Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

My dearest Stanley,

You’d probably laugh if you saw the state I was in writing this. Elbows on the desk, ink smudged on my hand as if I’ve been clawing the paper instead of writing on it.

It’s past midnight. The whole castle is asleep, except for me. I don’t sleep. You know this. I wander the halls alone all night, hoping for something that will for an instance, change. For someone to stop me, and ask me if I’m alright. No one ever does.

There’s word about a war.

Nothing confirmed, of course. Just a rumour. Just a whisper passed down from a merchant who heard it from a soldier, who heard it from a shepherd, who heard it from his drunk cousin. Still, I believe them. I always do. Two of his men were caught snooping around the southern border. Servants, supposedly. Traitors. If you believe the story they fed the guards- which I don’t.

There’s something in the air. You feel it too, don’t you?

They’re pushing me to act, Stan. To strike first. The ministers, the priests, I even overheard the servants speaking about it. I don’t want a war, but I think the war wants me. It’s like it’s following me around, breathing down my neck, waiting. It’s circling me because it knows eventually let it in.

They keep telling me to be strong. Saying I’m too “calm of a ruler”. Can you believe that? Just because I didn’t shout in the meeting today. Just because I nodded my head instead of screaming.

You know what strength looks like in this place? Walking into a room full of people who want your crown and smiling like you slept last night.

(I didn’t)

I keep having dreams of him. Eric. Not as a man, more as a shadow that follows me around, telling me everything I’m about to lose. Sometimes I wonder if he’s still angry, or just waiting for the right moment to finish what we started. (Don’t ask me what we started, I couldn’t tell you.)

I’m not calm, Stan. I’m tired— and no one seems to know the difference.

I miss you.
God, I miss you.

I keep turning corners excepting to see you there, just leaning against the wall or something. I caught myself looking for you three times today. Once in the library, one outside the council office, and once in a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. It’s beyond ridiculous. You haven’t even been gone that long. But no one else makes sense the way you do. Everyone else talks in riddles and worships me like I’ll explode if they don’t. I keep thinking about what you’d do if you were here. You’d tell me I’m spiralling, that I’m being dramatic. Maybe even throw something soft at my head. And I’d let you. Because you’re the only one I’d ever let see me like this.

Come back home. I’m surrounded by people who pretend not to notice when I fall apart.

I need someone who won’t.

I know I shouldn’t say this but, yours Ky.

Chapter Text

The room held it's breath. Dripping in velvet, dusted with gold. Chandeliers dripped light like honey, almost mocking glows against the aging portrets that lingered on the walls. Those painted eyes- once nobel-now ornamental- seemed to judge evreyone that dared to step trough the golden doors. Conversation didn't just echo, it slithered. A hundred whispered scandals dressed up as observations. Names dropped like coins, rumors fell like ash which evreyone inhaled.

The king was seated in his usual seat, one leg slung over the other, posture immaculate, fingers threaded behind his chin. He wasn't smiling, not really. But his lips curved in a way that implied that he could if he wanted to. Tho he rarely wanted to.

Around him: the finest minds of the kingdom, or so they liked to be called.

Silk spilled down their shoulder like water, pearls threaded their hair like secrets, diamonds glittered on their wrists with the quiet arrogance of old money. Inside, they were all the same. They sipped expensive wine and quoted eacother in circles. Sometimes he wondered if they ever heard themselfs. If any of them ever had an original thought in their head.

''They say he's making deals in the north again. Smuggling arms trough the river port. Bribing scouts. Stockpiling something.'' The man spoke. His voice was low, but not enough to be discret. He wanted to be overheard.

''They say that every winter.'' Lord Bradley chimmed in, swirling his wine like it had the awnser. ''Yet every winter something burns.'' someone else snapped- Lady Annie, ellbow deep in a second glass of wine. Her lipstick half faded and her patience going with it.'' ''Maybe if we stopped ignoring smoke, we wouldn't be suprised when the house catches fire.''

An older man leaned in, voice as bristtle as his bones. ''My cousin sent word from a border town last week. Said Cartman's men passed trough dressed as traitors. Gave no names. Paid no foreign coin. Didn't leave tracks behind.'' ''Ghost stories.'' another whisperd.

Lady Annie took another sip and muttered into her glass ''Then why does every ghost wear his colours.''

''Every era has its phantom,'' a nother tried to joke. 

''This is exactly what happened before the Glimmering War.''

The conversation stopped mid sentence, laughter curdled on open mouths. Even the fire cracked and hissed like it had heard the name too.

The Glimmering War.

A name that still drew blood. A war so devastating, so sensless, that it burned itself into the decade. They didn't just remember the battles- they renamed the years. The War Years, the Glimmered War decade. It ended more than lives; it ended eras. There were sti8ll some cities in the east that never rebuilt, and some that never would. Whole villages swallowed by violence.

They didn't speak about it in polite company.

Not unless they were drunk.
Not unless they forgot who they were speaking to.

His parents have died in the early years of the war. Not in battle. Not for honour, just as a message. Assasinated on the King's road. Their deaths weren't glorious. Their deaths weren't even mentioned in the history books.

He was sixteen.

A chorus of agreement began to hum trough the room- low, discortant, like a prayer spoken too late.

Kyle watched it unfold, his eyes narrow and unreadable.

They spoke of strategy with wine-stained teeth and arms that had never held a sword. Called themselfs patriots but what have they defended other their own names carved into marble no one would remember in fifty years.

He knew what would happen next. They'd quote him tomorow, twist it in every drawing room and garden, shape his silence into phropecy.

And still, they wouldn't look him in the eyes when they did it.

The doors opened again. And the room forgot what it was talking about.

Wendy.

She stepped in the room. Her long black hair spilled down her back like ink, her violet eyes scanned the room with a softness that was never quite naive. Her dress glittered like starlight trapped in black silk, long and heavy, brushing the marble floor with every deliberete step she took. She wore gloves the colour of plum, elbow-lenghed and fitted, around her neck hung a heart shaped pendant, glinting like something that had once belonged to a saint- or a siner. It clung to her like a secret.

She wasn't a princess, wasn't royalty.
But the room still went silent for her.
They weren't gawking. They weren't falling to their knees. But they noticed. They always did.

Wendy didn't speak. She didn't have to. Her pressence alone was an interruption, the kind that rewrote the conversation.

A few eyes followed her with polite curiosity; most looked anywhere but at her directly. It was always like that. Everyone respected her. No one trusted her. Respect, after all, is what you give something you don't dare provoke.

'My only intullectual peer in this godamn room' he thought.

He didn't dislike her. Not yet. There was something strangely familiar about her. She wasn't trying to impress anyone- sheknew she didn't have to. She reminded him of kimself, if he were born a woman and allowed to speak freely.

That's the problem, he thought. She's a little to much like me.

Their eyes met. He looked away first.

''Were going to lose.''
The words didn't land like a phropecy. They slipped in like smoke. Whispered from the far end of the table, as if saying it quietly might make it less true.

''Were going to lose.'' Baroness Elena repeated, sharper this time. ''Cartman isn't playing defence. He's waiting. Letting us rot in our own gardens, pruning whats already dying.''

Lady Bebe snorted in her wine ''Oh, dramatic.''

''She's not wrong'' said someone else- Lady Mirelle. Chin resting on gloved knuckles. ''His armies haven't moved because they don't have to. He's already inside the house. We're arguing over drapes while he's setting the cellar on fire.''

''This is all too familliar'' someone muttered.

Kyle stared into the fire.

Someone cleared their throat, but loudly. Too loudly.

''Revolution's already here, it's just wearing our crest and drinking our wine.''

Just as the king opened his mouth to speek, the doors creaked.

A servant entered, breathless, bowing quickly before stepping forward. ''Yoir majesty...''

Kyle turned, arching an eybrow.

''He's returned'' the boy said, voice tight.

The room froze.

''Who?'' Elena asked.

The boy swallowed. ''Your right hand''

For a moment, noboy breathed.''

Then Kyle sat his down glass- carefully, precisely, without a sound.

''Clear the room,'' he said.

And every soul in the salon obeyed.

Chapter Text

''Send him in.'' it sounded more a beg than a order.

_____________

The doors opened again.

Kyle didn't look up at first. He thought it was another servant. Or some late- countess with powderd lies between her teeth.

But the room went still.

And stayed still.

He turned his head-
-and saw him.

Stanley Theodore fucking Marsh.

Alive.

Unapologetically.

And Kyle stood before he relised he was standing.

The man in the dorway didn't speak.

Not yet.

He looked like he'd come from the edge of the world- coat dusted in travel, boots still carryying the dust of other kingdoms, shoulders square like he was used to carrying something no one else could. His face was the same. Sharper, maybe. But it's still him.

Still his.

''You came back.''

''I said I would.''

That was it. And Kyle- Kyle whos speaches had torn kingdoms in half- couldn't speak. For a silverd second, he could only stare.

''I wrote you,'' he finally spoke ag ain.

''I know.''

''You never awnsered.''

''I never read them.''

Kyle flinched. Only slightly. ''Why?''

''Because if I read them, I'd come back. And I couldn't come back'' He paused, his voice quieter. ''Not then.''

Two men. Two winters. One wound.

So they stood there- two men who had gone trough hell in diffrent directions and somehow ended up here again, in the same room, staring at each other like maybe the other could still save them.

Like maybe they already had.

The kings voice softend. ''Dinner?''

