick braid. Her expression is grim, bordering on disapproving, and she’s so tall, the branches of the tree go through her head. It’s eerie to look at, but more so is her weapon: her mace is clutched loosely over her right shoulder, as though she is ready to swing it.

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, her eyes roam over the both of them, still wearing that straight expression, before she nods to her left, where the group of trees peter out near the border. On the map, that area is unmarked; it’s too dense with vegetation to go through, even in bright light. Laurent isn’t even sure how far it goes.

Gunhild stares at them for a second longer, and then she walks through the trees, into the shrubbery.

“She wants us to follow her,” Damen says, and Laurent jumps; he had been so entranced, seeing another legendary royal, he had forgotten that she had materialised in front of Damen, too.

“Yes,” says Laurent, dazed.

Damen hauls himself out of the water with a swiftness that would have distracted Laurent any other time, and quickly dresses himself.

They both break off into a light jog to catch up to her. As they pass the trees, the shrubbery and vegetation grow thicker, until the sun is blocked out, and it’s like the world is silenced. Yesterday, they hadn’t gone through this way, because the path had been cut off; now, however, Laurent realises that that isn’t true at all.

Gunhild guides them further down, to where the path should theoretically stop. It’s blocked off by a towering pile of boulders too large to push or lift. But Laurent notices how they’re placed, carefully and in line, not in a natural, unsystematic way, like the rocks in the river.

Damen’s hand touches his shoulder, his face drawn with the same realisation.

Gunhild’s mace is as transparent as she is; however, when she lifts it, the little light in the area catches it and then she brings it down. Her mace cuts through the boulders, right in the middle. The cut is so clean, it’s as though she’s cut a loaf of bread, instead of giant, unmovable rocks.

She cuts the boulders far enough, that through the gap they leave, Laurent and Damen can see the rest of the path, still clouded by shrubbery.

Queen Gunhild stands out of the way. Her back is rigid in its posture, but she dips her head low enough, indicating that they should go on.

Damen exhales behind him, stunned. Laurent is the same; he’s frozen in place, unsure.

The wind picks up suddenly. It blows through Damen’s hair and over Laurent’s back, like a push. Laurent stumbles forward and Damen catches him with a gentle touch to his elbow. They stare at each for a moment, lingering, even as the wind continues to blow around them.

Then, Damen takes Laurent’s wrist, his grip sure, leading them through the boulders.

Laurent chances a glance back, but Gunhild has already gone.

There’s even less light through here.

“Watch your feet,” Damen says voice low, as they step over roots and vines.

It gets darker; if Laurent thought it was silent before, it’s nothing compared to the unnerving stillness now. It’s like he and Damen are the only two people left on the earth. Even the trees are still; there aren’t any birds singing and the air is dead.

Laurent presses closer to Damen, who welcomes Laurent into his arms with ease.

Laurent sees it first, by accident. The path gets narrower and narrower, until they can’t stand beside each other anymore. Laurent trails behind Damen, still close enough to touch, eyes scanning the area around them for anything unnatural.

Laurent pushes away a vine that crosses his path. When he does, he sees it: covered by a decent amount of intertwined foliage, there’s an opening to a cabin, or a cave, just off-centre to the path, so that it lies in the thick of the shrubbery. The foliage is placed over the entrance deliberately, hiding it away amongst the thick green that surrounds them. If Laurent had just taken one step further, he would have missed.

Laurent stops Damen by pulling back on his chiton. He points to towards the entrance; it’s so dark it takes Damen a while to see it, but when he does, they don’t waste anymore time.

They have to leave the path to go towards the — Laurent is sure it’s a cabin; caves aren’t a natural part of Vere’s geography, and the structure looks manmade.

Damen tears through the foliage with ease, his large hands twisting and ripping apart the vines and leaves. Laurent expects to see nothing but pitch-black inside, but there’s a soft glow, not quite like candlelight, but similar enough. Except, there isn’t any lit candles or lanterns.

Inside the cabin — or really, it’s just a square box, with a single room — Arius’ statue towers above them.

Laurent exhales: the rush of relief is dizzying. Damen sways a little on his feet.

It’s the statue that is glowing; the white of the marble is shining, almost new, but there are tells of its age: the chipped fingers, the discoloration along Arius’ sandals. It is somehow exactly like the statue in the ceremony, and nothing like it at all.

Arius’ expression is frigid, tough. In his left hand, he clenches the harpe sword. Every single gem and diamond is accounted for, nestled and twisted into the gold.

Damen stares at the statue and the sword, awed.

Laurent touches his wrist. Damen looks down at him, his eyes wide, his expression boyish, hopeful.

