For several measured heartbeats, silence remained suspended among the four men, made heavier by the younger warrior’s unwavering stare and the uncomfortable suspicion tightening beneath Amor’s ribs. The barbarian’s interest could have been purely practical, perhaps the scrutiny of a foreign envoy evaluating the spoiled heir whose cooperation was necessary for whatever agreement Lanslet hoped to negotiate. It could also have been a cultural misunderstanding, some northern custom in which staring openly at another person was considered perfectly polite rather than the prelude to either a duel or an indecent proposition.
Amor intended to discover which explanation was correct before anyone attempted to involve him in something inconvenient. He allowed his gaze to travel openly over the younger man now that introductions had been made, subtly returning the scrutiny he had been subjected to since descending the staircase.
"Your journey must have been a long one..."
Amor said, directing the observation toward Valdor while maintaining the pleasant expression expected of a noble host.
"The Blackstone territories lie beyond the northern mountain pass, do they not?"
Valdor’s obsidian eyes remained fixed upon him.
"Beyond three passes..."
His answer was brief, though not dismissive, and the depth of his voice seemed to settle against Amor’s skin more than it entered his ears. Valdor inclined his head slightly, one narrow braid sliding against the powerful curve of his shoulder, before adding.
"The low road is flooded. We crossed the beast trails."
Amor had no idea what constituted a beast trail in the northern wildlands, but judging by the old scars scattered across Valdor’s chest and arms, he doubted it involved a comfortable carriage ride.
"That sounds considerably less hospitable than the royal roads."
"The royal roads have more thieves."
Valdor replied. A flicker of amusement entered Amor’s eyes.
"The kingdom prefers to call them tax collectors."
Vervath released a deep sound from somewhere beneath the wolf pelt, and it took Amor a moment to realize the chieftain had laughed. Lanslet concealed his own amusement behind an elegant hand, while Valdor’s severe expression remained almost perfectly unchanged. Almost, because the corner of his mouth shifted by the smallest degree, exposing the faint scar crossing his lower lip.
Amor noticed.
Valdor appeared to notice that he had noticed, because his dark gaze sharpened with sudden awareness.
Before either man could continue their peculiar examination of one another, a sharp pain pierced the center of Amor’s skull.
His breath stalled as a memory that did not belong to him forced its way through the fragmented haze surrounding the original owner’s life. Images came without warning—a northern road stained black with monster blood, enormous wagons transporting grain between villages, and warriors marked in dark ink moving through forests where royal knights refused to travel after sunset. Beneath those images came voices, scraps of childhood lessons and court conversations the original Amor had considered too dull to retain.
The Asterian Empire and the Blackstone Tribe had maintained an official peace for twenty years.
It was not a conventional alliance, nor had it begun from mutual affection. Before the treaty, disputes over hunting grounds, mountain resources, and the ownership of northern settlements had repeatedly brought the Blackstone clans and the kingdom’s armies to the edge of open war. Both sides possessed enough strength to inflict devastating losses, yet neither could secure the border while monsters multiplied through the forests and descended upon the surrounding villages.
The treaty had changed that.
In exchange for recognized control over their ancestral lands, expanded trading rights, and the kingdom’s promise not to construct military strongholds beyond the third mountain pass, the Blackstone Tribe had agreed to protect the northern region from monsters and predatory beasts. Royal knights still patrolled the larger roads, while adventurers accepted contracts for creatures valuable enough to justify the danger, but neither group accounted for the majority of the region’s defense. The Blackstone warriors did.
They cleared nesting grounds before swarms could spread, tracked migrating beasts away from villages, and guarded remote trade routes too dangerous for ordinary soldiers to maintain. When monsters emerged from the mountains during winter, it was often a Blackstone hunting party that reached an isolated settlement before a royal messenger could even arrive at the nearest barracks. Their work was violent, constant, and so essential that the northern economy would likely collapse within a season if they withdrew.
Most nobles nevertheless referred to them as barbarians.