_____________

Dinner had been layed out Like a ceremony. Silver glintings under candlelight, wine decented into crystals, linen napkins folded so precisely they looked like they might cut you. The long dining table stretched out like a scar trough the centre of the room, untouched by warmth, fit for kings and ghosts alike.

Kyle returned to his seat at the head, as always. He didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to.

He knew what would happen next.

Stan didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate. He simply walked the length of the table and sat- not across from Kyle, not at the other end like a proper guest would. No. He sad beside him. Right-handed side. Same chair. The one that had remained untouched since he left.

The one no one else had ever been allowed to fill.

It had gathered dust, that chair. Servants weren’t allowed to polish it unless explicitly told, and Kyle had never told them. Because there were some things you didn’t clean. Some absences you didn’t scrub out of the wood.

Kyle glanced sideways, barely a turn of the head. “Still fits?”

Stan smiled without looking at him. “Never didn’t.”

The candles flickered like they knew what this meant. Like they were bearing witness to something too quiet to be history, but too heavy to be a coincidence.

“So,” Stan said, glancing around the empty banquet hall like it had teeth. “Not exactly the raucous welcome I imagined.”

Kyle smirked. “You scared off half the court just by breathing.”

“Still got it.”

Then Stan laughed, low and rough. “Do you remember the scarlet runners?”

Kyle blinked.

“The vines,” Stan added when the redhead didn’t awnser. “Behind the orchards. We used to dare each other to swing across them like idiots.” His grin cracked wide. “I nearly broke my neck. You cried the whole way dragging me back.”

“I was ten.” Kyle said, voice cut dry. “You were heavier back then. You were also bleeding everywhere. I thought you were dying.”

“You always cried when you got angry. Probably still do.”

“Try me.”

It was ridiculous. The memory. The image of them half bruised and reckless. Stan, grinning trough a split lip, and Kyle, all clenched fists and wide eye panic.

“You shouldn’t have jumped from the balcony.”
Kyle said, pouring himself a nother glass, even though he hadn’t finished the first.

“You dared me.”

“I was joking.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” the revenette smirked “Still, it was impressive. Until I hit the fountain.”

Kyle snorted. “You hit every stone in the courtyard. I remember the healer saying you were lucky you didn’t crack your skull.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Would explain your decision making.”

They fell silent again. But not uncomfortably so. It was the kind of silence that settled like old wine- rich, dense, familiar.

“You know” Stan spoke after a while, voice gentler like they were still stretching in his chest. “I used to think those vines would last forever. Like if anything survived us. It would be them.”

“They’ve been dead for years.” Kyle said.

“Figures.”

But he didn’t say it bitterly. Just… like a truth they already both knew.

Kyle leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the shadows that lined the stone walls.

“You bled all over my tunic that day,” he said, voice quieter now.” “I tried to get the stain out for weeks. Ruined it.”

“Did you cry?” Stan teased, but it was softer this time.

Kyle didn’t awnser.

Instead he reached for the wine, and Stan watched him. Watched the way his hands shook just slightly before he stilled them again. Watched the shado cross his face, even in the candlelight.

The fire cracked softly behind them. Shadows played across the table like ghosts eavesdropping on old conversations.

Stan leaned back in his chair, watching the fire dance. “So,” he said, voice soft and tired “I heard were losing.”

Kyle didn’t deny it.

He just swirled the wine in his cup. ''Cartman dosen't need to win. He just needs to wait.''

''Still playing the long game?''

''He always did,'' Kyle muttered. ''He waits while the kingdom eats itself. Our soliders bled for land we already lost in our heads.''

Stan tilted his head ''Is he still fat?''

Kyle choked on his wine, coughed, whiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ''Fat as ever. Eats as if the kingdom isn't collapsing.''

''Charming.''

They both laughed. But it wasn't the alcohol, they were drunk on something far stronger.

''What about the paladin?'' Stan asked.

Kyle rolled his eyes. ''I heard he gave a whole speach at council last week about the sancity of sacrafice. He hasn't seen a battlefield in his life, but somehow knows what dying for glory is supposed to feel like.''

''He'd piss himself in the mud.''

''Please. He'd drown in his own tears before the first arrow ever landed.''

They laughed again, but something softer this time. Familiar.

''And the princess?''

Kyle raised an eyebrow. ''Which one?''

''The one who tried to seduce me.''

''Oh, her.'' He sipped his wine again. ''Divorced again. This time a duke. They say she picks them for blodline, then bleeds them dry.''

''I suppose I can see that.''

A hush settled between them- not akward, not tense. Just fasmiliar. The kind of silence that belonged to people who have already said too much to each other in another life.

A servant moved quietly trough the room, ghostlike in black and silver, and stopped just beside Kyle. He didn't glance up as the man filled his glass with something deep and purple.

''Still forcing yourself to drink that awful blackberry wine?''

''Still stealing it when i'm not looking?'' Kyle raised an eyebrow, ''besides, it's what they brought.''

''Vile.''

''My taste has changed. I like it now.''

Stan tilted his head, smile edging sharp. ''That's the saddest thing you've said all night.''

Outside, the wind rattled the windows. Somwhere, far off, a bell rang once andd didn't ring again. It was him and Stan, just like it used to be. They were talking about nothing- about how the servants over-salted the pheasants, about how the new steward tripped over his own feet during court introductions last week. Stan made some biting remark about the new drapes looking like they were stiched from thr queens old corsets, and Kyle nearly choked laughing.

And it hit him.

Like a stone dropped in water.

God, had he needed this.

This is what peace feels like. This is what he was starving for.

Kyle didn't look him in the eyes when he asked.

''Where were you?''

''Me?''

''No,'' Kyle said dryly. ''The other ghost at the table.''

Stan looked away.

Kyle's tone didn't sharpen, but it didn't soften either. ''You left me to wonder if you were frozen in a trench or burned out in some godforsaken border town. I'd like to know which.''

Stan's hand curled around his glass.

''I was stationed north of the Shatterline.'' he said at last. ''Cartman's men had been running weapons trough the ice passes. The plan was to track them, intercept a few camps, get out before winter closed the roads..''

He looked back at Kyle.

''But it didn't go like that.''

Kyle already knew this part of the tale all too well, but he let Stan finish anyway.

''They knew we were coming. They shot down our message raven.'' His voice was low now, nearly burried beneath the velvet hush of the room. ''We were amushed, only four of us made it out alive. And then- only two. After that, it was just me. Didn't think I'd make it home, to be honest. I think I stayed alive just to spite the bastard who's fault it was. I spent the better half of the year decaying fort just south of the Silver Teeth. I trained their cadets. Taught them how to move without dying. Sat trough briefings, fought when I had to. But mostly... '' a pause ''I waited for a good enough reason to come back.''

Kyle didn't say anything at first. He only leaned forward, resting his forearms against the tables like he did in the old days.

''I would've come.'' He said quietly.

''I know.'' Stan replied, just as quiet.

Kyle didn't say anything at first.

The words hung in the air like smoke from a ruined chapel- holy and wrong at the same time.

''You could've written''

The edge on his voice wasn't sharp, it was worse. Soft. Raw silk drawn across bruised skin.

Stan looked at him, eyes steady beneath the golden haze of firelight.

''You coul'dve asked me not to go.'' Quiet. Almost too quiet.

Kyle blinked. Once. Then again.

''I didn't think I had to.''

''You didn't.'' A beat. ''But it would've helped.''

Silence followed. Not empty- but full. Neither of them apologised. Neither of them had to.

''I saved that chair.''

Stan turned to him, puzzled.

''Every dinner, every godamn council meeting. You know they tried to give it to Pip?'' A breathy laugh, more smoke than sound. ''I threatend to have it set on fire.''

Stan laughed, then. Really laughed. Not out of mockery. Out of something else.

Kyle reached for the bottle. Poured slowly.

He handed one glass to Stan. The old way.

Their fingertips brushed.

''To us.'' Kyle said, voice rough with something that wasn't just wine.

Stan chinked his glass against his, soft as a promise.
''To us''

Outside, the world spun into madness. Inside, the kingdoms two most dangerous men sat beneth a flickering chandelier, aching for a past that refused to stay dead.

The last light of the fire curved arount Kyle's lips as he muttered,

''God help them if they're planing something.''

Chapter Text

Oh, they were apsolutley planing something.

The room was dressed for a funeral.

Long drapes smothered the windows, stained the colour of old bruises, while a chandelier under groaned about the weight of too many candles. The scent of smoke clung to the walls like regret. A single, long table sliced the chamber in half, lacqured in something too dark to just be wood. Maps bled across its surface- rivers inked in red, borders frayed with thumbprints and wine stains. It wasn't a council meeting, oh, no. It was so much more than that.

The king sat at the head. Cartman. A smile played on his lips, but it never touched his eyes- those eyes stayed cold, like he was already bored of the blood he was about to spill. Around him sat the chosen- each one handpicked, merely tolarated or feared. Each of them with a title. Each of them with a purpose. None of them, in his eyes, quite enough. Cartman didn't stand when he spoke, he didn't need to.

''We strike north, no more hesitation. I want fire on their roads and fear in their eyes. And when they come begging for air-'' He smiled. ''We give them blood.'' ''Isn't there another way? They barely recovered.'' The paladin plead. He looked too young for this room. Too earnest, too human.

Cartman didn't let him finish.

''Peace is for people who have nothing left to lose Butters, I'm not there yet.'' it hit the table like a verdict.

The paladin's eyes darted across the table- just breefly- meeting princess Kenny's.

