Chapter 37: "I Will Learn."

The four of them emerged from the council chamber together, though Lanslet remained so close to Amor’s wheeled chair that he might as well have been personally attached to it.

Palace attendants moved ahead to arrange the departing carriages while clerks, witnesses, and lingering courtiers spread through the surrounding corridors. Amor remained wrapped in Valdor’s mantle, the dark fur draped over his lavender court robes, while Valdor walked behind pushing the chair and Vervath occupied the other side. To anyone watching, they looked less like two allied noble houses and more like an unusual family escorting its injured, overindulged youngest member home. Lanslet looked toward Valdor for what must have been the sixth time since leaving the chamber.

"You will not kidnap Amor again."

Valdor’s expression remained solemn.

"He gave permission."

"That defense will not survive a third occurrence."

"There has only been one—"

"Two."

Lanslet corrected sharply. Valdor looked toward Amor. Amor raised one brow from beneath the mantle.

"You stole me as an infant and escaped with me in a carriage this morning. The number is two."

"I was five the first time."

"And you continue relying heavily upon that fact."

Vervath’s face brightened with sudden recollection.

"The traveling basket."

Lanslet turned toward him with immediate suspicion.

"No. Vervath don’t you dare."

"You have not heard that part!"

Vervath told Amor. Amor’s curiosity awakened at once.

"What traveling basket?"

"There was no traveling basket!"

Lanslet said.

"There was..."

Vervath insisted.

"Valdor emptied the blankets from one of the supply baskets and tried to put you inside when we were about to leave."

"I did not put him inside."

Valdor muttered.

"Because the baby laughed and you got caught!"

Amor looked toward him, delighted.

"I betrayed your escape plan?"

"You were loud."

"You were abducting me!"

Vervath opened his mouth to continue, but a palace servant hurried toward Lanslet before another childhood crime could be revealed. The young man bowed deeply and held out a gloved hand toward the outer courtyard, where the House Moons vehicles had been ordered to wait. His anxious expression suggested the problem could not be settled through a simple message.

"My lord, there appears to be an issue with the rear carriage axle..."

The servant said.

"The coach master requests your attention before he authorizes departure."

Lanslet stared toward the courtyard. Then he looked back at Amor.

The conflict upon his face was almost painful to witness. No carriage problem could safely be ignored before transporting his injured son, but leaving Amor unattended for even a minute now felt like inviting another disaster. The morning had already included a royal summons, a medical episode, and an unauthorized escape from the estate.

"Rest assured, I will remain here, Father."

Amor assured him. Lanslet’s eyes narrowed.

"You said something similar before entering the alley."

"I can’t run anywhere now."

"That is not as reassuring as you think it is."

Amor gestured toward the two enormous Blackstone men flanking his chair.

"I have two guards to keep watch over me now."

Vervath placed one fist against his chest.

"The best."

Valdor said nothing, though his presence offered a more convincing guarantee than his father’s confidence. Amor looked up at Lanslet.

"I will not go anywhere, I will not stand, and I will not allow Valdor to carry me into another vehicle until you return."

Valdor glanced toward him.

"Unless needed."

"It will not be needed, Valdor..."

Lanslet remained unconvinced. The servant waited with visible terror, undoubtedly regretting the moment he had been assigned to inform the marquess that his vehicle was imperfect. Amor extended one hand and caught his father’s sleeve.

"Be quick."

The simple request softened Lanslet’s resistance. He touched Amor’s cheek, verifying one more time that the color had returned after the recess.

"Do not move."

"I will not."

He looked toward Valdor.

"And no kidnapping."

Valdor inclined his head. Lanslet turned toward Vervath.

"And you... just pay attention."

The chieftain looked offended.

"I always pay attention!"

"You suggested amputating my son’s foot."

"I paid attention to the foot!"

Lanslet closed his eyes. Then he followed the servant toward the courtyard before the conversation could become worse.

Amor watched his father disappear through a set of arched doors, accompanied by two legal advisers and a footman already carrying repair records. Once Lanslet vanished from sight, the tension surrounding the group eased slightly. Vervath immediately resumed the story as though the interruption had never occurred.

"So anyway, the basket. It was large..."

