The sun had not yet risen, but the Heart Kingdom's western courtyard buzzed with motion.
Prince Aerion was not late, but he felt late.
Sleep had been elusive. He'd stared at the ceiling for most of the night, tracing shadows, thinking of ink-stained fingers and words unsaid. Now, the air felt too sharp, his collar too stiff, and his thoughts too scattered.
The ceremonial send-off felt hollow. His mother had offered him a kiss on the forehead, and his father had clasped his shoulder with a weight that felt more like ownership than affection. No words beyond "Represent us well."
He'd rather represent someone else.
He stepped from the castle steps with practiced grace, boots clicking against stone, two guards flanking him on either side. A footman held a scroll and began muttering the departure rites, but Aerion didn't listen. His gaze was already searching.
Caravans stood like skeletal beasts, flanked by tired servants hoisting chests and tying down silks. Hooves clopped against the cobblestone in slow, rhythmic thuds. The scent of damp linen, hay, and leather filled the air, clashing against the palace's perfumed elegance.
Prince Aerion stood beneath the arched gate, cloaked in garnet and gold, his arms folded against the morning chill. He looked like a painting in the wrong frame—majestic, composed, and very, very irritated.
"They couldn't wait until after sunrise," he muttered, tugging the collar of his coat higher.
Chancellor Simon cleared his throat beside him. "It's customary for such diplomatic travels to begin at dawn. Spade traditions."
"They could've at least sent a bard to hum us into the mood," Aerion said dryly.
Simon pretended not to hear.
The Spade envoy approached with all the warmth of a marble statue. No fanfare. No greetings. Just efficient movements, all cloaks and armor, their banners stitched in deep navy and silver—cold colors, practical. Leading them was a tall figure in worn riding leathers and glinting pauldrons, a black sash crossing his chest diagonally.
The knight.
He removed his helmet with one practiced motion, revealing sharp, angular features framed by ash-brown hair. His eyes were like wet iron—flat, watchful, unimpressed.
He bowed stiffly. "Sir Kaelen Vire, knight of Spade. Assigned escort to Prince Aerion of Heart."
Aerion gave a shallow nod, eyeing him with casual disinterest. "I assume punctuality is your kingdom's proudest virtue."
Kaelen's jaw ticked, just once. "It's certainly more useful than arriving late and hungover."
Aerion's brows rose, more amused than insulted. "Charming. And here I thought knights were meant to flatter their charges."
"I'm not a court lapdog," Kaelen said flatly. "I'm here to get you safely to Spade lands. If you want compliments, bring a mirror."
Chancellor Simon inhaled sharply. "Sir Vire, mind your—"
"It's fine," Aerion interrupted, a tight smile curling on his lips. "I rather enjoy honesty in small, infrequent doses. Like poison. Or politics."
Kaelen didn't react. He simply turned on his heel and walked toward the lead horse, barking orders to the stable hands.
Aerion watched him go with narrowed eyes. "Well. Someone skipped breakfast and charm school."
Simon sighed through his nose. "He's one of the Spade Kingdom's finest. Highly disciplined. No tolerance for ceremony."
"So he's allergic to joy," Aerion replied.
Still, he followed the caravan's rhythm—mounting the carriage marked with his crest, seating himself among cushions that smelled of cedar and faintly of travel-sickness remedies. Through the open window, he could see Kaelen adjusting the saddle straps of his massive grey destrier with clockwork precision.
Aerion leaned against the window frame. "Looks like someone oil-painted a thundercloud and gave it legs."
He glanced once over his shoulder, back toward the palace spires. Back toward the hidden annex, the forgotten ivy door, and the boy who wasn't at the gate to say goodbye.
Maybe that was for the best.
He turned forward just in time to meet Kaelen's eyes as the knight rode up beside the carriage window—his expression unchanged, all angles and disapproval.
Aerion leaned out, tone clipped. "Do you ever smile, or is your face under contract not to?"
Kaelen didn't blink. "Try not to fall out the window. I'm not paid to scrape royals off the gravel."
Aerion paused, slightly thrown. "…Excuse me?"