“Go on,” Laurent whispers, quietly. “Celui.”

Damen swallows. He looks at Laurent with a tenderness that makes Laurent want to kiss him, so he does, a lingering peck on his lips, that Damen chases after eagerly.

“Go on,” Laurent says again, taking a small step back.

Damen squares his shoulders. His demeanor this time is much more subdued; there’s nothing arrogant about his gaze or posture. Instead, it’s reverent and grateful.

Damen draws a breath and grips the hilt of the sword. Swiftly, he pulls it out.

It doesn’t move.

“No,” says Laurent, in horror, and it’s like he’s back in Ios, in that crowded arena, watching the one man who could give him a second chance fail.

Laurent rushed forward. Damen seems stunned, but he doesn’t reach forward again.

“It’s another fake,” Laurent says, mind screaming. How could Uncle do this — not once but twice? he thinks.

“It’s not a fake,” Damen says, voice level. He points to Arius’ bare right leg, where a thin, jagged line cuts across the kneecap. “When I was thirteen, Kastor told me that the marble in this statue was impossible to cut, so I ran my sword through it — and it made that mark. Kastor told my Father about it and I was forbidden from playing okton for the rest of the year.” Damen’s expression twists. “I was so angry at Kastor, I thought I could kill him. But all he did was laugh at me.”

Laurent bites his lip, a hand trailing down Damen’s bicep. Damen loosens a little at the touch.

“So the statue is real,” Laurent laments, still running his hand up and down Damen’s bicep. “But the sword must be another fake. Or this is a trick of some sort.”

“Laurent,” Damen says, in that same careful tone, “It’s not a fake sword.”

Laurent closes his eyes. “If it’s not a fake sword then why can’t you — why isn’t it —” He opens his eyes again, teeth clenched.

“It’s not me, Laurent,” Damen turns to him, his eyes earnest, beseeching. He cups Laurent’s jaw. “I’m not celui.”

“You are,” Laurent snaps. “You have to be.”

“I can’t pull the sword. The moment I touched it, it felt wrong.”

Damen’s thumb swipes across his cheek and Laurent tries to regroup himself. “Alright, yes.” Although his heart tumbles at Damen’s words, he wills his mind to form the next, logical thought. “Yes,” Laurent says again when it finally comes to him. “We will need to go to Vask to see Halvik and then bring her here to —”

“Laurent, no,” Damen says, and the finality of his voice frightens him.

“What are you saying?” Laurent whispers.

“It’s you, Laurent,” Damen says, his thumb still pressed to Laurent’s cheek. “It always has been. The sword is your destiny. You are celui.”

It’s the shock of Damen’s words that give way to anger. Laurent pushes him away, suddenly furious.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Laurent snaps. “I can’t be celui; I didn’t even participate in the Games.”

Damen doesn’t react to Laurent’s anger with his own. Everything about him is calm, pragmatic. “You didn’t participate in the Games because you were a few months short of age.” Damen’s smiles, but it’s straight, like he’s just realised something. In a noncommittal tone he continues, “It was Kastor that convinced my Father to retire earlier than planned, you know. At first I thought he was eager to see me as King but now…” He fixes Laurent with a clear, understanding gaze. “I think he just wanted a sure way to bar you from the Games.”

Laurent shakes his head. “Damen, just listen to yourself. Celui is noble, pure hearted, good. They are everything the four Kingdoms need for peace — a, a true leader who is selfless and fair and —”

“You are all those things, Laurent,” Damen gently cuts him off, his expression confused, like he’s unsure why Laurent is arguing with him.

It infuriates Laurent further. “I’m not,” he hisses, teeth bared, and he’s so, so angry. “You don’t know anything about me. I’ve — I’ve lied to you. I haven’t told you —”

 “Haven’t told me what?” Damen says. He steps closer to Laurent, trying to hold him again, but Laurent presses back, shaking his head wildly.

“I’m tainted,” Laurent chokes out — and he thinks of Uncle’s hands on his bare skin.

Damen’s eyebrows furrow, “Laurent —”

His back is to the entrance. Laurent notices it too late; Kastor steps through, his eyes dark, and neatly plunges the knife into the meat of Damen’s hip.

Laurent’s scream clogs his throat. He watches as Damen’s eyes widen, then narrow, his mouth opening in pain as he falls to the ground in a heap.

Laurent rushes to him, but Kastor is quicker. He lunges over Damen’s body and manhandles Laurent, twisting his arms behind his back, as Laurent struggles to fight him off. He manages to kick — hard — against Kastor’s calf. Kastor curses in Akielon and twists Laurent’s arm harder, and then there is the sound of a sickening pop, and Laurent’s right arm burns in agony.

