Chapter 51: Broken Token

Lunch came to an end gradually, beneath the quiet clink of porcelain and the increasingly efficient movements of servants clearing what remained upon the table.

The creamy soup disappeared first, followed by the fish platter, empty cheese board, scattered fruit peels, and the solitary pastry Amor had been too distracted to claim before the maids reached it. Amor watched the final sweet vanish beneath a silver cover with mild regret, though he had eaten more than enough to prevent a convincing objection. Around him, the intimate sitting room softened into the pleasant disorder left behind by a family meal:

Folded napkins, abandoned cups, an ink-smudged page bearing Blackstone symbols, and the uneven leather braid he had produced beneath Valdor’s instruction.

Lanslet dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin, attempting to recover whatever dignity had survived the meal. It was a difficult task.

Over the course of lunch, he had been exposed as having eaten twice merely to supervise his son’s courtship, lost an argument regarding whether sleeping beside Amor constituted dangerous familiarity, nearly drafted a premature marriage treaty, and watched a Blackstone warrior feed his injured heir a vegetable with humiliating success. No amount of elegant posture could erase the fact that his composure had been defeated repeatedly before the dessert course. Lanslet folded the napkin with precise care. Across the table, Vervath was still attempting to touch the lavender ribbon around Valdor’s wrist.

"Come on. Let me see the knot."

"You can see it."

"Not properly from all the way over here..."

Valdor lifted his forearm farther away. Vervath leaned across the table, one hand outstretched.

"I only wish to inspect whether it will survive training. Come on."

"It will."

"What would you know? You have never worn silk during training."

"I will adjust."

"What if it catches on a weapon? Like your ax or spear? I should really check and see it."

"It will not."

"What if sweat stains it? You sweat like a kingdom noble when training."

Valdor’s expression hardened.

"It will not."

The ribbon rested delicately against his scarred wrist, its pale lavender color striking against deep caramel skin and the dark edges of his tribal markings. He had scarcely bent the arm since Amor tied it there, holding himself with the rigid care of a man transporting something sacred through hostile territory. Every attempt Vervath made to examine it only caused Valdor to move farther away.

The chieftain rose from his chair.

Valdor rose as well.

Amor lowered his fan.

Lanslet watched them circle one end of the table, Vervath reaching and Valdor retreating with the suspicious footwork of two warriors approaching an actual confrontation. The absurdity was sharpened by the difference in their expressions:

Vervath looked delighted by the challenge, while Valdor looked one failed attempt away from lifting his father bodily and setting him outside the room.

"[Stop moving!]"

Vervath said.

"[No.]"

"[I am your father! I helped make you!]"

"[That does not grant the right.]"

"[It grants concern!]"

"[You are curious.]"

"[... Okay, yes. That too. But come on! I just wanna touch once. My son’s first token of courtship needs to be inspected by family!]"

Valdor moved behind Amor’s chaise. Vervath tried to follow.

The warrior shifted in the opposite direction, using the furniture and Amor’s elevated ankle as obstacles his father could not cross without risking the Moons heir’s comfort. For once, Vervath appeared to recognize that knocking over an injured noble during courtship inspection might damage negotiations.

Lanslet felt an unwilling flicker of pity for Valdor.

The young man was more mature than his father by such a considerable margin that it almost seemed unfair to mention. Valdor remained direct, disciplined, and careful with Amor’s boundaries, while Vervath had spent the meal smuggling vegetables between plates and discussing grandchildren before courtship survived a full day. It was a wonder Valdor had developed patience at all.

’Perhaps...’

Lanslet thought.

’Excessive exposure to Vervath has forced it upon him. For that... he gets some of my sympathy... some.’

He turned back toward Amor.

"What would you like, my moonlight?"

Amor looked away from the unfolding pursuit.

"Hm? For what?"

"To occupy you while you recover, of course."

The question carried enough resignation to reveal Lanslet’s true intentions. He had grounded Amor for a week, forbidden him from leaving the estate, and accepted Doctor Haverin’s instruction that the injured ankle remain elevated whenever possible. Yet the man appeared emotionally incapable of allowing the punishment to become genuinely unpleasant. Amor smiled faintly.

"And here I thought I was being punished, Father."

"Mhm. You are. Severely punished."

