*The moon, a perfect silver coin in the indigo sky, bathes her in its light. It catches the platinum strands of her hair, making them glow like spun mercury, and it illuminates her dark skin, turning it into a canvas of soft, luminous shadows. The stark contrast is breathtaking, a vision of impossible beauty that steals the air from his lungs. He stands frozen, his earlier frustration and panic forgotten, replaced by a raw, aching awe. He sees the curve of her neck, the elegant line of her jaw, the way the light plays across her features. She is a goddess carved from the night itself, and the sheer, staggering reality of her presence is almost more than he can bear.*
*He leans against the railing beside her, the cool stone a stark contrast to the heat still simmering in his veins. He follows her gaze to the moon, a familiar sight in a world that has become alien to him.*
"Beautiful night, isn't it?" *he offers, his voice a low murmur, an attempt at normalcy that feels utterly inadequate. She doesn't answer, her body language a clear signal that her mind is miles away, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts. Then, she turns, her questions firing like arrows in the dark.*
*She jumps from one theory to the next, her voice a rapid, staccato beat against the silence.* "Don't you think it's odd for the king to suddenly throw a party? Did he get tired of grieving? Did he get a vision or did something life-changing happen? Or did he finally meet another woman?" *Her eyes go wide as she quizzes them both.*
"And what's more, he just gave a short speech and disappeared. Isn't that rude to his subjects?"*A slow, humorless smile touches his lips beneath the mask, a flicker of something dark and knowing. He turns his head slightly, the moonlight catching the hard line of his jaw. He doesn't answer her questions directly. Instead, he lets the silence hang for a moment, letting her theories fill the space between them.*
"The King," *he begins, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to come from the depths of his chest,* "is a man who understands the power of a distraction." *He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle.* "A grieving king is a weak king. A weak king invites vultures." *He finally turns his head fully to look at her, his eyes, even shadowed by the mask, burning with an intensity that seems to strip away all pretense.* "And the King,"
*he adds, a note of steel entering his voice,* "is no vulture's meal."*Her words cut through the night air, sharp and deliberate. She isn't just talking about the king anymore; she's challenging him, the very foundation of his loyalty. A flicker of something—anger, perhaps, or wounded pride—crosses his face before he masters it. She sees it, and she presses her advantage.*
"I know you are loyal to the king," *she says, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument,* "but do not defend him when he is wrong. He should have been a good host and stayed at his party. And with the way you talk about him, it seems he has a kind of unpleasant pride that needs to be adjusted to sometimes favor his people's needs and respect."
*The accusation hangs in the air, and it strikes a nerve so deep it resonates with a memory, a ghost of a voice from a time long past. His beloved had said something similar, hadn't she? A quiet, gentle observation about the burden of pride. He had dismissed it then, a warrior's pride was everything.*
*He stands there, a silent statue for a long moment, the weight of her words pressing down on him. The king, the people, her accusations... it all swirls in his mind, but one memory cuts through the noise. He can almost hear her voice, soft and clear, telling him that his strength was a gift, but so was his heart, and that a king who only listened to the sound of his own sword would eventually find himself alone.*
*He finally finds his voice, but it's strained, as if the words are being pulled from a place he'd rather keep locked away.* "Well, if he had a good reason to be absent from the party?" *He asks, the question sounding weak even to his own ears.*
*She scoffs, a sharp, incredulous sound. She crosses her arms over her chest, arching a single, perfectly sculpted brow.* "What reason could be more important than his people?" *Her eyes, dark and knowing in the moonlight, lock with his.**She lets out a short, sharp laugh, devoid of any humor. The sound is brittle in the quiet night air, a stark contrast to the soft music still drifting from the ballroom inside.*
"Or is he baling his grief with the village maidens in his room?" *she suggests, her voice dripping with a venomous sarcasm that stuns him into silence.* "That why he rushed back? To be entertained by... them?"
*The mention of the king and the maidens is like a spark to dry tinder. A hot, sudden fury surges through him, eclipsing all other thoughts. He doesn't remember taking the step, but suddenly he is there, his chest pressing against hers, the railing digging into her back. He looms over her, his finger jabbing toward her chest, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrates through the stone balcony.* "Don't you dare speak of the king in that manner! He is grieving! He is hurt! He would never do such a thing to his beloved!"
*The words are ripped from him, raw and possessive, a defense of his self, and a memory of a promise he made to another.**She stumbles back a step, her eyes widening in genuine shock at the sudden shift in his demeanor. The playful, challenging man is gone, replaced by someone she doesn't recognize. The fury radiating from him is palpable, a physical force that makes the air feel thick and cold.*
"I'm sorry..." *she stammers, holding up her hands in a placating gesture.* "Sorry, okay? It was just a joke."
*His glare doesn't soften.* "Don't joke about a man's grief like that!" *he snaps, his voice still tight with rage. He sees the fear in her eyes then, and the sight of it, the fear she directs at him, is a cold bucket of water on his anger. He takes a sharp breath, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a familiar, gnawing frustration.* "I'm sorry," *she repeats, the words softer now, laced with confusion.* "Geez, you're really loyal to him. It almost sounds as if you are him."
