Chapter 29: A Slightly Sticky Situation

For three agonizing seconds, the grand dining alcove ceased to exist.

There was only the dizzying, unexpected proximity of Xavion’s deep violet eye staring directly into Lioren’s own.

Lioren’s mind, usually a chaotic parade of tactical maneuvers and impulsive schemes, went completely, utterly blank. He could feel the soft, steady puffs of Xavion’s breath against his collarbone. He was hovering over him like an overprotective guard dog, one hand practically crushing the carved wood of Xavion’s chair.

Xavion was the first to break the stillness. His long, dark lashes fluttered once, his single eye widening slightly as he looked up into the Duke’s flushed face.

"Grand Duke..." Xavion whispered. "Are you... all right?"

The sound of his voice snapped the invisible thread holding Lioren in place.

"I... yes! Absolutely! Fine! Perfectly splendid!" Lioren squeaked out, his voice cracking on the last word with horrifying, youthful enthusiasm.

He catapulted himself backward as if the table had suddenly caught fire, stumbling two paces before catching his heel on the rug and regaining his balance with an awkward, sweeping motion of his arms. He smoothed down his lapels with frantic, twitchy fingers, puffing out his chest in a desperate attempt to look like a man who hadn’t just used his entire body as a human dessert shield.

From the other side of the table, Evelia buried her face in her linen napkin, her shoulders shaking violently with silent, uncontrollable laughter. Beside her, Therin cleared his throat with great, sudden intensity, staring with absolute, unwavering focus at a wall, while Caldrin suddenly found the grain of his own fingernails deeply fascinating.

"It’s merely whipped cream and raspberries!" Lioren declared airily, waving a hand in a dismissive circle. "Hardly an acidic splash, is it? Just a minor, highly delicious logistical hiccup! No harm done!"

It was a magnificent speech. Truly, a masterclass in noble composure.

Unfortunately, its majestic effect was entirely ruined by the massive, thick blob of raspberry-stained whipped cream slowly sliding down his spine, leaving a bright red, sticky trail across his tailored coat.

"Y-Your Grace!" the shopkeeper babbled, scrambling forward from behind the counter with a stack of cloth napkins held like a white flag. "I am so sorry! I am so profoundly, terribly sorry! Please, allow us to clean your garment, allow us to pay for the tailoring, allow us..."

"Oh, stop it, stop it," Lioren grumbled, waving the terrified man off with a flick of his wrist. "It’s an old coat anyway! Nobody’s getting sent to the salt mines over a wild berry tart. No one was hurt, and that’s what matters."

He paused, glancing sideways at his sister, and added under his breath, "And don’t you dare say a word about executions, Evelia."

"I wouldn’t dream of it, little brother," Evelia purred, lowering her napkin to reveal a face bright with cruel, unadulterated joy. "Though I must say, your back looks remarkably like a slaughtered pig in a berry patch."

Before Lioren could formulate a crushing, dignified response, a quiet rustle of dark gray wool cut through the commotion.

Xavion had stood up from his chair. He walked around the edge of the table, carrying a thick, damp linen cloth the head waiter had frantically abandoned on a tray.

"Allow me, Grand Duke," Xavion said softly.

Lioren blinked, turning around. "Oh! No, no, Your Highness, don’t worry about it, it’s a mess, you’ll get your hands sticky..."

Xavion didn’t argue. He simply stepped up directly behind Lioren, raising his left hand to rest his palm firmly against the back of Lioren’s right shoulder to steady him.

The moment Xavion’s hand touched his shoulder, Lioren went entirely, stone-still.

It wasn’t a hard grip, just a warm, steady weight pressing through his coat, but it effectively rendered Lioren completely incapable of speech, movement, or basic cognitive function. He stood frozen like a wooden statue in the middle of the dining room while Xavion, using his right hand, began methodically, carefully wiping the thick cream off his back with short, gentle strokes.

Lioren’s brain, which usually ran at three hundred miles an hour, promptly abandoned every useful thought it had ever possessed since childhood.

He wanted to say something witty. He wanted to say something cool and breezy, like ’Ah, see? The perks of having a prince for a valet.’ But he knew, with terrifying, absolute certainty, that if he opened his mouth right now, the only sound that would come out would be an embarrassing, high-pitched squeak.

He’s touching my shoulder, Lioren’s brain screamed internally, looping the same four words on repeat like a broken clockwork toy. He is standing three inches behind me, cleaning fruit off my back, and he is touching my shoulder.

Evelia, watching her brother’s rigid, beet-red neck from across the table, leaned her chin on her palm, her dark eyes glittering with malicious delight.

"Is something the matter with your tongue, Lioren?" Evelia asked sweetly, her voice ringing clear in the quiet tavern. "You’ve gone remarkably quiet. Did a raspberry slide into your brain ear-first?"

