Chapter Text
Laurent has never been the type to try and grab the spotlight.
It does land on him without him even trying, however, without him actually seeking it. It runs in the family, his mother has once told him as she had admired her sons, standing side by side. The blonde hair is what runs in the family, together with fair skin and bright eyes. Together, they create a composition of what has often been called otherworldly beauty, even if Laurent hardly pays attention to it when he looks at himself in the mirror. The one whose beauty outshines all is Auguste, after all. And it is him on whom the spotlight usually rests.
The beloved crown prince, the heir of Vere.
Wherever they go together, it will be Auguste on whom the attention lands.
The attention is justified.
Wherever Auguste goes, flowers bloom and birds sing, babies stop crying and the lame start walking. That is what the common people say of him, that is. Laurent would never view his brother in such superficial terms.
But the gist of it remains the same.
To Laurent, his brother is everything.
Even right now, he can hardly take his eyes off his brother as he saunters through the room with ease, much to the delight of their parents, the king and queen of Vere. To Auguste, all of this is just another duty that comes so easy to him, that he even seems to enjoy. Of the two of them, Auguste is the sociable one. Always has been.
It is admirable.
The quality of a king.
He does with ease what Laurent despises, and thus, takes a weight off Laurent’s chest this way. It is usually sufficient in the eyes of the king and queen if Laurent is merely there, making his presence known, whilst otherwise remaining in the shadows undisturbed. He can watch the festivities, make his own observations, perhaps have a glass of wine or two, and then retreat when he gets bored.
Tonight promises to not be any different.
It is loud, the lively buzzing of court festivities with unlimited food and drink, with entertainers and music to cater to the guests’ every whim. Pets make themselves indispensable by their masters’ and mistresses’ sides, whispering into their ears, making sweet promises for further activities. Some of them dare throwing lustful glances at Auguste, and Laurent can read the ambition in their eyes. It is not the only thing he sees.
From where he stands at the side of the ballroom, Laurent has an excellent view of the entire festivities. He can see who comes and leaves, sees who speaks to whom as they wine and dine, all of them eager to speak to the people that matter, to those who can help them climb the social ladders and fulfil their low desires.
On the other side of the ballroom, mild commotion announces the arrival of yet another guest. Laurent, in bare effort, turns his head.
Boom.
Such is the sound of Laurent’s heart as Prince Damianos of Akielos enters the room and the world becomes mute for a single moment as the sound is sucked out of the hall.
It comes back again, slowly – with the music first and then the voices, followed by the laughter and singing of the entertainers, the clinging of glass and golden cups placed on stone and marble, the sound of it crass and rude. Too high. Too sharp.
A violent intrusion, tugging on the strings of sanity that hold him together.
Laurent silently gasps for air, holds it for a moment, exhales again.
The rapidly beating heart inside his chest does not stop.
It is not a surprise that the Prince of Akielos is here. He has been invited. A part of the recent peace negotiations, Laurent remembers, an attempt of ending war and bloodshed that have long become obsolete. War and bloodshed are no longer making a point.
They are just that now.
War. Bloodshed.
The king of Akielos had, unsurprisingly, agreed. Given their losses, it made sense.
Laurent has no idea what Prince Damianos thinks of the new developments, or if he thinks at all. He is not particularly known for showing a great interest in the more intricate parts of ruling a nation. First and foremost, he is known for his skill as a soldier. The troops he commands always win. Those who get to fight him go down in an instant.
Even Auguste had faced him on the battlefield, once.
The blow of a horn had kept them from cutting each other’s throats.
The mere thought still sends shivers down Laurent’s spine.
“Enjoying the view?”
Auguste has appeared beside him, tall and beautiful as always. His cheeks are rosy from the wine he has consumed, his pale hair adorned with a delicate golden crown that resembles a wreath of tiny leaves. A single strand of hair has escaped the otherwise impeccable arrangement, but this little imperfection completes the picture.
No wonder everyone is all over him tonight.
“I know that look on your face,” Auguste says in good humour and gently nudges Laurent with his elbow. “That is the look of your mind twisting and turning. Has something caught your eye?”
Laurent straightens his shoulders. “I was merely watching the festivities,” he says and raises his chin a little. “Father has employed good entertainers.”
“It is not something, Auguste,” another voice, a much younger one, says from somewhere behind them. Laurent tries very much to not roll his eyes. His father hates it when he does that in public. And so, their distant cousin Nicaise sneaks up to them with a glass of wine in his hands that he is, in both Laurent’s and Auguste’s eyes, still too young for; sipping on it barely makes him seem older, merely more like the lusty dream of half the guests in the room.
“It is not something that Laurent has been watching,” Nicaise says again, far too pleased with himself, now that he has their attention, “but rather someone.”
He nods into the direction that Laurent has been looking all this time, and of course, Auguste follows his gaze, and lands on the Prince of Akielos.
The way he is standing there, confident and laughing, a winning smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes as he makes conversation, as if it were easy for him. Most likely, it is. He must be like Auguste in that regard, who has also never struggled with interacting with people the way a prince should, and thus, making everyone feel special and appreciated. The best Laurent usually is able to muster is to hide any blatant and obvious disdain.
It seems so easy for Prince Damianos. He shakes hands without hesitation, offers everyone his undivided attention, and even manages to make the servants feel like they matter in the brief moment he takes a drink from the tray they carry. They blush, even, as if they were not free servants but Akielon slaves, eager to please.
What a show-off.
Laurent scrunches up his nose, as if he had smelled something very bad.
“Don’t be daft,” he says flatly to Nicaise. “The wine is making you see things. Are you even allowed in here? It must be past your bedtime.”
“Shouldn’t you be braiding your hair, princess?” Nicaise gives back, but Laurent ignores him.
And yet, his gaze keeps going back, back again to the Prince of Akielos.
If he only were to look at me.
Shocked by the realization that these words were spoken by his very own mind, Laurent presses his lips together, and clasps his hands behind his back tighter, his nails digging into his palms.
“Charming, isn’t he,” Nicaise says and keeps sipping his wine. “So different from all the others here. They bore me to death. Perhaps I should go and introduce myself.”
“This one is mine.”
Laurent speaks before he thinks, for the first time in his life.
It dawns on him then, very quickly and as if he had been struck with ice, that he has spoken out loud, that both Nicaise and, worse, Auguste, have heard him. They have heard the aggression in his voice, the possessiveness that even shocks Laurent himself.