Damen groans weakly, and despite the pain blurring his vision, Laurent still tries to break free.

Kastor says harshly into his ear, “Did you really fucking think I’d leave you two alone? I knew all about your dirty little scheme; I heard you plotting in the stables before we reached Karthas.” He steps down on Laurent’s food, hard enough to trap him further.

Laurent gasps, the pain blinding.

Uncle walks into the room, his cloak immaculate, his beard neat and groomed. It’s so jarring to see Uncle, regal and proud, in this tiny, cramped room, that Laurent thinks he might be delirious from the pain.

Kastor pulls at his arm again and Laurent screams, spit gathering into his mouth.

Uncle tsks, staring at Damen, whose face is losing colour, and then Laurent, eyes cold. He smiles at Laurent, saccharine and acidic all at once. “You’ve uncovered my hiding spot, darling nephew. You must be feeling very proud of yourself.”

Laurent bares his teeth, face red. “You’re fucking sick.”

Uncle clicks his tongue again. His sigh is long drawn, disappointed. “It’s a shame you’ve become so temperamental, Laurent, especially when you were such a sweet child.”

Laurent ignores him; he knows what Uncle is trying to do. If Laurent thinks about it for too much, he’ll spiral — and right now what he needs, what Damen needs, is a cool head.

Damen groans again. Laurent looks at him, chest aching. He knows something is very wrong. The knife isn’t lodged deep, but the way Damen is writhing in pain is atypical for a knife wound. His face is pale, drawn, and there’s sweat soaking into his hairline. He looks like he’s dying.

“What did you do to him?” Laurent whispers, aghast — and he’s never known fear like this.

“It’s a very simple poison,” Uncle says, lightly. “Just a few drops on the tip of a blade, and it instantly works itself into the bloodstream.”

“No,” Laurent chokes out.

“Don’t worry, nephew,” Uncle says. His eyes glance over to Damen again. “It takes a while for the body to completely shut down. A few hours or so. Sometimes even weeks.” Uncle’s eyes meet his.

And Laurent knows. He remembers Auguste, healthy, vibrant, young, suddenly wasting away in his bed, delirious with a disease that no one could identify.

And then Aleron, who would have never left his youngest son alone — even after the death of his first. For all his faults, Laurent knows he was loved by his father.

Laurent lunges for a third time. The anger, the pure hatred in his heart, propels him forward enough to knock Uncle back with his injured shoulder. “I’ll kill you.” — and Laurent is gratified to see his Uncle on the floor, eyes wide in shock.

But then Kastor pulls him back again, and then down on his knees.

Laurent feels the tip of another blade press to his nape. He tries to move again, but it’s impossible, and all Laurent can think about is Aleron, and Auguste and the fact that Damen’s last memory of him will be Laurent angry, saying I’m tainted.

Kastor steps closer, his blade kissing Laurent’s skin. Laurent jerks his head to the side, and the blade fails to penetrate him. Kastor curses again.

Laurent drops himself to the floor, chest slamming into ground so hard the air knocks out of him, and then he turns himself around, his shoulders straining against the floor.

Laurent presses his legs together, all the way down to his ankles. With his shoulders pressed to the floor, he lifts his legs up high enough and kicks with all his strength.

It’s a well-aimed kick; his leather boots knock against Kastor’s solar plexus.

Laurent watches Kastor’s eyes widen, the air escaping his lungs in a gasp. He topples backwards, arms flailing, unable to gain his balance.

Kastor’s body falls back into the King Arius’ statue. His head hits Arius’ right kneecap with a loud crack. Blood trickles out behind Kastor’s head. His eyes stay open, unseeing at the ceiling.

Laurent manages, somehow to get up. He drags himself across the room, snatching Kastor’s blade from his lax hand and turns.

Damen is on still on the floor, eyes closed, as he lays directly across his dead brother.

Uncle is on the floor too, and the look in his eyes is wild as he watches Laurent approach him.

Laurent lifts the dagger.

Uncle stares at it, the poisoned blade glinting in the dark. He laughs, breathlessly, delirious. “Are you really going to kill me, Laurent? Think of everything I’ve ever done for you.”

“Shut up,” Laurent hisses.

“Who, exactly, are you doing this for?” Uncle asks, his face still morphed into a maniacal grin. “There’s no one here to witness your sweet revenge. Auguste is dead. My darling brother is dead. Damianos will be dead, too — and if he does survive — do you think he’ll forgive you for his brother’s murder?”

“I said shut up!” Laurent says, his voice ringing. The dagger shakes in his hands.