And Kenny looked back.

That was all. One glance. A secret passed in silence. But it lingered. It meant something.

''They've sealed the river routs. If we go now, it's a massacre on both sides.'' Sir Toliken spoke, yet Cartman didn't blink. ''Then make our side die prettier.

There was a silence after than. Not stunned- just accustumed. Like they all expected the worst from him, and he never failed to deliver.

Archer Tweek, always five thousand thoughts ahead and tripping over every single one of them- stared down at the map like it was going to bite his head off. ''They're going to retaliate you, realize that, right?'' He muttered. A pause. His voice thinned. ''This isn't just politics anymore- this is revenge!''

He didn't expect an awnser.

He didn't want one.

He leaned twords the theif beside him- barely audible, just breath and dread.

''Craig,'' he whispered. ''If this goes bad... Run. I mean it.''

He didn't speak. Just noded once, slow.

Across the table, Clyde demanded, slamming his fist on the table like he'd just thought of war for the first time. ''Let me lead the charge. I'll have their heads by sunset.''

The theif leaned back in his chair, voice low, dry, and diamond cut.

''Sure, and I'll marry a dutches before lunch.''

The room fell silent again.

The map on the table looked more like a crime scene now. All red lines and bruised borders. Places no one would come back from. Names that wouldn't survive.

And somewhere in the corner, Cartman whispered to no one in perticular- ''I should have killed him when I had the chance. Back at Seven's pass. Remember that?''

The words hung in the air like smoke. No one asked who he meant. They didn't need to.

''This is war,'' Cartman raises, voice low- casual, almost too casual. ''It won't be noble. It won't be clean.'' He doesn't look at anyone when he says it.

''Roads will reak of blood, and rivers will remember every name we drown.'' He stopped by the map, fingers pressing into the ink like he meant to bruise it. ''Still, we will go.'' A beat. Just one.

And then he shifts his gaze, and its all teeth.

''If any of you are waiting for a sighn not to follow me into this- here it is.'' His words strech, deliberete. The calm before the execution. ''If you've got hearts too soft for blood and steel, walk.''

''But I swear this on my name- on this kingdom- if you leave- you leave headless.''

Silence folds in around them. Dense. Undeniable. Like smoke before the fire.

''You're dismissed.''

And just like that. The spell breaks.

Chairs scrape backwards with the graceless noise of panic. Boots echo against stone in no perticular rythm- some hurry, some dragging. None brave enough to linger. A goblet tipped over someones haste. No one dares to pick it up.

Because just as Butters is about to follow the others, he hears it.

''Not you.''

The words fall like a guillotine.

He freezez mid step, spine stiff, back to the king. Everyone else is gone now. The door swings shut behind them.

He stays still. Breathing like it might betray him.

And that's where it begeins.

''Tell me,'' Cartman says lightly, swirling his wine. ''Would any of you bleed for me?''

The room stills.

''I only ask because I would bleed for this kingdom,'' he adds, hand pressed dramatically to his chest. ''Bleed it dry if I must.''

He turns to the paladin. ''Would you?''

The paladin flinches. Doesn't awnser. And that silence is louder than a scream.

''That's what I thought.'' A beat. He sets the goblet down. ''You can go now.''

Butters doesn't bow. Just nods, barely, and turns on his heel. His footsteps echo too loud in a room too quiet.

At the doorway, he pauses- just for a second. Not enough to speak. Just enough to wonder if this is where the betrayal begins.

Behind him, Cartman doesn't watch him go. He's already reaching for the next map, the next war, the next thing to bleed.

Chapter Text

Leo,
(Or should I say sire?)

They're still arguing downstairs. I can hear Eric pacing- voices echo trough the castle like smoke. He's on about glory again, like it hasn't cost us too much already. Someone laughed when he said they'd see our banners and piss themselfs. I think it was Craig. I hope he chokes. They talk of blood like it's wine. Toasting to fire and flaming like it's a fucking celebration. God, I hate them.

Every time I walk past that war room I feel the walls rot a little more. You're the only one who doesn't reek of rot.

You don't belong here.

Never have, never will.

There is something about the way you sit at that cursed table- like you're being held hostage. Like your body's there, but your soul is somwhere cleaner. Somwhere honest. You never look like them, never speak like them. Like you're trying not to become something he'd be proud of.

That's probably why I like you.
No- fuck that. That's definetly why I like you.

I smile trough dinners. I drink trough meetings. I curtsy a lot. The perfect princess, if you will. And all the while, I'm biting my tounge untill it bleads, because if I say your name aloud even once, I won't be able to stop.

I hate hiding. Hate pretending we're strangers in corridors and nobodies in war rooms. I hate that love is a luxury we can't aford. Something filthy and sinfu that needs to be hiddenl. You know what's filthy? This kingdom

Not us.

Never us.

Sometimes, when the nights get too quiet, and the castle is empty,. I let myself dream.

I dream of waking up before you do- sunlight bleeding trough threadbare curtans in some crooked little cottage far away from here.

No titles.

No eyes.

Just us.

I dream of coffe too bitter, laughter too loud, and a roof that leaks when it rains. Of arguments over nothing- who burned the bread, who forgot to buy salt.

But then I remember who I am.

Who you are.

Who we are.

People like us don't get simplicity. We get slipping past guards, hiding places, and letters like this one.

Still- if you ever go looking for one. Make sure there's room for two.

Because if I lose you in this, Leo,
I'll burn the whole fucking kingdom down myself.

- Your's against better judgment, Kenny

Chapter Text

The envelope was heavy enough to feel important. Wax seal, deep crimson, stamped with a sunburnt crest. It smelled faintly of smoke and roses- like something dangerous being passed for something pretty.

The courier didn’t wait for a reply. Just pressed into the servant’s hand and vanished down the front lined street.
Inside, the card was edged in gold so thin it caught the light like a blade.

‘You are cordially invited…’

___________

It took thirty-six servants to light the chandeliers. Each flame caught like a secret, gliding the air, too alive- too warm for a place like this. Gold ran like blood along side the edges of the room, pettals scattared across the stairs like offerings to something long dead. It was beautiful.

The marble floor gleamed like frozen water mid-storm- polished untill it reflected the celing, the gowns & everything unsaid. Heavy velvet curtains clung to the windows, thick enough to draw sound, thin enough to keep in the heat of too many bodies watching each other.

The air hummed with vanila- something sweet rotting the edges.

Kyle hated nights like this.

Not because of the politics, or the speaches, or even the dancing.

But because he knew everything was temporary.

He stood in front of a mirror, slipping his gloves on slowly. Looking back at him was the reflection in the mirror. He was perfect. His green eyes glammed like rare jewles. His lips were quiet- expressive. Like he was always on the verge of saying something important. A sharp angular nose gave his face a certian precission, almost too carefully drawn. His hands were striking- long bone thin, the vains just beneth the surface like blue threads pulled tight. They looked like they belonged to a pianist or a poet, someone who lived more in his mind then in the world.

It was time.

A stewards pulled the door open, allowing the king to step into the ballroom.

 Naturally, all eyes fell on him.

He didn’t even need to look at them. The weight of his presence did the talking. The crowd stilled. The way prey does when it sences a predator too refined to show it’s teeth.

Courtries bowed low. Ladies curtsied like dancers in mourning.

''Your majesty-''
''An honor truly-''
''You outshine the hall, Sire-''

A few had practised this moment in their mirrors. None of them got it right.

He walked as the floor knew better than to creek beneth him. Gold glinted at his cuffs. The crowd stood untouched in its absence- they adored him. They feared him. Some hadn't learned the diffrence yet.

The music still hadn't started- just strings tuning in the corner, like they too weren't sure they wanted to be here.

''Y-y-your majesty!'' Came a voice behind him. The jesster bobbed up beside him, nearly spilling the drink in his hand. ''I-I've been t-thinking- if we swapped the wine for soup, th- they'd still p-pretend to enjoy it. B-because... etiquette.''

The joke was barely a joke, but Kyle's laughter came easily- rich enough to be convincing, gentle enough to spare the man the embarrassment.

''Carefull,'' he said, lowering his voice just for him, ''you'll give the kitchen ideas.''

Jimmy grinned, relief overtook his face. ''Y-you always laugh at m-m-my jokes.''

''That's because you always tell them,'' Kyle replied, his tone light, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Before Jimmy could crack another, a voice rang out from the dais-

'Ladies, gentelmen, and those still deciding!'' Stan's fathher stood on a chair, arms spread as if he'd just conjured the chandeliers himself. His grin was broad enough to split his face. ''You know I don't waste your time unless it's worts wasting- and tonight, my friends, is worth it.''

A ripple of polite laughter moved trough the crowd. Kyle didn't join in.

''This castle has stood for centuries,'' the man went on, ''and tonight we strenghten it further- with a union that is, in my opinion, far too good for the other party involved-'' he winked, ''but we'll forgive them.''

Somwhere in the crowd, a hand brushed a champange flute. Kyle's fingers tightened around his own.

''I'm proud- no, ecsdtatic- to announce the future joining of my son, Sir Stanley, and the incompareble Lady Wendy.''

The room erupted into applause. Kyle didn't hear it. His ears rang. Wendy's name hung in the air like the taste of iron. She was standing by Stan now, her smile perfect, unshakeable. She didn't look at Kyle. He didn't look away from her.

