Alistair didn't break the gaze. He stayed in Asarmose's space for a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting the weight of his presence—and that singular, intoxicating pheromone—settle between them. Finally, he stepped back, the mocking ghost of a smile vanishing into a line of cold business.
"We leave at the second bell before dawn," Alistair said, turning toward the mahogany desk. He pulled a hidden latch beneath the drawer, and a compartment slid open, revealing two bundles of heavy, coarse fabric. "No guards. No heralds. If we are caught by my own patrols, I will not reveal myself to save us. We will be treated as any other wandering scavengers."
Asarmose walked toward the desk, his fingers brushing against the rough wool of the bundles. The exquisite silk he currently wore felt like a lie against the reality of the mission. "I wouldn't expect you to save me, Alistair. I'm quite capable of handling your patrols. It's your own inability to blend in that concerns me."
Alistair ignored the jab, unfurling a map of the Southern District. The parchment was stained with age and marked with red ink. "The disappearances are centered around Sector Seven—the iron quarries. The wagon-trains leaving that area are being logged as full, but they arrive at the capital's gates light by several tons. Someone is stealing them before they reach the capital."
"And the missing people?" Asarmose asked, leaning over the map."The governors claim they are dying of the 'disorientation'—exhaustion and infighting," Alistair muttered, his eyes tracing the river routes. "But the numbers don't add up. You don't lose hundreds of workers to petty brawls without leaving a trail of bodies. There are no graves, Asarmose. Just empty barracks."
Asarmose looked at the map, his mind already weaving the psychological threads together. "They aren't dying. They are being moved. Someone is using your people without your knowledge, Alistair.
Alistair's hand clenched into a fist on the obsidian table. The thought of a secret power growing under his nose was an insult to his very existence. "Then we find that 'someone'. And I will let you decide how we punish them"
Alistair turned away from the obsidian table and moved toward the deep mahogany desk. With a sharp tug on a hidden brass ring beneath the desktop, a panel in the floor groaned open. Inside lay two packs of weathered leather, packed with the essentials for a journey where one could not rely on royal favor: dried meat, heavy canteens, and local currency—rough iron coins used in the Southern labor districts.
"Change," Alistair commanded, nodding toward the oxblood-red curtains. Behind them sat two simple stools and a set of garments that had never seen a palace laundry. "The silks stay here. If you bleed in those, the scent of expensive dye will give us away before the first mile is up."
Asarmose stepped behind the curtain. The transition was a cold, physical reminder of the stakes. He stripped away the fine, layered fabrics of his station, the ivory silks falling in a silent heap on the cream-colored rug. In their place, he donned a tunic of rough-spun charcoal linen and trousers of thick, oiled leather. The fabric was abrasive, a stark contrast to the "livestock" he usually observed from a distance.
On the other side of the curtain, the sounds of Alistair's own transformation were steady and efficient. The King shed his military regalia, replacing it with a heavy traveling duster and boots that had seen enough mud to blend into any road.
When Asarmose stepped back into the amber light, he looked different. The dignity was still there—etched into the line of his jaw and the stillness of his eyes—but the "Consort" was gone. He looked like a man who could heal a wound or slit a throat with the same detached precision.
Alistair looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on the way the rough fabric sat on Asarmose's frame. A flicker of that unreadable dark intrigue crossed his face."You look like a ghost," Alistair noted.
"And you look like the man who haunts them," Asarmose countered, adjusting the heavy cloak over his shoulders. They waited in the room until the sound of the second bell. Alistair extinguished the oil lanterns one by one until only a single flame remained. He picked up a heavy, iron-bound lantern and moved toward the back of the chamber, where a second, smaller secret door was hidden behind the emerald-toned chairs
."This leads to the lower stables," Alistair explained, his voice echoing in the narrowing space. "The horses there are unremarkable. No royal brands, no pedigree. Just muscle and endurance."
As they stepped into the damp, cold air of the stone passage, the scent of the palace—the incense, the perfume, the rot of the council—faded. It was replaced by the smell of wet earth and Alistair's pheromone, which felt even more potent in the confined darkness.They walked in silence for several minutes until the sound of shifting hay and the low whinny of horses reached them. The stables were dim, lit only by a single guttering candle held by a silent, hooded figure—the only servant Alistair trusted with their lives.Without a word, Alistair mounted a sturdy, mud-colored stallion. He looked down at Asarmose, who was already settling into the saddle of a dark mare with practiced, regal grace.
"Once we pass the outer gate," Alistair warned, "we do not speak of the palace. We do not speak of the King. From this moment on, we are simply two travelers looking for work in the iron quarries."
Asarmose tightened his grip on the reins, his eyes flashing in the candlelight. "Oh, don't worry, Alistair," Asarmose replied, a slow, sassy smirk playing on his lips. "I'm sure I can manage. The real question is whether you can go five minutes without expecting someone to bow to you"
Alistair's jaw tightened, but he didn't snap back. Instead, a huff of something that might have been a suppressed laugh escaped him. He turned his horse toward the exit.
"Keep that tongue sharp," Alistair muttered. "You'll likely need it to distract the guards while I'm busy keeping us alive."
Alistair gave a curt nod. The hooded servant pulled the heavy iron lever, and the stable doors swung open into the cold, pre-dawn mist of the palace outskirts. They rode out as shadows, disappearing into the grey haze toward the South.