It is so surprising that Nicaise, usually not one to watch his tongue around him out of sheer audacity, is stunned into silence.
Beside Laurent, Auguste begins to smile. “Very well.”
He walks away, and it takes Laurent full three seconds to understand what is happening next.
Auguste is making his way across the ballroom, right up to the Prince of Akielos, and puts his hand on his arm.
“Oh no,” Laurent whispers under his breath.
What the fuck are you doing, Auguste?
The truth is, he is simply being himself. Auguste walks up to the Prince of Akielos with ease, a spring in his step and a smile on his face as he greets his equal. Damianos immediately turns to him and his face lights up in recognition, bowing his head in greeting before allowing Auguste to welcome him to Vere in a brotherly embrace. This is what crown princes do. They combine their royal duties with acts of friendship, in the hopes that true friendship will blossom from it and promise everlasting peace, or support in battle. And of course, it is working. Auguste is a born leader, and everyone, including Damianos of Akielos, feels drawn to him.
They exchange a few words, heads close together, and Auguste seems to whisper into Damianos’ ear, then subtly gestures towards the other side of the room, where Laurent stands.
Damianos looks up, finds Laurent’s eyes, and he smiles.
Oh.
Laurent’s knees almost give in.
Look at those eyes.
Even from across the room, Laurent can feel the warmth that radiates from his smile, the genuine interest that lies in it. Perhaps it is only imagining it, but it feels as if this smile were only meant for him. Laughable, a stern voice in Laurent’s head reminds him.
He is a prince. Of course he is smiling.
A breathtaking smile.
Auguste taps Damianos’ shoulders and then puts his arm around him, a brotherly embrace as if he were giving him good advice. But they are no longer speaking. Instead, Auguste is leading Damianos away from the crowd, away from the curious bystanders that have begun to wonder what the crown princes have been whispering about. Together, they walk down the few steps to the centre of the ballroom where the crowd parts for them to let them through, their eyes on their backs, but the princes have no attention for them as Auguste has them make a beeline right towards Laurent.
Oh no.
“Where are you taking me?” He hears Damianos ask despite the music as Auguste takes him through the crowd with purpose in his step.
“I’m about to change your life,” Auguste says, and nods in Laurent’s direction, causing the young prince to freeze on the spot.
Damianos follows his gaze and his eyes land on Laurent. “Then by all means, lead the way.”
“Alright, I’m out,” Nicaise says and walks away before he can become part of whatever is going to unfold.
Laurent had entirely forgotten about him.
It is a matter of seconds before reality sets back in and Auguste approaches with Damianos.
“May I introduce Prince Laurent of Vere and Acquitart?” Auguste says and lets go of Damianos’ shoulders as they come to stand in front of Laurent.
“Laurent of Vere?” Damianos asks in genuine curiosity as it seem to dawn on him who Laurent is. His eyes begin to shine anew and his smile becomes wider.
“My brother,” Auguste says with a smile that promises a plan behind all this. “Laurent, may I introduce you to his royal highness, Prince Damianos of Akielos?”
Laurent’s mouth is dry and his knees feel weak.
Get it together, idiot.
“Your highness,” Laurent manages to say and he is only half certain that his voice is not suddenly an entire octave higher, “it is a pleasure to meet you.” He greets Damianos in an accomplished bow that would make his childhood instructors weep with joy, and as he rises, he sees Damianos do the same.
At the same time, Damianos keeps his eyes on him, and even reaches out to take his hand, and, apparently having read up on Veretian etiquette, presses a gentle kiss to his knuckles.
“If it takes fighting wars and battles for us to meet, it will have been worth it.”
Laurent stares at him, stunned into silence. His Veretian is excellent, too.
Behind Damianos, Auguste smiles. “I shall leave you to it,” he says and then makes himself scarce.
Damianos does not seem to notice that the crown prince is gone. He keeps looking at Laurent, and although he has let go of his hand, his skin seems to burn where he has touched it, and where his lips have made contact.
“Your brother asked me if I was enjoying the festivities,” he says and gestures briefly at the musicians.
“Do you?” Laurent asks, and curses himself for sounding so stupid.
“Very much,” Damianos says and there it is again, the damned smile that lights up the entire room, “he told me that the Akielon musicians were hired upon your request. It honours me deeply that the Prince of Vere has thought to include my people and our culture in such a splendid display.”
He bows his head again, his hands clasped behind his back this time, and Laurent realizes a moment too late that Damianos is thanking him. It is true that he has been part of the committee that has arranged and planned this very important event that is meant to strengthen the bonds between Akielos and Vere. And yes, perhaps it has been Laurent’s idea to include Akielon musicians besides their own.
He has not expected anyone to actually thank him for it.
“It was only natural to include your people and your culture in these festivities, your highness,” Laurent manages to say and dares to hope that he has himself under full control once again. This is merely a conversation with someone of equal rank. Nothing else.
Only that Damianos, as the Akielon crown prince, actually outranks him.
And yet, Damianos treats him not any different from how he would speak to Auguste.
A behaviour almost unheard of in Vere.
“I would have understood if you had preferred to keep these festivities more Veretian,” Damianos gives back. “After all, our countries have not looked favourably upon another for quite some time. I must admit that my own brother had certain… thoughts about me coming here. But that is Kastor for you.”
Kastor. The bastard brother, Laurent remembers.
He knows better than to say it out loud, for once.
“I doubt that anyone takes offence in your brother not trusting us,” he says instead. “I am sure that there are quite a many people in our lands that would prefer these festivities were not taking place at all.”
“Would you rather see us all back on the battlefield, your highness?” Damianos asks, but his tone is not unkind.
It is a genuine question. Not a concealed demand to duel, and not an insult either.
Damianos must know that Laurent, as the second son and spare, has never been allowed to participate in the actual fight.
“I am glad to have my brother back at my side,” Laurent says, and it is true. “Alive.”
Damianos’ eyes shine briefly in understanding of what Laurent is referring to. The almost confrontation between the crown princes, their almost certain death by each other’s blades, had the horn not been blown just in time to announce ceasefire.
As honourable princes, they had obeyed.
“It must have been meant to come this way,” Damianos says, his voice surprisingly soft, “for if it had not, who would have greeted me tonight and brought me over to you?”
The words come out so smoothly that Laurent finds himself stunned into silence once more.
A servant walks by, offering them wine, and Laurent grabs the full goblin gratefully to take a large sip, hoping that with the wine, some of his courage might come back. Anything, really.
Damianos takes a cup as well but merely takes a small sip, then goes on to study the content of the cup.
