The crown sits wrong on Elian's head again.
It's always a little crooked, no matter how carefully the attendants adjust it. Something about the shape, he thinks, is fundamentally incompatible with the shape of him. Too heavy in the wrong places, too bright in the wrong way. He's convinced it was forged for someone stronger, someone more certain, someone who could lean into authority instead of shrinking beneath it.
But today is not the day for shrinking.
The Great Hall of Aurea glitters like a fever dream: chandeliers dripping with glass beads, sun-catchers flooding the marble with color, nobles swirling in silks that whisper like secrets. The scent of incense—something floral and sharp—is thick enough to taste. Everywhere he looks, people are watching him, waiting to be impressed.
He can already feel the sweat gathering at his temples.
"Your Highness?" A chamberlain steps lightly beside him. "It's nearly time."
Nearly time for the speech. Nearly time for the announcement. Nearly time for the life he never asked for, rolling out before him like a carpet he's expected to walk without stumbling.
Elian nods, too stiffly, and the chamberlain bows himself away.
He inhales slowly. His armor—the ceremonial kind he only wears for show—catches every breath, plates shifting against each other with muted clinks. Somewhere deep within the tightness of it all, he feels his heartbeat stuttering.
Then a familiar voice speaks at his right shoulder.
"Try breathing."
Elian turns just slightly. Enough to see Rowan standing behind him, tall and steady in his formal guard uniform. Rowan always looks carved from something sturdier than the rest of the court: broad shoulders, dark hair tied back neatly, expression calm even when everyone else is flustered. He has a way of taking up space without demanding it, all quiet strength and sharp awareness.
"I am breathing," Elian says under his breath.
"Then try doing it like you don't expect to faint."
A huff of a laugh escapes him. Small, but real.
Rowan's mouth barely curves, but the warmth in his eyes is something Elian feels all the way down to his ribs.
"You'll be fine," Rowan adds. "You've done this before."
"Yes," Elian murmurs. "And every time, it's equally dreadful."
Rowan doesn't contradict him. He never lies to Elian. Not about this kind of thing. He only steps forward to adjust the prince's cloak, tugging the embroidered fabric so it sits evenly over his shoulders, fingers careful and precise.
The gesture is practiced—Rowan has been doing this since Elian was sixteen—but something about it always settles him.
"There," Rowan says quietly. "Try looking like you chose to be here."
"I'll do my best." Elian squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. The crown shifts, still crooked. He lets it be.
A trumpet sounds. The hall quiets, the air thickens, and Elian steps into the sea of expectation.
***
The speech is perfect, of course.
He's rehearsed it over and over with tutors, down to the exact places where he should pause to let the audience feel the gravity of his words. The forthcoming alliance with Virell. The strengthening of trade routes. The prosperity that will follow. The inevitability of duty.
He says the words as if they belong to him, though they were written by his father's council.
But his hand trembles once—only once—when he mentions the marriage.
He feels it, a small shaking barely noticeable. But Rowan, standing behind him at the dais, sees it. Elian can sense it without turning: Rowan's posture shifting, attention tightening like a bowstring.
He finishes the speech to thunderous applause that washes over him like cold water. He smiles, a hollow expression that fools everyone but two people: Rowan and himself.
When they step away from the dais, Rowan falls into place behind him with the ease of muscle memory.
"Well done," Rowan murmurs.
Elian exhales through his nose. "You don't have to flatter."
"It wasn't flattery. You did well."
Elian glances sideways. Rowan's face gives nothing away, but there's something gentler in his eyes, something like pride. It weakens Elian in ways he doesn't want to examine too closely.
"Let's get you a moment of quiet," Rowan says.
Elian doesn't argue.
***
The balcony is a sanctuary in a palace full of gilded cages.
It's one of the older terraces, overlooking Aurea's capital. Red-tiled roofs stretch out in a mosaic, smoke rising from chimneys, market tents visible in bright splashes of color. From here, the city looks soft, dreamy, almost unreal. A painting of someone else's life.
Elian braces his hands on the stone railing and breathes in the cool air. The wind carries the smell of the sea—a reminder the kingdom is not all marble and expectation.
Rowan stands a few paces behind. Always close enough to reach, never close enough to crowd.
"That wasn't…" Elian starts, then shakes his head. "I hate how good I've become at lying."
"Today wasn't lying," Rowan says. "It was duty."
Elian lets out a humorless laugh. "Is there a difference?"
Rowan hesitates. "Sometimes."
Elian looks down at the street far below. The people moving through their afternoon errands look so small, so free. They walk where they want. Say what they want. Love whom they want.
The thought stings.
"They announced the marriage as if I'm already someone's husband," Elian says quietly. "As if my future is a foregone conclusion."
Rowan doesn't respond immediately. He rarely rushes to fill silence.
"You knew it was coming," he says finally.
"Knowing doesn't make it easier."
Rowan says nothing, but Elian feels the weight of his presence—a grounding force he's leaned on for too many years.
After a long moment, Rowan speaks again. "You're shaking."
Elian stares at his hands. Damn. "It's the armor."
"It's you," Rowan says, not unkindly.
Elian lets the words sit there. Rowan moves just slightly closer, enough that Elian could reach out and touch him if he wanted. He doesn't.
"We should go inside," Rowan says after another minute. "Before someone comes looking."
"I'm not sure I care if someone finds me."
Rowan steps close enough for Elian to feel the warmth of him through the layers of fabric and metal. He doesn't touch, but the nearness is its own kind of anchor.
"I care," Rowan says quietly.
Elian turns to look at him—and the expression on Rowan's face is steady, serious, impossible to misunderstand.
