Lioren didn’t move. He stood glued to the, his hand hovering mid-air near his chest like a man who had suddenly forgotten how arms functioned.
Wait a minute, he thought, his brain finally restarting after that initial, breathtaking shock. He looked down at himself. His heavy velvet dress coat was slightly rumpled near the hem from dodging eager duchesses, one of his polished silver cuff buttons had rotated the wrong way, and, gods forbid, was his hair crooked?
He frantically reached up, patting down his green hair, smoothing out his high-collared tunic with quick, obsessive tugs. Was there wine on his lapel? Did he smell like a horse? He’d ridden through the capital yesterday, but he’d definitely bathed since then, right?
Lioren caught himself mid-pat and paused, his boots frozen on the stone floor. A wave of profound self-disgust washed over him.
What the hell am I doing? He scolded himself internally, slapping his own cheek with a soft smack. I’m the Grand Duke of Werestia’s northern border! I’ve slaughtered entire vanguard lines without breaking a sweat, and here I am fussing over a loose hair like a nervous debutante before her first spring ball!
Besides, Xavion wasn’t a celebrity on a glowing screen anymore. He wasn’t a fictional tragic villain printed on paper. He was a real person standing right there in the cold moonlight, a broken, half-blind man whom Lioren had firmly resolved to save from a horrifying fate.
"Right. Cool, calm, collected," Lioren muttered under his breath, adjusting his posture into that easy, slightly arrogant stride he’d perfected over twenty-four years of ruling the north. He smoothed his face into a warm, casual expression and stepped out from the shadowy corridor onto the open stone terrace.
Xavion was leaning in slightly, his single violet eye blinking in deep confusion, holding his hand mid-air and gently waving it back and forth right in front of Lioren’s face
"Excuse me?" Xavion called with genuine concern. "Are you... alright?"
Lioren snapped out of his trance so hard he nearly tripped over his own boots.
No! He probably thinks I’m some kind of weirdo!
Before Xavion could retract his hand, Lioren reached out and snatched it, clasping the prince’s fingers between both of his own hands. Subtlety had officially left the building.
"Thank you," Lioren declared with total, breathless dramatic gravity. "Seriously. You just saved my life. I am literally, eternally indebted to you."
Xavion went completely still.
The blue-haired prince stared down at their joined hands, then looked back up at Lioren, his single eye widening slightly in sheer bewilderment. Up close, his hand felt surprisingly cool, his knuckles long and delicate, though Lioren could feel the faint, hidden calluses of a former swordsman buried beneath the soft skin.
"It... was truly nothing at all," Xavion murmured slowly, a subtle, rosy flush tinting his cheekbones as he gave his wrist a tentative, polite tug. "I only slapped your back."
"A life saved is a life saved! If you hadn’t hit me, I’d be dead on this floor right now! Do you know how humiliating that would be? Dying by pastry? Absolutely unacceptable." Lioren insisted, squeezing Xavion’s hand just a tiny bit tighter out of sheer adrenaline. "My aide would be crying into his spiced chicken!"
Xavion let out a soft, hesitant cough, his gaze flicking back down to his trapped fingers. "That... sounds very tragic. But... could you perhaps let go of my hand now?"
Lioren blinked.
He looked down. He was still clutching the imperial prince’s hand with both palms like he was swearing a holy knight’s oath near the punch bowl.
"Right! Yes! Absolutely! God, I’m so sorry!" Lioren blurted out, dropping Xavion’s hand so fast you’d think it had caught fire. He took an abrupt step back, holding his arms out defensivenessly. "My apologies. I get a little... passionate when I’m not dying of pastry asphyxiation."
Lioren offered an apologetic grin, raising a hand. "I’m Lioren. Lioren Roscaire."
He offered his name casually, pretending not to recognize the fallen prince of Ostharia.
Xavion studied him for a long, quiet second, his single visible eye taking in Lioren’s fine armor detailing and relaxed demeanor. Slowly, Xavion lowered his head, performing a flawless, perfectly executed court bow that belonged to high imperial royalty, though the plain, oversized tunic he wore ruined the visual grandeur entirely.