“Is something wrong?” Laurent asks, and for a moment, he fears that they might have been poisoned. But there is no heat in his throat, no burning in his stomach, nothing besides the usual effects of wine drunken too fast.
“I am merely not accustomed to Veretian wine, your highness,” Damianos says.
“Laurent.”
Laurent closes his eyes for a split second to gather himself.
“I mean—there is no need for such formalities,” he says with a small nod of the head. “I am sure that my brother has offered you the same familiarity already. I should do the same.”
Damianos regards him for a moment, his face indecipherable, before he nods. And he smiles again, of course.
How dare he.
“Then I hope that you will call me by my name, too,” Damianos says, “and not by my title.”
“With pleasure.”
With pleasure?
Damianos smiles wider. “Then say, Laurent,” he says and sets the cup aside. “Have you ever tried griva?”
This is how Laurent finds himself on the very other side of the ballroom where the delegation of Akielos has been seated. Among them are several of Damianos’ very own men, including a man called Makedon who immediately places a large cup of what must be griva in front of him, and a man called Nikandros that greets him respectfully, but with a face as if he had just bitten into a very sour lemon. It is a typical facial expression when dealing with Akielons.
“May I introduce Laurent, Prince of Vere?” Damianos says and gestures at Laurent, all the while keeping his other hand on the small of Laurent’s back. It burns through the fabric of his clothing.
And Acquitart, Laurent adds in his mind, but for some reason, he does not say it out loud. Everyone forgets Acquitart.
He should not correct Damianos in front of his men. Not at these festivities.
Auguste would not, either.
“Your highness,” Nikandros says with a bow of his head. The new Kyros of Delfeur, Laurent remembers.
“Your highness!” Makedon says with a grin on his face. “Ready to test if you can hold a drink?”
“Makedon,” Damianos says in warning, but also in good humour. “Don’t scare his royal highness. But in fact, I was wondering if you could borrow us some griva?”
Makedon rises and whips out another jug of what must be griva from seemingly out of nowhere. “I thought you would never ask, Exalted!”
Laurent eyes the jug cautiously. “What precisely is griva?”
“A delicacy!” Makedon exclaims and pours him a generous amount into a cup.
“Careful, Makedon,” Damianos says and steps forward, stopping him from pouring more.
“Are you trying to kill him?” Nikandros asks with a frown.
“Kill?” Laurent asks with a frown.
Damianos shakes his head and takes the cup. “He is joking. He means that griva is very strong when one drinks it for the first time. A full cup like this is far too strong for a man of your build.”
“I am of average build,” Laurent gives back, trying not to be insulted, “you are merely a giant amongst men.”
In the light of the torches, Laurent is not too sure, but the Akielon’s cheeks seem to darken ever so slightly.
“Nevertheless,” Damianos goes on, after clearing his throat, “I would probably throw our peace negotiations all out of the window if I were to accidentally give you griva poisoning. And thus—” He takes a large sip from the cup of griva, then hands it to Laurent, “I suggest you don’t drink more than a sip or two.”
Laurent eyes the cup as he takes it from Damianos, carefully sniffing what they call griva. A yellow-ish liquid, its smell of unknown origin to Laurent, probably made of something exclusive to Akielos.
“You do not have to,” Damianos says quickly, as he notes Laurent’s hesitation, although for all the wrong reasons. “It is no offense if—”
Laurent gives him a sour look, and then takes two sips of griva.
It burns his oesophagus all the way down.
“Oh my,” Makedon chuckles as Laurent coughs, eyes wide as the griva seemingly eats away his insides. From somewhere, a cup of water is pushed into his hand, and Laurent empties it in one go. “Not surprising. That was my uncle’s griva.”
“Not your uncle’s griva!” Nikandros exclaims in horror.
“I am so, so sorry,” Laurent hears Damianos say, and feels his hand on his arm as he pulls him onto a chair and hands him more water. “I had no idea it was not regular griva. Although I should have suspected—”
Laurent shakes his head as tears still spring from his eyes due to the sheer burning in his throat that slowly subsides with every gulp of water that he forces down. He does not need to look around to know that everyone is looking at them worriedly, the Veretians only waiting for a reason to draw their swords and stab the Akielons for poisoning their prince. Even the king and queen are now looking, but Laurent pulls himself together for propriety’s sake and gets up from the chair he has been seated on. People need to see that he is well.
It is just Akielon wine.
“I’m fine,” he says in a raspy voice and blinks away the tears before he looks at Makedon, who seems far too delighted that he has made the Veretian prince drink his uncle’s griva. “It is very strong. I am sure that one day, I will be able to handle an entire cup.”
Makedon laughs and slaps his thighs. “That’s what I like to hear! You are truly not a coward, your highness!”
“Nothing shall ever imply otherwise,” Laurent says dryly and then turns to Damianos.
What he seems almost forces him to his knees.
Damianos is looking at him with true and genuine concern, still worried that the griva might have affected him more than was obvious, his brown eyes searching Laurent’s face for any sign of illness or discomfort. “Are you well?”
“I am fine, Damianos,” Laurent says as calm as he can with his throat still burning. “However, I should like to catch some fresh air.” He nods towards the door nearby that leads out to the large balcony and where steps lead down into the royal gardens. The last thing he needs is Damianos of Akielos and the entire court watching him succumb to the after-effects of griva.
“I will come with you,” Damianos says and steps forward, “just in case. Griva is very strong.”
Laurent cannot say no to this, even if he wanted to. Denying Damianos to keep him company would be easily read by his delegation as an affront against the whole of Akielos.
But Laurent does not even want to say no.
How could he, when Damianos is looking at him like that?
What is wrong with you?
In his mind, Laurent scolds himself.
“Very well,” Laurent says and straightens his shoulders. “Shall we?”
“Lead the way,” Damianos says, and so, Laurent does.
He ignores the looks of the courtiers, and especially the pointed look that Nicaise shoots him as he walks past him towards the doors that lead out to the balcony. There is no one besides the usual guards, and that give them the illusion of relative privacy. Without waiting for Damianos, Laurent walks to the very edge of the balcony that is the furthest from the ballroom and the prying eyes, grabs the balustrade, and takes a deep breath of fresh air.
“I shall never drink griva again,” he declares into the night. “No offense to your country.”
To his right, he hears Damianos chuckle.
“I know what it feels like,” the Akielon prince says apologetically, “I have had his uncle’s griva too. But an entire cup in one go. I thought I was going to die.”