They mocked their clothing, language, and customs while enjoying imported furs, ores, medicinal herbs, and monster materials delivered safely through territory protected by Blackstone blood. Noblemen who had never traveled farther north than a country hunting estate spoke confidently about the tribe’s supposed savagery, apparently unaware that several villages maintained shrines honoring Blackstone warriors who had died defending them. Merchants and experienced travelers held considerably more practical opinions, because they understood precisely who kept the northern routes open.
The king and queen understood as well.
The current prosperity of Astria had accelerated after the treaty, aided by the stable trade roads and access to resources once considered too dangerous to transport in meaningful quantities. Although official histories praised royal diplomacy and military expansion, anyone familiar with the northern territories knew the Blackstone Tribe had been instrumental to the kingdom’s growth. Their alliance was therefore protected through a collection of ceremonies and annual traditions intended to prevent either side from retreating into suspicion.
One of those traditions involved envoys.
Every year, selected Blackstone representatives entered the capital and resided beneath the roof of a noble family for one month. The arrangement was publicly described as a gesture of trust, allowing the tribe and the aristocracy to learn one another’s customs while demonstrating that twenty years of peace had not weakened. In practice, it also allowed the crown to observe the Blackstone leadership, encouraged commercial negotiations, and reassured both sides that important members of the tribe could enter noble territory without being treated as enemies.
The memories settled into place so abruptly that Amor nearly touched his temple.
He restrained the movement before anyone could notice his distress, though Valdor’s eyes narrowed as if he had detected the smallest fracture in Amor’s composure. The warrior’s attention shifted briefly over Amor’s face, studying him with the same predatory focus he might have directed toward a wounded animal concealing its weakness. Amor responded by lifting his chin and offering a mild smile, refusing to confirm whatever Valdor suspected.
Lanslet stepped smoothly into the silence.
"I suppose a formal explanation is overdue."
Amor turned toward his father, grateful for an excuse to escape Valdor’s scrutiny without appearing unsettled.
"Considering two Blackstone warriors are standing in our foyer wearing enough monster fur to terrify the household hounds, I would agree."
"Oho, the hounds tried to bite Valdor."
Lanslet said. Amor glanced at the younger warrior’s bare legs and found no wound.
"And?"
"They reconsidered."
Vervath’s laughter rolled through the foyer again, louder this time, causing two nearby servants to flinch despite their disciplined expressions. Valdor offered no account of precisely how he had persuaded the Moons estate’s hounds to reconsider, though a faint gleam appeared in his obsidian eyes when Amor looked at him. That silent amusement only deepened Amor’s curiosity, particularly because the animals were large hunting dogs the original Amor had once described as vicious enough to deter assassins.
"I will assume no hounds were permanently harmed."
Amor said.
"No hounds."
Valdor confirmed.
The peculiar emphasis made Amor suspect something else might have been. Lanslet placed a gentle hand against Amor’s upper arm and guided him toward one of the sitting chambers adjoining the foyer.
"We should continue this discussion somewhere more comfortable. Chieftain Vervath and his son have been traveling for several weeks, and I would rather not conduct a month’s worth of arrangements while standing beneath a staircase."
’A month.’
The duration confirmed what Amor’s recovered memories had already revealed, though he followed without objection as servants hurried ahead to open the adjoining doors. The receiving chamber beyond was larger than the foyer but still extravagant, furnished with pale upholstered chairs, low silver tables, and tall windows overlooking the eastern courtyard. A newly kindled fire burned within the marble hearth despite the pleasant weather, perhaps lit for guests accustomed to colder northern temperatures.
Lanslet entered first, then Vervath, ducking slightly beneath the carved doorway when the wolf’s head covering his own threatened to strike the frame. Valdor followed immediately behind Amor, close enough that the warmth radiating from his bare body reached through the delicate layers of silk along Amor’s back. He made no sound beyond the quiet impact of leather soles against marble, yet Amor remained acutely aware of every step until Lanslet directed them toward their seats.
The furniture presented an immediate difficulty.