He couldn't read what either of them were thinking. But knowing it didn't help. If anything it made it worse- because it wasn't supposed to be her. It wasn't supped to be anyone,a nd it sure as hell wasn't supposed to happen like this.

The hurt didn't sit clean- it burned. It pressed against his's ribs. Kyle had spent years holding this part of himself together, the kind of control that never cracked open in public. But this- this was a blade slid between the seams.

 He couldn’t even decide which was worse: the thought that Stan had wanted this… or that he hadn’t. Both felt like betrayal. Both felt like losing him twice.

No, Stan wasn’t like that. He's not.

Except he left, didn’t he?

Slipped away in the middle of the night for that long, punishing mission, with nothing but a brief goodbye to follow. If he was capable of that, what else could he hide?

Kyle's chest went tight.

They looked good together. That was the worst of it. The kind of good that made people whisper about fate and invetability. Was this why he hadn't said anything? Because some part of him wanted this?

Every smile across the room, every congradulatiory touch on Stan's shoulder, every approving nod from the old bastards in the corner- it pressed in on him, crowding his lungs. The chandelier seemed to bright. The air, too thick.

The applaause still rang in his ears, even as the chinking of the goblets and the swell of polite laughter swallowed it whole. Kyle stayed exactly where he was, hands folded behind his back, every muscle locked in place so no one could see how badly he wanted to leave. Randy's booming voice echoed in his skull, each congradulatuary word to Stan & Wendy hit like a hammer.

He forced a thin smile when someone nearby offerred him a compliment about the evening. He even let the jester discract him for a minute with some half formed joke about the diplomat's hat. But the words slid right past him, meaningless. The more he smiled, the less he felt his own face. The air in the ballroom was syrup-thick, heat from too many bodies pressing in from all sides, the scent of wine and perfume rotting the edges.

''I'll be back,'' he spoke, his voice so even it almost fooled him. He turned twoards the door before anyone could ask where he was going.

___________

Randy was already red-cheeked and swaying before he even reached the center of the ballroom. One hand gripped his wine like a weapon, the other clumped around Wendy's shoulder as if she might run if he let go.

''Ah, Stephen!'' he bellowed across the marble, his voice carrying over the music with the precision of a thrown dagger. “Thought your son would have her, didn’t you?” His laugh came in one ugly burst, the kind that made people glance away out of second hand embarrassment. “Oh well, can’t win ‘em all!”

He pulled Wendy closer, nearly sloshing his drink on her gown. “Look at this pair,” he went on, waving at the crowd “Two of the most influential names in the kingdom, now bowed together. You tell me a stronger match! Go on- tell me!”

Nobody told him. Either because they were trying to avoid a fight, or they knew that there was some truth in what Randy was saying.

Wendy leaned closer, her voice loud enough just to reach Stan over the hum of the crowd. “Is he always like this?”

“This?” He snorted softly. “This is restraint. You should see him at the winter hunts. Last year, he bet a bishop he could wrestle a bore. Won, too.”

“Gross.”

“It’s worse than you’re imagining.” Stan said, glancing at her, a flicker of amusement breaking through the usual guardedness in his eyes. “But don’t worry/ he thrives in a room full of people pretending he’s clever. This is his arena.”

“So I see.” She took a sip, for a second their shoulders brushed. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s your arena?”

For a moment, his awnser didn’t come. Wendy’s eyes still lingered on him, and just as he was about to say something the general’s voice cut trough the music.

“Ladies and gentlemen- if you’d be so kind to gather your attention.”

___________

The hallway beyond was colder, quieter, though not nearly quiet enough. Kyle’s boots echoed on marble, each step carrying him farther from the music and the eyes and the suffocating light.

This isn't happening.
No! This isn't happending!

He thought about the months that Stan had been gone. About the silence. About getting him back only to lose him again infront of a hundered watching strangers.

He'd been here before- diffrent year, different greif, but the same gnawing, useless ache in his chest. The same feeling of being utterly powerless. And then, he'd found a way to take control of something. Small. Private. His.

He didn't realise where he was going untill he was already half way there.

___________

He wasn’t sure when his feet had started moving, only thet the ballrooms noise receded until all that was left was the echo of his own steps against stone.

He should have stayed. Should have smiled, should have clapped with thr rest of them. But the thought of standing there one more second was unbarable. His skin felt wrong, his jacked too heavy, his collar too tight. He needed out.

The servants corridor was empty, and the small washroom was exactly the same as it always was- cold tile, cracked basin, a mirror that had never been replace because no one important enough to complain ever came down this far.

He closed the door.

The quiet here wasn’t peace. It was heavy, close, pressing into his skin. Kyle gripped the edges of the basin. His reflection started back at him- the same face He’s been holding together all night like fine porcelain.

No speaches. No toasts. No witnesses. Just him.

It had been years. He promised himself there would never be another night like this. He told himself it was over. He made it over. But tonight- tonight cracked something open. It was the same need as back then. For control. A single thing he could choose, when everything else was ripped away.

He turned on the tap, letting the water run- not to drown the sound- but to make it feel deliberate, ritual- ceremonial, almost.

It wasn’t so much about the weight. Never had been. It was about erasing the heat in his chest, the burn in his throat no wine could smother. It was about making the noise in his head go quiet for five minutes.

And just like that he let himself give in.

When it was over, his breath came in fast. He rinsed his mouth, again and again, until the taste was gone, until there was nothing left on his tongue but the ghost of it. He washed his hands three times. The water was still running. He left it on another thirty seconds staring at the way it spilled down the drain.

The mirror gave him back a paler version of himself, his eyes rimmed with red, but the rest- the rest he could disguise. The mask- the king- slipped back on easily. He knew how to smile for them. He knew how to make it look like nothing had happened.

He killed the water.

By the time he stepped back into the ballroom, the music had started up again. Strings and laughter curling trough the air. And no one- no one would know.

Chapter Text

The bed was too soft. Too glided. Too empty. Kenny laid on her back staring at the canopy, its gold threaded roses gleaming faintly in the spill of moonlight. She had turned the pillow twice, shoved the blankets on the floor, pulled them back up again. It didn’t matter. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight. Not while this war was still on.

Her chamber smelled faintly of lavander and beeswax, the kind of sweetness that meant to soothe. It made her sick. She kicked off the sheets and sat up, the silence of the castle was earie.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

Her slippers whispered against marble as she crossed the room, threw a cloak around her shoulders, and slipped out the corridor. The halls were colder at night, haunted by the ghosts of those before them.

Every sound seemed too loud: the creek of a door far below, the crackle of a dying flame, the faint echo of her own steps.

She knew exactly where she was going, toward the west wing- towards him.

__________

The war council chamber. Of course. Where else could he be? Her brother never slept, not really. He only plotted.

She hesitated at the door. The voices in her head screamed at once-

Don’t do it. You’ll regret it.

Do it. You’ll regret it more if you don’t.

Her hand found the iron handle, cold as ice. She pushed.

The door swung open with a long, low groan.

Lo and behold there he was. Cartman. Sitting at the table in the middle of the chamber, hunched over the maps looking older than the castle itself. A single handle burned low at his elbow, dripping wax into a shallow bowl. His eyes flickered up, sharp and cold, catching her the way a hawk catches a mouse.

Kenny stepped in anyway, cloak falling heavy around her.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was low and mocking.

“You’re still awake.”

“Someone has to be.” Cartman replied, eyes skimming on the ink marks like it mattered more than her.

Kenny crossed her arms, standing just inside the door. “I couldn’t sleep either. Something about slaughtering half the kingdom tends to keep me awake.”

“Spare me the theatrics Kinny.” He snorted like it was funny.

“Fuck you.”

That earned her a glance- “Carefull, little sister. I’m the one keeping your head on your shoulders.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” she shot back, stepping closer, eyes flashing. “You’re the one putting it on the block.”

“I don’t want this war.”

“Then don’t fight it.” His tone was calm, too calm- the calm of someone who ha’d already decided and didn’t care to hear otherwise.

“You think this is a game you can win?” She pressed. “That you can bleed a whole kingdom dry and come out whole?”

That hit. He shoved the chair back, standing. “You just think you know everything, don’t you, Kinny? You think you see everything because you sit in your tower and sneer. Well allow me to-”

“I know enough.” she hissed. I know you’d burn the whole kingdom down just to prove you’re taller than Kyle. Don’t you think this has gone far enough?”

For a moment, his hand twitched- like he might slam it down, instead he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands like he had all the time in the world. “And what would you have me do, sister? Wait? Beg for mercy? Call it off because you can’t stomach the cost?”

“Because it’s wrong!” Her voice rouse before she could stop it. “Because there’s blood on our hands that doesn’t belong there!”

For a moment silence stretched between them- her breathing ragged, his steady. Cartman turned his gaze back to the ink. “Go back to bed, Kinny. You’ll thank me when it’s over.”

“Ill thank you when you learn how to stop.”

She didn’t bother curtsying or bowing when she left her brother’s chambers. She slammed the door harder than she meant to. His words -“Go back to bed, Kinny” -still rang in her ears, sharp as a blade. Bed. As if she were a child to be sent off after supper. As if the weight of his godamn war plans wasn’t crushing her lungs.

The corridor swallowed her in silence, broken only by the staccato of her slippers striking stone. She wanted to scream, but the castle had a way of swallowing screams too.

She stopped at a window, the cold glass fogging with her breath. Outside, the night sprawled open, sharp and endless. She could taste freedom in it, bitter and tempting.

Bed was the last place she was going.

