Chapter 465: A Memory of Red and Dirt

"Watch out, Lord Cherion!"

The panicked scream barely registered before something heavy crashed sideways into Cherion’s shoulder, sending him tumbling shoulder onto the rough ground. His breath hitched as his ribs slammed against the ground, dust filling his nose and mouth in a dry, choking wave.

Great. This again, modern Cherion thought, his inner voice ringing with a mix of deep exhaustion and irritation.

He was entirely trapped in his own head. He couldn’t move his arms on his own, couldn’t control his breathing, and couldn’t stop the barrage of sensory inputs flooding his brain. It was a memory of the OG Cherion’s past, replaying behind his eyelids like a dark stage play he was forced to watch from the front row.

A frantic whinny echoed through the courtyard as a massive bay carriage horse reared back on its hind legs, its dark hooves slicing through the air inches from where Cherion had been standing a second ago. Stable hands rushed in from all sides, grabbing the leather reins and wrestling the startled beast back down to the ground until its heavy breathing settled.

Cherion’s body scrambled up, his hands frantically dusting off the front of his tailored velvet tunic. He wiped the dirt off his palms with sharp, agitated flicks, his teeth grinding together in pure embarrassment.

Beside him in the dirt, Philia was pushing himself up onto his knees. A sharp rock on the ground had caught the side of his temple, leaving a clean, diagonal slice right along his hairline. A thin trickle of bright crimson blood was already oozing out, running down the pale side of his face and dripping off his jawline.

Cherion’s original voice ripped out of his throat, high, arrogant, and completely dripping with outrage. "I didn’t ask you to save me!"

Inside his mind, modern Cherion buried his face in his hands. Oh, geez, Cherion. Really? Not class. That is seriously not class.

Philia didn’t flinch. He sat on his knees in the dust, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes looking up at Cherion with an expression that was terrifyingly hollow. There was no anger in his gaze. No hurt, either. Just the deeply exhausted look of a man who had apparently been treated like garbage so many times that he had finally run out of energy to be offended by it.

"Philia!"

Heavy, hurried footsteps pounded across the courtyard cobblestones. Yerel came sprinting around the corner of the stable block, his white coat flying behind him, with Valen right behind him.

Yerel dropped to his knees in the dirt right beside Philia, his face pale with genuine panic. "Gods, Philia... are you alright?" Yerel’s eyes caught the streak of dark crimson running down Philia’s temple. "You’re bleeding!"

Yerel reached out instinctively, his fingers extending to wipe the blood away from Philia’s cheek.

"Don’t!"

Philia’s voice cracked like a whip. With a violent, desperate jerk of his body, Philia slapped Yerel’s hand away so hard the crack echoed off the stone walls. Philia scrambled backward in the dirt like a cornered animal, his shoulders shaking, his hand slamming over his wounded temple to smother the flow of blood beneath his sleeve.

"Don’t touch it!" Philia gasped, his breath coming in short, panicked ragged hitches. "Don’t touch the blood!"

Yerel froze, his hand hovering in mid-air, looking completely stunned and hurt by the sudden violence of the rejection.

Modern Cherion felt a strange, cold shiver run straight down his spine. Hhhmm... such a big reaction...

Philia swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically between Yerel, Cherion, and the stable hands standing nearby. He visibly forced his hands to stop trembling, pressing his sleeve tighter against his bleeding skin.

"It’s... it’s not sanitary," Philia choked out, his voice dropping into a tight, unnatural pitch as he forced a fragile, hollow cover-up. "It’s filthy, Your Highness. I don’t want you getting infected."

He looked up at Valen, who had already planted himself between Philia and Yerel like a human privacy screen. His tall frame blocked Yerel’s view completely. Valen’s face remained so painfully blank that he could have been carved from stone, but his hands moved with speed as he checked Philia over, somehow managing to hide both her face and hands in the process. At this point, Valen was either very good at his job or very, very committed to making sure nobody saw anything they shouldn’t.

"Help me inside," Philia whispered. "Please. Treat it inside."

"Of course," Valen murmured softly. He wrapped a solid arm around Philia’s shoulder, hauling him smoothly to his feet and guiding him toward the back entrance of the estate before anyone else could move.

Cherion’s original body let out a loud, dramatic scoff, folding his arms tightly across his chest as he watched them disappear down the hallway.

"Huh. A tiny little scratch and he makes a huge scene out of it," original Cherion grumbled, rolling his shoulders in irritation. "Dramatic as always."

Yerel slowly stood up from the dirt, dusting off his trousers. He turned around to face Cherion, his eyes burning with a cold, absolute disgust that made modern Cherion wince internally.

"You really don’t know how to be grateful, do you?" Yerel said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "He just threw himself to keep your skull from getting cracked open, and you stand there barking like an unmanered brat."

"I told you, I didn’t ask for his help!" Cherion snapped back, chin raised high. "He should mind his own business!"

Yerel stared at him for three agonizing seconds, his jaw clenched tight. He let out a low, bitter breath and turned his back. "It’s completely useless talking to you."

Yerel walked away without another word, leaving Cherion standing alone in the dusty courtyard under the harsh sun.

Cherion gasped, his eyes flying open as he jolted awake.

The heavy velvet curtains were still drawn tight, keeping the morning sun out, but the cold sweat running down his neck and collarbone was unfortunately very real. Cherion lay there, breathing hard, his fingers twisted into the ridiculously soft blanket.

Beside him, Zarius was still sleeping peacefully, apparently having absolutely none of Cherion’s problems.

Cherion sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, burying his face in his cold palms as he tried to steady his breathing. The whole memory was still rattling around in his head, the dust, the horse, Yerel’s disgust, and that truly atrocious spoiled-brat voice that had come out of OG Cherion’s mouth.

But none of that was what made Cherion’s stomach twist into a tight, sickly knot.

He remembered the absolute terror in Philia’s eyes the second Yerel reached out toward that open cut. It wasn’t the panic of an injured person pushing away help. It was the frantic, desperate panic of a man hiding something.