The receiving room had been designed for slender aristocrats who spent their days signing documents rather than wrestling monsters, and the elegant chair beneath Vervath creaked ominously when the chieftain lowered his immense body onto it. Valdor examined the seat provided for him, then chose to remain standing behind his father instead. His position placed him directly across from Amor, where he could continue staring without even pretending to participate in civilized conversation.
Amor settled gracefully beside Lanslet, arranging his flowing sleeves across his lap.
"Now, Father, perhaps you would explain why the Blackstone chieftain and his heir have traveled all this way to become our guests."
"Each year, representatives from the tribe reside with one of the kingdom’s noble houses..."
Lanslet began, his tone patient rather than condescending.
"The tradition was included among the terms of the peace accord and has continued without interruption for twenty years. It demonstrates that those entrusted with preserving our northern borders may enter the heart of the kingdom without suspicion or hostility."
Amor nodded as if the information merely refreshed an old lesson rather than restoring a missing portion of his borrowed memories.
"And this year House Moons has been selected?"
"Precisely."
"Selected by whom?"
Lanslet’s pink eyes shone with subtle amusement.
"The royal household prepares a list of eligible families, after which the Blackstone chieftain makes the final selection."
Amor’s gaze moved toward Vervath.
The older man rested one forearm across his thick thigh, appearing entirely at ease despite being surrounded by delicate furniture and servants who looked prepared to faint whenever he shifted his axe. His expression gave little away, but the slightest narrowing of his obsidian eyes suggested he understood the question Amor had not yet voiced. House Moons had not received these guests through chance alone.
"Why us?"
Amor asked. Vervath answered before Lanslet could.
"Your house trades honestly."
The compliment was delivered with such blunt seriousness that Amor briefly wondered whether something had been lost through translation. Among nobles, claiming that a family conducted business honestly was usually either a veiled accusation or the beginning of an elaborate deception. Vervath seemed to mean exactly what he said. Lanslet inclined his head with gracious satisfaction.
"House Moons has purchased monster materials, medicinal plants, and northern ores through Blackstone merchants for nearly a five decades. We pay the agreed prices, use accurate weights, and do not invent sudden taxes once a caravan reaches our warehouses."
"An astonishing standard of morality..."
Amor murmured.
"Within the capital’s merchant districts, it nearly qualifies us for sainthood."
Valdor’s mouth shifted again. Amor pretended not to notice, though he filed away the apparent fact that the younger warrior found his irreverence amusing. It offered a possible explanation for the continued staring, but not a sufficient one. Valdor had begun watching Amor before Amor said a single entertaining word, and whatever held his attention seemed far more intense than ordinary curiosity. Lanslet continued.
"Their visit is also a fortunate opportunity, because I have been attempting to negotiate a more substantial agreement with the Blackstone Tribe for some time."
There was the dangerous word again. Amor’s fingertips brushed lightly against the closed fan resting across his lap.
"What kind of agreement?"
"A commercial partnership concerning the western silverwood basin."
The name stirred another faint memory, this one related to geography rather than the novel’s central plot. Silverwood was a rare timber resistant to water, rot, and lower forms of fire magic, making it extraordinarily valuable for ships, enchanted buildings, and defensive structures. The largest untouched forest lay between land controlled by House Moons and hunting territory claimed by the Blackstone Tribe, but the monsters inhabiting the basin made harvesting nearly impossible without cooperation from both sides.
"The basin is inaccessible from the kingdom’s side for most of the year..."
Lanslet explained.
"The mountain road is too narrow for ordinary supply wagons, and the creatures nesting beneath the western cliffs have destroyed three attempted logging camps. The Blackstone hunters possess the knowledge required to clear and patrol the region, while House Moons controls the river route necessary to transport the timber south."
"You want a shared operation."
Amor concluded.
"I want a permanent agreement that divides profits, responsibilities, and territorial access fairly enough that neither party has cause to violate it later."
Vervath grunted his approval.
"Better agreement lasts when both sides gain."
Amor could not argue with the principle, though he doubted negotiations between a noble house and an independent warrior tribe would remain that straightforward. The original Amor had possessed little interest in business unless a contract could be manipulated to impress Alphonsins, which meant Lanslet had likely managed the family’s commercial affairs without his involvement. Why, then, had Percival claimed Amor’s presence was necessary before the agreement could proceed?
