Although it had been but a few days since the festival, Alex felt as though it had been months since he had a break. Since that night he returned home, his schedule had been crammed with studies, tutors, and relentless training, each hour bleeding into the next. The clock on his nightstand read 4:00 a.m., and as the sun lingered just beneath the horizon, he found himself alone in the expansive, echoing silence of the palace.
His lush silk sheets cocooned him in warmth, but the comfort was ephemeral. The baldachin above his bed, heavy with drawn curtains, kept the space dim and suffocating. He knew this moment of quiet peace had to end soon, a reality he faced with a sigh that felt like a weight lifting momentarily. Yet, he found no strength to rise. All the energy in his body seemed drained, leaving him a hollow shell. Despite having slept for eight full, glorious hours—an almost death-like state he craved—he still awoke achingly exhausted, as if his dreams had siphoned away his vitality.
He forced himself to breathe deeply, closing his eyes and running his fingers through his tousled hair, now returned to its natural blonde hue. With a stretch that felt like a small awakening, he lifted his arms above his head, a delightful tingle racing down his spine. But as the tremor faded, he reluctantly sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The warmth of the sheets dissipated, replaced by the cool morning air that nipped at his skin, a stark reminder of the reality awaiting him. It didn't help that he slept without a shirt.
Yet, he pushed through the chill, quickly slipping his feet into the comfy house slippers by his bedside. He slinked across the vast expanse of his room, the dark-colored decor faintly illuminated by the soft light of early morning peeking through the heavy curtains. He soon reached the grand dark wood door leading to his bathroom. With a turn of the cold gold handle, he pushed the door open, dragging his weary body inside by sheer will.
How could he expect to be a good king and lead a kingdom when he barely managed to lead himself through an early morning routine? A frustrated huff escaped him as he wished and begged his willpower not to wane as he prepared for the day. He flipped the switch; the orange hue of the overhead lights flooded the room, mimicking a false sun. The sudden brightness sent a sharp tinge of a headache through him, but it quickly faded as he stepped further into the room.
Standing before the sink, he looked into the mirror, and the image looking back was a solid mess. Hair in disarray, dark circles beneath his eyes, and the bruises from yesterday's swordsmanship training marred his skin with dark, almost greenish edges.
He sighed, hoping the dramatic exhale might relieve some of the tension, but to no one's surprise, he was still achingly exhausted in every sense of the word. Leaning forward on his palms, head hanging low, he turned the faucet on. He cupped his hands together, collecting the cool water before leaning down, letting it splash over his face, waking him slightly.
As he lifted himself up and grabbed his toothbrush, the familiar routine felt almost comforting. He meticulously applied the toothpaste, wetting the brush, and began brushing, taking extra care of his fangs. Morgan always seemed to pay attention to his smile when he flashed them.
Wait… why was he thinking of Morgan so early in the morning? Surely he hadn't missed that grumpy knight so much in just a few days. It had barely been four days since Morgan left for the front lines.
His brushing slowed as his thoughts drifted back to the night after the festival. The trip back to the center city and the castle had been quiet yet comfortable, a soothing balm against the chaos of their lives. He had felt a serene calm wash over him, casting aside the burdens of princely duties. Glancing over at Morgan, he could hardly help the smirk that widened on his lips.
"You know, today was a lovely break, but don't think that tomorrow I'll bother you any less," he had teased.
He noted the way Morgan looked back at him, that familiar eyebrow raise, and the small smirk that began to tug at his lips.
"I don't know how you plan on making it all the way to Noctavale. But I shall be at the final ring for field training," Morgan had retorted, a challenge lacing his tone.
Alex's eyes had widened, spine going rigid at the mention of the journey. He tilted his head, shutting his eyes for just a moment before opening them again, a flood of words bubbling behind his eyelids. Just as he prepared to speak, Morgan continued, correcting himself.
"Well, actually, I will be making my way to Noctavale. It should take a full day and night of travel to reach it without any problems."
Each word spilled from Morgan's mouth like stones dropping into his lap, and still, Alex struggled to process them. Shaking his head, he straightened his back, speaking carefully.
"Ah yes. You had been given the opportunity from my father. I forget that part of your agreement is that you are free to make your own schedule, granted you provide proof of growth upon your return. In that case, I suppose I will not have my midday entertainment for however long you shall be gone. Oh, how will I survive? Woe is me, who has no trouble to stir."
Alex had theatrically tossed the back of his hand over his eyes, peeking from behind it to gauge Morgan's reaction. When he saw the knight huff a laugh and shake his head, a strange warmth blossomed in his chest. He wanted to play it off as a joke, but the pang in his throat was undeniable. Despite his efforts to mask it, he genuinely would miss the troubled knight who had become his respite from the relentless headache of princely duties.
Still, he told himself he'd be fine. Morgan was but an average knight.