“I understand why,” Laurent huffs, shivering as he feels the final effects of the griva. He opens his eyes and turns to him, fixating Damianos with his eyes. “Why would anyone willingly drink this?”
“Why would anyone want to drink the cheapest, sourest wine?” Damianos asks in return and leans against the balustrade. “Depends on who you ask, I suppose. But at the very least, you get a very good night’s sleep from it. You will see.”
“Veretian wine gives you that, too,” Laurent says, “and I dare say that in terms of taste, it is far superior.”
Damianos chuckles. “Agree to disagree?”
“By all means.”
But the exchange puts a small smile on Laurent’s lips too, and as he realises it, he clears his throat and looks away, pretending to be extremely fascinated by the flowers in the pot to his left.
“How come I have never seen you in Akielos?” Damianos asks and clasps his hands on top of the balustrade. “Or at the Kingsmeet? I only ever met your father and brother. Even in peaceful times.”
“I am the spare,” Laurent replies. “My parents thought it best to keep me at home, where nothing could happen to me. All I got to see besides Arles was Acquitart. And Kempt, as a child.”
“That sounds boring.”
“I keep myself occupied.”
“Your brother,” Damianos says, “he would surely have kept an eye on you, besides the guard.”
Laurent huffs. “Try telling that to my mother. The queen is very much worried about me. You know how it is. Mothers.”
Damianos blinks, and then seems strangely affected by these words.
And then, Laurent understands, and suddenly feels very cold.
“I—I am so sorry, I did not think—”
“Please,” Damianos says calmly, “do not apologise. It was before you were born.” He touches Laurent’s hand, briefly, before letting go again.
It is enough to send unknown shivers down Laurent’s spine.
“It might not have been Queen Egeria,” Damianos says then, “but I had nurses, of course, that were like mothers to me. They would weep every time I picked up a sword. They wept even more when I rode into my first battle. So I think I understand what motherly love means.”
Just as Laurent is about to respond, something white and very fast shoots past their legs.
“Bijou!” Laurent calls out and manages to grasp the cat before she can slip through his fingers. “Who has let you out?”
The cat meows in protest as she is held against Laurent’s chest, but as soon as she realises who it is, she begins to purr.
“Honestly, what is it with you? Why are you coming down here when all you do all day is hissing at everything that moves?” He scratches the cat behind the ear out of sheer habit. “Stupid princess. Why are you running around here, hm?”
The cat purrs, not impressed by the dressing down in the slightest as usual, and then fixates Damianos with her eyes.
He is still there, Laurent realises. And he has heard every single, affectionate word.
“Will you introduce us?” Damianos asks with a smile and leans forward ever so slightly.
Laurent blushes and clears his throat, holding the cat a little tighter. “Her name is Bijou. She was a gift from my brother, before he went to war.”
“Hello, Bijou,” Damianos says and holds out his hand for Bijou to sniff.
“Don’t, she bites—” Laurent says quickly, but much to his surprise, the cat does not even twitch. Instead, she stretches her neck out just to sniff the fingertips held out to her, and for probably the first time in her life, she makes no attempt of sinking her teeth into a stranger’s flesh.
“I am not dangerous,” Damianos says and withdraws his hand again. “I assume I have to take this as a compliment?”
“Usually, Bijou is a true beast,” Laurent explains. “A spoiled brat that bites and scratches everyone and everything. Even the guards fear her.”
Damianos chuckles. “Really?”
“When all defence falls, she will hold the castle on her own,” Laurent says, not without obvious pride and affection in his voice. “That’s—that’s what Auguste says,” he adds quickly when he notices how much nonsense he has been saying again. About a cat, of all things.
How ridiculous.
He calls for a guard and hands Bijou over, not without noticing the pained hesitation in the guard’s face. At least he is wearing some sort of gloves and armour.
That will protect him from the worst.
A cough makes its way up Laurent’s throat, and he grips the balustrade, feeling the burning sensation of the griva coming up again. He must look like a lightweight to Damianos, who surely drinks this stuff for breakfast already.
“Goodness,” Damianos says and Laurent hears him come closer, and a moment later, there is a hand on his back. Through the coughs, Laurent forces himself to stand up straight, and when he manages to open his eyes again, he sees the Akielon prince looking at him in what must be genuine worry.
“I’m fine,” Laurent rasps, and snaps his fingers to get a servant bring him a cup of water.
“The griva has a rather strong effect on you, it seems,” Damianos says, watching as Laurent takes a few sips from the water a servant has produced from seemingly out of nowhere. “I am very sorry. I should not have made you drink it.”
“I brought the cup to my lips myself,” Laurent says when he can trust his voice again, and the servant takes the cup away again. “It is not like you forced me.”
“I doubt that anyone could,” Damianos says, and again, Laurent’s ears burn.
This time, it is not the griva.
He tugs a little on his collar that, typical for Veretian court fashion, reaches up high right beneath his chin.
“For how long are you staying in Vere again?” He asks, eager to change the direction of their exchange that has more and more escaped his control. Damned be the griva.
“I’m afraid that we will leave again the day after tomorrow,” Damianos says with a sigh. “This is our fourth day in Arles, and my father expects me to meet the… the kyros of Chasteigne. What do you call it?”
“The lord of Chasteigne,” Laurent says. “I know him. A ghastly figure of a man. Speak to his wife if you wish to get anything done.”
Damianos laughs, and the sound of it causes something in Laurent’s chest to clench.
“I shall take note of that,” he says and his eyes are sparkling like the evening sun when it sets over the sea. “When you come to Akielos, the same goes for the kyros of Aegina.”
“Noted,” Laurent says, and notices to late that he is laughing, too.
Oh no.
“I hope to see the wild horses of Chasteigne,” Damianos says then and leans casually against the balustrade again. “Are you fond of horses?”
Before Laurent can reply, the sound of boots on the marble floors announces the arrival of an intruder. As Laurent looks to the right, he sees one of the Akielons walking past his guards. The kyros of Delpha.
“Exalted,” Nikandros says and bows low to both. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but King Aleron is looking for you.”
“You better go,” Laurent says and clasps his hands behind his back, relieved that this gives him a reason to let the smile on his face die again. Why on earth had he been smiling at Damianos in the first place? “My father is not known as a patient man.”
“I shall take note of that, too,” Damianos says as they walk back towards the festivities together, Nikandros following close behind. The loudness of the ballroom embraces them again with full force, and Laurent wonders if the laughter, singing, and talking has always been as loud. After the blissful silence on the balcony, it almost feels obscene.