"Yet, you’re still offering entertainment during my confinment."

"I am preventing your recovery from being delayed by boredom. What would I do if my only light in my life grows ill from lack of stimulating activies. Your body is already so frail, it would break my heart if anything more happens to you, my moonlight."

"Father... you’re worrying too much. I’m not going to grow ill just from laying in bed. But that sounds remarkably similar to making the punishment comfortable. Would it even still be considered a punishment anymore?"

Lanslet’s expression became formal.

"You remain confined, so yes. It is."

"Right, I am confined to rooms containing everything I request."

"Within reason, Amor. This is still a punishment."

Amor looked thoughtful. The family sitting room offered plenty of ordinary distractions:

Embroidery, correspondence, music, drawing, games, and the extensive House Moons library. He could have requested romantic novels, fashion journals, merchant reports, or some scandalously expensive hobby that would occupy both hands without worsening his wrist. Instead, his gaze moved toward the braid Valdor had taught him. If he was going to take his Blackstone lessons seriously later, he wanted to get a head start.

"Books. I want some books to read while I’m stuck in a bed."

Lanslet nodded.

"That can be easily arranged. Do you have any genre in mind you wish to read?"

"Mm. Preferably language books."

"Oh? Which languages? Beastmen? Fairy? Druid? We don’t have Elven books, so don’t ask for those."

"I want books on the common kingdom language and Blackstone."

The room stopped.

Vervath remained bent across one of the small sofas in the room with one hand extended. Valdor stood behind it, one palm pressed firmly against his father’s chest to prevent the man from advancing another inch toward the lavender ribbon. Both Rhazien men froze in that ridiculous position, their obsidian eyes settling upon Amor with identical surprise. Lanslet stared at his son.

"Blackstone?"

"Yes."

"You seriously intend to learn their language?"

Amor glanced toward the men behind him.

"I have already begun. But I can’t learn just from hearing it. I want to read it as well."

Lanslet’s face changed. Alarm arrived slowly, then spread with devastating speed.

The request ceased being an innocent intellectual pursuit in his imagination and became the first unmistakable sign that Amor intended to abandon House Moons, marry into the northern tribe, and disappear beyond the mountains where Lanslet would need several days of dangerous travel merely to visit. Books became fluency; fluency became relocation; relocation became an empty estate and letters arriving twice a year if the winter roads remained open.

His warm pink eyes began to shine. Amor stiffened.

"Father?"

"Hic, hic... You are preparing to leave."

"What?"

Lanslet set the folded napkin down.

"Sniff... You have only known him for several days, moonlight. Hic—"

"I am not—"

"You have accepted courtship, exchanged tokens, learned their techniques, and now you want the language. Sniff, sniff..."

His voice became increasingly wounded and his eyes watered until a small steady stream of tears ran down his cheeks despite every attempt to retain composure.

"How soon were you planning to tell me?"

Amor’s eyes widened. Vervath lowered his hand. Valdor’s palm remained against his chest, though the ribbon was momentarily forgotten beneath the danger of Lanslet’s growing despair. Servants carrying dishes slowed at the room’s edges, exchanging uncomfortable glances before retreating as quietly as possible.

"F-Father... I am not planning to move anywhere—"

Amor said. Lanslet looked entirely unconvinced. His grip on his napkin tightened as he used it to wipe away the tears.

"Not yet! Hic, sniff, hic—"

"Not at all! Where is this even coming from!?"

"You said you wanted to learn them better. Their language, customs, accepting every little tricket that brute offers you like a wedding dowry!"

"Because refusing to learn anything before understanding it would be foolish. How am I to build my knowledge without first building a good foundation!"

"Sniff, sniff—That sounds more like preparation. It’s just as well. You’re becoming a man. I knew this day would arrive, I just—hic, hic—wish I had more time with my baby!"

Amor drew a breath and resisted the urge to either hide behind his fan or hit his father with it. Both seemed appealing at the moment. He had not anticipated a request for books producing tears.

"Haah, truly Father. I merely want to learn. It’s as simple as that. I have no plans to move north."

"Why? Why do you want to learn when you can just know a few phrases. That will be enough. But the entirety of the language... It’s too much!"