He had repeated this mantra throughout the ride back, yet here he was, days later, still thinking of that dark-haired grump. Four days since Morgan had ventured to the front lines of the wall that guarded the kingdom of Stormhold. Surely right about now, he should be off doing—who really cared? Alex felt like a pathetic mess, thinking of Morgan at 4 a.m. while brushing his teeth.
As the thought sat bitter in his mouth, despite his newly minty-fresh breath, he spat the remaining toothpaste into the sink, turning on the faucet once more to wash away the foamed remnants clinging to his mouth. He needed to clear his head. Now was not the time to think of anything beyond training. He had duties to attend to—duties that required his full attention. He had gone two weeks without seeing that short-built fae before; what was so different this time that Morgan occupied his mind so?
Regardless, Alex simply didn't have the time for this. After much wandering thought, he finally decided to focus on his day ahead. With a new resolve, he finished undressing for the shower.
The silk-wool of Alex's dress pants slid over his skin, smooth and stupidly expensive. Definitely not pajamas. He had been too tired to change after his physical training. Of course he had. He didn't even know why he decided to wear that absurdly expensive outfit anyway. Nonetheless, he picked them up from where they had pooled near his ankles—and his now discarded underwear alongside them—to toss them quickly into the laundry caddy.
Quickly moving over to the shower, Alex stepped into the quiet stall, the cold tiles pressing against the soles of his feet. Goosebumps raced up his arms as the lingering chill wrapped around him. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing slowly, before lifting his hand toward the water knob.
The water came cascading down onto his skin with a weight that always surprised him, as if he were never fully ready for the half-second shot of cold that rushed him before the heater kicked in. The warmth enveloped him, soothing his aching muscles, the tension seeping from his bones, washing away yesterday's pain and exhaustion.
He turned to face the shower spray, allowing his fingers to slide through his wet hair, ensuring every strand was soaked. His eyes closed as his head dipped backward, letting the warm water cascade over his face, a momentary escape from his responsibilities.
He had no time for this indulgence; he still needed to tend to his wounds before heading out to his early morning tutoring session. So he forced himself to expedite his shower, despite the amazing warmth that wrapped around him.
As soon as he finished, he stepped onto the mat in front of the shower, steam pouring out quickly as he slid the glass door open. He reached for the towel hanging on the rack next to the shower, pulling the soft cloth to dry his face first. He wrapped it around his waist and stepped forward to the mirror once again.
His torso was still littered with bruises, a vivid reminder of his training. He needed to treat them before facing his tutor. Reaching out, he pulled open the drawer beneath the sink, scanning the names of the various potions, pills, and creams that his maid had neatly arranged. His eyes glazed over the labels until he found what he wanted: "Lesser Healing Potion."
He grabbed the small jar, pushing the drawer closed. Unscrewing the top, he wrapped his lips around the neck of the bottle and quickly threw his head back, swallowing the bitter green liquid to avoid tasting it as much as possible. The warmth that followed settled in his throat, a strange comfort against the lingering chill.
He tossed the glass bottle into the tiny glass recyclable bin on the counter top, a small collection of remnants from his rituals. When his gaze returned to the mirror, he saw the bruises fading, a testament to the healing potion's efficacy.
Once that was done, he decided to rinse the taste from his mouth and expel the warmth that clung to him. Quickly, he turned on the sink, cupping his hands under the running water. He leaned closer, gathering the cool liquid in his mouth to gargle the unpleasant taste away. After spitting the water out, he drank more and repeated the act, finally swallowing the refreshing liquid.
Turning off the faucet, he removed the towel from around his waist, using it to dry his skin before wrapping it securely around himself again. With a deep breath, he walked back toward the door. He flicked off the bathroom lights, stepping into the muted morning light of his bedroom.
As he opened the closet door, he navigated past the clothes he wore daily and for comfort. Then, he saw it—the shirt that Morgan had worn the day of the festival, freshly washed and hung back where it belonged, as if it had never been worn. He paused, his fingers grazing the soft fabric, a wave of nostalgia washing over him. Memories of Morgan flooded his mind, and he found himself wondering if the knight was thinking of him at this very moment, busy at the walls of the kingdom.
He wished he had gotten Morgan's number so he could text and ask if he had arrived safely. Alex knew it would take an act of the Ancients to extract that information from the stubborn knight, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of longing. Morgan was his first friend, and despite his best efforts not to care, he felt a gnawing worry that he couldn't shake.
Had he gotten attached so quickly? The realization struck him hard. Perhaps he really did need to talk to a therapist or something. But for now, he continued with his self-destructive tendencies, unable to dismiss the knight from his thoughts.
Shaking his head to clear the mental clutter, he focused on the task at hand. He needed to finish getting ready for his day. With determination, he headed over to his everyday suits, ready to tackle whatever lay ahead. He would get through this day as swiftly as possible so he could return to the comfort of his bed and the respite it offered.