“Ah! There you are.”
Aleron is walking towards them already, head held high and a cup of wine in his hand. “I hope my son did not keep you for too long,” the king says with a brief look at Laurent. “I was told you had him try griva.”
“He managed to hold it like a true Veretian,” Damianos says, conveniently leaving out anything about the recent coughing fits. “I know that he is to thank for the arrangement of these festivities. You must be very proud of him, your majesty.”
“Of course I am,” Aleron says, then turns to Laurent. “Your mother is retiring to her chambers. Please go and bid her goodnight, as usual.”
Laurent bites his tongue, as the remark of his father makes him seem like a child that runs after his mother – when in reality, it is merely a veiled request for Laurent to go and leave him and Damianos alone for the important talks, where he is not required.
After all, he is merely the spare. Even now, at eighteen years.
“Of course, father,” Laurent says and then turns to Damianos. “It has been a pleasure. I hope I will get to see you off tomorrow before you depart.”
A bow suffices here.
“So do I,” Damianos says and bows in return. “Have a good night, your highness.”
Aleron then leads him away, and as Laurent reaches the top of the stairs, he turns around once more.
Damianos is at the dais with his father, deep in conversation, speaking of things that Laurent is usually excluded from, as the second son. The topic of the conversation hardly interests him this time.
For Laurent’s eyes are fixed on Damianos of Akielos, and he finds it difficult to tear his eyes away from him.
In the early hours of the day, Laurent leaves his chambers to head to the royal baths.
It has become a habit of his to do so right after waking up, which happens usually just before sunrise. He will dress in more simple clothing without a servant, yet still appropriate enough for a prince and keeping him covered, take a bite out of an apple from the bowl that is always filled to the brim, and then head down to the baths. Of course, he has a bath of his own attached to his chambers, but the sunrise cannot be observed well from there.
Thus, Laurent prefers the royal baths, just like Auguste. Many times, they have spent hours in there, talking.
Auguste has less time these days, always keeping to their father’s side, learning from him how to rule.
Laurent has no reason to expect anyone else there, not at this ungodly early hour.
He has slept well, despite the incident with the griva, despite his meeting with Damianos of Akielos. However, it has taken him quite some time to fall asleep after bidding his mother good night in her chambers, his thoughts travelling back to the Akielon prince.
Laurent is not easily impressed. It takes many words, many deeds, and above all, a lot of wit, to impress him, and he is, as Auguste calls it, very selective in to whom he shows any sort of affection.
With Damianos, however, it had felt as if all of his usual inhibitions were only secondary.
That this was a man worth exploring.
Laurent had sighed into his pillow at this realisation, and had then forced himself to sleep.
The first rays of sunshine had woken him up.
The guards make no move as Laurent walks past them without sparing them a second glance, pushes the door to the baths open, a hand already on the strings of his jacket.
He stops right before the door falls shut again.
The steam is already rising from the water, the air filled with a scent unfamiliar to Laurent, who usually prefers to bathe in a simple mixture of water, milk, and honey. Floral oils are only ever used by his mother, and sometimes Auguste, but never added to the water beforehand. Only ever upon request.
However, it is neither his mother nor his brother sitting in the bath, arms stretched out on either side.
“Your highness,” Damianos says in surprise and sits up a little straighter in the bath, the movement making the bath slightly overflow. “I mean—Laurent. Good morning. I did not expect you to come here at this hour. Or rather, anyone, really. Do you wish for me to leave?”
Laurent opens his mouth and closes it again.
In the steam of the room, Damianos looks different from last night. The humidity has made his hair curl at the tips, his face is flushed from the heat and turning him a darker shade than he already is. Above all else, however, his eyes are different in the way they look at Laurent, in a strange mixture of both surprise and something Laurent does not recognise.
It makes him curl his toes inside his shoes.
“I can say the same,” Laurent replies, letting go of the string by his neck. “And—” He hesitates, for a split second only, weighing his options only to realise that he has none. These are the royal baths. Open to the royal guests. Damianos is as royal as it can get.
Sending him out could easily be seen as an affront to Akielos. Laurent can already hear his father’s councillors speaking of it. The cast iron prince, ruining all efforts.
“Of course not,” he says then, with as much neutrality as he can muster. “You are a guest of the crown. You are welcome to make use of the royal baths as you please.”
Damianos nods. “Will you join me, then?” He asks, gesturing at the water. Laurent looks to the left. There awaits an entirely different problem.
“Who is this?” He asks, looking at the young man that is kneeling beside the bath with his gaze lowered. There is gold around his neck and wrists, and his clothing is sheer.
Damianos follows his gaze. “His name is Erasmus,” he says. “My slave.”
Laurent looks at him. “Your slave.”
“I brought him with me from Ios,” Damianos says. “Erasmus, greet the prince.”
“Your highness,” Erasmus says with a voice that is as lovely as he looks, and he presses his forehead against the ground. His golden curls surround his head like a crown.
Laurent knows of the differences between Akielos and Vere, of course, but this is the first time he sees a slave like that.
“I will join you in a moment,” Laurent says and heads to the changing area behind the partition. One does not undress in the middle of the baths, with everyone watching.
With a towel around his waist, Laurent steps out, not without checking first if Damianos and his slave are watching. Both of them are looking the other way, with the slave pouring ice cold water into a cup and handing it to the prince. Laurent uses the moment to get into the water without being seen, sinking deep into the water until it covers him up to his collarbones.
“Thank you, Erasmus,” Damianos says with gentleness. “You may leave. Go and eat breakfast.”
“Yes, Exalted,” Erasmus says quietly and bows before he rises and leaves, his footsteps making no sound on the wet floor.
Not even the door makes a sound as he opens and closes it again, leaving Laurent and Damianos alone in the bath.
“You do not approve.” Damianos’ voice is calm, his words a mere observation.
Laurent knows he should keep his mouth shut. It would be wise, very wise indeed, not to speak about the vast cultural differences between Akielos and Vere. Especially not in here.
But Laurent is known for a sharp tongue, and it is partly due to the fact that he has inherited his mother’s Kemptian directness.
They call him a cast-iron bitch, but do not know where he got it from in the first place.
“You have pets in Vere,” Damianos goes on. “What is the difference?”
“Pets,” Laurent says and turns his head to face him, “are paid. They can buy themselves out, or they wait until their contract runs out. They have their own, free will.”
“Our slaves do, too,” Damianos says with a small frown. “We would never force them to anything.”