Why? Because unfinished things bothered him. They always had. Before Lovell’s world collapsed, that instinct had appeared in ordinary ways:

Unfinished books kept him awake, incomplete puzzles demanded attention, and a new subject caught his curiosity until he understood enough to place it properly within the world. During the apocalypse, the trait became survival. An unfinished shelter invited death, half-learned preservation spoiled food, and incomplete knowledge about infected creatures could kill everyone nearby. He had never been able to leave a thing halfway.

No one in this room knew that history. Amor looked toward the ankle support that carried Blackstone symbols again.

"Valdor taught me several words already. I found them interesting, and I dislike beginning something only to abandon it before I understand it."

Lanslet searched his expression.

"That—sniff—that is truly all?"

"Yes, Father. Really, truly. That is all."

"You are not secretly preparing to live north?"

"No."

"You are not planning to announce an engagement tomorrow?"

"We have courted for less than a day..."

Vervath began to speak. Valdor increased pressure against his chest. The chieftain closed his mouth. Amor continued.

"I want to understand the people living beneath our roof and the tribe our kingdom has depended upon for twenty years. I also want Valdor to speak with me comfortably instead of forcing every thought through a language he did not grow up using."

Valdor looked at him. Lanslet’s distress eased by a fraction. His tears, that once seemed endless, stopped as abruptly as they had started.

"Sniff, sniff—Oh... I suppose... that is reasonable."

He admitted, though reluctantly.

"It is!"

"And... sniff, the request is... simple enough."

"Yes, yes. Very simple."

"Haah, alright. I can have copied language texts brought in from the royal academy and the diplomatic library. Our household collection may contain older treaty guides, but I think you would prefer something current—"

Amor nodded.

"Thank you, Father."

Lanslet reached across the table and took his hand.

"But if you even begin considering leaving..."

He said, intensity returning.

"You will come to me first. That is nonnegotiable."

Amor sighed softly.

"Father—"

"You will not decide in secret."

"I would never make such a large decision without speaking to you first. I’m not that reckless."

"You entered an alley to avoid arriving late for dinner. If that isn’t reckless, then I’m afraid what you think reckless is."

Valdor’s voice entered quietly from behind the sofa.

"He ran."

Amor turned his head. The warrior met his offended gaze without regret.

"That happened once!"

"You ran quickly."

"Give me some credit, I was wearing shorter heels!"

"That does not improve it."

"Alright, alright! I have already apologized for that!"

"Mm. You promised not to create distance merely to prove freedom."

Amor’s mouth curved into a pout.

"And you promised to be careful with your words."

Valdor’s expression softened.

"Yes."

"I will not run into another alley merely to make a point."

"Good."

"As long as you do not issue commands when you mean to express your fears and worries."

"I will not."

Lanslet watched the exchange. Their disagreement contained neither the frantic desperation of Amor’s relationship with Alphonsins nor the cold dismissal that followed whenever his son expressed hurt. Valdor remembered the boundary. Amor reminded him without fear. The matter ended through agreement rather than punishment. The sight eased Lanslet more than any promise concerning the north.

Amor turned his attention fully toward Valdor. Now that he thought about it, the warrior’s speech carried a heavy Blackstone accent, with harder consonants and a rhythm that made certain kingdom phrases sound like declarations. Valdor understood conversation well enough, but elaborate court language, idioms, and indirect meanings frequently left him silent. Amor had assumed this came from temperament alone.

"You are not entirely fluent in the kingdom’s common language, are you?"

Valdor became still. The question touched the exact insecurity he had spent the day attempting to quiet.

His mind supplied the expressions of capital nobles who spoke slowly to him as if accent indicated stupidity, merchants who exaggerated prices after hearing his grammar, and court attendants who smirked when he misunderstood decorative language. Amor’s request for books suddenly threatened to become something else:

Refinement for the uncultured warrior, education offered so he would embarrass his noble suitor less. Before the thought could deepen, Vervath answered cheerfully.

"No, he’s not..."

Valdor looked toward him. The chieftain had apparently forgotten the warning against interference.

"As a child, he escaped every kingdom-language lesson to hunt. ’A warrior doesn’t need to speak to prey’ is what we always got back whenever we caught him sneaking off. The teachers always had to knock some sense into him, but it never stuck when he brought them ridge elk or boar as an apology. Eventually they would hope he left and returned with more meat."

"I attended some."

