Chapter 104 - 103: Salt And Wound.

Chapter 104: Chapter 103: Salt And Wound.

A good thing, too. Because as perfect a chance as it might have seemed, there are soldiers all around him, armed to the teeth, and the tents are a maze, with nothing but open plains beyond them.

Everyone seems in high spirits, but there’s no denying the undercurrent of tension that comes from having so many soldiers of so many different allegiances all gathered in the same city.

They’re everywhere, in colours Khobi’s never seen before, from kingdoms he’s never even heard of, weaving between the tents, or drinking in makeshift taverns, and he knows the Crade Soldiers he’s with are just as aware of them as he is, just ignoring the occasional sidelong look that comes their way.

"Uggh, would you just look at those guys," Gandy complains, when it finally starts to get to him.

Exhausted, and probably a drink past fully sober, they’ve taken up residence at a smouldering fireside to catch their breaths.

The embers are burning low, recovering from the blaze of the night before, but the warmth still manages to take the edge off the crisp afternoon air.

Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones, and their company has garnered the attention of some rather unfriendly-looking sorts. Ones wearing colours of kings other than their own.

These ones are in white and gold, and many of the other revellers are affording them a wide berth.

"They walk around thinking they’re so good. Everyone knows their king’s a bastard—"

"Gandy—" Mural warns with a pained expression, because really, they’re not even sitting that far away.

"In the literal sense," Gandy scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I’m sure he’s a nice guy and all. Just, his daddy ain’t who he says it is, is what I’m sayin’. So they shouldn’t walk around thinkin’ they’re all that."

"Don’t start something," Jaga remarks sternly, nursing an ale and shaking his head.

"I’m just saying. Those assholes got some faces I don’t like much."

"Hey, you didn’t like Khobi’s face much and he turned out all right," Montrel snorts, stretching out his feet towards the fire and tucking his hands behind his head.

Gandy shoots him a look, then Khobi, smirking.

"Jury’s still out."

Khobi’s about to elbow him, but before he gets the chance, a young woman materialises between them and cuts him off.

"You’re looking awful serious, sir," she says to Gandy, throwing him a coy smile to go with the bells in her voice.

Her eyes are bright and sly, and she’s definitely not dressed for autumn weather.

"You not having a good time?"

Almost on cue, another gypsy girl sinks down on his other side.

"It’s definitely better now," Gandy remarks with a raised eyebrow, and the girls all giggle as the soldiers all cringe.

Montrel even looks a little put out by his friend’s sudden surge in popularity, but gypsy girls seem to always travel in hordes, because a moment later there’s one at his side, making eyes at him.

One even tries her luck with Jaga, who rebukes her with a polite refusal and sends her Khobi’s way.

She’s pretty. They all are, with bright, wild eyes and bewitching smiles. But Khobi’s never really had a debilitating weakness for pretty.

Unlike Montrel, who is clearly a bit of a sucker for a pretty face.

And, as much shit as Gandy gives him, he’s honestly no better.

Khobi’s busy rolling his eyes when, mid-roll, he hears someone clearing their throat.

Loudly, like they’re hoping to be noticed.

It has the desired effect.

He, the soldiers, and the gypsy girls vying for their attention all look up, and right into the face of the man standing over them.

He’s handsome, aggressively so, and dressed like he’s rich and doesn’t care who knows it.

There’s also a silver circlet balanced delicately on his immaculately coifed hair, and a pleasant smile that bears an uncanny resemblance to Rogard’s.

For some reason, Khobi takes an instant disliking to the guy.

"Can we help you?" Rogard asks, before Khobi has a chance to ask the same thing, but considerably less politely.

His smile is dazzling, but there’s a slight edge to his tone and a sharpness to the way he shoots a look Khobi’s way that tells another story.

"Oh, pardon my intrusion," the guy says even though he’d clearly intended to interrupt.

He brushes a perfect curl back into place and bats his long lashes at Khobi in surprise, russet eyes wide.

"I just never expected to see you under these... circumstances."

Roaming free, he means.

Clearly, the nature of his being there is no secret.

"They let me out for a day," Khobi growls flatly, not in the mood to be stared at like some sideshow freak. He’s had enough of that to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

"Good behaviour."

Rogard laughs.

Uncomfortably.

Their uninvited guest notices, and smiles, charmingly.

"Was it something I said?" he asks airily, rubbing his neck like he’s self-conscious of having made things awkward.

"I saw you and just couldn’t help myself! I’ve heard so much about you, after all. But I had no idea you were so handsome!"

It’s a compliment, but it comes with an air of but not as handsome as me that makes Khobi grind his teeth.

"Prince Loac—" he continues, too innocently and too brightly to be anything but false, "—it is Loac, isn’t it—is certainly lucky to have you."

"Hey, he doesn’t have me," Khobi snaps, against the advice of Rogard’s elbow in his ribs. "And he’s not gonna."

"Of course he is," the guy beams, waving away his hearty declaration like he’s used to dismissing people who don’t agree with him. "He has everyone, doesn’t he?"

He sounds like he’s being friendly, but there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was meant to be an insult.

And he seems to be gleefully waiting for someone to take the bait.

The gypsy girls know when to make themselves scarce, and hurriedly withdraw from the situation as the Crade Soldiers rise to their feet.

This cocky bastard is very clearly outnumbered but doesn’t seem to care.

He’s not quite as tall as them but carries himself like a man used to looking down on others.