“Maybe you would not,” Laurent gives back, “but I am fairly sure that others are not so kind.”
“You think I am kind?”
“You are trying to change the subject.”
“I treat my slaves well,” Damianos says with emphasis. “Exceptionally so, I dare say. They do not lack a thing.”
“Neither do our pets,” Laurent says and frowns at him in return. “But I understand that these might be the sort of cultural differences that simply cannot be overcome.”
Damianos looks at him as if he were about to say something else, but he remains quiet. Instead, he looks away, out of the large, floor-length window that offers a fantastic view of Arles. The sun is just rising right now, bathing everything, including them, in a warm, golden light.
It is Laurent’s favourite time of the day.
“You have opinions,” Damianos says, “a strange thing for a prince.”
“Why, thank you,” Laurent says dryly, “I do in fact have a brain.”
“That was not meant as criticism,” Damianos says and looks back at him again, his head tilted slightly. “I like it. Heaven knows how superficial royal circles are. You hardly get to talk to someone on an honest basis.”
“My brother is honest,” Laurent says. “You spent time with him.”
“I would never dare accusing Auguste of dishonesty,” Damianos assures him quickly, “what I mean is that your brother has mastered the art of courtly talk so well that it is hard to distinguish between his public opinion and his private thoughts. They often sound the same. Both are valuable. You, however,” he adds, and then sighs deeply, as if very pleased with his observation, “you make the polite chitchat, yet your beliefs shine through only when you wish for them to be noticed.”
When he catches Laurent staring, Damianos clears his throat. “This is something about you that Auguste might or might not have said to me once. A while back, in Marlas, when we drank together during the ceasefire. I have to admit that he described you very accurately.”
That his brother would think of speaking of him during such a crucial moment—
Laurent swallows the lump that begins to form in his throat. Instead, he holds his chin high and averts his gaze.
“I feel honoured,” Damianos says then, to add to Laurent’s misery, “that you felt inclined to let your beliefs shine through so clearly in a conversation with me.”
“So you take no offense?”
Damianos shrugs. “What can I do. You have your beliefs, and I have mine. But what we have in common is a preference for warm baths in the morning and the desire for a just treatment of those inferior to us. Pet or slave.”
He would make a fine king one day, Laurent realises then.
He is good at negotiating. Good at keeping the peace.
In his chest, Laurent’s heart beats faster.
“I think we can agree on that,” he says and rests his arm on the edge of the bath. “Although Veretian thought is far superior.”
“Alright, alright,” Damianos says with that genuine smile that has corrupted Laurent’s thoughts the night before already, and leans back with a sigh, resting his muscular arms above his head. A smile is creeping up on Laurent, too, but he manages to supress it. Good God. “You did not answer my question last night.”
“What question?”
“Whether you were fond of horses.”
Laurent’s days are carefully structured.
Even as the spare, he has duties to the crown, and he would be damned to give his parents or his brother any reason to be disappointed. Acquitart is his, and so, the issues of the province are his to oversee, with the guidance of his father’s councillors, of course. There is a representative of Acquitart at court these days, overseeing the peace negotiations and drinking himself into oblivion at the festivities. Were he sober, Laurent would be sitting at a table with him, discussing the schooling situation in Acquitart. However, the man is too drunk still to even get out of bed, and so, Laurent finds himself without a task after the bath, after breakfast, after showering Bijou in affections before she goes off to bite a random councillor in the leg.
On days like this, he would usually ask Auguste to spar with him. But Auguste is busy, and his own guards are too hungover today to not accidentally kill themselves were Laurent to pick up a swordfight with them.
And so, he is alone on the training grounds, bow and arrow in hand and his target a sack of hay in the distance. His teacher of his childhood days, a tall woman called Anouk with shoulders as broad as Auguste’s stands to the side, her hands clasped behind her back, watching wordlessly. They have long since reached the point where the student has come close to master, but that does not mean she does not have anything left to teach him, still. Her eyes watch him like a hawk, taking in his posture, his stance, the way he breathes in and out. As usual, she finds nothing to criticise.
Laurent takes aim and lets go of the arrow.
It hits its target right in the centre.
“Excellent, your highness,” Anouk says from where she stands at the side. “But not perfect. Try again.”
Laurent looks at her incredulously, but Anouk’s face remains the same. He grabs the next arrow and takes aim the way he has learned it, perfected it. Again, she says nothing as he fixates the target with his eyes and shoots, the second arrow splitting the first in half with a stomach-turning crack.
Laurent turns to Anouk, who he sees has begun to study him closely.
“What flaw do you find in me?” He asks. “I do this all the time. It is the same as usual.”
“It is not,” Anouk replies. “Look closely.”
Laurent frowns, but does as she suggests, and walks over to the target to see what he has achieved.
The first arrow has hit the centre, yet slightly to the left. The same goes for the second arrow, which has split the first unevenly.
“You should never drink griva again,” calls a now familiar voice from above.
Laurent looks up, his chest tightening as he spots Damianos of Akielos on the wall that surrounds the training grounds.
“Are you following me?” Laurent can’t help but ask.
“Not intentionally,” Damianos says as he comes down the stairs in his ridiculously short chiton. “But happy coincidences seem to lead me back to you.”
“In Vere, we call that obsession.”
“Maybe, this particular Veretian thought is right.”
Laurent grinds his teeth together.
“You are an excellent archer,” Damianos says as he takes in the target on the other side of the training grounds with the arrows sticking to it. “Auguste was right.”
“He told you of it?”
Damianos nods. “In Marlas, when we drank together during the ceasefire. He told me that if you had been part of the archers riding ahead, you would have taken down at least half of our army singlehandedly.”
It seems that Damianos and Auguste have been talking a lot in Marlas.
“You think that your griva influenced my abilities,” he says flatly.
Damianos nods at the arrows. “There is a reason we forbid griva the night before a battle. It makes men’s heads swim. Even after one sip.”
“You hear it there,” Laurent says to Anouk, “you may blame the barbarians and the poison they call wine.”
“Drinking it is an act you have performed yourself, your highness,” she gives back before greeting Damianos with a bow.
“Anouk of Lys,” Damianos says and bows in return. “I have heard a lot of you. It is an honour to make your acquaintance.”
“Are you an archer, your highness?” Anouk asks, but much to Laurent’s surprise, Damianos shakes his head.
“I am better with the sword,” he says and turns to Laurent. “I was hoping to spar with Nikandros, but your father requested to meet with him as he is the new kyros of Delpha.”