"You attended enough to learn how to ask prices and accuse merchants of cheating. And that was only after losing half your savings for a cheap ax that broke in one swing. I never saw you so silent after that; you stopped speaking for nearly a month."

"That much was useful."

"He once said common speech was complicated flower talk and he would never need it. Refused to learn it for the longest time, even when everyone else had begun speaking it in everyday talks. He’s one of the few folks still speaking our native tongue back home, he’s like one of the elders. Refusing to get with the passage of time."

Amor’s eyes brightened.

"Flower talk?"

Vervath nodded.

"Blackstone say what they mean. Kingdom people wrap one meaning inside six polite meanings, then become angry when someone opens the wrong one. Honestly, learning it was hell for me. It still becomes too confusion."

Lanslet looked offended.

"Yes well, we value nuance."

"You value hiding insults behind weather."

"That is diplomacy. I have no control over that. But I must say, your way of describing our language is pretty accurate enough."

Valdor’s gaze lowered briefly. Amor saw the shadow before it could settle completely. His expression softened.

"You know enough not to be horribly scammed now. That’s quite the feat."

He said. Valdor looked toward him cautiously.

"Mhm. He only gets somewhat scammed now..."

Vervath added.

"Mostly because his size frightens merchants into reducing the amount. He still ends up paying more than he should, but the boy won’t argue and just pays."

Valdor’s hand pressed harder against his father’s chest. Vervath rocked backward half a step. Amor smiled.

"Mm. Then we should learn together..."

The dark thought vanished so quickly that Valdor felt ashamed for allowing it to exist. Amor had not looked at him with disdain. He had not suggested polishing away the Blackstone accent, correcting uncivilized speech, or training him to sound more acceptable among nobles. His proposal placed them beside one another, each learning something the other possessed.

"You teach me Blackstone..."

Amor continued.

"And I will help you with common kingdom speech. This way..."

Valdor stared at him. Amor said.

"You will be cheated less often, and I will be able to speak with you more comfortably while you are here."

...While he was here.

The phrase might have sounded temporary, but Valdor heard invitation rather than distance. Amor wanted to understand the language Valdor thought in, the words he used with family, and the meanings that became flattened when forced through kingdom speech. He was offering his own language in return. Valdor chastised himself inwardly.

Amor was not like the other nobles. He had demonstrated that repeatedly, yet insecurity continued searching for insult where none existed. The problem belonged to Valdor, not the man offering to meet him halfway. If courtship required repeated choice, trust likely did as well.

"I will teach you."

Valdor said. Amor’s smile warmed. At that precise moment, Vervath noticed that his son’s attention had left the ribbon.

The opportunity was rare.

The chieftain moved.

His hand slipped around Valdor’s forearm, catching the wrist before the younger warrior recognized the attack. Vervath pulled it closer with the same firm grip he would have used to inspect a wound, restrain a weapon hand, or drag one of his children away from danger. He was accustomed to leather, fur, carved beads, and objects made to survive rough handling. The lavender silk was none of those things.

"I have it! Hohohaha! You let your guard down boy—"

Vervath announced triumphantly. Valdor turned sharply. His father’s thumb caught beneath the ribbon. The knot tightened. Then the silk tore.

Riiipppp—

The sound was nearly inaudible. A faint, delicate rip.

One half of the lavender ribbon remained trapped beneath Vervath’s fingers. The other slipped from Valdor’s wrist and drifted onto the table. The room became silent. Not politely quiet or surprised but utterly and completely silent.

Vervath stared at the torn silk in his hand. His triumph vanished. Valdor looked down at his bare wrist. The plain band of caramel skin where the ribbon had rested seemed suddenly wrong without it, despite its short time there. One severed end lay near Amor’s crooked leather braid, while the other remained crushed inside Vervath’s large fist. The token had survived less than an hour.

Amor’s lips parted. Lanslet stopped breathing for one dangerous moment. A servant near the door quietly backed into the corridor and pulled it almost closed behind him. Vervath loosened his grip.

"[I did not—]"

Valdor lifted his eyes. His face had gone completely still. That stillness frightened Vervath more than fury would have. The warning from earlier returned with terrible clarity:

’Do not do it again.’

Vervath had done it again.