He began. Valdor gave him a warning look. Vervath ignored it.

"He placed flowers at the bottom first."

Amor turned toward Valdor.

"You decorated my abduction container?"

"It was not an ab-duc-ion con-tai-ner."

"What was it then?"

The warrior considered the childhood logic.

"Transport."

Amor pressed his lips together, struggling not to laugh. Before Vervath could explain how five-year-old Valdor intended to smuggle a laughing infant through the estate gates, another palace servant approached. This one wore the gray-and-blue sash of the diplomatic offices rather than household livery. He bowed to Amor, then moved directly beside Vervath and whispered into the chieftain’s ear. Vervath became silent.

For another person, the pause would have been brief. For Vervath, several entire seconds without speech suggested either catastrophe or profound confusion. His expression shifted from amusement to irritation, then settled into reluctant seriousness.

"Valdor and I have business."

Valdor frowned.

"What business?"

"The palace has held the Blackstone treaty satchel at the security hall. They require both our marks before releasing it because your name appears beside mine on the envoy documents."

"Why now?"

"Because kingdoms enjoy paper."

The diplomatic servant wisely offered no defense. Vervath gestured toward the adjacent corridor.

"We must go."

Valdor did not move. He looked toward Amor. The young noble sat alone in the chair, unable to walk, with only passing palace servants and royal guards visible at the far end of the gallery. After everything that occurred inside the hearing, leaving him even briefly felt wrong. Valdor’s instincts objected with immediate force.

"No."

Vervath’s brows rose.

"No?"

"I will stay."

"They require your mark."

"They can bring the document here."

The servant looked uncomfortable.

"The sealed satchel cannot leave the security hall without verification, Lord Valdor."

"Then we wait for Lanslet."

"The carriage cannot depart without the treaty documents..."

Vervath said.

"We finish sooner if you come."

Valdor’s gaze remained upon Amor. Amor understood the conflict. Part of him enjoyed being the object of such stubborn concern, but keeping Valdor beside him would delay everyone and give Lanslet another reason to complain about the royal palace’s organization. The security hall was likely no more than a corridor or two away. His father would return at any moment.

"I will be fine. Stop acting like my father and go."

Amor said. Valdor’s expression did not soften.

"You are alone."

"I’m inside the royal palace."

"That did not stop the duke before."

"There are guards nearby."

"Too far away."

Amor sighed.

"No one would attempt something so bold upon palace grounds immediately after the king issued a formal order."

Vervath nodded.

"Only a fool would harm the Moons heir here."

The words were not as reassuring as he intended. Amor looked toward Valdor and extended his hand. The warrior took it immediately, stepping closer until his broad body almost blocked the chair from view.

"Go..."

Amor said gently.

"The sooner you finish, the sooner you return, and the sooner we can all go home."

Home.

The word settled strangely inside Valdor. Amor had meant House Moons, of course, the estate where his room, father, and servants waited. Yet the phrase had included Valdor without hesitation—

"...we can all go home."

—as though the warrior already belonged within that return. Warmth spread beneath the unease in his chest.

"You will remain here?"

He asked.

"Yes."

"You will not move the chair?"

"No."

"You will call a guard if anyone approaches."

"I am not a frightened child!"

Valdor waited. Amor exhaled.

"I will call a guard if necessary."

The warrior examined the blanket, the elevated ankle, and the position of the mantle before finally releasing Amor’s hand. He adjusted the fur around Amor’s shoulders, checked that the injured foot remained secure upon the support, and then rested one large palm gently upon the crown of his lavender head. His thumb moved once through the soft hair.

Amor looked up in surprise. Valdor withdrew before the touch could become more intimate beneath the servant’s attention.

"I will return."

"Mm, I know."

Vervath was already moving down the corridor.

"Come before the kingdom invents another form."

Valdor followed reluctantly. He looked back twice. Amor waved his fan the second time, dismissing him with exaggerated confidence. Valdor finally disappeared around the corner beside his father and the diplomatic servant.

The gallery became quiet.

Amor listened to the retreating footsteps until they faded. Palace life continued at a distance, servants carrying document cases through adjoining corridors while guards exchanged positions near the exterior doors. Sunlight entered through the tall arches overlooking the courtyard, warming the marble in long golden rectangles. No immediate danger emerged.

