Cherion woke up with a gasp.
The sound tore out of him before he had the chance to swallow it back. He sat bolt upright, chest heaving, hand clutching at his ribs as if the next heartbeat might betray him again. For a wild moment he thought he was still falling, but there was no rush of wind, no sky tumbling.
Instead, velvet.
He blinked and realised he was in a bed. No, not just a bed, but the sort that belonged to someone whose shoes never touched mud. Canopy draped in silk the color of cream, sheets so smooth they whispered under his fingers. A chandelier shimmered above him, crystal drops catching the early sun.
This wasn't his apartment.
"Oh, hell no." His voice rasped.
Cherion squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Still here. Geez…
The universe was laughing at him.
"Master Cherion!"
A maid had entered without so much as a knock. She rushed to his side, skirts swishing, her hands folded anxiously in front of her. She couldn't have been much older than him, maybe seventeen or eighteen, with the kind of face that looked really worried even if she was only thinking about breakfast.
"You're awake!" she said, relief flooding her expression. "We were so scared when you collapsed. You don't know how worried I was."
"Collapsed?" Cherion echoed, dryly.
"Yes, Master. You were found in the garden, fainted. Luckily someone discovered you quickly."
"Someone?" He tilted his head. "Who?"
The maid faltered. "I… I wasn't told. Only that you were brought in at once."
Cherion narrowed his eyes. Collapsed, found, brought in. No mention of being shoved off a balcony by a saint-in-training. Which meant either the story had shifted, or people were covering up. Neither option sat well.
For one dizzying second he thought, maybe he really had died again. Maybe the fall had finished what the heart attack had started. But then he remembered that strange, shining man, calling himself God. The flick to the forehead. The command to live.
He let out a shaky breath. "Right. So this is it."
The maid frowned. "Pardon, Master?"
"Nothing," Cherion said quickly, forcing a smile that looked nothing like one. "Nothing at all. Thank you for your… dedicated service. But I'd like some privacy now."
She hesitated, clearly torn between obedience and worry. But finally she bowed and left, closing the door softly behind her.
As soon as the latch clicked, Cherion shot out of bed like a man possessed.
He went straight for the drawers, yanking them open with such frantic. Then the wardrobe, heavy doors creaking as though protesting his raid. Boxes, cabinets, anything that might hold what he needed. He wasn't looking for clothes. No, those were garish, jeweled monstrosities meant to scream wealth. What he needed was something lighter, round. Shine that could be traded for coins.
And oh, did he find it.
Stacks of gold coins, cool against his palms. Necklaces that shimmered like frozen rivers, rings heavy enough to bruise a knuckle. Jewels so bright they nearly blinded him when caught in the sunbeam slanting through the curtains.
Cherion's eyes gleamed.
His conscience, faint and unhelpful, whispered that this was stealing.
But then he answered himself aloud, tone sharp and defensive: "Stealing from who? From me? This body's name is Cherion, and I'm also Cherion. Which means technically this is mine."
That settled it. He shoved handfuls of coins into a satchel he found hanging in the wardrobe, carefully avoiding the loudest, gaudiest pieces of jewelry. The last thing he needed was to draw eyes in the street.
As he packed, scraps of the story crept back into his mind. Yerel, the Crown Prince, golden-haired and cruel in the way only the favored could afford to be. Philia, the delicate little omega who'd stolen his heart and in doing so, crushed Cherion. The broken engagement. The fall from grace. The eventual death sentence for crimes committed in jealousy.
Except Cherion wasn't jealous. He couldn't even muster envy if he tried. What he felt was irritation, the kind that prickled under the skin every time he remembered Philia's shove. In the novel, Philia never harmed anyone, so why now? Was it because Cherion hadn't begged, hadn't wept prettily the way the original must have? Did the absence of desperation shift the pieces?
"Great," he muttered. "So not only am I stuck in a trash novel, but the script is improvising too."
Better reason to leave.
He cinched the satchel closed, glanced once more around the room, and decided clothes were unnecessary. Nothing here was subtle, nothing simple. He would look like a walking jewel box if he wore any of it. Better to keep his plain white sleep shirt and trousers.
At the door, he paused, cracked it open, and peeked out. Empty. A long corridor stretched silent in both directions, sconces lit though the sun was well up. He slipped out, his heart pounding against his ribs. Each step echoed, louder than it had any right to, so he pressed himself against the wall, moving as if shadow might claim him.
Almost at the corner, he exhaled in relief. Freedom was near. Just one turn and he'd….
Thud.
He hit something solid, fell, and landed hard on his backside. Coins clinked inside the satchel, betraying him.
Groaning, he looked up.
And froze.
It was Yerel. No… no, not Yerel. The resemblance was uncanny, but older, carved deeper by time. Same golden hair, though threaded with silver now. Same sharp jawline, but softened into authority rather than arrogance. Robes heavy with embroidery. And an aura that pressed down like a storm.
The King.
Cherion's stomach dropped through the floor.
The man gazed at him, stern at first, then unexpectedly softening. "Are you alright, child?"
Cherion blinked. Child?
The King extended a hand, helping him up with surprising gentleness. Cherion, still too shocked to refuse, let himself be pulled to his feet. His satchel nearly slipped from his shoulder, coins threatening to spill.
The King's eyes flickered toward it, then back to Cherion's pale face. He didn't comment. "I heard you'd fainted. I came to see you. Yet here you are, wandering the hall with such haste. Where were you going?"
Cherion's throat worked, but no sound emerged. The aura of this man was suffocating, vast as a cathedral. Lying seemed impossible. Telling the truth seemed suicidal.
Cherion swallowed hard, forcing his lips into something resembling a smile. "Y-Your Majesty," he stammered, bowing his head. "Forgive me for… for colliding with you just now."
The King's brows lifted slightly, but his expression remained calm, patient. Cherion hurried on, words tumbling over themselves. "I… I was only looking for some fresh air, that's all."
For a heartbeat, silence pressed down on him like a stone. Every nerve in his body screamed that lying to this man was a death sentence.
Then, to his shock, the King chuckled. Low, rich, amused. "Fresh air? In this hallway?" His head tilted toward the tall, unbroken stretch of stone walls. "Why not the garden?"
Cherion froze. His heart lurched painfully in his chest. "Yes! Yes, of course… the garden," he blurted, scrambling to adjust. "That's where I was going."
The King's mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite disbelief. "Mm. Then why walk in the opposite direction?"
Cherion's soul shrieked inside his head. Oh, for the love of, I don't know where the garden is! I'm not familiar with the layout!
He forced another strained smile, trying not to look like he wanted to curl up and disappear. "Ah… I must have gotten… turned around."
If the King noticed his panic, he didn't let it show. His expression remained serene, as though humoring a nervous child.
"It is good, at least," the King said after a moment, "that you appear well enough to walk about after fainting earlier."
Cherion blinked, caught off guard. "…Yes?"
The King's gaze deepened, the weight of it making Cherion's stomach knot. "Yes. Because I wanted to speak with you."
Cherion's blood ran cold.
The King sighed, almost weary. Then he placed a hand on Cherion's shoulder. "Come. Walk with me."
Cherion's lips parted, but no protest came. Only the silent cry of a man whose careful escape plan had just crumbled into dust.