Uncle’s smile is the ugliest thing Laurent has ever seen; it’s terrible and distorts all his features. It makes Laurent sick.

Uncle says, “Do you think you can rule Vere? You?” Uncle laughs. “Vere will be ruined under you.”

The greatest king in history, Arius had said.

Laurent smiles, “No, it won’t.” He brings the dagger down.

Uncle’s eyes follow it, and then he sees something over Laurent’s shoulder. He pales, eyes popping out of his skull, and Laurent pauses at the look of pure, unfiltered horror on Uncle’s face.

He turns around and realises his mistake too late.

There’s nothing behind him; Uncle pushes Laurent down onto the ground. Laurent grips the knife tighter, expecting to fight over it, but then he hears the sound of footsteps running away.

“You fucking coward!” Laurent screeches, lifting himself up. It tears his shoulder even more and he stumbles, the room tilting briefly.

He can see the ends of Uncle’s cloak as he leaves. Laurent makes to follow after him, but he then he hears his name, spoken low and sombre.

Laurent drops the knife with a clatter, falling to his knees besides Damen.

“Oh, gods,” Laurent whispers, staring down at Damen’s pale face.

Damen’s eyes are half slits, barely open. “Laur…” He tries again, breaking off with a pained gasp.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” Laurent cups Damen’s face, which is searing hot. “I’m here.”

Damen stares at him — or at least tries to. He closes his eyes again.

“Damen, you need to stay awake,” Laurent says urgently, and Damen’s eyes flutter. “Yes, come on, like that.”

Damen groans.

“Please,” Laurent says, his throat tight. He pushes back Damen’s hair and leans in close. “Stay awake, Damen. For me. Can you do that?”

Damen’s body trembles, and a fresh sheen of sweat covers his temples.

Laurent kisses his forehead, his closed eyelids. “I’m sorry for getting angry at you. I believe you now, okay? I’m celui.” Damen remains still, and Laurent shakes him a little. “Hey. Damen. Don’t you want to see me pull out Arius’ sword? I’ll do it right now, you just need to stay awake, alright?”

Damen’s eyes flutter again. They open a fraction, enough for Laurent to make out the pupil.

“Hey,” Laurent says. “Damen.”

“Laurent,” Damen gasps, breath rattling.

“I’m here,” Laurent says, gripping Damen’s hand. “Do you feel me?” Damen shudders. Laurent squeezes his hand harder. “You need to get up, Damen. We have Kingdoms to rule, remember? Together. You promised me.”

“Laurent.”

Laurent looks up. Arius’ face is grave.

“Help him,” Laurent chokes out. “You’re — You can call the gods. Please.”

Arius ignores him. He doesn’t even look at Damen. “Your destiny is unfulfilled. You need to go after your Uncle.”

Laurent shakes his head. “I can’t leave him.” He presses his and Damen’s joined hands to his chest, shaking. “He needs me.”

“Your Uncle is getting away, Laurent,” Arius says.

Laurent shakes his head again. He can’t think anymore.

“I’ll stay with him,” Arius offers quietly. “He won’t be alone.”

Laurent stares at Arius’ blue, transparent face. “Can you save him?”

Arius opens his mouth, closes it. Then he says, “I will try.”

“Please,” Laurent says. “I can’t lose him too.”

Arius nods once. He looks over at Damen, finally. Staring at his ancestor he says, “Your Uncle is approaching the river.”

Laurent nods. He stares down at Damen and kisses him. “I’ll be back, I promise,” he whispers into his ear, and he tries not to think about how still Damen is.

Laurent grabs the knife, taking one look back at Arius hovering over Damen, and breaks out into a run.

The sky is a blinding white. It lights up everything in the path; the darkness now long gone. It makes it easier for Laurent to navigate the dense vegetation, the curling vines and the thick roots.

Uncle isn’t even running. It twists Laurent’s insides, watching Uncle walk along the riverbed, hands clasped behind his back, as though he hasn’t just left an innocent man to die.

Laurent runs after him, dagger raised. Uncle hears him; he turns around, mouth open in a rectangular grin, and then it falls, a horrified scream leaving his lips.

Laurent stops, chilled.

This is real fear, real horror on Uncle’s face. And it’s not because of Laurent.

“Laurent,” Auguste says, and he looks the same: long braided hair, tall, broad shoulders, and long eyelashes, curled at the end. He’s transparent, like Arius, but his outline is a sapphire blue, like the starburst banners.

Laurent says, “Auguste.”

His brother smiles at him, tender and sweet. His gaze is hungry. “Look at you,” he says softly, almost to himself. His voice is deeper than Laurent remembers. He meets Laurent’s eyes. “You’re so grown up.”