Worse, he had damaged the first visible sign that Amor welcomed his son’s courtship. The ribbon possessed little monetary value, but Valdor had held it as carefully as Sarka’s carved bead, perhaps more carefully because the gift had been freely offered only moments earlier. Vervath had treated that care as something amusing. The chieftain looked toward Amor.

"[I-I-I-I can mend it!]"

No one answered. Vervath set both torn pieces upon the table as carefully as his hands knew how. The silk appeared impossibly small against his scarred fingers. His mouth opened, perhaps searching for humor capable of easing the moment.

None came.

Valdor reached toward the nearer half. He stopped before touching it. His hand closed into a fist instead. Amor watched the movement. Valdor did not care that the ribbon could be replaced. That understanding entered Amor at once.

The significance did not live in the silk alone. It lived in the moment Amor chose to remove it from his own hair, tie it around Valdor’s wrist, and tell him his attention was welcome. Another ribbon might carry the same color, but it would not be the same object or the same first acceptance.

Vervath had not meant to destroy it. Intent did not repair the tear.

"Valdor..."

Amor said softly. The warrior looked toward him.

Pain sat behind his obsidian eyes, restrained beneath discipline but too deep to hide completely. It carried disappointment in his father, embarrassment that something precious had been exposed to careless hands, and perhaps a darker fear that the broken token resembled a bad omen to their courtship that had barely begun before encountering damage. Amor recognized that fear because some part of him felt it too. He extended his hand.

"Give it to me."

Vervath reached for the remaining pieces. Valdor moved first. His hand came down over the torn ribbon, covering both halves against the table before his father could touch them again. The motion carried no violence, but the finality made Vervath step back.

"[I really meant no harm, Valdor.]"

Vervath said quietly. Valdor remained still. Amor held his hand out farther.

"Give me both pieces, Valdor."

The warrior gathered them himself. He handled the torn silk with extraordinary gentleness, laying the halves across Amor’s open palm as though returning something wounded. Amor examined the damage. The ribbon had torn near the knot rather than directly through the center, leaving enough length that an ordinary repair might be possible. The room waited.

Vervath looked older suddenly. His shoulders lowered, and the endless humor that usually made him fill every silence had disappeared. He seemed to understand that his son’s patience was not permission, that affection did not make boundaries decorative, and that his teasing had crossed into disrespect for something Valdor considered sacred.

"[I’m really sorry, my son.]"

He said. Valdor did not answer. The apology was not refused. It was not yet accepted. Amor ran one finger over the frayed edge.

He could have dismissed the damage as trivial, tied another ribbon around Valdor’s wrist, or laughed until everyone recovered. That would make the room comfortable more quickly. It would also tell Vervath that meaning could be erased because the object was inexpensive. Amor would not do that to Valdor.

"The ribbon can be repaired..."

He said. Vervath nodded quickly.

"But you will not touch the next one without permission."

"I will not! I vow this!"

Vervath hit his chest hard with his declaration. Amor’s pink eyes sharpened.

"Mm, don’t vow it because Valdor is angry at you..."

Vervath looked toward him.

"Do it because it belonged to him after I gave it."

The chieftain lowered his head.

"Yes. You are right."

Lanslet studied Amor with quiet pride. His son had defended the token without turning the accident into public humiliation or pretending damage did not matter. He had established ownership, consent, and respect with more clarity than many noble contracts managed in several pages. Valdor looked toward Amor’s palm.

"You do not need to replace it."

Amor lifted his gaze.

"I know."

The answer affected him. Amor was not offering replacement out of obligation or fear that courtship depended upon a strip of silk. He understood that the meaning remained even while the object lay broken. He could choose what came next without being pressured by Valdor’s disappointment.

"I will have Elsie mend this one..."

Amor said.

"Her stitches are fine enough that the repair will barely show..."

Valdor’s eyes remained fixed upon the frayed ends.

"Or..."

Amor continued.

"I could tie another. You may choose."

The warrior looked at him. The room softened by a fraction. Valdor considered the two halves resting in Amor’s hand.

"This one."

Vervath looked down. Amor understood. The torn ribbon had become part of the courtship now. Repairing it would not erase what happened, but preserving it would prove damage did not automatically make something worthless. That meaning reached Lovell’s memories with painful precision.

"Mm. This one it is then."