"It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace," Xavion said. His voice was lower and softer than Lioren had expected, calm and smooth in a way that made him unexpectedly easy to listen to. "I am Xavion Astervan from Ostharia."
No grand titles. No proud declarations. Just a quiet, polite acknowledgment of who he was and where he came from.
Lioren felt a strange, uncomfortable squeeze in his chest. In The Shattered Dawn, Xavion’s dialogue was almost entirely composed of apocalyptic threats, dark magic chants, and manic laughter echoing over burning ruins. Hearing him speak so gently, with such refined, flawless manners despite everything his country had stripped from him, was almost disarming. It was endearing, really, in a heart-wrenching sort of way.
"Oh, so you’re the legendary His Highness Prince Xavion," Lioren said, stepping a bit closer while keeping his posture completely unthreatening, "if you don’t mind me asking... What are you doing out here all by yourself? The grand reception hall is clear on the other side of the wing."
Xavion hesitated. He looked away, staring down at the floor tiles near Lioren’s boots.
"I was... attempting to reach the reception hall," Xavion confessed softly, his knuckles tightening slightly against his plain linen sleeves. "The Ostharian delegation was escorted to the guest quarters earlier, but I stepped away to find a quiet space. When I tried to return... I seem to have taken a wrong turn. Or three."
Lioren stared at him.
Silence hung over the terrace for a solid three seconds.
Hold on, Lioren’s mind hummed in utter disbelief. This is Xavion Astervan. The legendary war hero who mapped out multi-kingdom battle lines and led cavalry charges through uncharted mountain passes... and he got defeated by a palace hallway system?
A sudden, overwhelming urge to laugh bubbled up in Lioren’s chest, but he bit his lower lip hard, forcing his face to remain entirely serious. If he laughed now, he’d embarrass the poor guy to death.
"Ah. I see," Lioren said, his voice quivering just a tiny fraction with suppressed amusement. "The palace is a bit of a maze. The architects were clearly paranoid."
"I... suppose so," Xavion murmured, looking remarkably relieved that Lioren hadn’t mocked him.
"Didn’t they give you an escort or an attendant?" Lioren asked, tilting his head. "Foreign guests usually have a palace page assigned to them so they don’t wander off into the royal vaults."
"I had two attendants assigned by the host court," Xavion explained, his voice dipping lower, a subtle shadow passing over his single violet eye. "They were... delayed in the main courtyard. I told them I would proceed ahead, but I clearly misjudged the route."
Lioren didn’t need a degree in political science to read between the lines. Those Werestian attendants had obviously ditched the hostage prince on purpose, leaving him to wander around in the dark to humiliate him.
The amusement drained out of Lioren, replaced by a dark, simmering annoyance toward his own kingdom’s court staff. But he kept his face bright, turning sideways and gesturing back toward the glowing corridor with a grand, sweeping wave of his arm.
"Well, you’re in luck," Lioren said cheerfully. "I happen to know these halls like the back of my hand. Allow me to guide you back inside, Your Highness."
Xavion looked up, blinking his single eye in mild surprise. "You would do that? I would hate to steal your time, Grand Duke."
"Nonsense. Helping you back inside is the least I could do after you saved my life," Lioren laughed, matching his pace to Xavion’s as they headed down the corridor.
"Then... Thank you. You are remarkably kind," Xavion said softly, stepping into stride beside him.
The sheer sincerity in Xavion’s voice made Lioren feel a strange, prickling guilt deep down. The man was so used to hostility, so conditioned to expect cruelty or cold detachment, that a simple five-minute walking escort was treated like a grand act of grace. It was depressing, frankly.
Calm down, Lioren.
He took a breath and forced himself to stop internally screaming. The universe literally shoved an opportunity into your face by making you run into the prince tonight. Use it wisely.
Oh, damn right I will.