Morning came but Zalyric had not closed his eyes once because sleep was far from him after the failed assassination attempt. Instead, he now sat upon his throne with his gaze sharp as steel while watching the nobles involved in the slave auctions stood chained before him with their heads bowed low in disgrace.
"Is this all of them?" Zalyric asked coldly, his voice carrying across the hall like a blade's edge. Evan, equally sleepless after losing track of where his king had vanished in the dead of night, stepped forward.
"Yes, Your Majesty…" he answered quietly.
"Hah…" Zalyric scoffed, tapping his fingers idly against the armrest of his throne making the sound echoing in the heavy silence.
"Y-your Majesty, please—spare us!" a viscount whimpered with his voice cracking.
"Your Majesty, we have wronged you but grant us mercy just this once!" a baron begged as his knees trembled beneath him.
"I-I am innocent! I never knew that place was a slave auction! Please, Your Majesty, you must believe me!" another noble cried as his words soaked in desperation.
Zalyric smirked with his golden eyes narrowing as he read their cowardice like an open book.
"Do you truly think I act without investigation? That I would not already know every sin you've tried to hide? And yet, you dare spit lies at me and beg for mercy?"
The nobles broke into sobs, men and women alike while stealing nervous glances at one another with their fear palpable.
"Hah… I don't have time for your pitiful cries." Zalyric rose to his feet, the weight of his presence suffocating. "Hang them all in the plaza. Make sure their corpses are displayed where every rat in this kingdom can see what becomes of those who cross me."
He paused, his gaze hardening into something crueler. "As for the one who plotted that pathetic attempt on my life—bring him to me before nightfall. Alive."
Without sparing them another glance, Zalyric swept from the throne room. Behind him, the nobles' desperate screams and pleas echoed, only to be drowned out by the clash of chains and the knights dragging them to their fates.
As for Rowan, he had drifted away from the others after sparring, seeking a bit of quiet for himself. His steps carried him to a spot behind the servants' quarters where an old tree stretched wide with shade. With his sword still at his hip, he welcomed the solitude and the gentle breeze that tugged at his hair.
Before heading out, he had made sure to tell River and Paul of his whereabouts, a lesson he had learned from last time when he had returned late and bloodied, sending them both into a frenzy. His arm, once grazed, had healed completely now, much to their relief.
When it hadn't, they had practically smothered him with ointments, hovering so insistently that it left him more irritated than the wound itself.
"Woah… this wind is something else," Rowan murmured with a grin as he tilted his head back.
Closing his eyes, he let the cool air wash over his face. He stretched his legs out and leaned against the sturdy trunk, feeling the steady heartbeat of the tree at his back. For the first time in a while, the tension in his shoulders began to ease.
I wonder how Magnus is doing right now. Is he even alright? Or did he just completely forget about me? Damn it, why haven't I received a single letter from him? Not even one. It's been two whole months and nothing! What kind of jerk does that? Did his hand break? Did he forget how to write? Or maybe he's just too busy playing the noble knight somewhere to even spare me a thought. Ugh, what a bastard.
Rowan's Mari instinct was already running wild, ranting inside his head. With a sigh, he opened his eyes and stared at the scenery in front of him.
Shit, even the servants' quarters here look more pretty than my old apartment with Mary. What the hell? Our whole damn place was probably the size of the bathroom here. The bathroom!
He scoffed under his breath, running a hand through his hair.
And don't even get me started on the furniture. Their benches here are sturdier than the dining table we had that wobbled every time you sneezed near it. And look at those windows—big, clean, actual glass! Mary and I had one tiny window and it wouldn't even open unless you kicked it. And when it did, congratulations, you just let in the neighbor's laundry smoke. Damn it all.
He leaned harder against the tree, grumbling in his head.
These servants sleep better than I ever did. Look at their roof with no leaks. Meanwhile, Mary and I had to put bowls everywhere whenever it rained like we were running some sort of water collection business. Damn palace. Damn nobles. Even the rats here probably live better than us back then.
Rowan wasn't paying much attention to the distant, drifting thoughts that clouded his mind. At least not until a shift in the corner of his eye made his breath catch. There, leaning lazily against the tree beside his own, stood Zalyric—the king himself.
Rowan startled upright that the sudden motion nearly sending him sprawling as his legs faltered beneath him.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
"Your expressions are amusing," Zalyric remarked as his arms were folded across his chest, his posture deceptively casual though his eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.
"What were you thinking about? Something… naughty?"
"O-of course not, Your Majesty!" Rowan stammered while his cheeks was heating.
The king only scoffed, a half-smile ghosting over his lips before he stepped closer. His strides were measured, confident and when he finally stopped in front of Rowan, the difference in their height made Rowan feel even smaller than he already did.
"Sit," Zalyric commanded, his tone calm but leaving no room for argument.
"Eh?" Rowan blinked with his confusion plain as his gaze flickering up to the king's face as though silently asking why.
"You truly are an open book," Zalyric murmured, the faintest curl of amusement tugging at his mouth. "I said sit. Or are your ears simply an ornament?"
Something in his voice, a quiet undertone of authority threaded with irritation made Rowan quickly obey. He lowered himself onto the grass, awkwardly folding his legs as though his heart drummed so fast that it felt like it would leap from his chest.
"W-what are you—"
"What do you think?" Zalyric interrupted smoothly. "Are your eyes also decorations?"
Before Rowan could speak another word, the king reclined without hesitation, lowering himself until his head rested against Rowan's lap.
Rowan went rigid.
Shit! What is he doing? His breath caught as heat flooding his face. If someone sees this, they'll misunderstand—
"Y-you shouldn't… Your Majesty," Rowan whispered, glancing down at the man whose presence was both terrifying and strangely gentle.
"Wouldn't it be better to rest inside? The wind is a little sharp here."
"And I like it." Zalyric's reply was quiet and casual as though the idea of scandal or impropriety had never crossed his mind. "I'm only borrowing your lap. What's the big deal?"
Zalyric's arms crossed loosely over his chest and he even closed his eyes. The soft afternoon breeze toyed with his hair and Rowan found himself staring against his better judgment at the sweep of the king's lashes, the rare calm that softened the harsh lines of his face.
"B-but, Your Majesty…" Rowan began weakly while his voice was fraying under the weight of a hundred conflicting emotions.
"Zip your mouth," Zalyric murmured, not unkindly, though his tone brooked no argument. "I'm tired. Let me rest."
And so, Rowan bit his tongue and swallowed the rest of his protests.
His muscles trembled with the effort of keeping still with his heart a wild rhythm beneath his ribs. Yet as the minutes slipped by, the fear that had first seized him melted into something far more confusing, something he didn't dare name.
He sat there, unmoving as the king's head resting warm and heavy in his lap, wondering how something so simple could unravel him so completely.