The large clock at the end of the hallway ticked steadily, the sound echoing through the place. Whether or not time's an illusion was a matter of debate, but at this point, Zen was at least certain that time was playing tricks on him.
But he wasn't the type to admit loss so easily. So, in an attempt to escape this odd trickery, he had placed all his attention on the silvery white-haired man for the past seven long days.
The man walked almost soundlessly through the quiet hallway adorned with paintings, antiquities, and half-melted candles. Every inch of the place showed subtle extravagance, making it hard to believe this was anything other than a royal museum. And this man somehow fit into this scene better than he did at his own home.
What kind of luck would someone need to walk freely in such a place? A tremendous amount? The kind that is set aside for very few people?
Zen deemed it to be the worst luck. But that was his personal opinion. Unaware of all that, the man opened the large wooden door and walked into the office, giving Zen something else to observe.
The large room was similar yet different from the hallway. Bookshelves and cabinets took up most of the space near the walls, leaving only the spot by the window, which was taken up by a lounge.
Although Zen had not seen it before, he felt quite familiar with the office, perhaps because of what he remembered.
'The royal office was as gloomy as ever, no light entered the room through the large, thick curtains. One could call it suffocating if not more so, without facing any disagreement. Much different from the office the new monarch had used during his time as the crown prince. That bright room, albeit nothing special compared to a king's office, couldn't be more different. The private study that carried a soft aftertaste of a good dream contradicted this place that would only waft a metallic smell of blood from time to time. This truly was a place better suited for the King with no light within.'
The description given for the royal office was what Zen knew too well, and because of that, the contradictory place became easy to differentiate. Because every word he had read from 'Debt Of Blood' was carved into Zen's mind like a bad memory.
He hated the gruesome story, the hopeless plot, the endless tragedy, and hated the antagonist who slaughtered through the place meaninglessly.
And that same person was sitting behind the wooden desk, leaning on his palm, eyes closed, showing nothing of his true colors.
Ambrose Aurelius. The crown prince.
Although this name was what made Zen realize where he was, this was his first time seeing the prince. The novel's description sets him up as a demon, but he looked nothing like one.
"Good morning, Your Highness." The person who was more flawless than the other spoke in his usual calm voice. "I apologize for the delay as well as my absence."
Sunlight reflected on his tanzanite blue eyes, making them appear lighter.
"Good morning, Sepehr."
"I heard you fell ill. Are you feeling better now?" Ambrose's voice was oddly pleasing to the ear, so much so that Zen couldn't imagine him reciting the lines from the novel in that voice. "I thought I would have to go alone."
"I apologise for the inconvenience. I'll be careful not to cause such issues in the future," Sepehr bowed slightly. "I've already told the guards to prepare the carriage. We can leave whenever Your Highness wishes."
"We can leave right now." Ambrose beckoned a guard from outside and passed a message for the king before walking out. Sepehr followed him, maintaining a few steps' distance, Zen hovering above him.
The carriages were waiting outside, surrounded by twenty guards.
"Why do we need two carriages?" Zen had the same question. The carriages were big enough to hold at least four people comfortably. Guards and staff didn't use such carriages. "Did I not specify multiple times to stop doing this?" Zen flinched upon hearing the words. His ability to imagine had suddenly returned. The guards also shrank back.
"Your Highness, you cannot share the carriage with others. I believe you know it is protocol. The other one is mine." Sepehr, the only one still unshaken, informed.
Personally, Zen thought this was for the better. Sepehr looked so frail. He knew almost nothing about this person, but he could tell that this man would not be able to protect himself from danger. Knowing the crown prince's upcoming track record, it seemed like a bad idea to stay less than three feet close to him.
"How would I get advice if my advisor is in a different carriage? Was it the case for the last advisor?" His question was left hanging for a few moments. "Bring up protocols when there aren't loopholes. Rid of one of them."
It was pretty hard for Zen to figure out who Sepehr was. Even finding his name was hard because everyone just referred to him as lord and such. It was easy to understand that he belonged to the nobility, but the rest was blank. Because he wasn't mentioned in the novel.
A person with such an important position not existing in the novel definitely raised a lot of flags.