Kaelen straightened. "You're not the first foreign royal I've escorted. Most of you arrive half-asleep and expect us to carry you to your destination like gilded freight. I don't do that."
Aerion's brows rose. "And I don't recall requesting to be 'carried,' Captain."
"Sir."
"Right. Sir Kaelen."
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Behind Kaelenan, the Heart nobles shifted on their heels. One servant coughed softly.
Aerion smiled. Not kindly.
"Does rudeness come as standard issue with Spade armor?"
"It's my favorite blade."
"And I suppose tact was left behind in your sword belt?"
"If you're lucky." Then he spurred his horse ahead.
Outside, Kaelen gave a sharp whistle, and the caravan creaked into motion. Wheels rolled over ancient stone, the horses stamping rhythm into the ground like a funeral beat. The Heart Kingdom faded behind them, red banners dimming in the morning mist.
Aerion slumped against the side of the cabin, one hand at his temple.
Two weeks of this? Gods above, give me strength.
And yet, even now, as the road unfolded before him, Aerion found his thoughts drifting backward. To the annex. The window sketch. The figure leaning out, waiting.
Waiting for what?
He closed his eyes.
Meanwhile, at the head of the convoy, Sir Kaelen didn't glance back once.
Another prince, he thought. Another peacock in silks pretending to understand the world.
But this one had sharper teeth than expected.
Interesting.
♥♥♥
By the second hour, the Spade caravan had left the cobbled roads of the Heart Kingdom behind, replacing them with gravel trails and slow, steady inclines lined by thorn trees and wind-polished stone.
Sir Kaelen rode just ahead of Aerion's carriage, his dark cape fluttering in the wind like a solemn flag of irritation. He hadn't looked back once since they set out. Not once.
He should have.
Because Aerion was leaning out the carriage window like a particularly nosy gargoyle.
"Sir Kaelen," he called, resting his chin in his palm, "do the Spade horses have names? That one in front looks like a Gregory."
Kaelen did not respond.
"Gregory the Horse," Aerion repeated to himself. "Loyal. Noble. Secretly tired of your crap."
Still no answer.
Aerion squinted. "Is that one on the left limping? He is, isn't he? Should I be concerned? What if the carriage collapses and I die dramatically, buried under diplomatic embarrassment?"
Kaelen finally sighed. Deep. Audible. Pained.
"He is not limping."
"Oh, thank the stars. I was composing a eulogy."
Kaelen turned slightly in his saddle. "Do you always talk this much?"
Aerion blinked. "Only when I'm awake."
And then he grinned.
Kaelen regretted asking.
♥♥♥
By the third hour, the road narrowed into a gravel path flanked by low mountain ridges and pine groves. The cold air bit a little sharper now, but Aerion had rolled up the carriage curtain entirely, cloak bunched under his chin, leaning out into the brisk wind like a dog on a joyride.
"Sir Kaelen!" he called again.
Kaelen flinched. Stars, again?
"What is it now?"
"Do Spade knights train to frown, or is it just instinctual?"
"We train to suffer."
"Ah, so I'm part of the curriculum now."
"You're the final exam."
Aerion laughed, loud and delighted. "Good! That means I'm educational."
Kaelen muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to an indifferent god.
♥♥♥
By the fourth hour, the sky had darkened into moody overcast, the clouds as grumpy as the knight leading them.
"Sir Kaelen," Aerion said again, having migrated half his body out the window like a very pretty barnacle. "What's the Spade Kingdom's official stance on soup?"
"…Soup?"
"Yes, soup. Stew's opinionated cousin. Do you eat it out of necessity or celebration?"
A pause. The sound of a horse snorting.
"…Both?"
"Heresy," Aerion declared.
"I don't—what?"
"It's either ceremonial or it's an obligation. Pick a lane."
"We are literally in a lane."
"Touché."
Kaelen closed his eyes for a moment longer than was safe for a man steering a caravan through narrow ridges. When he opened them again, Aerion was juggling apples.
Where did he get apples?
"Stop that."
"Why? It's road entertainment. Look—two red, one green. Variety."
"One bump and you'll knock yourself unconscious."