She spun on her heal. The decision coming as naturally as breathing. If her brother wanted her quiet and obedient, he could choke on the disappointment. Tonight, she wasn’t going to sit still. Tonight, she was going to live.

And she knew exactly who she wanted beside her.

Her steps carried her through the castle, down the quiet wing where the guards wouldn’t patrol so often. Her hand brushed the rough wood of his door, hesitation flickering for only a heartbeat before she knocked, quiet, yet sharp.

“Psst. It’s me.” She hissed, leaning in close. “Open up. We’re getting out of here.”

The paladin stumbled out of bed half-asleep, hair sticking up, rubbing his eyes. “Aw heck-uh-princess? Gosh, it’s near midnight, ain’t it?”

“Sorry.” Kenny whispered, her voice calm. “We’re leaving.”

His eyes went wide, full of worry. “Leavin’? At this hour? Land’s sake, is it- did somethin’ happen? Should I grab my sword? My armour?”

She almost laughed at him- sweet, loyal fool. “No nothing happened. That’s the problem.” She tilted her head, eyes glittering. “I need air. Come with me?”

“Oh- oh gee.” He fumbled to straighten his tunic, his cheeks already pink. “Well, sure! If it’s you askin’, I ain’t about to say no. But uh- where we goin’?”

“Anywhere but here.” She gave him a quick grin, dirty with a promise. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we don’t get caught.”

“Aw shucks, Kenny, you always make it sound like mischief,” he said, even as he jammed his boots on.

“That’s because it usually is.” She winked, her tone softening as she leaned against the doorframe, waiting. “Hurry up. I won’t let this place eat me alive, and I won’t let it eat you, either.”

That made him pause. His face softened, the nervous smile shining into something steadier. “Gosh… you’re somethin’ else Princess! Alright. Let’s go.”

And just like that, he followed her without another question- because if Kenny was leaving, so was he

Chapter Text

The night had bleed itself out.

Music had long since strangled itself into silence, the last of the lords and ladies swept into carriages by the promise of daw, laughter trailing behind them as they disappeared into the night. The chandelier still burned, but dimmer now. Servants moved carefully against the walls, bent shadows gathering what was left of the night. Picking up broken glass and half drained goblets, sweeping petals into heaps.

Kyle stood in the wreckage, alone.

His throat burned raw, punishment for what he had done earlier, but it was nothing compared to the burning ache in his chest. He wanted to scream. To break the glass, rip the curtains down, shatter something until it finally looked the way he felt.

Instead, he stood motionless. Jaw clenched, nails carving half moons into his skin, letting the silence swallow him whole.

And then-

A voice came from behind, snapping him out of the trans.

“You’re still here?”

The words carried easy, almost careless. But Kyle knew that voice. He would know it anywhere.

He didn’t turn right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the fractured reflection in the marble floor, as though he could delete the inevitable by refusing to look.

“So are you.” He finally spoke.

The ravenette braced himself. “If this is about the announcement-“

“It is.” Kyle’s voice cut sharper than he intended. Only then did he lift his head. “How could you not tell me? Tell me that she was yours. That you loved her. That this was coming. Anything. Anything but this.” His hands rose up in the air. “Did you enjoy watching me find out with the rest of them?”

Stan’s eyes flickered, shadows cutting across them. For a moment, Kyle thought he saw guilt. Or maybe he only wanted to. “Kyle, I swear to God, I didn’t know.” The words fell heavy. “Not until they announced it. My father- he likes the bottom of the bottle and the sound of his own voice more than he likes me. You know that. You think he’d confide in me?”

The words hung in the air. Heavy as stone.

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“I didn’t want this.” Stan admitted, “they just threw it at me.”

“Yeah.” Kyle spoke, eyes blazing. “And you caught it. Just like you always do. God forbid you drop something they hand you! God forbid you stand up for yourself for once in your godamn life!”

Stan’s breath hitched, a hint of anger sparking in his eyes. “And what would you have had me do, huh? Start a riot in the ballroom? Embarrass my family in front of every lord and duchess? For what Kyle? For what!”

“For the truth!” The words cut out of Kyle’s throat before he could stop them. “This is about you and me, Stan. Do you realise what this means for us?”

Stan dropped his gaze, the fight bleeding out of his posture. His voice came quieter, strangled. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Kyle froze.

Because that was the real question, wasn’t it? It split something open in him he couldn’t show, couldn’t name. His breath caught, his eyes wide.

He had no awnser that wouldn’t have him damned.

So he lied.

“Because you’re my right hand.”

And the lie cut deeper than the truth ever could.

Stan’s head lifted, eyes narrowing, as tho he couldn’t believe what he just heard. “Is that all I am to you?”

No.

No, never.

You are everything.

You are the only one thing I have left worth keeping.

But his lips betrayed him.

“Yes.”

The words fell between them like a death sentence.

Stan blinked once, slowly, as if he hadn’t heard him right. His jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat he looked like he might reach for Kyle- grab his arm, shake the truth out of him, anything. But he didn’t. His hands fell empty to his sides.

“Liar.” He whispered. “You could tear kingdoms down with your tongue, and here you can’t even speak the truth.”

Kyle flinched, but he didn’t move. The voice in his head screamed,

He’s right.

He’s always been right. He knows you down to the bone, and yet you can’t give him what he asks. What does that make you?

“Better a liar than a fool.”

That landed too. Stan stiffened like he’d been struck, the distance between them widened as not something vast, something neither of them could cross.

The silence was that followed was heavy.

Kyle’s breath came harsh, his pulse hammering. If he stayed another second he’d shatter. So he turned, boots striking against marble, each step heavier than the last.

He didn’t look back.

Stan didn’t stop him.

Something between them died.

Chapter Text

The garden was not meant for midnight.

The moon had made itself home, spilling silver across the gardens of the foreign palace. The hedges stood trimmed next to the freshly cut roses. Somewhere, a fountain gargled sleepily. The place looked more like a painting than a garden.

Kenny hated paintings. Too clean, too perfect. No skeletons in their closet.

She dragged her heels across the gravel, cloak trailing. “If one more statue of some ancient dick stares at me tonight, I’m gonna break its nose.”

Behind her, a nervous laugh.
“Aw, gee princess. I don’t think they’d take kindly to that.”

The paladin.
Her paladin.

Always a step behind, always stiff-backed, like somebody might yell at him for breathing too loud. His armour clinked faintly with each movement, like coins in a pocket.

Kenny glanced at him over her shoulder. “What are they gonna do? Arrest me? I’m already the enemy, might as well get my money’s worth.”

“Well- well heck!” He muttered, rubbing his hand over the other. “When you put it like that, it does sound sorta-uh- reasonable? …Except for the part where it ain’t.”

She smiled, sharp and bright in the moonlight. “God, you’re hopeless.”

He smiled, even if he wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, or an insult, or both. With her, it usually was.

They passed under an arch smothered in roses. Butters caught his breath. “Golly would ya look at the moon? Big as a dinner plate. My mom used to say nights like these were made for wishin’.”

Kenny tipped her head back, letting the cold air bite her lungs. “If you could have one wish, what would it be?”

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aw, heck! I dunno. I reckon I’d wish folks were kinder to each other. Fewer wars, fewer orphans, fewer hungry people.” He paused, then laughed at himself. “But that probably don’t count, right? Too big. You meant somethin’ smaller, didn’t ya? Like a new pair of boots or- or a horse that don’t spoke.”

Kenny turned her head twords him. For once, she didn’t joke. “No, that’s a good wish.”

The fountain bubbled.
The night leaned in.

She looked up again, stars glaring cold and bright. A wish burned in her throat- bloody, vengeful, impossible- she swallowed it down, smirk tugging back into place. “I’d wish for a new brother.”

Butters laughed, earnest and loud. He couldn’t help himself. It was ridiculous, and sweet and so painfully him that she found herself laughing too, doubled over with the absurdity of it all.

For a moment- just a moment- it didn’t matter who they were, or what waited beyond the gates. It was just her and him, laughter echoing under the indifferent stars.

Kenny plucked a rose straight off a bush, thorns and all, she twirled it between her fingers. Blood welled where it pricked her skin. She didn’t flinch. She liked the sting.

Butters noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. “Aw jeez, yer bleedin’!” He fumbled for a cloth, hand clumsy, anxious. “Here-lemme-lemme patch that up.”

Kenny pulled her hand back before he could touch it. “Don’t bother. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

He knelt, gently taking her fingers in his own like they were made of something fragile. His hands were warm. Calloused, careful. He pulled a cloth from his pocket- crumpled but clean- and pressed it to the sting.

“You just carry bandages everywhere?” She asked, eyebrows raised.

He glanced up, sheepis. “You tend to need them when dealing with someone like you.”

That earned him a crooked smile. “Are you saying I’m troubled, sweetheart?”

Their eyes met.

It was quiet.

He looked at her mouth, just for a second.

She leaned in first.

And just like that they kissed. One of those moments the word couldn’t touch, the kind that lingered long after it ended. It was soft.

They parted, barely an inch between them now, breath mingling in the cool air.

But above them-

High in the tower of the eastern watchtower, the thief crouched like a shadow carved in stone.

His eyes caught the kiss.

And he didn’t look away.

He smirked. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

Chapter Text

The dream had been quiet for once. No blood. No trenches. No vines.Just the ache of sleep so deep it almost felt like drowning. Kyle didn’t have many nights like this. Most were long and cold. With silence that felt more like punishment than peace. This was nice for a change. And then-

Boom.

