While Evan scoured the palace grounds in search of Zalyric—who had slipped away the moment he delivered the damning verdicts against the nobles entangled in the slave auction—the king himself lingered quietly behind the servants' quarters.
Instead of brooding over state affairs, he found himself studying the face of the knight resting before him.
"Hah… you really are strange," Zalyric murmured with a rare curve tugging faintly at his lips.
"Falling asleep in the presence of your king, are you?" He leaned in slightly, the faintest tap of his finger brushing against Rowan's nose.
Rowan did not stir.
His breathing was deep and even, chest rising gently beneath the weight of his uniform as though the world beyond this stolen nap did not exist. His head had tipped back against the tree behind him, while his legs were folded neatly at the knees, boots tucked close beneath him in a posture that looked almost too composed for someone who had drifted into sleep.
Zalyric had awoken a quarter of an hour ago and the stiffness in his shoulders melted away as though the last weeks of exhaustion had finally lifted. He would not admit it aloud but the knight's lap had been far more restful than any feather-stuffed cushion in the palace.
His body felt lighter now and his thoughts was clearer yet it was not the rest that held his attention—it was Rowan himself.
The serenity on the knight's face amused him, a kind of peace that dared to exist even with danger so close. The faint line of Rowan's lashes, the slight part of his lips and the way his jaw eased in sleep—all of it struck Zalyric as absurdly defenseless, yet irritatingly humanizing.
Also, strands of Rowan's silver hair stirred with the breeze while catching faint glimmers of light as they shifted, as though the wind itself sought to cradle him in softness.
For a king used to masks, daggers and unending vigilance, such carelessness was both laughable… and strangely difficult to look away from.
While Zalyric had always prided himself on iron control, he found himself unusually drawn to the quiet beauty before him. Rowan's features, softened by slumber, were never meant to stir a king's blood, and yet the sight unsettled him in ways he could neither dismiss nor easily endure.
He had not expected it to come to this—that a mere face, unguarded and serene, would be enough to harden him.
A low breath escaped him as his hand slid down, fingers brushing the heat straining beneath his robes. He caressed himself once, twice, as though testing the reality of his own arousal, then forced his hand away while curling it into a fist against his thigh.
Still, the ache lingered, pulsing in defiance of his will.
His lips curved into a smirk though the expression looked more like mockery of himself than amusement. "I've never been a fan of betas," he muttered under his breath with voice like a husky whisper meant for no ears but his own. "And yet… look at me now—hard just from staring at your face. How absurd."
The confession hung in the still afternoon air while mingling with the rustle of leaves and the soft rhythm of Rowan's breaths.
For once, Zalyric felt the edge of his composure fray and it both irritated and fascinated him.
A minute after his private musings, the quiet behind the servants' quarters broke with the sound of hurried footsteps.
Evan revealed himself from the shadowed path with his eyes widening in shock when he caught sight of his king. Zalyric sat there with a smirk curving his lips while his gaze was fixed on a knight that Evan scarcely knew. It was an expression Evan had never once seen directed at anyone outside of courtly games or veiled threats—
never something so strangely personal.
"Your Majesty, you're here. Have you reste—"
Zalyric lifted a hand, palm open in a sharp gesture that silenced the words before they could fully form. Then his golden eyes cut toward Evan, their gleam warning against further intrusion. Slowly, the king rose to his feet while now brushing the dust from his dark robes with unhurried precision.
When he finally spoke, his tone was deceptively casual yet edged with finality.
"Let's go somewhere else," he said, his gaze lingering one last time on the knight slumbering against the tree with a faint quirk touched his lips. "My pillow is sleeping."
Evan froze at the phrasing as his mind catching on it in disbelief but his body moved by instinct—falling into step a pace behind his king. His confusion lingered, however and as they walked away, he dared a final glance over his shoulder.
There lay Rowan, silver hair stirring in the afternoon breeze, folded legs steady with chest rising in tranquil rhythm. Completely unaware that he had become the focus of his king's unsettling amusement—
and perhaps something far more dangerous.
When Rowan finally came to his senses, the sun had already dipped low while painting the sky in fading gold and crimson. The distant sounds of sparring told him training was likely nearing its end.
"Oh, w-what? Shit—why the hell did I even fall asleep? Ouch, damn it, my legs. Shit, they're numb!" Rowan cursed in his head as he stumbled while clutching at the tree for support. His knees nearly buckled beneath him but luck came in the form of River and Paul hurrying toward him.
"Johann? We've been looking for you," Paul said while sliding an arm beneath his to keep him upright. River mirrored the gesture on the other side, steadying him between them.
"Sorry," Rowan muttered sheepishly, wincing as he tried to stretch feeling back into his legs. "I, uh… kind of fell asleep. His Majesty was resting on my lap earlier, so…"
The words slipped out before he thought better of them that both River and Paul froze mid-step. Their eyes even flicked to each other over Rowan's head, an unspoken alarm sparking between them.
"His Majesty?" Paul asked carefully, as though testing if he'd misheard.
"Yes," Rowan answered simply, glancing between them with a faintly awkward smile. "I was just resting here and His Majesty came by. He told me to stay, then… well, he laid down on my lap."
River's grip on him tightened almost imperceptibly while Paul's jaw stiffened. Neither spoke but their shared look said everything: This won't sit well with His Grace Magnus. They both nodded ever so slightly, as if confirming silent orders between themselves.
"What? Is something wrong?" Rowan asked with brows furrowing as he caught their strange reaction.
"No, Your Highness…" Paul whispered with his tone subdued, though his eyes slid briefly toward River.
I need to send word to His Grace about this… River thought grimly as the weight of the matter pressing heavily in his chest.
His Grace should know… and quickly, Paul echoed silently while keeping his expression neutral as he guided Rowan forward.
Rowan, still blissfully clueless, only shuffled along, unaware that his innocent confession had set off alarms in the minds of those sworn to watch him.