*The accusation hangs in the air between them, a ridiculous, impossible thought that shouldn't even be entertained. Yet, the way she says it, with that glint of suspicion in her eyes, makes something inside him freeze. He forces a laugh, but it sounds hollow and strained even to his own ears. He quickly composes himself, clearing his throat and stepping back, putting a sliver of space between them. He adopts a posture of casual dismissal, a mask of a simple servant.*
"Me? A mere guard? Why would I be the king? That would have been hilarious." *He gives a nervous, tight-lipped chuckle, the sound grating against the sudden, heavy silence.*
*Just as the absurdity of the moment peaks, the heavy balcony door swings inward with a soft groan, breaking the tension. A young guard, no older than eighteen, stands silhouetted in the doorway, his face earnest and slightly vacant. He bows awkwardly.*
"Good evening, si—"
*The young guard's voice is cut off as a figure swiftly steps into the doorway, blocking his path. It's Frederick, his face a mask of practiced calm, but Arne can see the tightness around his eyes. He claps the young guard on the shoulder, a little too hard, sending him stumbling a step forward.*
"káre," *Frederick says, his voice smooth and casual, though it carries a distinct edge. He shoots a pointed look at the wide-eyed guard, who is clearly too naive to catch on.* "I see you have company."
*His gaze shifts from Arne's rigid posture to Pooley's face, taking in her wide eyes and the lingering tension. A flicker of understanding, and perhaps even sympathy, passes over his features before he schools his expression back to neutrality.* "Sorry for the interruption, Cane here's new to the job, so he tends to forget names."
*He gives the young guard another, sharper, nudge.* "Captain Frederick. But He is the high—"*Frederick's voice falters for a fraction of a second, a dangerous crack in his composure. Before he can spill the secret, he lets out a sharp, exaggerated cough. He straightens up, his expression smoothing over into one of polite, if strained, formality.*
"—high guard, yes, yes. Sorry, High Guard káre. I'll leave you and your guest." *His eyes dart from Arne to Pooley one last time, a silent, studious look that seems to say,I understand now. I see the king's reasons.He gives Arne a sharp, almost imperceptible nod before grabbing the young guard's arm.* "We have an errand to attend to. This way, Cane." *He practically drags the confused young man away, the soft click of the door closing behind them sealing them in a bubble of silence once more.*
*The silence that follows Frederick's departure is thick, charged with the unspoken tension of the last few minutes. She turns to him, her earlier fear replaced by a sharp, inquisitive curiosity.*
"What was that about?" *she asks, her voice low and probing.* "Why did Cane bow to you, and why did the other guard look so anxious?"
*She leans in then, the space between them closing until the tip of her nose nearly brushes his chin. Her ember-red eyes lock onto his, burning with an intensity that makes the air feel electric. She whispers, her voice a slow, deliberate cut through the silence.*
"Are you hiding something? Are you... perhaps... the king?"
*He looks into her eyes, and for a heart-stopping moment, he feels utterly exposed, as if she can see the crown hidden beneath his simple tunic. A bead of sweat breaks out on his brow. Before he can even formulate a response, she straightens up and lets out a short, breathy laugh.*
"Then that would have been funny."
*She throws her head back and laughs, a bright, musical sound that seems to chase away the lingering shadows.* "Can you imagine me talking to the king like this?" *she giggles, the sound a stark contrast to the intensity of a moment before.* "If you were the king, you would have had my head on a platter after everything I've said."
*He lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, the air rushing from his lungs in a silent sigh of relief. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a fraction. She doesn't know. He's safe. For now.*
*But the reprieve is short-lived. Her laughter cuts off abruptly, as if a switch had been flipped. The playful light in her eyes vanishes, replaced by a sudden, unnerving seriousness. She turns back to him, her expression completely serious.*
"But you're not him, right?" *she asks, her voice barely a whisper.* "Because I doubt a king would keep letting a thief into his home."
*She holds his gaze, her expression serious, searching his face for any sign of deception. Then, as if a dam has broken inside her, her confession tumbles out, soft and unexpected.*
"...besides, I like you." *The words hang in the air between them, fragile and potent. A blush, a faint dusting of pink, creeps up her neck and spreads across her dark, smooth cheeks. She seems to realize what she's just said, and she turns away abruptly, fumbling for a way to recover.* "I mean..."
*she stammers, her voice suddenly flustered.* "I admire your sense of loyalty." *She forces a light, casual tone, clearly trying to change the subject, to bury the truth she just laid bare.**He stands utterly speechless behind her, the world tilting on its axis. Her words,*
"I like you," *echo in the sudden, deafening silence of the balcony, each syllable a hammer blow to his composure. He can feel the heat of her blush radiating from her even with her turned away, and it ignites a fire in his own chest, a terrifying, exhilarating warmth that has nothing to do with the summer night.*
*He wants to speak, to tell her that it is he who admires her, that her fire and her wit are more captivating than any royal court. But the words are trapped in his throat, tangled by the sheer, impossible weight of his secret. He is the King. And she just told the King she liked him. The irony is so profound it's almost paralyzing.*
*All he can manage is a slow, stunned nod, his gaze fixed on the curve of her neck, the line of her shoulder, the blush that betrays her.*