He turned his attention toward his father.
"What does this have to do with me?"
Lanslet’s expression became almost suspiciously gentle. That look worried Amor more than a direct demand would have.
"Nothing burdensome, my moonlight..."
Lanslet assured him.
"Our guests will remain within the estate for the traditional month, during which the chieftain and I will negotiate the silverwood arrangement. Because you are the heir of House Moons, however, your cooperation and hospitality will strengthen the trust between our families."
Amor heard what his father said. He also heard everything Lanslet had carefully avoided saying. Before he could question him more directly, Vervath leaned forward, making the chair beneath him groan.
"An agreement made with the father must be honored by the son. We know the one who will inherit."
The statement was reasonable in political terms, though Amor noticed Valdor’s attention sharpen the moment inheritance was mentioned. The younger warrior’s gaze moved across Amor’s face as if measuring whether such a delicate creature could truly command one of the kingdom’s richest noble houses. There was no visible mockery in his expression, only that same unnerving concentration. Amor met it without blinking.
"And what has your inspection determined so far?"
Valdor’s brows shifted slightly.
"Inspection?"
"You have been studying me since I entered the foyer..."
Amor replied, his tone light enough to remain socially acceptable.
"I assumed you were deciding whether I possessed the character required to honor my father’s contracts, although perhaps Blackstone custom demands that guests memorize every detail of their host’s face."
Lanslet went very still beside him. Vervath’s obsidian eyes moved toward his son with unmistakable interest, while Valdor showed neither embarrassment nor any immediate desire to deny the accusation. He looked at Amor for another prolonged moment, so openly that the silence itself began to feel intimate. Then his gaze lowered along the flowing neckline of Amor’s tunic before returning to his pink eyes.
"You are unlike what I was told."
Valdor said. Amor’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his fan.
"And what were you told?"
Valdor glanced toward Lanslet. The marquess smiled with all the innocence of a man who had almost certainly described his son in exhaustive and humiliating detail.
"Only that you were exceptionally beautiful, spirited, and occasionally resistant to responsibilities that fail to capture your interest."
"You told them I was spoiled."
"I used kinder language."
Vervath’s beard shifted around another restrained laugh. Amor turned back toward Valdor, determined not to be distracted by his father’s betrayal.
"Does my appearance disprove those warnings?"
"No."
The immediate answer earned Valdor a narrowed look. For the first time, the younger warrior’s expression changed enough to reveal clear amusement. It did not soften him, exactly, because there was something too intense and physically imposing about his presence for softness to settle naturally upon him. Yet the faint curve of his scarred mouth transformed his face from merely handsome into something dangerously compelling.
"You still look spoiled..."
Valdor continued.
"But not weak."
The words struck closer to Amor’s hidden self than he expected.
Most people saw pale skin, flowing fabrics, and a body narrow enough to be encircled by a warrior’s hands, then assumed delicacy extended inward as well as outward. Valdor had observed him for only several minutes and already separated fragility of appearance from weakness of character. Amor did not know whether to feel flattered or threatened by the accuracy. He opened his fan slowly, allowing the painted silk to conceal his mouth.
"You are remarkably confident for a guest standing in my home."
"You asked."
"And you answer every question with such brutal honesty?"
"When an honest answer is useful."
"Then perhaps you can answer another."
Valdor inclined his head. Amor regarded him over the fan’s silver edge, carefully selecting a question that would test the nature of his interest without exposing too much of his own curiosity.
"Is there some obligation within your envoy tradition that requires you to watch the heir of your host’s family so closely?"
Vervath’s gaze sharpened at once. Lanslet’s smile remained composed, but Amor felt the subtle tension entering the hand resting beside his own. Whatever cultural meaning might exist behind Valdor’s behavior, both fathers appeared to recognize the direction of Amor’s question. That reaction alone suggested the staring was not entirely political. Valdor, however, remained untroubled.
"No."
"A misunderstanding of kingdom etiquette, then?"