Lioren snapped his jaw shut, glaring at his sister over his shoulder without moving his upper body an inch. "I am permitting His Highness to render assistance, Evelia. It is called tactical cooperation. Something a menace like you wouldn’t understand."

"Of course," she hummed, taking a small sip of her drink. "Tactical fruit removal. A classic northern strategy."

"There," Xavion murmured quietly, cutting off the sibling dispute before it could escalate into a fistfight. He folded the soiled cloth, stepping back half a pace and giving Lioren a small, polite nod. "The worst of it is gone. It will leave a faint mark until it is washed, but you are no longer dripping."

Lioren spun around a little too fast, clearing his throat so hard it sounded like he was trying to swallow a stone. "Right! Excellent! Brilliant work, Your Highness! Truly, a masterclass in linen management!"

He reached into his vest, pulled out a gold coin big enough to buy the entire tavern’s pantry twice over, and slammed it onto the table before the owner could even attempt to offer a discount.

"Keep the change! We’re leaving!" Lioren announced, gesturing grandly toward the front doors. "We have an itinerary to maintain!"

The crisp autumn air outside the tavern hit Lioren’s heated face like a bucket of cold spring water, though his back still felt vaguely stiff and sticky under his coat.

As they walked down the wide cobblestone avenue toward the upper merchant quarter, Evelia fell into step beside her brother, her arm looped gracefully through her own cloak straps.

"You know," Evelia remarked casually, looking up at the sky with a thoughtful frown, "in all my years of watching you make reckless, profoundly stupid decisions, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone leap across a dining table to intercept a pastry."

"It was an instinctual defensive response!" Lioren argued loudly, adjusting his lapels. "My reflexes are sharp! I saw a projectile heading toward him, and I acted!"

"Lioren," Evelia said, stopping in the middle of the walkway to look him dead in the eye, "it was a tart. A berry tart. You could have slapped the plate away with your hand. You could have pulled his chair back six inches. You could have literally ducked. Instead, you threw your entire body over him like he was a knight about to take a sword to the chest."

"It showed leadership!" Lioren insisted.

"It showed you have the self-preservation instincts of a suicidal badger," she corrected dryly, turning to look at Xavion, who was walking quietly on Lioren’s other side. "I do hope you’re keeping track of these incidents, Your Highness. If he keeps this up, he’ll be leaping in front of falling autumn leaves by next week."

Xavion looked at the two of them, a tiny, almost invisible curve touching the corner of his lips. "I shall keep a detailed log, Lady Evelia."

Lioren shook his head, clearing his throat loudly as he pointed down the long, sunlit avenue toward a grand, two-story stone building with gold-leaf lettering painted across its glass display windows: Master Rane’s Fine Tailoring & Imports.

"Anyway!" Lioren declared, steering them sharply toward the doors. "Enough about pastries. Our next objective is far more important. Shopping. For His Highness. But if any of you need anything, feel free to take advantage of my generosity."

Xavion paused at the edge of the threshold. "Shopping? Grand Duke, I assure you, I have more than enough clothing. The dark tunic your servants provided this morning is perfectly suitable."

"Nonsense!" Lioren barked, grabbing the heavy brass handle and throwing the door wide open. "You arrived with one tiny trunk! One!"

"Grand Duke, really, it is unnecessary..." Xavion began, raising a hand to stem the rising tide of excitement.

"It is entirely necessary!" Lioren insisted, practically shoving him across the threshold into the shop.

The moment they stepped inside, a round, sharply dressed man with a tape measure draped over his shoulders scurried out from the back room like a spider sensing a fly on its web.

"Grand Duke Roscaire!" the tailor gasped, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed his polished boots. "A pleasure! An absolute honor! How may we serve the North today?"

"We need a complete wardrobe overhaul for His Highness Prince Xavion," Lioren commanded, sweeping his arm across the entire room with unbridled, dangerous enthusiasm. "Everything! Day wear, evening doublets, silver-trimmed collars, oh, and bring out those dark blue silks from the western provinces! The ones that match his hair!"

"Right away, Your Grace! Right away!" the tailor babbled, snapping his fingers frantically at three young apprentices who instantly began hauling massive bolts of fabric from the high shelves.

Xavion stood near the center of the shop, his single eye blinking slowly as he watched the young Duke dart from rack to rack like a hurricane wrapped in a sticky green coat.

He took a step forward, his hand hovering mid-air, opening his mouth to speak...

But Lioren was so deep into his internal planning, frantically calculating shoulder widths, fabric weights, and color combinations, that he didn’t notice the strange expression settling over Xavion’s face behind him. Nor did he notice the way the prince’s hand slowly dropped back to his side.