"Oh no," Aerion said with flat sarcasm. "Whatever would you do without my vibrant commentary?"
"Sleep."
♥♥♥
By the fifth hour, the road dipped into a forest glade where birds dared to sing, though even they seemed vaguely annoyed.
Aerion, unfazed by exhaustion or common sense, had brought a map onto his lap and was now sketching. Badly.
"Sir Kaelen!"
Kaelen didn't answer.
"Sir Kaelen!"
Still nothing.
"Knight Guy!"
A muscle in Kaelen's jaw ticked.
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Would you consider yourself more of a 'brooding lone wolf' or 'emotionally repressed cinnamon bun'?"
Kaelen's grip tightened on the reins. "Neither."
"Hm. Definitely the first one."
"I don't even know what a cinnamon bun is."
"It's warm, sweet, and gives you heartburn if you consume it too fast. Much like emotional intimacy."
A long, anguished silence followed.
♥♥♥
By the sixth hour, it began to rain.
Not a romantic drizzle. Not a cozy mist. No—it was the kind of slanted, bitter rain that slapped faces and soaked saddles and made every boot feel like a swamp.
Aerion, for once, had gone silent.
Kaelen thought he might have finally worn himself out.
But then, a voice—quiet, almost curious—drifted through the rain.
"…Do you think birds have politics?"
"Do the Spade Kingdoms believe in ghosts, or is that just the attitude?"
"Do you think birds have political leanings?"
"Have you ever tasted royal ink? No? Want to?"
Kaelen ignored most of it, but every now and then, a twitch at his temple betrayed him.
"If you had to marry a vegetable, which would it be?"
Kaelen's head dropped forward, forehead resting on his horse's mane in abject despair.
♥♥♥
By the time they stopped at the makeshift camp just past the northern cliff pass, Sir Kaelen had aged six years and committed seventeen imaginary crimes.
Aerion leapt from the carriage before the wheels stopped moving.
"Ah, freedom! Dirt and wind. My old friends."
Kaelen dismounted with military precision, barking orders to the Spade soldiers nearby who began setting up a quick campfire and unpacking dry rations.
Aerion watched with interest as Kaelen stooped by the fire, unstrapping a steel pot.
"Wait," Aerion said, eyes wide, "you cook?"
"We all do. We rotate meals."
"And here I thought you just survived on judgment and dried contempt."
Kaelen stirred a thick mixture of lentils and herbs into the pot, his expression unreadable.
Aerion flopped to the ground beside him without warning, robes flaring slightly in the dirt. Kaelen looked down at him. Blinking. Slowly.
"You don't have to sit here."
"I could," Aerion said, "but then you'd be spared my company, and we can't have that."
Kaelen muttered something under his breath. Aerion leaned in.
"What was that? A love confession?"
"It was a prayer for patience."
Aerion gasped. "Are you religious?"
"I'm desperate."
Their eyes met for a beat too long. Aerion looked away first, laughing.
Lunch was painfully simple—bread, lentils, and jerky that could double as a weapon in the right circumstances. Aerion chewed with theatrical disgust.
"Does flavor exist in your kingdom, or did someone outlaw it?"
Kaelen handed him a waterskin without comment.
Aerion sipped. "Is this water or melted dignity?"
Kaelen took it back and drank from it himself.
Aerion watched him, lips twitching.
Then, abruptly serious, he asked, "Have you ever had a friend, Sir Kaelen?"
The knight paused.
"…Yes."
Aerion waited.
No elaboration came.
"Gods, you're exhausting," the prince muttered, flopping backward into the grass with a dramatic groan. "If boredom were a weapon, you'd be its grandmaster."
Kaelen stood, brushing off his gloves. "Lunch is over. Back in the carriage."
Aerion pouted. "What if I said no?"
"I'd carry you."
Aerion blinked. "Would you, though?"
Kaelen stepped closer.
Aerion's smirk faltered a little.
"Wait. You're serious."
Kaelen leaned down, voice low and even. "Try me, Highness."
Aerion scrambled to his feet with a cough. "Well. No need for dramatics."
Kaelen turned and walked away.
Aerion muttered behind him. "Definitely marrying a radish, that one."