"No."
Amor lowered the fan by a fraction.
"Personal curiosity?"
Valdor’s obsidian eyes held his.
"Yes."
The simplicity of the answer stole Amor’s prepared response. There was no embarrassment, flirtatious evasion, or elaborate courtly phrasing, only a direct admission spoken with the same certainty Valdor might have used to identify a weapon. His gaze did not leave Amor’s face afterward, nor did he attempt to soften the implications of his reply. Whatever personal curiosity meant among the Blackstone Tribe, Valdor felt no reason to conceal it. Amor recovered quickly.
"How dangerous."
Valdor’s eyes darkened.
"To whom?"
Before Amor could decide whether that was a warning, a challenge, or the northern equivalent of flirtation, another memory struck.
This one arrived with such force that the receiving chamber vanished around him.
He saw the foyer as it had appeared within the original story, though the scene was filtered through words he had read in another life rather than memories experienced by this body. Amor—the original Amor—stood at the top of the same staircase dressed in an elaborate blue coat, irritation twisting his beautiful face as Lanslet called for him to descend. Outside, a carriage bearing the Solaris crest waited near the estate gates, and the only concern occupying Amor’s thoughts was reaching Alphonsins before the duke departed for an afternoon council meeting.
Lanslet had beckoned him warmly.
"My moonlight, come meet our guests from the northern tribes."
The original Amor had barely looked at them.
Vervath and Valdor had been standing in the foyer exactly as they were now, although the novel described them only as two intimidating barbarians dressed in crude furs. Their names had either been omitted or appeared so briefly that he had forgotten them, because the entire encounter occupied less than a page. They had not mattered to the central plot.
Original Amor had refused to descend.
He had demanded to know why barbarians were standing within House Moons, then accused his father of attempting to embarrass him while he was publicly involved with Alphonsins. Rumors had already circulated about Amor’s wandering interests and discarded lovers, and he had become obsessed with proving that the duke was the only man capable of holding his attention. Entertaining two half-dressed warriors beneath his roof—even as political guests—might allow malicious nobles to suggest otherwise.
"Send them somewhere else!"
Original Amor had ordered.
"I will not have anyone claiming I am amusing other men while Alphonsins and I are together!"
Lanslet had attempted to explain the envoy tradition.
Amor had refused to listen.
He threatened to leave House Moons entirely if the warriors remained, declaring that he would move into a private residence closer to the Solaris estate and take half the household staff with him. Lanslet, who had never been able to deny his beloved son anything for long, eventually surrendered. The Blackstone envoys were transferred to another noble residence before sunset.
And that had been the end of it.
The novel returned immediately to Amor pursuing Alphonsins through the capital, while Vervath and Valdor vanished so completely that Amor had never spared them another thought. No consequences emerged from the insult, no northern conflict disturbed the central romance, and no later Chapter revealed what became of the agreement Lanslet had hoped to negotiate. The entire scene had existed only to demonstrate Amor’s obsessive devotion and his father’s ruinous indulgence.
Yet now Amor had descended the staircase.
He had welcomed the guests, asked about their journey, and sat across from them rather than demanding their expulsion. A scene that should have ended within minutes had continued beyond its original boundaries, unfolding into political negotiations, cultural obligations, and Valdor’s unsettling personal interest. These events were not appearing from nowhere.
They had always existed beyond the narrow focus of the novel.
Amor stared at Valdor as that realization settled through him.
The book had followed Alphonsins and Celestine, revealing only those people and events that affected their romance. Side characters vanished whenever they no longer served the central narrative, but this world had not vanished with them. Vervath and Valdor possessed histories, responsibilities, and desires the original text had never bothered to explore.
By changing Amor’s decision, he had not necessarily forced the plot into creating something new. He had simply opened a door that the original Amor had slammed shut.
’How curious.’
"Amor?"
Lanslet’s voice drew him back into the receiving chamber.
Amor blinked once and found three sets of eyes directed toward him, though Valdor’s attention remained the most intense. His father looked faintly concerned, perhaps noticing the brief absence within Amor’s expression, while Vervath appeared patient but observant. Valdor had shifted closer without Amor hearing him move.