It’s jarring, and is probably the only reason he hasn’t already been decked.

Men like that simply command respect.

Even from strangers.

"Well?" he inquires smoothly, finger pressed to his lower lip thoughtfully. "No one’s going to tell me I’m wrong?"

He’s not wrong, but it’s clear that the soldiers feel that it’s not fucking right for him to be slagging off their prince to their faces.

Outsiders aren’t allowed to do that.

"Hey—"

A gruff voice interrupts before Montrel jabs the guy in the chest and tells him exactly that.

Or worse.

A hand comes down on the shoulder of their smarmy antagonist, and another stranger, dressed in the same colours but in armour this time, comes into view.

He’s obviously a soldier.

And he doesn’t look pleased.

"I told you not to wander off."

"Sorry, sorry," the prince apologises airily, laughing lightly and waving away his comrade’s furrowed brow. "I was just getting to know some of the locals, is all."

The soldier glances at said locals, then back at his wayward countryman and reads the tension loud and clear.

"What has he said?" he asks flatly, ignoring his charge and addressing the Crade Soldiers.

The prince looks aghast at the accusation and tugs on his arm like a petulant child.

The soldier doesn’t budge, though, his jaw set like this is behaviour he’s long since grown used to ignoring.

"Nothing, Captain," the prince insists, his voice rising to a whine as he pleads his innocence. "I was just—"

"You were just what, hmm?" the soldier snaps back as he folds his arms across his chest impatiently.

Brown eyes briefly track the motion.

"You’re unbelievable, sometimes. I don’t want to have to tell your mother you nearly started a war. She’ll never let you leave the kingdom again."

Unbelievably, the prince pouts.

It makes him decidedly less intimidating than before.

The other guy, though—the soldier—looks positively thunderous.

"You wouldn’t!"

"Wouldn’t I? Don’t you realise who this is?"

"I know exactly who this is, thank you—"

Now Khobi’s just feeling uncomfortable.

Like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be, overhearing a conversation he shouldn’t be privy to.

Something private.

The kind of argument meant for behind closed doors.

The other soldiers seem to share his discomfort and fidget restlessly until the soldier seems to remember where he is and turns back to them.

"For whatever he’s said," he says, and bows deeply, like he’s had to do this often, "Please accept my sincere apologies."

"~Mean!"

"If you say so," the soldier scoffs, and starts to lead him off by the elbow. "Don’t wander off again. I promised your mother I’d get you home in one piece, and you’re not making it easy."

"Like I said, it was nothing," he insists, and flings a look back over his shoulder.

It’s not friendly this time.

It’s sly and wicked.

"Nothing untrue, at least."

He punctuates the statement with a small wave and a parting jab.

"It was so nice to meet you. Have fun keeping your future husband’s bed warm while he’s off with someone else."

"What the fuck is your problem?" Khobi growls lowly, rounding on him and hating just how fucking pleased this guy looks at having successfully baited him.

Like somehow that means he’s won.

What there was to win in the first place, he has no idea.

"Yeah, that’s out of line!" Montrel snaps hotly, stepping up beside him.

Khobi has the feeling that if he tries to punch the guy, Montrel probably wouldn’t stop him.

"What?" the prince titters, watching them both from under long lashes.

His eyes are calculating now; the brightness dimmed low and dangerous.

"So the truth is out of line, now?"

"Hey, that is my prince you’re talking about," Montrel snarls angrily, barging forwards only to find the stocky soldier barring his way.

"And that is my prince you’re talking to," he growls back warningly, one hand on Montrel’s chest and the other on the hilt of his sword.

Just in case.

There’s something else there, too.

Something in his face.

Something Khobi recognises.

Something endless and raw that says there is nothing he’s not willing to do to protect the man standing behind him.

It’s fine, though.

They all baulk at the mention of a prince.

Khobi glares incredulously over the soldier’s shoulder to where the tall brunette is waving at him, all smiles again.

Prince, huh.

Explains the crown.

And the attitude.

Doesn’t explain the look in his soldier’s face.

Makes it unbelievable, if anything.

"I hear you’re living with him already," the prince whispers dramatically, eyes wide like they’re sharing a secret. "How truly scandalous."

Ah well.

Khobi’s punched princes before.

The soldier, unbelievably, gets there first.

"That’s enough out of you," he announces, not without a somewhat unusual level of fondness, and to the disbelief of all parties present, cuffs his own prince around the back of the head.

It knocks his circlet askew, and the prince makes a mad grab at it before it topples off his head entirely.

"That hurts!"

"Please allow me to apologise for my Prince," he says again, more firmly and decidedly less cordial this time, rising to the challenge before him. "He’s just like this, unfortunately."

And with that, and another stiff bow, he yanks the prince away by his collar.

It doesn’t look very proper at all.

When Rogard meets his gaze one last time, he makes sure to sling a parting barb, loud enough for the retreating prince to hear.

"For a guy who has so much to say about Loac, he’s not much classier."

That gets a squawk out of the supposed prince, followed by an aggrieved, "Aren’t you going to defend my honour?"

His captain keeps dragging him away, dryly pointing out, "You deserved that."

"What a dick," Montrel complains loudly once he’s no longer in earshot.

"Keep your voices down," Mural warns quietly, since there are still soldiers around.

It’s too late.

Someone’s heard.

But it’s not one of the foreign prince’s soldiers.

It’s worse.