After several minutes, Amor began feeling foolish for indulging Valdor’s concern. Nothing would happen.

King Cassian’s order had been delivered less than half an hour earlier, formally prohibiting Alphonsins from touching, detaining, or interfering with him without consent. The palace contained guards, witnesses, and enough gossiping courtiers that any confrontation would become public knowledge before it ended. Even Alphonsins could not be reckless enough to approach him now.

Movement stirred within the shadow of a nearby arch. Amor’s gaze lifted. Alphonsins stepped into the light.

He had been waiting in the adjoining passage, concealed behind the heavy column where the gallery curved toward a private stairwell. His formal navy coat remained immaculate despite the hearing, though the royal censure seemed to have sharpened every severe line of his body. Amor’s pulse changed.

His injured hand twitched beneath Valdor’s mantle. He became painfully aware of the distance between himself and the nearest guard, though he refused to let the reaction enter his face. Alphonsins had just been ordered not to detain or touch him. Approaching was not itself a violation. Amor lifted his chin.

"Did you forget something?"

Alphonsins stopped several paces away. For once, no accusation appeared immediately. His steel-blue eyes carried something carefully softened, an expression meant to resemble regret, though coldness remained beneath it because he had never learned how to appear vulnerable without first controlling every visible part. In his mind, the role he had to play in order to bring out Amor’s obsessive nature he perceived as Amor’s true self disgusted him but his military background and upbringing helped to force him into the act of a man who knows he’s wrong. The effect was more unsettling than convincing.

"I owe you an apology..."

He said. Amor stared. The words did not fit the man who had left the chamber believing himself deceived. Alphonsins lowered his head. The bow was shallow but unmistakable, offered by a duke to someone of lower rank in a corridor where no council required it.

"I allowed the matter to grow beyond what it should have become. I involved the king, the Blackstone delegation, your household, Lady Celestine, and people who had nothing to do with our private history."

Amor remained wary.

"That... is true."

"I believed I was preventing manipulation."

"You were wrong."

Alphonsins’s mouth tightened before he forced it to relax.

"The council has decided so."

"That is not the same as agreeing."

"... No, it’s not."

The honesty made Amor study him more carefully. Perhaps defeat had reached him after all. Alphonsins was the novel’s hero, a man described through Lovell’s reading as stern, prideful, and emotionally limited, but ultimately honorable. The original Amor’s memories preserved every rare kindness with such devotion that even his coldest actions seemed softened around the edges.

Amor knew those memories were biased. He still struggled to separate them completely from the man standing before him. Alphonsins looked tired. Not broken or repentant enough to trust. Yet less certain.

"I am sorry..."

The duke repeated.

"For dragging this out and forcing innocent people into it."

Amor’s shoulders lowered slightly beneath the mantle. He did not forgive the bruises, the complaint, or the attempt to turn his former humiliation into permanent evidence of guilt. Still, an apology could be accepted without restoring intimacy. Perhaps ending the conflict cleanly would protect everyone involved.

"I accept the apology. Thank you..."

Amor said. Alphonsins looked at him. The lack of emotional reaction seemed to disturb him.

Amor did not cry, plead, or seize the opening as proof that their relationship might resume. He accepted the words as one might accept repayment of a small debt. Then he waited for the duke to leave. Alphonsins remained. Amor’s wariness returned.

"Was there something else?"

The duke stepped closer. Amor’s hand tightened beneath the fur. Alphonsins stopped before entering immediate reach and slipped one hand inside his coat. The letters had already been removed from the council chamber, but one folded piece of parchment remained inside his coat. He withdrew a folded letter, its ivory parchment softened along the creases and its wax seal broken long ago. Amor recognized the looping lavender ink before the page fully opened. One of the original Amor’s letters.

"Why do you have that?"

Alphonsins looked down at the parchment.

"It was not entered with the others."

"Why not?"

"I did not think it supported the complaint."

That answer made sense. The letter appeared shorter than the desperate declarations read aloud during the hearing, its folded surface worn in a way suggesting it had been opened more than once. Amor stared at the creases. A deeper question emerged.