“I see,” Laurent says, “the training grounds are at your disposal at all times. Perhaps you can spar with him later.”
“Certainly,” Damianos says, “but I was hoping that you would spar with me.”
“Spar with you,” Laurent repeats.
“Yes,” Damianos says, a certain glint appearing in his eyes. “With wooden swords, of course. We would not want to risk a political scandal if one of us where to get hurt, would we?”
His words hold thought and truth, with all due respect for the still fragile situation they were in at this point of the peace negotiations. At the same time, Laurent believes to hear more than just that in Damianos’ words. Does he even know how skilled Laurent is with the sword? Had Auguste told him of that, too?
“Just for fun,” Damianos adds, when Laurent does not reply, “as friends and princes. What do you say?”
As friends and princes.
By now, a handful of people have gathered on the walls surrounding the training grounds, soldiers and courtiers alike, watching the princes of both countries interacting.
Laurent knows what is expected of him.
“Very well,” he says and steps back, heading towards the other side where they keep the wooden swords. “Pick your weapon, Damianos.”
Usually, the only one Laurent spars with is Auguste. There are other skilled fighters in Vere, of course, and many of them here in Arles at his disposal that would make fine sparring partners as well as his former teachers. But in truth, it is Auguste who has taught Laurent most of the time, and who has made him the swordsman that he is today. He only ever trains with little audience present, and when he spars with Auguste, they are usually alone. Not like this, when there are more and more people gathering above them on the walls to catch a glimpse of him and Damianos sparring together.
The things one does for peace.
Damianos picks a wooden sword at random, weighing it in his hand before choosing another. Laurent always takes the same one, the lightest of them, allowing him to move swiftly. He will be faster in his movements than Damianos anyway, who seems to consist of solid muscle only and towers over him. Perhaps all men in Akielos are such giants.
“Well then,” Damianos says as they return to the centre of the training grounds, the sand scrunching beneath their feet. Laurent takes his appearance in once more. He wears only the chiton and a pair of Akielon sandals, the chiton held together beneath his shoulders with a lion pin. One swift movement, and the chiton would fall.
The thought of it makes Laurent’s mouth go dry.
“Spar,” Anouk says.
Damianos has fought many battles. Laurent has read reports of them all, snuck into his room by Auguste behind their father’s back. It is important to know your enemy. Laurent has also read Auguste’s letters, detailing to him the battles and the people he has encountered. Damianos had been one of them, and although Auguste had only watched from afar before the battle in which he had faced Damianos himself, he had made a detailed account of how Damianos fights.
None of his brother’s words have been an exaggeration.
Damianos fights the way he speaks, with dedication and simplicity. His body, muscular, taller, and naturally heavier than Laurent’s, enables him to strike with more force. But it also slows him down, and that is where Laurent knows his personal advantage lies. In fights with people who do not know him, Laurent usually hardly has to move greatly, merely step aside to avoid any sort of blow. Damianos does not know his fighting style either, but he is not a brute to simply attack and hit. He thinks it through, keeps his gaze on Laurent at all times, smiling more and more with each time their wooden swords meet.
“You fight well,” he says, not out of breath in the slightest as both of them take a step back to get back into position.
“So do you,” Laurent says, “give it a few years of Veretian training and you might become just as good.”
He lunges forward, faster than Damianos can anticipate, and almost manages to hit the man’s arm. But Damianos expects his blow, blocks him just in time.
“You have the movements of a snake,” Damianos says, leaning against where their swords have met. He is too heavy as a person for Laurent to hold him back.
“Then you should expect this,” Laurent says and twirls out of the way as Damianos leans forward, causing him to stumble. With his sword raised, Laurent reaches out to strike, just as Damianos falls and hits the ground, reaching out with one hand just in time to catch himself. He rolls onto his back, sits up within the blink of an eye, and sword meets sword.
The sand and dust are all around them. In Laurent’s hair, in the creases of Damianos’ chiton. On Laurent’s tongue.
In the air between them, between their faces that hover above their swords. Neither of them will give in.
An Akielon prince must not be beaten by a Veretian prince.
A Veretian prince must not lose within his own castle.
“I will not yield,” Damianos says through his grin that lights up the day like the sun above, “and neither will you.”
“Correct,” Laurent replies.
Fortunately, Anouk thinks the same.
“It’s a tie!” She calls, and the fight is over.
From above, there is applause from Veretians and Akielon’s alike, each side proud of their respective prince and his skill with the sword. There will be lots of talk about it, Laurent is sure.
After all, he hardly ever has an audience.
They step back and drop their swords, training attendants stepping forward to take them away. Laurent feels the strain of the fight in his arms and shoulders, and were he alone, he would take a deep breath to relieve the pressure he feels in his chest, but not with so many people nearby. Not with Damianos right in front of him.
He must not know that he is actually out of breath.
“They should have let you fight at Marlas,” Damianos says, a little out of breath himself, but of the kind that shows how much he has enjoyed this. They leave the centre of the training grounds and walk over to the side, where a servant is waiting with refreshments that someone, probably Anouk, must have sent for. “You would really have taken out half of our men.”
Laurent tries not to preen at the praise. “You know how it is,” he says and grabs a cup of peach juice that will cleanse his mouth from the taste of sand and dust. “Everything to keep the spare safe for his true purpose.”
Damianos looks at him strangely, as if he were thinking several thoughts at once, not sure which one to pursue. “Marriage politics, then,” he says strangely softly. “I understand.”
Were Laurent not gripping the cup so tightly, it would have slipped out of his hand.
This time, his brain does at least not give the stupid command to smile.
“What?” Laurent stares at him, and his heart begins to race. “I—Why would you think that?”
“You would not be the first spare to be used for marriage politics,” Damianos says with a flush on his cheeks that surely comes from the sword fight, holding his own cup of water firmly in his large hand, but he does not drink.
“I’m not betrothed to anyone,” Laurent gives back, sharper than he actually intends, “my family keeps me here in case something happens to Auguste. Heaven forbid.”
The mere thought makes his heart ache.
In his grip, the cup would have burst, had it been made of delicate crystal glass.
“Of course,” Damianos says with a nod, “I misunderstood. It is good to hear that you are not promised to anyone.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
But he does not get a reply. Auguste has appeared at the top of the stairs with Nikandros, both of them watching Damianos and Laurent with very different expressions on his face. Auguste seems utterly delighted, whereas Nikandros appears to be thinking very hard.