Not thunder. Not something natural. Sometime worse.

A scream cut trough the dark. And then another and then-

Bang. Bang.

The windows rattled in their panes.

Kyle woke up.

For a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming. But then the door flew open.

A young guard burst in, voice ragged, eyes wide as the abbeys.

“Sire-They’re storming the gates- fires in the outer wards- we have to go!” He’s screaming instructions to servants dragging Kyle twords the war chamber.

Kyle’s voice is hoarse, locked deep in sludge. “No. Stop.” His command snaps everyone still.

They stare at the worn silk of his nightshirt, at his hair mustered around his livewire of a heart.

He staggers forward, pulling away from their hands. “Let me see him.”

______________

The hallway was chaos. Servants were screaming in every direction, robes half fastened, eyes wide with panic. Courties shoved past one another breathless with fear, clutching children and jewels and holy symbols they haven’t touched in years. Guards were shouting warnings. Dora slammed, locks clicked. Someone dropped a tray of silver and didn’t dare to pick it up. It was noise everywhere and then- it wasn’t. Within minutes the minutes the hallway emptied. They had all fled to the saver wing of the castle.

Kyle caught sight of the armour before he saw the man. Polished silver- war bound, strapped tight across shoulders he once held onto just to feel real.

“Stan!”

His name rings like a bell, and the corridor revertes under his boots. Stan doesn’t stop-doesn’t run- marching straight into the mouth of war.

Kyle stumbles before him. “Don’t go.”

That made him pause.

Kyle stepped forward. “Please don’t.” His voice cracked, small, stupid, human.

Stan looked at him. “Kyle…” he said gently, “You know I have to.”

“No-no no you don’t! Not like this.”

“It’s not my choice.” His voice was even, calm. Too distant

“They need me out there. We don’t have time for this.”

“Yes we do have time for this!” Kyle’s voice cracked on the word this, and he hated the way it echoed.

Stan stated. “You said it yourself.”

“What?”

“That I was just your right hand. Nothing more.” His mouth curved, bitter. “Funny how I’m suddenly something worth chasing down the corridors for.”

Kyle’s stomach dropped.

A beat.

Then another

Then-

“I lied.”

The words came out strangled, and once they did, he couldn’t stop them.

“I lied so fucking bad Stan. You think you’re just my right hand? Do you have any idea what you are to me? You’re everything. The only thing I have left to keep protecting. The only one whos ever seen me- really seen me.” He staggered forward, almost chest to chest now. “You taught me how to swing a blade and how to lie convincingly in court. How to breathe. You are the only person I ever trusted- ever needed. And I don’t say that lightly. I don say that to anyone.”

He swallowed the rest. The truth. The damming part.

Stan’s jaw clenched. He looked away, that was all it took.

Kyle dropped.

To his knees.

Hard.

It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t king like. It was desperate. The marble was cold and biting. His hands trembled against it.

“I’m begging you. Don’t go.”

Stan’s breath caught.

Kyle leaned in, like a prayer. “If you walk out that door, you might not come back. And I don’t-“ his voice caught. “I don’t think I can handle that.”

The other man looked at him like he wanted to stay.

God knows he wanted to.

But he couldn’t.

So he exhaled- ragged, helpless. And then, softer than a blade unshattering-

“I’m sorry.”

Kyle flinched. He might as well have been stabbed.

Then Stan turned.

Walked away.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to- because the sound that Kyle made behind him was enough to echo through every corridor, every stone, everyone in heaven who dared to listen.

The hallway was empty.

He stayed there for a moment, kneeling in silence, staring at the space Stan had left behind. It still held the echo of his steps. The echo of his voice. “I’m sorry.”

 Eventually, he stood up.

Walked three steps.

Into the nearest bathroom.

 And then, above the toilet, he dropped to his knees and did the only thing he knew how to.

It wasn’t quiet. Wasn’t noble. Violent is the proper word. His body buckled as though he was trying to get rid of more than just the food.

Guilt.

(Why did I say that?)

Rage.

(Why did he leave?)

Grief.

(Is he okay?)

All coming up as like it had been waiting for an excuse.

When it was over, he fell down, breath ragged, pushing his knees to his chest, one hand braced against the floor. His other hand trembled- trembled like it had back in the war room, when Stan touched his wrist that one last time.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His crown had slipped sideways at some point, but he didn’t fix it.

Let them see him ruined.

Let them talk.

He sat there for a while. Thinking. Thinking about nothing. Thinking about everything.

Where is he now?

Is he already gone?

What if this is the last thing I ever said to him.

He scrubbed his face, straightened his coat and found himself back on his feet.

By the time the servants found him, he was alreasy walking towards the council chamber like nothing had happened.

“Your Majesty,“ one of them whispered, bowing low. “Are you-“

“I’m fine.” Kyle said, too quickly.

Another servant glanced up and blinked. “You look pale, sire.”

“Then bring wine,” he snapped. “Red.”

They didn’t question him again.

___________

The council doors opened wide. The room beyond was all shouting and papers and men throwing out strategies. The table itself resembled a battlefield. Reports were scattered, maps flying at the corners, orders coming so fast no one listened to their own voices.

Kyle walked in.

Everything stopped.

“Sire,” one of the lords began. “The southern border was hit at dawn, the outposts are already evacuating. We sent word to the Calvary but it will take-“

Another voice cut in. “If we abandon the Vale, Eric will take it within hours. We can’t lose another grain line-“

“My son is in the east!” A lady snapped. “I demand deployment!”

“Your Majesty-“

“Your Majesty-“

“Your Majesty-“

He didn’t hear any of it.

Not really.

Because he was still on the cold floor.

Because Stan’s voice was still in his ears.

Because the only thing pounding louder than the sound of was was his own heartbeat chanting where is he- where is he- where is he-

“Your Majesty, a letter.”

That cut trough.

Kyle’s eyes flicked on the steward who held it- a sealed envelope, cream-coloured and rimmed in black.

No wax. No cress. No signature needed.

The king took it within hours shaking hands.

The room went quiet again.

He didn’t open it. Not yet. Just stared at the thing like it had fangs. Because he knew.

The war hadn’t began when the gates fell, or when the fire started, or the cries broke trough the city.

It began here.

With this.

Chapter Text

To the little king,

War’s on.
I figured I’d write, a letter felt more personal than letting you hear it from your faggy council.

Anyway, you know me- I like tradition. A formal announcement. A bit of tension. Bit of blood.
You remember how this goes.

I thought about sending flowers. Or maybe a nice sword, but a letter is so much more intimate, don’t you think?

Consider this your first strike: The board is set. My peaces are in place. And your people? Well… they’ve always been better at losing. But don’t worry jewboy! I’ll give your knights a head start. Especially the black haired one, what’s his name, Simon? Sylvester? It was something with an s I’m sure. You know, the one who always looked at you like he wanted to jump in front of every arrow and maybe kiss you after. (You really ought to be more subtle. You can see that shit from a mile away.)

Tell him I said hi.

Anyway- I’ll see you soon. Try not to cry this time. It’s unseemly for a king.

Warmest regards

- Eric.
High Warlord, Ethernal Strategist, Favorite Son and the better man always.

P.S.

If you surrender now, I’ll let you keep your crown. It looks better on me, but I know you get attached to shiny things.

Chapter Text

The battlefield doesn’t wait for anyone.

By the time Stan had made it to the ridge, the fog was already rolling in- thick, mean, yellow on the edges like a rotting tooth. He tightened his grip on the reigns, jaw clenched against the rising cold that had nothing to do with the weather.

Behind him, the calvary waited. Restless, young- too young, some of them. The swords shook in their hands, and he didn’t blame them.

Because he could hear it now- the low, wet thunder of footfall, steel, breath. Enemy’s line. Close.

That’s it.

He took one deep breath, then another.

The king wasn’t there, of course he wasn’t. King’s didn’t bleed on the field like this, kings bleed on paper, in rooms. In silence.

But Stan would bleed for him, if it came to that. He always had.

A trumpet tore trough the air like a scream. That was the signal.

“Eyes up!” Stan barked, voice cutting trough the field like a blade trough flesh. “We ride on my call.”

He drew his sword, catching the light.

The fog broke. And with it came

The enemy.

They poured over the hills like insects, teeth bared, banners tight, weapons already slick. Shouts rose on both sides. The kind that tore your throat in half.

“Now!”

He kicked hard. His horse lunged forward. The Calvary followed, a hundred thunder hooves crashing down, like a second heartbeat. With Stan at the front, the wind slashing his face.

They collided like dogs.

Steel against steel. Blade against bone. The sickening chrunch of ribs, the shriek of horses, the stink of blood and sweat and something burning.

Stan didn’t think. He just moved.

Duck. Perry. Slice.

The first man to reach him never even raised his weapo. His eyes went wide, and then he was on the ground, clutching the wound blooming in his chest like a second mouth.

A second man screamed and kept screaming, long after Stan’s blade took his leg.

He didn’t count how many he struck. There wasn’t time. There wasn’t room. His shoulder ached, his side was bleeding, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“Keep the line!”

He shouted the words even as his horse slipped in the mud. Even as bodies fell around him- his men, their men, men too mangled to tell which side they belonged to.

A younger soldier stumbled besides him, face pale, sword dropped as he fell off his horse.

“Get up!” Stan roared. “GET UP!”

He shoved him forward, even as a mother arrow whipped past his cheek. He didn’t look to see where it landed. He couldn’t afford to.