Why had Alphonsins kept any of them?

Gifts could be useful. Invitations documented social obligations. Records of servant payments might provide evidence if Amor’s behavior created scandal. Letters required none of that preservation. Alphonsins could have burned them, shredded them, or returned them unread. Instead, he had maintained bundles for months and apparently carried one privately within his coat.

Had he anticipated using them against Amor someday?

Was the duke truly so calculating that every confession became potential evidence?

Or had he kept them for another reason he refused to name?

Alphonsins opened the letter.

"Was this true?"

Amor looked toward him.

"Was what true?"

"What you wrote."

The duke held the parchment out. Amor hesitated before accepting it with his uninjured hand. Alphonsins released the page without touching his fingers, apparently remembering the royal order and the consequence of another careless gesture. Amor unfolded it.

The words were unlike the others. They carried no promise of death without Alphonsins, no extravagant offering, and no dramatic request that the duke abandon every obligation for love. The original Amor had written quietly, with an openness almost too vulnerable to read.

"I am sorry for the way I feel.

I know affection should make a person kinder, calmer, and more worthy, yet mine seems only to trouble you. You are everything I was taught a man should become—disciplined, respected, brave, and certain—while I am too loud, too spoiled, and too easily frightened by the thought of being unwanted..."

Amor’s throat tightened. The letter continued.

"I do not ask you to forgive every mistake. I ask you to believe I am trying.

When I look at you, I want to become better than I am. Forgive me if I do not love correctly. This is the first time I have loved anyone enough to realize I might be doing it wrong..."

The final lines were softer.

"If there is a way to stand beside you without becoming a burden, teach me. I will learn."

Amor stared at the page. The original had not merely been obsessed.

He had been painfully aware of every accusation used against him and had interpreted love as proof of his own inadequacy. He believed Alphonsins perfect because the duke’s certainty highlighted every insecurity within himself. He had begged not only to be chosen, but to be remade into someone deserving of choice.

For one strange moment, Amor wondered whether the original story might have become something else if this had been the tone between them.

What if Amor had expressed vulnerability without spectacle?

What if Alphonsins had answered the fear beneath the pursuit rather than accepting gifts and retreating whenever emotion became inconvenient?

Would the novel have required Celestine at all?

Perhaps the romance might have centered upon two flawed men learning how to love each other rather than a heroine rescuing the duke from a villain’s obsession. The thought came with the bittersweet ache of a path that never existed. It did not matter now.

The original Amor was gone.

Lovell occupied the life he left behind.

Whatever possibility once rested within the letter had died with the person who wrote it. Amor bit his lower lip.

Then he crumpled the parchment. The sound was small. Alphonsins’s eyes widened. Amor began tearing at it, dividing the tender confession into uneven strips. His injured wrist remained tucked beneath the mantle, so he used only one hand and his teeth when necessary, working slowly but deliberately. The lavender ink fractured into meaningless pieces.

"What are you doing!?"

Alphonsins stepped closer. Amor continued tearing.

"Stop!"

The duke reached out. His fingers closed gently around Amor’s hand before the last pieces could fall, careful enough that no pressure touched the healing wrist or tender skin. The restraint showed that he remembered the hearing, yet the contact still froze Amor for half a breath. Alphonsins stared at the ruined letter caught between their hands.

"Why would you destroy it!?"

Amor looked up. The duke’s shock appeared genuine. Not anger over lost evidence. Something closer to loss. That realization clarified more than his questions had.

Perhaps Alphonsins had kept the letters because some part of him valued being loved with such destructive intensity. Perhaps he resented Amor’s demands while treasuring the proof that someone considered him perfect. He wanted the devotion preserved even after refusing the person who gave it. Amor opened his fingers.

The parchment pieces slipped between Alphonsins’s hand and his own. They scattered across the marble. A breeze entered through a nearby open window, catching several fragments and carrying them around the duke’s boots and up into the breeze. One strip bearing the words—

"I will learn."

—lifted into the sunlight before disappearing beyond the railing. Another settled against the hem of Alphonsins’s coat.

"The past is the past..."

Amor said calmly. Alphonsins looked at him.

"You should look toward the future..."

