Taking a bath in someone else’s house is, under normal circumstances, a deeply political maneuver. You learn pretty quickly who respects you and who wishes you’d hurry up and freeze to death based entirely on how much hot water they bother hauling up the back stairs.
When Xavion pushed open the door to his bedchamber, he expected little more than a cold room and perhaps a modest wooden tub waiting in the adjoining bathing chamber. Instead, three maids and two servants were bustling around a porcelain basin big enough to drown a warhorse in.. Steam was already billowing toward the vaulted ceiling, carrying the sharp, woodsy tang of crushed pine, lavender, and something rich that smelled vaguely like sweet almond oil.
"Your Highness," the eldest maid curtsied so low her starched apron nearly dusted the floor. "We’re just putting the finishing touches on the water. The herbs are meant to draw out the trail-soreness from your limbs, if it pleases you."
Xavion hovered near the threshold, his cape resting heavy on his shoulders. He didn’t move forward immediately. He couldn’t help it; old habits from the imperial guest palace die hard, and in Ostharia, a sudden cloud of heavy fragrance usually meant someone was trying to cover up the bitter scent of nightshade.
"It is... very thorough," Xavion said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
"Oh, His Grace wouldn’t have it any other way!" another maid chimed in, setting down a stack of folded linens on the side table. They weren’t the stiff, bleached cotton most nobles kept for guests. These were ridiculously thick, plush towels that looked like they’d been woven out of cloud fluff, sitting right beside a pair of fresh silk nightclothes and a dark, heavy velvet robe lined with fleece. "His Grace specifically instructed us to make certain everything was comfortable for you, Your Highness. He said if the room felt even a tiny bit drafty, we were to bring up three extra feather quilts immediately."
The girl offered a bright, entirely unpracticed smile before ducking her head. "He fussed over the pillows for twenty minutes this afternoon, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Said royal heads are sensitive to rough stitching."
Xavion blinked. The image of the Grand Duke, a grown man who ran a northern territory, standing over a bed frantically punching pillows to test their softness was... baffling. It didn’t fit. Nothing about today fit.
"I see," Xavion murmured softly. "Thank you."
"If you need anything else during the night, anything at all, Your Highness, you only have to pull that silk cord by the bed post," the maid said, gesturing toward the woven fringe. "One of the night staff will be up before you can finish counting to ten. Rest well, Your Highness."
With a final round of quiet curtsies, the servants filed out into the dimly lit corridor, pulling the doors shut until the latch clicked home with a soft, definitive snap.
Finally. Privacy.
Xavion let out a slow breath that seemed to pull all the tension out of his collarbone. The quiet in the room was almost heavy, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire and the soft, gentle splashing of the hot water settling in the tub.
He unbuttoned his tunic, stepped out of his riding boots, and unknotted the black silk patch covering his right eye.
He didn’t look in the mirror set above the washstand. He didn’t need to. He knew what was there, the pale, jagged seam running through his brow down to his cheekbone, the milky, useless void where a brilliant violet eye used to be, and the total, hollow silence.
When a prince loses his magic in Ostharia, he stops being a person. He becomes an inconvenience. A tragic war hero is very convenient for speeches and victory parades, but a broken weapon sitting at the dining table is just an awkward reminder that the empire’s grand army isn’t quite as immortal as the propaganda claims.
He had fully prepared himself for House Roscaire to treat him with the exact same cold, polite tolerance. He’d expected the servants to look at his eyepatch with pity or lingering disgust, whispering behind their sleeves about the grand general who couldn’t even light a candle with his own hand anymore.
Instead... they’d given him pine-scented bathwater and warned him about drafty windows.
Xavion stepped into the tub, sinking down until the steaming water hit his chest. A involuntary, sharp sigh escaped his teeth. His muscles, coiled tight like steel springs ever since they’d crossed the river border, began to slowly, agonizingly unwind.
It was deeply confusing.
Was this just standard Roscaire hospitality? Or was it because he was still technically a prince of the blood, and they didn’t want an international incident on their hands? No, that didn’t feel quite right. He’d seen how Lioren talked to his own sister, the way they bickered over spiced ham and shopping lists like a pair of common tavern-keepers’ children. There was no cold, calculating court diplomacy in that dining hall tonight.
Which meant there was only one other explanation: Lioren Roscaire was simply... like this.
A man who headbutts his guests in the entryway, brags about his housemates not picking onions out of their stew, and orders four different kinds of bread just in case someone gets picky. It was absurd. It was reckless. It was the kind of unshielded, loud warmth that made Xavion feel like he was standing too close to a roaring furnace after spending three years in a snowstorm.
He stayed in the tub until the water turned lukewarm and his fingers pruned, staring absentmindedly at the flickering shadows cast by the fire against the navy bed curtains.
Eventually, he hauled himself out, wrapping one of those absurdly soft towels around his shoulders to dry his wet, waist-length blue hair. He pulled on the dark silk nightclothes, which fitted him surprisingly well across the shoulders, though he preferred not to dwell on how Lioren had gotten his exact measurements, and stood near the foot of the bed, rubbing the ends of his hair with the towel.
Knock. Knock.
Xavion froze instantly, his body dropping back into a low, defensive stance before his brain could even process the noise. His single eye flicked toward the desk where his sword sat out of reach.
He forced his shoulders to drop, taking a quiet breath. Right. He wasn’t in the imperial palace. He was in Werestia.
Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, he pulled out his eyepatch, slipping the silk band over his head and adjusting it over the scarred right side of his face with effortless speed. He wrapped the towel loosely around his damp hair like a scarf, walked over to the heavy door, and pulled it open.
Lioren was standing in the hallway.