It was chaos. It was hell.

And somewhere above it all- in a tower or a chamber or behind some damned stained glass window- Stan knew Kyle was watching.

Or maybe not.

Maybe he was sitting in silence, sipping wine with shaking hands.

Mud had long since claimed his boots, the blood had claims everything else.

The clang of seel still rang out like some twisted symphony. Shields shattered. Horses screamed. Men fell. And trough it all- he moved. Not untouched, but undeterred.

His sword arm arched. His ribs burned where something- arrow, fist, God’s fury had caught him earlier, but he didn’t stop. No time to. He moved like someone who didn’t believe in death anymore. Or someone who welcomed it.

The banner of their kingdom snapped somewhere above him, half shredded by wind and fire. It barely clung to its pole, but it was still standing. Stull standing, just like him.

He ducked under a swing, slammed his head into a man’s skull, heard the crunch, and didn’t flinch. Not anymore.

There was no time to think, only to kill or be killed.

But still- trough all of it- his mind wondered.

A voice. His voice. “Don’t go.”

Another, gentle, softer one he hadn’t let himself believe in for years. “You’re everything to me.”

Stan didn’t have the luxury of memory right now. But it clung to him anyway, like blood he couldn’t scrub off.

His mind drifted “If I die here, I hope Kyle doesn’t find the body. He wouldn’t survive it, and neither would I.”

He should’ve stayed. God he wanted to stay. But staying means surrender, and he had never been allowed to want things.

Not really.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled like thyme and firewood.

The halls above had long since fallen quiet, the council dismissed.It was late. Too late for anyone to be up. But down here, in the heart of the palace, the kitchen was still alive. An old jazz record played from an old player tucked in the corner, and something simmered in a cooper pot- rich, thick, warm enough to make a person believe the world wasn’t ending just yet.

Kyle sat on the high stool, elbows on the counter, his cheeks resting in his palms.

Across him, Chef hummed something. He was older than most men still on their feet at this hour, but he never let that stop him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stirred, ladled, adjusted heat. The silence between them had been earned over the years, the kind that filled itself.

Finally:

“You remember this stew?” Chef asked, lifting the ladle with care. “Same one I made the night you got your crown. You barely ate then, too.”

Kyle blinked. He looked down at the plate- still warm, untouched. A stew he used to love. Simple. Rooted.

“Used to say it reminded you of home.” He sat the ladle down. He wiped his hands on a towel, then turned fully to face the redhead, leaning on the edge of the counter. “You’re looking thinner, son.”

Kyle blinked once, slow. “I’m under stress.”

“Ain’t the stress I’m worried bout’.” Chef crossed his arms. “It’s the way you handle it.”

A pause.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.” Chef said, softly. “But I know how you are.”

Kyle’s jaw tensed. His eyes flickered towards the fire.

“I said I’m fine.”

“You throwin’ up again?” He asked gently. It wasn’t accusing, he was simply… asking. Laid bare in the quiet like a fish on the table.

Kyle went still.

For a moment the question rang in his ears.

“You throwin’ up again?”

It was a memory.
And not the good kind.

“No.” He spoke quickly. But it was too late, his face had already said otherwise.

Chef didn’t take the bait. He knew better.

“I heard you.” He said finally. “The other night, in your bathroom with the water running. Same way you used to.”

“It’s not like that.”

“But it’s back.” Chef said quietly. “Right?”

Kyle forced a breath trough his nose. “I’m very stressed. I can barely run a kingdom, never mind keep food down.”

“Stress don’t mean do that, son.”

“You got a whole army out there waitin’ on your word. The whole kingdom is leaning on you. And what do you think’s gonna happen if you keep doin’ this to yourself?”

Kyle looked up.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” He snapped. “You don’t know what it feels like when everything is falling apart and everyone expects you to hold it together. It’s fucking exhausting.

Chef nodded.

“Okay.” He said “Then tell me.”

Kyle’s jaw clenched. His throat moved like he might say something, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. The words were there but they weren’t.

“You doin’ it to punish yourself?” Chef asked, his gaze still soft. “To feel somethin’? To feel nothing’? What’s the reason this time, children?”

“That’s not why I do it.” Kyle said coldly, rising from the table. “I don’t do it for some poetic reason, okay? I do it cause I’m messed up. So just shut up and leave me alone.”

The world were loud and final.

They tasted awful in his mouth.

Worse than any self indulgent vomit ever could.

The kitchen felt too small, and suddenly, his hands shook.
His eyes widened-just slightly- like his own words just hit him. The guilt did too.

“I- I’m sorry.” he said, quieter now. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Chef just reached for the cloth on the table, folding it once. Then again. Finally he looked up.

“I know you didn’t, Kyle.” He offered a half smile.

Kyle returned it.

That was it. There was no lecturing. No sermon. Just that calm that had stayed with Kyle for years.

“Can I still sit with you?” Kyle asked softly.

“Course’ you can, son.”

Kyle sat back down without a word. He didn’t touch the stew.

The kitchen light was warmer now. He watched the now fall against the windowpane, there was so much of it. Like it didn’t know what it was burying. Outside, he could see the ramparts.

They must be freezing.

He thought of one shivered hand after another, clenching letters from home. Those poor people. He should do something. Send them thicker coats. Or more rations or-“You ain’t messed up, boy.”

Chef’s voice cut trough, once they got quiet again. “You just carry too much, and nobody ever taught you how to put it down. I just wish you weren’t so hard on yourself.”

Kyle looked at him. Tired. Hollow. A little clearer.

His eyes lingered on the window. “The ramparts,”. he said quietly, almost to himself. “They must be freezing.”

Chef followed his gaze for a moment, he smiled, small and warm. “You always get like this when it snows.” He said. “Start think in’ bout boys in boots. Never yourself though.”

“How can I think of myself when I’m sitting here with a bowl of soup, while they’re out there with nothing but chain mail and half a fire to keep them-.”

“Don’t start that.” Chef said calmly. “Ain’t a contest, Kyle.”

“I know.”

“You care, that’s good. But you can’t use their pain to erase yours.”

Kyle didn’t respond.

“Tell you what. Tomorrow we’ll order the council to send them nicer coats, that sound okay?”

He nodded fast. Like if he didn’t, he’d cry.

The stew had long since settled on the flame, steam curring its way up. Kyle stared at it for a second, like it might ask something of him.

Then slowly, he picked up the spoon, and took a bite.

Didn’t say anything.

Chef didn’t ask.

It was good. Better than he remembered it. So he took another.

Outside, the snow brushed against the windows ruthlessly. A storm waiting to happen. But inside, the fire kept the them warm. Maybe tomorrow would be awful. But right now, the kitchen was warm and he wasn’t alone.

That’s all that matterd.

Chapter Text

The countryside didn’t know the war. Not yet.

The sun kissed the fields like it didn’t know what was coming. Wheat swayed all around like dancers, wind slipping trough in gold-washed breaths. The war hadn’t touched this place yet. The palace might have been smothering but here- here, everything was still silk and wine.

The wind outside the dacha smelled like wheat. The sun was starting to fall in lazy slants trough the gauzy curtains, washing the whole room in honeymoon gold. The gramophone spun in the corner- some soft waltz neither of them remembered.

The table was littered with unopened engagement gifts. Half ripped, some glittering with ribbons, others torn apart like they’d been in a bar fight. It was all the same, perfumed cards, pearls, delicate china, and enough gold embroidery to fund a war. And probably would.

“Behold,” Wendy said, lifting the porcelain monstrosity out of its box. “Another velvet pouch.”

Bebe leaned in, squinting. “That thing looks deceased.”

Wendy did too. “It’s… signed .”

“Oh good! A signature! Now we know who to never invite anywhere again.”

Wendy leaned over for the card, reading it aloud in a mocking voice. “From the lady Vraschenka. May your union be as faithful as your father’s was.”

Bebe swiped the note from her hands in an exaggerated gasp. “Wait, wait, let me see-“ She cleared her throat, and said it again, this time in a shrill croaking expression.

“From the lady Vraschenka. May your union be as faithful as your father’s was. And may your beauty bring light to your husbands home.”

She paused. Rasing an eyebrow.

“Oh, darling. That’s a threat.”

“I think she meant well.”

“I think she wants you dead.”

They laughed. The silk of Wendy’s robe fell off one of her shoulders as she leaned back, feet kicked up onto the velvet chair like she owned the world. Because she did. At least this part of it. She fell back onto the pillows in a heap of laughter. “God, what’s wrong with people?”

“They think they’re funny and that they send good gifts.”

They both looked at the goose again.

It was worse the second time.

“I’m putting this in your room.” Wendy announced.

“Absolutely not. I have standards and absolutely no shelf space.”

Wendy stuck her tongue out. Bebe threw a pillow at her.

They giggled, heads close, legs tangled in the floor of the sun-washed dacha. Somewhere between the mayhem, the conversation turned.

“Did you hear Lady Marelova ran off with the governor?”

Wendy’s eyes went wide. “I knew it! I always knew there was something!”

”You know…” Bebe whispered. “I’ve always wanted to light someone’s candle.”

“Maybe I’ll marry him.” She said casually, reaching for another box, “and keep you on the side.”

Bebe lit up like a lantern. “Finally. I’ve been preparing my whole life to be someone’s scandal.”

“You already are someone’s scandal.”

“Don’t take this from me.” Bebe plead, jokingly. “By the way! You’ve barely mentioned him.”

