The remaining ride to the palace was buried in a heavy, stifling silence. The carriage eventually passed through the massive iron gates, the wheels echoing against the stone before coming to a sharp halt near the main entrance.
Outside, rows of soldiers stood in perfect, frozen lines. As the doors opened, Alistair and Asarmose stepped down, their combined presence drawing every eye. They headed up the grand staircase, a trail of attendants following closely at their backs like a shadow.
"There is one more chore," Alistair said, his voice echoing in the vaulted hallway. "It is tradition to greet the elders of the Council before the wedding night."
Asarmose adjusted the gold pectoral on his chest, his eyes narrowed. "And why were these elders not present during the banquet? If they are so important, why hide?"
Alistair let out a short, dry chuckle. "They are a bunch of snot-nosed old geezers. Because they served the kings before my generation, they've convinced themselves they are my equals. They prefer to sit in the dark and pretend they still hold the leash."
When they entered the Council Room, the air felt ancient and stagnant, smelling of dust and old parchment. A group of men sat around a heavy oak table. As the King entered, they offered a slight, stiff bow—but their eyes pointedly avoided Asarmose. They treated the Prince as if he were a piece of furniture brought in to decorate the room.
Asarmose didn't wait for an introduction. He let out a soft, mocking laugh that cut through the silence like a blade."Does everyone in this kingdom lack proper etiquette?" Asarmose asked, his voice ringing with a clear, biting tone. "Or are these men simply too old to recognize their Queen?"
The effect was instant. The elders bristled, their faces turning a deep, angry red. The eldest among them, a man with a beard as white as salt, slammed his hand on the table and stood up.
"Insolence!" the old man shouted, his voice trembling with rage. "How dare you speak to us in such a manner? You are a guest in this house, boy!"
Asarmose didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his voice. He looked at the old man with a chillingly calm expression. "If I didn't want the death of old men on my conscience today, I would show you what 'insolence' truly means. Be grateful for your age; it is the only thing keeping your heart beating right now."
The elders, shocked by the Prince's lethal confidence, turned their heads toward Alistair. They expected the King to punish his consort, to demand an apology, or at least to look offended.
Instead, they found Alistair staring at Asarmose with a look of pure, dark amusement. He looked like a man watching a masterpiece being painted. He didn't say a word to defend the Council.
Alistair finally stepped toward the Prince, ignoring the spluttering elders entirely. He didn't look at the table; his eyes were only for the man in gold.
"I think we've had enough of the 'traditions' for one night," Alistair drawled, his voice smooth and final. "Let's proceed to the bedchamber."
Without a backward glance, Alistair led the way out, leaving the Council of Elders lost for words and trembling in the wake of a Prince they couldn't break—and a King who clearly didn't want him to be broken.
The royal bedchamber was a dark, quiet fortress. The only light came from a few flickering candles that cast long shadows across the heavy blue curtains. Outside, the muffled hum of the city's bustling felt miles away.
Alistair moved with his usual practiced grace. He began to undress, taking off his dark coat and his white vest, letting them fall to the rug like a snake shedding its skin. As he turned toward the steaming copper bath, his back was revealed to the Prince for the first time.
It was not smooth or perfect. The King's back was a map of a harsh, violent life—covered in silvery lines and deep, thick scars. They were remnants of his youth on the battlefield or the many brutal fights he had won to secure his throne. In the dim light, the scars looked like frozen lightning across his skin.
Asarmose watched from behind his gold mask, his amber eyes wide. He could feel Alistair's scent—the cold bergamot and iron—waver for a moment, revealing a hidden vulnerability the King usually kept buried under his pride.
Driven by an instinct he couldn't explain, Asarmose reached out. His fingers were cool and felt full of a strange, quiet power. He touched the center of a particularly deep scar between Alistair's shoulder blades.
Alistair flinched.
His muscles tightened instantly, like a trap snapping shut. "Don't," he hissed, his voice sharp and dangerous. He turned his head, his eyes flashing with a cold warning.
But the words died in his throat.
Where Asarmose's fingers had touched, a warm light began to spread. Alistair watched in the vanity mirror, his calm shattering as he saw something impossible. The thick, silver tissue of the scar began to soften. It didn't just fade; it vanished. The skin knit back together, turning smooth and flawless as if the injury had never happened.
Alistair spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. He grabbed Asarmose's wrist with an iron grip, his scent turning sharp and acidic with genuine alarm."What did you do?" Alistair demanded, his voice low and vibrating with danger. He looked down at his own chest, then back at the Prince.
Asarmose looked up at him, his gaze steady and ancient. "I just showed you a glimpse of my power, Alistair."
Alistair stared at him, his fingers still digging into the Prince's wrist. For the first time, he didn't see a nuisance or a prize. He saw a being that could dismantle a man's defenses not by breaking them, but by mending them.
"You are a dangerous creature, Asarmose," Alistair whispered, his smirk replaced by a look of intense, scary curiosity. "I thought I would be the one to tame you. But you... you intend to erase me, don't you?"Alistair eventually let go, walking swiftly into the bath chamber, sank into the scented copper bath. The heat usually helped him calculate his next move, but tonight, the water felt different. He reached back and touched his skin. It was smooth. Perfect. Like a lie told so well it became the truth.
He realized then that Asarmose was a systemic threat to the world he had built. In Alistair's kingdom, scars were proof of survival. By erasing them, Asarmose was deleting the King's history of blood and struggle.
When Alistair finally stepped out of the bath, wrapped a silk robe loosely around himself, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, as he strode back towards the bed chamber.
He stopped when he saw Asarmose by the massive bed. The Prince had begun to shed his own golden silks. Alistair's breath hitched. He stood in the shadows, his eyes darkened, narrowing into a predatory, focused slit.
Asarmose moved with a slow, easy grace, letting the heavy fabric slide down to reveal the curve of his waist. His skin glowed like honey in the amber light, unmarked and perfect.
Alistair felt his own scent shift. The cold bergamot sharpened into a heavy, aggressive musk. He watched the way the light played over the Prince's spine. The "clinical curiosity" he prided himself on was gone, replaced by a deep, narcissistic hunger.
Asarmose paused, his fingers lingering on his clothes. He didn't turn around, but his low, gravelly voice broke the silence."You're staring, Alistair. Is the reality of my body too loud for your quiet room?"
Alistair took a step forward, his bare feet silent on the rug. He leaned down until his lips were inches from Asarmose's bare, unscarred shoulder.
"I am merely wondering," Alistair whispered, his voice a low vibration, "if your skin feels as soft as it looks. Or if you are just as fragile as the people you try to save."