“You must tell me what you did to convince my brother to spar with you, Damianos,” Auguste says as he comes down the stairs, Nikandros close behind. Reaching them, Auguste pats Laurent’s shoulder. “He usually only ever spars with me. Now I feel less special.”
Damianos raises both eyebrows at the revelation. “Is that so?” He asks. “Then I take it as a great honour. Your brother is a great swordsman, Auguste. Much like you.”
“May we never have to raise our swords against each other again, unless in friendly competition,” Auguste says. “I am glad to find both of you here. Will you dine with me tonight, before you depart in the morning?”
“Of course,” Damianos says, “it would be an honour.”
“You too, Laurent,” Auguste says, looking at his younger brother, “unless you are otherwise occupied?”
“No,” Laurent says with uneasiness creeping up inside him. Crown princes should talk amongst themselves. It makes no sense for him to be there as well. Or Nikandros.
“Great,” Auguste nods, “I think my father is waiting for you in his study, Damianos. Something about contracts you should take home with you?”
“I will collect them, then,” Damianos says and sets his cup of water aside, finally. “I will see you later, Auguste. Laurent.”
He nods at them both the way any crown prince would nod at someone equal. But his gaze lingers on Laurent, a mere second longer, before he walks away with Nikandros.
The Veretian princes stand side by side, watching them leave in silence.
Once they are out of sight, Laurent turns away to grab a second cup of peach juice, downing the cool beverage in one go.
“You sparred with him,” he hears Auguste say.
Laurent turns around, finding his brother looking at him with a badly concealed grin, utter delight sparkling in his blue eyes.
“What was I supposed to do?” Laurent asks in irritation. “Tell him no? Offend him and risk all you and father worked for?”
“Damianos would not have been offended, and you know it,” Auguste says and takes some peach juice for himself. “He is not as fickle and changeable as some councillors would like us to think. He is an honourable man who wishes for peace. He will be a good king one day.”
Auguste takes a sip, and some juice trails down his chin. Laurent says nothing.
“There is no shame in admitting that you liked it,” Auguste says, sets the cup down, and dabs his chin dry with a handkerchief. “Sparring with him. Talking with him. After all, you said that he was yours last night. Or did I misunderstand that?”
Laurent flushes so badly that it is impossible to deny it.
“Nicaise would have otherwise annoyed him to death,” he mutters, “and as the prince, I could not let that happen.”
“Of course,” Auguste says with a soft smile and leaves it at that, but only until they reach the top of the stairs. The sun stands high in the sky and is beaming down on them. In Akielos, Laurent thinks, the sun would be even hotter. In Veretian clothing, he would most likely burn alive there.
“You are eighteen,” Auguste says as they step into the shade of the palace, “you should live a little. And truth be told, there are worse candidates than the Akielon crown prince.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Laurent gives back and picks up Bijou, who has seized the opportunity to try and escape. “I have a cat to return. I will see you later.”
As he walks away, he is sure he can hear Auguste chuckle to himself.
The dinner with Auguste, Damianos, and Nikandros turns out a simple affair, with a typical Veretian meal enjoyed on the terrace near Auguste’s chambers. There is a musician, playing both Akielon and Veretian pieces, and an endless supply of wine that especially Nikandros turns out to be very fond of. Auguste promises to send them a few barrels, and they shake hands over that before Nikandros goes on to describe a drinking game, which they do not end up playing because Laurent does not drink and Damianos expresses a desire for a clear head for the upcoming journey towards home.
It is a relaxed affair, almost like having dinner with friends.
Not that Laurent would know, because he hardly has any friends. The companions of his childhood are no longer around, having gone to the army, or simply having drifted apart with him over the course of their teenage years. They are obsessed with women and complain that they cannot have them, and do not understand why Laurent does not join them in their misery. Laurent does not understand it either, but he finds the whole notion laughable.
Obsession.
For another person, on top of that.
Laurent has never wondered why he does not have any friends besides his brother. He knows what they call him behind his back and claim that he is cast in iron, for he hardly ever smiles.
Only idiots smile when there is nothing joyful to be happy about.
Damianos, however, smiles all night long.
He smiles when Auguste tells a story, smiles when Nikandros accidentally pours wine into his lap, smiles when a servant brings them a basket of bread. He smiles at Laurent, too, when the evening turns into night and they get ready to retire. He smiles as he bids him a goodnight, and smiles still when Laurent stands by his brother’s side and does the same.
Something about the prince’s smile irritates him greatly, and as Laurent returns to his own chambers to sleep, he feels the vein near his temple pulsate.
It is still there the next morning as they gather in the courtyard to bid the Akielon delegation farewell. Everyone is there except Queen Hennike, who has bid Damianos farewell in private as she is not feeling too well, and Laurent will have to check on her later. His father is there, and so is his brother, and Auguste is holding Damianos’ arm in a brotherly embrace as they recapitulate the previous few days. They laugh and smile, much to Aleron’s agreement, for the king has a small smile on his face himself. Everything has gone according to the plan so far. Damianos will return home with important documents for King Theomedes, and with them, the promise for a peaceful future.
After all, it was one country, once.
Finally, Damianos turns to Laurent, who is the only one on top of the steps who is not smiling. Nevertheless, he has no ill feelings towards the Akielon prince, who stands before him like a mountain, a hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I enjoyed our conversations very much, your highness,” Damianos says, using the title instead of Laurent’s name since everyone is watching, and oh, would the court love to gossip about that. “It was a great pleasure to meet you in person. I thank your brother for introducing us.”
Laurent nods, once. “I enjoyed them, too. Despite the occasional—disagreements.”
Damianos’ eyes shine. “Disagreements make them interesting in the first place, would you not agree?”
And then, in a single, swift and entirely unexpected movement, Damianos takes Laurent’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles, just the way he did at the ball the night before.
This time, his lips linger for a mere split second longer, long enough for Laurent’s heart to stop beating altogether for a solid moment. He feels the Akielon’s breath on the back of his hand, his touch burning all the way up Laurent’s sleeve to his chest, where it explodes into a thunderstorm of heat.
Laurent is unable to move.
Damianos looks up at him from where he bows to him, looking at him through his eyelashes, his dark brown eyes filled with intent. “I will write,” he says, quiet enough for no bystander to hear.
Laurent is not sure whether he is still breathing.
A nod must suffice.
Laurent stands frozen, watching stone-faced as the Akielon delegation departs, Damianos at its head, a true giant amongst men, even more so now on the back of a horse.