Wendy blinked. “Who?”

Bebe gave her a look.

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Him.”

She sat up, brushing the glitter of her robe. “There’s not much to say.”

“Then make something up.”

Wendy sighed, toying with a ribbon. “He’s… quiet. And impossible to read.”

“Sooo mysterious… I like it.”

“Maybe he’s just…” Wendy bit her lip.

“Bored?”

“Disinterested.”

“Oh don’t say that!” Bebe tried.

“Bebe. I could be naked on a staircase and he wouldn’t blink.”

“I was naked on a staircase once.”

Wendy gave her the look. “I know. I was there.”

They both cracked up again, the ravenette reaching for the bottle to top them off.

Then, quieter-

“You should have seen the way he looked at me. Like I was holding him hostage.“

Bebe’s lips pressed together. “Okay. Asshole.”

“Bebe-“

“No, I’m serious. You’re not someone to be overlooked, Wends. You’re beautiful and intelligent and should be treated as such.”

Wendy blinked hard. “Thanks.”

“Wait-“

The other girl paused, eyes closed shut. “God help me.”

“No seriously.” Bebe said grabbing her by the arm. “You’re going out with the king’s best friend.”

“Engaged.“

“Semantics.” Bebe waved a hand. “And you’re on good terms with the king too, right? So hear me out.”

Wendy didn’t look up. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes I do. You were going to ask if I could set you up with Kyle.”

A beat.

“Well?” Bebe didn’t deny it. “Can you?”

Wendy blinked at her. “Bebe.”

The blonde slammed her hands on the bed dramatically. “Wendy, please! I’ve always been meant to be queen! Since birth! Since before birth! Please, I’ll just die if you don’t do this for me!”

They drank.

The gramophone spun again.

Wendy sighed, long and theatrical. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Bebe screamed.

“Quiet.” Wendy shot up, plastering her hand on her friends cherry red lips. “I’m not promising a coronation.”

Bebe launched herself into Wendy like a bull into the color red. “I love you! I love you! A thousand times I love you! You’re the best friend ever, Wends! What would I do without you?”

“Remain tragically crownless I assume.” Wendy spoke dryly.

_________

The sun was setting by now. Bebe was still going on about how she’d redo the royal chambers. “More velvet, obviously. That throne needs throne pillows.” …

The laughter had gone soft.

Wendy leaned back against the window frame, swirling what little wine was left in her glass.

“You ever think,” she said suddenly, voice quiter, “that we’re meant for more than this?”

Bebe blinked.

There was a shift.

“More than… being accessories to someone else’s power. More than being dressed up and paraded as someone else’s prize. They want us to be wives. Dress us up in pretty little dresses. Smile at the banquets, say thank you for the scraps. But they don’t want us thinking. They don’t want us leading.”

For once, Bebe didn’t joke. She just looked at her best friend - glowing in the gold of the countryside sunset.

“I think we’re made for everything.” She spoke finally. “But we only get one thing.”

Wendy met her gaze. “What’s that?”

“Whatever you take.”

The gramophone circled to the end of the song.

The sun gave up for good.

Chapter Text

The war was not going well.

And it showed.

The great council room- once a place of rhetoric posturing had now turned into its true self. The table was cluttered with half unfurled maps, crumpled reports and open ink pots. Every hour brought a new loss, every loss pressed tighter on the capital’s throat. The generals beamed the ministers, the ministers beamed the crown and the advisers beamed each other. The air smelled of panic.

They were not prepared for this.

Kyle sat at the head of the table, watching the chaos unravel as trough from a distance. He hadn’t looked at Stan once. Didn’t need to.

He could feel him.

One of the southern governors leaned over, slamming a report down. “The western flank is already thinning. If we don’t reinforce our outspots at Serov, we’ll lose the entire wheat line by weeks end.”

“We don’t have the numbers,” said another. “Not with the eastern border bleeding.”

Stan spoke up. “If we shift calvary from the northern watch, we can hold the Serov line long enough to-“

“And leave the capital exposed?!” The minister of trade interjected. “Brilliant. Why don’t we hang the crown while we’re at it?”

“I said hold the line.” Stan replied, steady. “Not break it.”

The room descended into shouting. Again.

Kyle turned them out. Words, numbers, names, threats- all meaningless noise to a man who hasn’t slept for days.

He looked at the note sitting on the table, a weathered peice of parchment. Burnt at the edges, signed E.C.

You said you would never come for me again.

Liar.

He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. He still wouldn’t look. Couldn’t.

But he felt the stare. The heat. Like he was being watched by someone who hadn’t stopped thinking about it either.

I’m begging you don’t go.

But you went anyway.

Why?

Was it not enough?

Was I not enough?

Not enough.

Enough.

The echo of his footsteps still rang louder than all of the lords tearing at each other.

Don’t go.

Enough.

If you die in this, I’ll follow.

I said enough.

The oak under his grip groaned. His crown tilted too, as if it was about to fall. His vision blurred.

You know what will make you forget?

His throat burned.

No.

The room blurred. The parchment blurred. The faces blurred

You know.

Another report slammed on the table. Another voice more men, more grain, more blood. It was noise. All of it.

The shouting got louder. The maps ripped. The ink bleed. He couldn’t breathe.

“Enough!” Kyle finally snapped, slamming hus hands on the table with full force. His voice cut trough the room.

He wasn’t sure if it was an order to the council or his own mind.

The noise stopped.

All eyes turned to him.

“We’lll deploy three units to Serov. Two to the eastern front. If we lose the people, we lose everything.”

No one argued.

He rose, hands behind his back. “You’re dismissed.”

The council scraped chairs, papers gathered in haste. One by one they filed out. It was finally empty, just like he wanted it to be.

Kyle didn’t wait.

He stepped into the corridors outside the chamber, letting the door close slowly behind him. The stone walls were cold against his palm as he walked.

Didn’t make it far.

“Kyle.” The voice came behind him.

He froze. He knew that voice. He always knew it.

Every instinct screamed to shut down, to keep walking, to ice him out. He’d begged on his knees three nights ago, and what had it earned him?

“Can I talk to you?”

Godamn it.

The king didn’t turn right away. Just started at the corridor ahead like it might awnser for him. His throat went dry, he cleared it, buying time. “Is this about the grain routes? Because I really don’t think-“

“No.” Stan shook his head. “That’s not why I came.”

“Okay. Then why?”

“I shouldn’t have left,” he added, quieter now. Almost uncertain. “That night. I didn’t want to.”

Kyle’s mouth curved into something bitter. “Could’ve fooled me.”

That shut him up. Just for a second.

“I know.” Stan looked down, “I know how it looked.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To make it right.”

Kyle looked at him. Really looked.

“I don’t know if you can.”

“Look, I shouldn’t have walked away.” Stan said, his voice had gone soft, eyes pleading. “Not like that. Not from you.”

Kyle’s mouth twitched, something in him shifted. He forced a shrug instead. “Don’t apologise. You did what you had to. It’s what soldiers do.” His eyes flickered towards the ravenetts. “It’s what you do.”

Stan didn’t speak, but the cut was there.

Kyle’s voice pressed on, sharpening like a blade. “You’re here to protect the crown. Not the man who wears it. Don’t forget your place.”

The words hung in the air, crueler than he meant, cruel than he could take back. His chest haved once, twice. He pressed his lips together, as if he could swallow the damage before it spread further.

Stan flinched but he didn’t retreat. He’d endured worse blows on the battlefield, tho none had cut this deep. Still he stood.

“I don’t care about the crown.” He said quietly, I care about you.

And the words hit him harder than any canon fire.

Kyle exhaled thought his teeth. God help him, ever since they were kids, he could never hold on to his fury when Stan was concerned. No matter how hard he tried. A day, maybe two- but never longer. It wasn’t humanly possible. Not for him, so rolled his eyes. “You said you were sorry already.”

“I’ll say it again.”

Stan stood only a few paces back, he had a look on his face that Kyle had never seen before. He looked more like the boy he used to spar with than the solider everyone expected him to be.

The king let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding in, lips pressed thin as though that might keep his awnser from spilling too soon. He tried to marshal his temper, tried to clutch at the anger- but the truth was, he had nothing to hold on to. Only the ache of missing him.

“You always do this to me.” He whispered.

Stan frowned. “Do what?”

“Make me need you.”

“Then let me be needed.”

Kyle’s throat tightened. He wanted to laugh, to spit, to tell him he didn’t believe a word that came out of his lying mouth. Let it eat trough him until there was nothing left to forgive. But God- there he was again. That voice, that face, those damn blue eyes.

Fine.
He’d lost this war the moment Stan spoke. He always did.

He let his shoulders drop, the fight draining out of him. “You’ll be the death of me.”

The other man tilted his head, cautious at first, then soft. “So… that means you forgive me?” Kyle’s mouth curved, unwilling. “Against my better judgement.”

Stan’s eyes lit up like a child’s. He didn’t hesitate. Never did. His hands wrapped around the king before Kyle could retreat.

For a heartbeat, he thought he’d pull away. Kings did not cling, kings did not tremble in another man’s arms. But his body betrayed him before his head could intervene. His hand found Stan’s shoulder, fingers curling as though he’d been waiting for this.

God, the warmth.
He hadn’t released how cold he’d been until now.

“I hate fighting with you.” Stan murmured quietly.

The king closed his eyes. “Then don’t.”

And that was it.

They’d made peace with each other. The world would be far less forgiving.