Laurent’s face is wet. He can’t look away from Auguste who is here, in front of him, a real, tangible thing. There’s so much he wants to say, but nothing leaves his mouth.

Uncle is watching Auguste too, fear fixated on his face, his body. He’s so still and pale, he almost looks like a standing corpse.

Auguste says to Laurent, “Spirits don’t usually show themselves in the mortal world. They don’t usually harm mortals either. But killing him isn’t your destiny.” He turns to Uncle. “It’s mine.”

It happens so quickly. Uncle’s face slackens, his body convulsing in violent shivers, mouth open in pain. His hands wrap around his own throat as he tries to breathe, but his face loses colour, his eyes rolling back.

Uncle falls into the river. He doesn’t resurface.

Laurent stares at the still surface of water, oddly empty.

Auguste is watching him. It’s surreal to have his brother’s gaze on him. “Are you alright, Laurent?”

“I miss you,” Laurent says, crying properly now. He wants Auguste to hold him. He wants to hold Auguste.

Auguste steps close, smiling. “I miss you too, Laurent. Everyday. But you’ve given us all peace, now. So live your life. Be happy. And we’ll spend forever together one day.”

Laurent nods. Like every time with Arius, he blinks, and Auguste disappears.

Laurent stares for a moment, at the river, and then the patch of grass where Auguste had stood.

When he turns, Damen is standing at the mouth of the river, healthy and tall, watching him with awe. His chiton is clean, free of blood, and there’s no mark where the dagger pierced him.

Laurent runs into his arms.

Epilogue:

The Arles Palace hasn’t been this alive in years. The starburst banners line the walls inside and out — a premature step, Laurent thinks, but he’s warmed by the gesture.

Laurent nervously fiddles with the hem of his chiton with his left hand; his right is still in a sling, designed by Paschal. It’s supposed to help with the healing, but Laurent hates how difficult everything is for him now.

Jord peeks his head through the door. “Your Highness, it’s time.”

Laurent nods, trying to smile. He isn’t sure how successful he is.

Jord gives him a reassuring pat on his good arm, and Orlant, behind him, grins.

Laurent had been surprised, to say the least, when Jord and Orlant had returned to the Arles Palace just a week after he and Damen had found the real sword.

Apparently, as they had been losing the battle on the ship, they had suddenly been knocked over into the water.

“Next thing we know, Your Highness, we’re standing in a fucking inn in Bazal,” Orlant had said. “It literally felt like we had just been teleported.”

“It was like the Sea was protecting us,” Jord had said, and it made Laurent smile.

Now, Laurent lets them lead him down the hall to the auditorium. Laurent’s palms are sweaty, and he tries to wipe his left one down.

When he enters the auditorium, the cacophony of cheering almost deafens him.

All of Arles has been invited to watch the sword pulling ceremony, but Laurent’s eyes fall to the first row of patrons, where all the delegates and ambassadors sit.

Damen is front and centre, in a matching chiton, his laurel crown nestled into his curls, and his grin wide. Laurent is sure his cheer is the loudest.

It’s only been two weeks since their world erupted. In between the planning of the ceremony and Kastor’s funeral, there had been a lot of long, hard nights, where they had stayed up talking about the past, trying to overcome its painfulness. They still have a long way to go but for the first time, Laurent is excited about it.

King Arius statue stands in the middle of the stage, his sword gripped firmly.

When the ambassador gives him the signal to, Laurent walks over the stage, the crowd silent, anticipatory as they watch him.

Laurent bows to Arius statue. Silently, in his heart, he thanks him for everything.

Although Laurent’s left hand isn’t his sword yielding hand, if he is celui, it shouldn’t be an issue.

Laurent steadies himself with a breath, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. He grips the hilt of the sword, and a pleasurable warmth runs under his palm, and across his arms. Laurent pulls.

The sword unsheathes.

The cheering is raucous, reverberating against the walls of the auditorium.

Laurent turns and lifts the sword high in the air. It’s as light as a feather.

He bows to the crowd, eyes travelling over all the citizens he will now be responsible.

In the very corner, Laurent sees something that makes his heart soar.

There are four transparent figures by the stands; nobody notices them, but Laurent looks at them and smiles, his chest full.

Auguste, Aleron and Hennike hold each other as they watch Laurent. There’s nothing but pride and happiness in their faces. It’s etched into Arius’ face too.

Laurent wishes he could stare at them a little longer, but his eyes inevitably, fall to Damen, whose gaze is hungry, proud, in love.

Laurent stares back at him, smiling, and all he can think about is how Damen is his future. That’s all that matters.

Above them, the sky flashes a warm gold, the colour of honey.