Elian swallows. "Fine. Inside."
Rowan nods and steps back. The distance between them feels colder.
***
Dinner is a blur of light and noise.
Elian sits at the long banquet table beside his parents, every muscle stiff with the effort of keeping his face composed. Servants glide through the room. Dignitaries drone on about trade. His father goes on about military cooperation. Princess Isla's name is mentioned three separate times, and every time, Elian feels something twist inside him.
He keeps his eyes on the table whenever possible. It's easier than looking at his parents' expectant expressions.
When the conversation finally shifts to something he can ignore, he scans the room for Rowan.
There. Standing along the perimeter, watching everything with that same unshakable focus. Rowan's eyes find his almost immediately.
It's startling—how quickly Rowan notices him, how easily they read each other without words.
Elian looks away first.
He knows Rowan sees too much. Always has. Maybe that's why Elian has never learned to hide from him properly.
At the end of the meal, his father claps him on the shoulder. "Well done today. You handled yourself with dignity."
Elian forces a smile. "Thank you."
"It's important that Virell sees you as a strong future king."
Future king. Future husband. Future everything except who he wants to be.
"Yes, Father."
His mother kisses his cheek, murmuring something about how proud she is. Her perfume lingers in the air—sweet, overwhelming, suffocating.
When he finally escapes the hall, Rowan is already waiting in the corridor.
"Long night," Rowan says, falling into step beside him.
"It's always a long night."
Elian's chambers are dim when they arrive. Rowan lights a pair of lamps, the glow softening the edges of the room. His movements are precise, efficient, familiar. He helps Elian out of the ceremonial armor—piece by piece, unbuckling clasps and easing metal from shoulders and waist.
They've done this for years, but tonight it feels different. Elian is painfully aware of every point where Rowan's fingers brush him.
"You're quiet," Rowan says.
"You're observant."
Rowan gives a low hum. "It's part of the job."
Elian glances over his shoulder. "Everything's part of your job."
Rowan doesn't rise to the bait. He never does.
When the last piece of armor is removed, Elian finally exhales fully. His clothes underneath are damp with sweat.
Rowan steps back, giving him space.
"There's water waiting by the bed," Rowan says. "Drink all of it."
"Are you ordering me?" Elian asks, unable to resist teasing.
Rowan lifts one eyebrow. "If that's what it takes."
Elian smiles—small, real. Rowan turns away too quickly for him to see if he returns it.
"Get some rest," Rowan says at the doorway.
Elian hesitates. "Will you be outside?"
"Always."
The words are simple. But they land with a weight that has nothing to do with duty.
Elian nods, trying not to let his expression betray too much.
"Goodnight, Rowan."
"Goodnight, Elian."
Rowan closes the door behind him with the same quiet familiarity of someone who knows how to exist in another person's world without disturbing it.
Elian lies in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
He tries to envision his future: the marriage, the alliance, the endless obligations. Princess Isla's hand in his. His father's expectations. A life shaped by everything except his own desires.
But instead of seeing any of that, he sees Rowan's face reflected in the glow of the lamps.
The steady way he'd said always.
Elian closes his eyes. It should comfort him.
It doesn't.
It hurts.
A dull, inexplicable ache that refuses to ease.
***
The next morning, he wakes before dawn.
He doesn't know why—only that something in him is restless, unsettled, pulling him from sleep. He dresses quietly and steps onto the balcony just as the first bit of light spills over the horizon.
For a moment, the city seems suspended between dreaming and waking.
He breathes in the cool morning air.
And then he hears footsteps behind him.
"Elian?"
He turns. Rowan stands in the doorway, hair slightly mussed from sleep, tunic half fastened. He must have dozed in the hallway and woken when Elian moved.
"You're up early," Rowan says.
"So are you."
Rowan gives him a look that says he knows exactly why.
Elian leans against the balcony railing. "I couldn't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
"Something like that."
Rowan steps beside him—closer than he did yesterday, their shoulders almost touching.
Elian doesn't move away.
The city below is still quiet. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys. Somewhere, a dog barks. A vendor sets up a stall in the still-blue light. The world feels softer like this. Gentler.
"I don't know how to do this," Elian says quietly.
"Do what?"
"Be the person they expect me to be. Be the man who marries a princess for the sake of the kingdom. Smile while doing it."
Rowan is silent for a long moment.
Then: "You don't have to smile, Elian."
Elian turns his head toward him. "What does that mean?"
"It means…" Rowan hesitates, searching for the right words. "Your duty is yours. But your feelings? You don't owe those to anyone."
Elian studies him. Rowan rarely says things like that. Rarely gives opinions that brush the edges of rebellion.
"Is that an order?" Elian asks softly.
Rowan huffs a quiet laugh. "Not everything I say is an order."
Elian looks back at the waking city. "It feels like everything is slipping away from me."
Rowan's voice is low. "I won't let you fall."
Elian turns sharply—something in Rowan's tone pulling at him, something warm and dangerous.
But Rowan has already taken a half-step back, guard-mask slipping back into place.
Elian swallows. "Thank you," he murmurs.
Rowan nods once. "Breakfast will be ready soon. I'll walk you down."
Elian almost tells him to stay. Just for a moment more. Just until the sun is fully up.
But he doesn't.
He only watches Rowan turn away, the morning light catching on the faint scar near his jaw, the one Elian has never asked about but has always wanted to.
When Rowan disappears inside, the balcony feels much colder.
Elian inhales—slow, shaky—and presses a hand to his chest.
The crown may sit wrong on his head.
But Rowan's name fits in his heart too easily.
Too dangerously.
And it scares him more than the marriage ever will.