Chapter 40: The Return of the Dashing Duke

Watching two burly guards haul a bleeding, groaning man into the back of a covered hay wagon was not, strictly speaking, how most nobility preferred to end a pleasant afternoon stroll.

Lioren stood at the mouth of the alleyway, casually brushing a few stray specks of brick dust off his cuffs. He gave his knuckles a thorough rub against his coat, letting out a heavy, exaggerated huff that sounded remarkably like a weary shopkeeper closing up after a twelve-hour shift.

"Gods above," Lioren grumbled, shaking his head with deep, profound annoyance as the wagon wheels began to clatter away down the cobblestone street. "What an absolute rat. An annoying, dishonest, completely rude little pest! I mean, who tries to stick a man in the windpipe with a dagger after weeping like a beaten dog? Honestly! People have no manners these days."

Standing beside him, Caldrin wiped a smear of dark grease off his sword before sliding the heavy weapon back into its scabbard with a dull clack.

"At least it’s over, my lord," Caldrin remarked, his deep voice grunting slightly as he adjusted his shoulder harness. "And we managed to handle the business without drawing a whole squad of city watchmen down on our heads. The street was quiet enough."

"Small miracles, I suppose," Lioren sighed, adjusting his silk vest. "Right! Now that that miserable little chore is out of the way, we can finally get back to our outing. I believe Evelia and Xavion are waiting for us at that pastry place down by the bridge, and if I don’t get a cup of spiced..."

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

The ear-splitting, blood-curdling shriek tore through the quiet alley with the violence of a panicked pig at slaughter.

In a fraction of a second, Caldrin’s face went white. His hand shot straight back to his sword hilt, his boots spinning on the wet cobblestones as he threw his broad frame in front of Lioren, his eyes darting frantically toward the rooftops, the dark doorways, and the narrow side passages.

"Where?!" Caldrin barked out, his muscles coiled tight, his teeth bared in an absolute battle stance. "Where are they?! How many?!"

Lioren slowly turned around. He wasn’t looking at the rooftops. He wasn’t looking at the alley entrance.

He was staring down at his own chest with an expression of pure, unadulterated, apoplectic horror.

"Look at this!" Lioren wailed, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak as he pointed a trembling finger at the front of his vest. "Look at it, Caldrin! LOOK AT MY SLEEVE!"

Caldrin blinked. He lowered his sword an inch, staring at his lord in absolute, stunned silence.

There, splashed across the clean ivory silk of Lioren’s left cuff and dotted in three tiny, dark red specks near his waistline, was a spray of fresh blood from the spy’s leg. It wasn’t even that bad, just a few messy specks of blood, but Lioren looked at them as if the gods had personally cursed him.

"My lord..." Caldrin said, his chest rising and falling in heavy, exhausted waves as he let go of his sword hilt. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his expression screaming that he had had quite enough for one day. "Please. I am begging you on my knees. Do not shriek like a frightened maiden unless there is an actual blade coming for your ribcage."

"An actual blade?!" Lioren gasped, clutching his chest with both hands as if he’d been mortally wounded. "Caldrin, look at me! I look like a butcher’s assistant! I look like I just spent forty minutes skinning a goat behind a tavern! How can I possibly let Prince Xavion see me looking like this?! He’ll think I’m an uncultured, barbaric brute!"

"You literally just pinned a man’s hands to a wooden crate with a sword," Caldrin noted deadpan.

"That was work!" Lioren snapped back, his green hair bouncing frantically as he spun on his heel and began marching down the street at breakneck speed. "This is fashion! There is a vast, unbridgeable difference, you unfeeling mountain! Move your thick legs, Caldrin! We need a tailor! Right now!"

What followed was twenty minutes of pure, frantic chaos.

Lioren practically burst through the front door of the nearest high-end boutique on Silver Street, startling a middle-aged merchant so badly the poor man dropped a full bolt of blue velvet onto the floor. Without even asking for prices, Lioren pointed wildly at a dark charcoal tunic trimmed with silver thread, a fitted navy vest, and a fresh pair of dark leather trousers. He shoved a fistful of gold coppers into the shopkeeper’s trembling hands, ducked behind a changing curtain, and emerged three minutes later looking utterly immaculate.