Amor gently withdrew his gaze from the duke’s.

"One where I am not involved."

The finality settled between them.

Moisture gathered unexpectedly in Amor’s eyes. He did not feel grief for Alphonsins.

He did not long for the relationship or regret destroying the letter. Yet a single tear escaped his pink gaze, traveling across his pale cheek before he could stop it. Amor assumed the emotion belonged to whatever traces of the original remained buried within the body—an old heart finally watching its most honest confession torn apart by the hand now living in its place. He allowed the tear to fall.

It felt like release.

Alphonsins stared at him. The fragile beauty of the moment disrupted every conclusion he had assembled after the hearing. Amor looked too soft, too sincere, and too quietly wounded to match the calculating adversary Alphonsins had imagined. Yet the ruined letter lay around them, proof that Amor rejected the very devotion he once swore would last forever. The duke no longer knew what to believe.

"Gggrrrrr—"

A low growl rolled through the corridor.

Alphonsins became still. Amor looked past him. Valdor stood at the far end of the gallery.

Vervath had both arms locked around his son’s torso from behind, feet braced against the marble while attempting to restrain a body considerably larger and stronger than his own. Valdor’s face had gone terrifyingly still. His obsidian eyes fixed upon Alphonsins’s hand, which remained closed around Amor’s, then upon the tear on Amor’s cheek.

The growl came again.

"Ggggrrrrrrrrrr!—"

Vervath’s boots slid half an inch across the floor. He looked toward Alphonsins with an expression combining urgency and exasperation.

"Run!"

The duke’s brows lowered. Vervath tightened his hold as Valdor took one slow step forward despite the restraint.

"I am not as young as I was, and he is not a small cub anymore!"

Valdor’s shoulders shifted. Vervath’s arms strained.

"If you value your life..."

The chieftain continued.

"Leave!"

Alphonsins looked toward Amor. The young noble remained seated beneath Valdor’s mantle, one tear still bright upon his cheek and shredded pieces of an old love letter circling his chair. His pale hand rested in Alphonsins. The image stirred something uncomfortably warm beneath the duke’s ribs.

His heart beat faster. Amor looked delicate enough that the wheeled chair emphasized every softness:

Narrow shoulders wrapped in dark fur, lavender hair falling around a pale face, and pink eyes damp but resolute. There was no clinging obsession in his expression now. Only distance.

Alphonsins suddenly felt shy about the contact and immediately let go. The emotion was absurd.

He had held Amor’s hands, waist, and body countless times during their relationship, usually in private and often with far less care than he used today. Yet standing before Valdor’s murderous gaze, the memory of Amor’s fingers inside his own felt strangely intimate, almost stolen. The realization made him step backward.

Valdor moved again. Vervath grunted.

"I am losing him!!"

Alphonsins decided retreat was strategically appropriate. He turned and strode away with as much dignity as speed allowed, though the first few steps quickly lengthened when Valdor’s growl followed him. Royal guards at the end of the gallery looked between the fleeing duke and restrained Blackstone warrior, then wisely focused upon architectural details. No one wanted responsibility for explaining another confrontation to King Cassian.

Several yards away, Alphonsins slowed. He looked back.

Amor remained beneath the sunlight, one hand lifting toward the tear upon his cheek while torn pieces of the old confession moved around him. His expression appeared soft and almost innocent, a fragile picture made more striking by the chair and oversized mantle. Alphonsins’s heart struck again. Vervath shouted across the gallery.

"My grip is slipping!!"

Alphonsins turned immediately. Whatever mystery Amor had become could be examined later, preferably from a distance containing several locked doors and royal guards. The duke disappeared around the next corner, his formal dignity preserved only because no one dared describe the pace as running.

The moment he vanished, Vervath released one arm. Valdor tore free of the other. The warrior crossed the gallery toward Amor with enough speed to send the remaining parchment scraps swirling into the air. His eyes remained fixed upon the tear, the hand Alphonsins had touched, and the pale face beneath his mantle. Anger radiated from him, but fear remained beneath it.

Amor watched him approach. He had destroyed the last gentle promise of one love just as another came rushing toward him. This time, he would make sure not to beg someone to stay unlike the original.