Amor agreed. Valdor’s shoulders eased. Only slightly. Vervath remained several steps away, uncertain whether he possessed permission to speak. His son had never looked at him with such cold disappointment before, and the unfamiliar distance hurt more than a shouted accusation. He would have preferred Valdor strike him. At least he understood how to answer force.

"I will replace the ribbon you gave, Amor!"

Vervath offered. Amor shook his head.

"I do not need a new one, Chef Vervath. I have plenty—"

"I can purchase you more silk—"

"That would be your silk, Cheftain. And I am not the one you need to gift your apologies to."

The chieftain absorbed the distinction.

"Right. Valdor, I will do something for you..."

Valdor’s gaze shifted toward him. Vervath’s voice lost its usual booming confidence.

"To... make amends."

The warrior remained silent. Amor looked between them. Repair could not be forced simply because Vervath felt guilty. His apology needed space to become more than an attempt to erase discomfort. Valdor deserved time to decide what answer he wanted from his father.

"Begin by leaving it alone."

Amor said gently. Vervath nodded. He took one step backward. Then another. No joke followed. No last attempt to inspect the knot. He bowed toward Amor, looked at Valdor with an expression carrying regret too large for his usual language, and moved toward the door. Lanslet allowed him to pass without commentary. The door closed quietly behind him.

The silence he left felt wrong. Vervath usually made every room seem smaller through sheer presence, filling it with stories, arguments, and crude warmth. Without him, the sitting room appeared larger and colder despite the afternoon light. Lanslet rose.

"I will arrange the books..."

Amor looked toward him. His father’s gaze moved from the torn ribbon to Valdor’s face.

"And I will have Elsie bring her sewing kit."

"Thank you."

Lanslet touched Amor’s shoulder, then paused beside Valdor. For a moment, the marquess appeared uncertain what could be said without worsening the hurt. He finally settled upon directness.

"Your father was wrong."

Valdor nodded.

"He knows."

Another nod.

"That does not require you to forgive him immediately."

Valdor looked toward Lanslet. The statement surprised him. Kingdom families often demanded reconciliation for the sake of appearances, especially when elders caused the offense. Lanslet offered no such command. He merely acknowledged the injury and allowed Valdor to own his response.

"Thank you."

Valdor said. Lanslet inclined his head and left. The adjoining sitting room became private. Amor still held the ribbon pieces. Valdor stood beside the chaise, his now-bare wrist hanging stiffly at his side. Without the lavender silk, the scars and tribal marks looked harsher. Amor found himself disliking the absence.

"Sit."

Valdor obeyed. He lowered himself into the chair beside Amor, though his attention remained upon the ribbon. The anger had retreated beneath hurt, leaving him quieter than usual in a way that did not resemble peaceful silence. Amor adjusted the pieces until the torn edges met.

"Don’t look so upset. It can be mended."

"I know."

"You do not sound convinced."

"...It will show."

"Mm. Perhaps..."

Valdor’s jaw tightened. Amor understood that he was not speaking solely about thread.

"The tear does not mean I withdrew my permission..."

Valdor looked toward him immediately. Amor held the ribbon between them.

"Your courtship did not end because the token broke."

"...I know."

This time, the words sounded less certain. Amor’s expression softened. He extended the uninjured hand toward Valdor’s bare wrist.

"May I?"

The warrior placed his arm within reach. Amor did not attempt to tie the broken ribbon. Instead, he rested his fingers around the place it had been, lightly encircling the scarred wrist. His hand could not encompass even half of it, but the touch marked the same intention.

"You may continue."

Amor said. Valdor’s eyes softened. The pain did not vanish. Neither did the disappointment in his father. Yet the fear beneath both loosened.

"Then I will."

He answered. Amor kept his hand around his wrist. The repaired ribbon would carry a seam. The courtship likely would too. Perhaps that was not a curse.

A thing mended carefully could become more precious precisely because someone decided damage was not the end of its usefulness or meaning. Lovell had never been offered that mercy. Amor found he wanted Valdor to have it.

Outside the room, somewhere down the corridor, Vervath stood with the knowledge that affection did not excuse careless hands; Lanslet made sure he knew that as he went to fetch Elsie.

Inside, Amor held Valdor’s wrist where the ribbon had been. The silk was torn. The welcome remained.