"Are you unwell? Has your fever returned? Do you need to lay down? Should I call the physician for you? Do you not want them here? Should I ask them to leave, my moonlight?"
Lanslet asked, his face wrought with worry.
"The fever left me with occasional headaches..."
Amor replied smoothly.
"Nothing that requires fussing over, Father."
Valdor stood only a few steps away now, his enormous body casting a broad shadow across the edge of Amor’s chair. His eyes moved over Amor’s face, pausing near his temple as though he might reach forward and examine him despite the obvious breach of etiquette. The thought should have irritated Amor, yet he found himself wondering how one of those rough, powerful hands would feel against his skin.
He dismissed the curiosity immediately.
Valdor was not a romantic lead, and this was not part of the novel’s central plot. That should have made him safer than Alphonsins, but Amor was beginning to suspect safety could not be determined merely by whether someone’s name appeared in the book. Unwritten dangers remained dangers, and an enormous warrior whose personal curiosity had focused upon him within moments of their meeting deserved caution. Amor lowered his fan and looked toward Vervath.
"House Moons will honor the envoy tradition. You and your son may remain for the full month."
Lanslet’s face brightened. Vervath inclined his head with solemn approval, the wolf pelt shifting across his shoulders.
"Blackstone remembers welcome."
"Let us hope Blackstone also remembers that our furniture was not constructed to survive siege warfare."
Amor replied, glancing at the chair still protesting beneath the chieftain’s weight. Vervath barked out another laugh.
Even Lanslet surrendered to his amusement, while several servants near the wall looked relieved that their young master had accepted the arrangement without demanding anyone’s removal. Amor smiled pleasantly, concealing the deeper calculation beneath his expression. Agreeing to the visit preserved his father’s negotiations, avoided repeating the original Amor’s insult, and gave Amor an opportunity to investigate a portion of the world the novel had ignored.
It also meant Valdor would remain beneath the same roof for one month.
Amor’s gaze returned to him.
The younger warrior had not laughed with the others, though unmistakable amusement warmed the otherwise impenetrable darkness of his eyes. He continued watching Amor as though the decision to welcome them had confirmed something important. When their gazes met, Valdor struck one fist lightly against the center of his marked chest.
"You give welcome..."
He said.
"I will return protection."
Amor tilted his head.
"I was unaware I needed protecting."
Valdor’s attention moved briefly toward the windows, beyond which the peaceful gardens and fortified walls of House Moons lay beneath the afternoon light.
"Everyone needs protection."
"From what?"
The warrior looked back at him.
"Whatever comes."
The answer was broad enough to be meaningless, yet the certainty behind it sent a strange sensation along Amor’s spine. Valdor did not speak like a guest making a polite promise to his host. He sounded as though he had accepted a personal duty the moment Amor allowed him to remain.
Amor lifted his fan again, hiding the contemplative curve of his lips.
At the royal ball, he had severed himself from the story’s male lead and stepped away from the fate written for the villain Amor Moons. He had believed the path ahead would become simple once he stopped chasing Alphonsins, leaving him free to enjoy his wealth beyond the narrative’s reach. Instead, his very first changed decision had drawn an abandoned side plot back into motion.
Across from him stood a man the original Amor had dismissed before learning his full name.
Valdor Rhazien watched him with obsidian eyes and an interest that carried no trace of political obligation or cultural confusion. Whatever might have happened had the original Amor welcomed the Blackstone envoys, the novel had never revealed it. Amor now occupied that unwritten possibility, where no remembered Chapter could warn him what came next.
Rather than frightening him, the uncertainty awakened a slow, dangerous thrill.
Perhaps the plot was changing because the soul inhabiting Amor Moons had changed first. Perhaps destiny, deprived of its obsessive villain, was rearranging the neglected pieces of the world around him in search of a new course. Or perhaps none of this was destiny at all, and Amor was merely discovering that people continued to exist even when an author stopped writing about them.
His soft pink eyes sharpened with interest.
’How very curious indeed.’