"Burn those," Lioren ordered crisply, tossing his blood-speckled silk shirt straight into Caldrin’s arms. "Or bury them. I don’t care. Just make sure they never cross my line of sight again."

Caldrin sighed, folding the ruined silk over his arm like a long-suffering valet. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Right!" Lioren smoothed down his dark navy vest, admiring his reflection in a full-length glass mirror with a proud, approving nod. "Now we look like a respectable Grand Duke again. To the dessert shop!"

They hurried back through the capital’s evening thoroughfares, retracing the steps Xavion, Evelia, and Therin were supposed to have taken toward the river district.

It didn’t take them long to spot the place. The place was a charming, two-story timber building with broad glass windows overlooking the water. Sitting right at a round table near the front window, surrounded by empty pastry plates and a steaming teapot, were Evelia, Therin, and Xavion.

Lioren pushed open the brass-handled door, letting the tiny chime above the frame ring out pleasantly.

"I am so terribly, terribly sorry for the delay, everyone!" Lioren announced brightly, sauntering toward their table with a dazzling, boyish grin plastered across his face, his arms spread wide in a dramatic gesture of greeting. "You would not believe the sudden, overwhelming urge I felt to engage in a bit of personal retail therapy! The air hit my skin, and I thought to myself: Lioren, your vest is far too dull for a stroll with royalty. So, I simply had to make a detour!"

Evelia set her tea cup down with a delicate, porcelain clink, her dark eyes scanning her brother from head to toe with a look of profound, unbothered judgment.

"Your taste in clothes remains as utterly atrocious as ever, little brother," Evelia drawled dryly, resting her chin on her hand. "Navy and charcoal? Really? You look like a pompous old lord who’s forgotten how to dress himself."

"I don’t recall asking for fashion advice from someone who dresses like a walking wine stain, sister," Lioren shot back with a huff.

Ignoring Evelia entirely, Lioren turned his full, beaming focus onto Xavion. He stepped right up to the side of the table, puffing his chest out slightly, turning side to side like a proud peacock showing off its feathers.

"So!" Lioren purred eagerly, his blue eyes sparkling with expectation as he waited for his betrothed’s reaction. "What do you think, Prince Xavion? Be honest! Does the navy suit my complexion, or should I have gone with the deep forest green?"

Xavion didn’t answer immediately.

In fact, the prince didn’t say anything at all.

Xavion sat quietly, his violet eye fixed on Lioren as the Grand Duke continued his cheerful rambling. After a moment, he pushed his chair back and rose.

He didn’t stop at a polite distance. He kept walking until he was standing less than a foot away from Lioren’s chest.

Lioren’s bright, eager smile faltered just a tiny fraction. His throat suddenly felt a bit dry as Xavion leaned forward, just an inch, his sharp, pale profile dipping close enough that Lioren could smell the faint, sweet scent of nutmeg and honeyed tea on the prince’s breath. Xavion’s eye narrowed slightly, scanning the line of Lioren’s jaw, his new clothes, and the faint, barely noticeable scent of soap and fresh leather clinging to his skin.

A sudden, hot flush crept up the back of Lioren’s neck. He fidgeted with his cuffs, letting out a nervous, teasing little laugh to cover the sudden flutter in his ribs.

"My goodness, Your Highness," Lioren chuckled, trying desperately to sound breezy and unaffected, though his voice rose just half an octave. "Is this... ah... how we greet each other now? A man could certainly get used to such intense personal inspection, but..."

"You took care of him, didn’t you?" Xavion interrupted quietly.

Lioren froze. His rambling sentence died instantly on his tongue.

Xavion didn’t pull back. He kept his gaze locked squarely onto Lioren’s eyes.

"That man," Xavion added softly, his single eye holding Lioren in place like an iron nail. "The one who has been tailing us. I take it you’ve already dealt with him?"