"...As His Highness wishes." The guard escorts bowed and left to make the arrangements as Zen continued to envy the crown prince's authority to break the rules like sticks.
As expected, the carriage was more than big enough for two people. Perhaps the most comfortable in the kingdom. Bumpy compared to public transport, but regardless, comfortable.
Time passed quietly until Ambrose spoke up, "Sepehr," his voice much lower than before. "Are you really feeling better? You look awfully pale." Zen didn't notice anything unusual. Sepehr looked the same as he did a week ago, when Zen first saw him.
"I apologize, I'm still recovering. But I'm well enough, there won't be any problems with my performance." The temperature inside the carriage suddenly felt colder after Sepehr had spoken.
The tyrant was looking outside with a displeased expression. "Is that what I asked?" He muttered, "If you're not feeling well, you shouldn't have come. Do you want me to look like an evil employer, Sepehr?" His voice gradually rose with each word.
Sepehr watched him quietly for a few moments before finally speaking up. "That was not my intention. But if his highness feels uncomfortable because of me, I'm deeply sor—"
Sepehr's impending apology was cut short as the carriage jolted violently, as if the wheels had jumped up a few meters before stopping, throwing him off the seat towards the metal door.
But right before his body hit the door, Sepehr was pulled back. "Ugh…" Sepehr looked startled, as was Zen. The whole thing happened in less than half a minute, anyone would be shocked.
[Should I just kill the coachman? I should.]
Zen looked at Ambrose in horror.
Sepehr attempted to regain his balance, but slipped when he pressed down his foot, falling further into Ambrose's arms. Their foreheads almost crashed.
As far as Zen knew, 'Debt of Blood' was a historical thriller with some foreign elements…like massacres. The scene didn't fit the setting.
[He looks so alluring up close.]
Zen heard Ambrose's voice, but Ambrose hadn't said anything.
Amidst this, Sepehr made another attempt to regain composure. "I am terribly sorry, Your Highness. I—"
Ambrose held onto him firmly to stop him from moving. "I think you have hurt your leg, don't move rashly."
"I am alright, Your Highness. You can let go." Sepehr's words were not listened to.
[Can we not stay like this for a while?]
[I cannot remember the last time I saw him from such proximity.]
[Why must I let go?]
Ambrose showed no sign of releasing Sepehr, and Zen's mind continued to be overwhelmed by the words of unknown origin.
"Your Highness," Sepehr's voice was barely audible at this point. "This is inappropriate. Please release me."
Ambrose's gaze intensified. "You'll fall over if I let go." They were in a compromised position. Sepehr was essentially hovering above Ambrose, with the difference that Ambrose was holding him up, not letting Sepehr's weight affect his feet. So, if he let go, Sepehr would either fall forward or backward.
A knock on the door caught their attention. "Your Highness, are you alright? We are deeply sorry for the inconvenience." Ambrose glared at the door. The curtain was drawn, so neither side was visible to the other.
"His Highness is alright, fortunately," Sepehr was the one to answer. "What caused the issue?" Ambrose looked at him with a frown.
"There was a ditch in the middle of the road, Lord Vale. We failed to notice it in time. Please forgive our mistake."
"Such things mustn't happen in the foreseeable future," Ambrose spoke grimly, "Dismissed."
The man outside was perhaps out of his wits, thinking how aggrieved the prince was.
Zen, however, was witnessing something entirely different.
[Why wouldn't you stop trying to move away?]
[Is it that uncomfortable?]
"Sepehr, if you are uncomfortable or in pain, you are free to go back. I do not wish to drag you around when you are hurt."
"I am alright. It's likely just a sprain. It will be healed by the time we arrive," Sepehr answered.
[Then can I hold you safely until then?]
Ambrose's eyes didn't leave Sepehr for a single moment.
"Please let me down, Your Highness." Sepehr's small voice made it sound like a plea. Maybe it was. Zen couldn't tell. But Ambrose couldn't deny him this time.
He held Sepehr up and gently placed him back on the seat across from himself.
Zen continued to look between the two. The unwavering gaze from the tyrant and the blue eyes that refused to meet that gaze.
Stuck between them, he couldn't help but feel like an intruder.