The morning light cut through the heavy velvet drapes, striking Alistair's face and forcing him to squint. He felt a slight weight, something shifting against his chest. Frowning, he lifted the covers to find Asarmose's hand resting there. The Prince's mouth was slightly open, and a soft, rhythmic hum escaped his breath in the deep pull of sleep.
Alistair watched him for a heartbeat, his silver eyes unreadable. He gently moved the Prince's hand away, but the movement caused Asarmose to groan and roll to the opposite side, pulling the blankets with him in a silent protest.
Alistair got up, the cool morning air hitting his skin. He walked to the wall and pulled a small silken rope attached to a bell in the servant's quarters. Moments later, two Beta servants entered, their heads bowed so deeply they refused to look at the bed. They began the silent, practiced ritual of dressing the King for the day in a sharp, midnight-blue frock coat with gold piping and a high-collared waistcoat of charcoal silk.
When they were finished, they placed his heavy, golden royal crown upon his head. It caught the morning sun, its polished peaks gleaming with the weight of centuries of rule. Without a word, the servants scurried away.
The commotion finally pulled Asarmose from his dreams. He sat up, his hair a mess of gold and shadow, and saw Alistair fully dressed by the tall windows. Asarmose stood, his robe falling open as he prepared to dress himself.
Alistair watched him, a dry smirk playing on his lips. "No 'good morning'?"Asarmose didn't look at him. He simply reached out and rang the bell again, the chimes echoing through the room. When the servants returned, he spoke with the voice of a man used to being obeyed."Draw me a bath," he commanded.The servants moved quickly. Asarmose sat in the hot, perfumed water while the attendants bathed him and combed his hair until it shone like polished brass. When he was finished, he walked into the massive walk-in closet where his clothes were neatly arranged.The servants dressed him in a long, flowing tunic of deep navy silk, embroidered with gold threads that mimicked the desert stars—matching his foreign style to the King's colors. It was a silent statement: he was part of this kingdom now, but he would not be changed by its soot.
Alistair stared at him for a brief moment, his gaze lingering on how the dark blue made the Prince's skin look like burnished honey. Without a word, the King turned and walked out of the room.
Asarmose finished his ritual by placing a smaller, delicate golden crown upon his head. He made his way to the dining hall, where the smell of coffee and expensive oils filled the air. He found Alistair already seated, eating with graceful, clinical precision.
Asarmose took his seat opposite the King and began to eat, the silence between them as heavy and sharp as the palace walls.
The clinking of silver against porcelain was the only sound in the grand dining hall until Alistair spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet with precision.
"I will be heading to court this morning," Alistair said, not looking up from his plate. "The disputes in the outer region require my direct oversight. It will be a tedious affair of ledgers and logistics."
Asarmose paused, his spoon hovering for a fraction of a second before he set it down. He looked up, his amber eyes locking onto the King's golden crown. "I will join you."
Alistair slowed his movements, finally raising his silver-gray eyes to meet the Prince's gaze. A small, patronizing smirk touched his lips. "The court is not a playground, Asarmose. It is a place of harsh numbers and cold words. You would find it incredibly dull compared to your sun-soaked temples."
Asarmose didn't blink. He leaned back slightly, the navy silk of his tunic shimmering in the morning light.
"I agree," Asarmose said, his voice a low, honeyed gravel. "Which is exactly why I will join you. If it is a place where the fate of the people is decided, then it is a place where I belong."
Alistair studied him for a moment, the air between them sharpening with the scent of cold bergamot. He recognized the defiance in the Prince's tone—the same defiance that had healed his scars and mocked his Council.
"Very well," Alistair drawled, standing up and smoothing the front of his midnight-blue coat. "But do try to keep your 'miracles' to a minimum. My ministers have fragile hearts, and I'd prefer they don't drop dead before they finish their reports."
Asarmose rose as well, his smaller golden crown catching the light. "I make no promises, Alistair. If your court is as filthy as your streets, it may require more than just a conversation."
Without another word, the King turned and strode toward the heavy oak doors, his cape billowing behind him. Asarmose followed a step behind, the two of them moving like a storm of gold and iron toward the heart of the Empire's power.