Chapter 64: The One Good Thing

By the time Xavion finally reached his chamber, he felt as though he hadn’t been there in ages. The journey back, followed by the unpleasant encounter with his family, had made the return feel much longer than it should have.

"You’re late, Your Highness," a familiar voice grumbled from the corner near the washstand.

His aide, Darian, stepped out from the shadows, wiping his hands on a clean linen drying cloth. He took one look at Xavion, at the dusty pauldrons, the dark smudge of soot across the cheekbone, and the stiff, heavy way the general carried his left shoulder, and let out a long, theatrical sigh that practically rattled the rafters.

"And before you even start," Darian continued, shaking his head as he marched across the room, "don’t tell me it was a quiet march. I can smell the marsh-rot from here, and your boots look like they’ve been chewed by mountain goats."

A faint, tired shadow of a smile touched the corners of Xavion’s mouth, a genuine, unguarded expression that had never once surfaced during his brief, miserable audience in the royal hall.

"It wasn’t a quiet march," Xavion admitted as he unclasped his cloak and handed it to Darian. "And the mud near the third ridge has a particular fondness for imperial leather. I think I left half my right sole somewhere in the river flats."

"Naturally," Darian muttered, tossing the damp cloak over a wooden rack near the hearth. He reached for the leather straps of Xavion’s breastplate, clearly familiar with every strap and buckle. "I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t leave an arm or a lung out there as well. Though knowing you, you probably didn’t even notice if you were bleeding until someone pointed it out."

"I wasn’t bleeding," Xavion said, though there was a slight hesitation in his voice before he added, "much."

Darian paused, his hands resting on the steel plates over Xavion’s ribs, and shot him a withering, deeply unimpressed look. "Oh, gods above. Sit down on the bench before you collapse and make more laundry for me to scrub. I’ll get the basin."

Darian had been by Xavion’s side for years, long before the battles began and the court started calling him a monster. He wasn’t a soldier. He had never held a sword in anger, and he possessed the infuriating habit of fussing over drafty windows while major tactical decisions were being debated in the war room. Yet he knew every single detail of Xavion’s routine, from the exact temperature he liked his water to the peculiar way he preferred his writing desk cleared of clutter.

Most palace servants treated Xavion with fear and caution, never daring to speak to him more than necessary. Darian, on the other hand, had no such reservations. He spoke his mind and scolded Xavion like an older brother who had long since run out of patience.

And Xavion wouldn’t have had it any other way.

As Darian bustled back over with a steaming copper pitcher and a fresh linen cloth, Xavion sank heavily onto the wooden bench, letting out a long, shuddering breath that seemed to pull twenty pounds of tension straight off his shoulders.

"How bad was it?" Darian asked quietly, pouring hot water into the basin with a gentle splash. He knelt down on one knee, dipping the cloth and gently dabbing at the dried soot and grime along Xavion’s jawline.

"The usual," Xavion replied, his eyes closing for a brief moment as the warm cloth met his skin. "The King is satisfied the border won’t cave in before spring. The Queen reminded me that I am a charity case living on royal leftovers. And Odran and his brothers treated me to the customary display of fraternal affection."

Darian’s jaw tightened, the cloth pausing mid-swipe against Xavion’s cheek. "If that woman had an ounce of decency..."

"Darian," Xavion interrupted softly. "It’s fine. Really. Words don’t bleed."

"They still bite, even if you refuse to scratch the itch," Darian snapped back, though his movements grew noticeably gentler as he washed the remaining grime from Xavion’s face. He rinsed the cloth in the basin, the water turning a murky grey-brown. "I don’t know why you keep hoping they’ll acknowledge what you’ve done. You won the war for this kingdom, yet they treat you as though you’ve done nothing."

"I didn’t do it for them," Xavion murmured, his gaze lowered. "I never cared whether they praised me or acknowledged what I had done. I fought because there were people out there who depended on us to protect them. Families who wanted to return to their homes, soldiers who trusted us to lead them, and ordinary people who had no choice but to rely on the crown to keep them safe." He paused briefly before adding, "I did it for my people, Darian. Our people."

Darian let out a short, dry huff of laughter, standing up to clear away the dirty water. "Always the romantic strategist, aren’t you? Well, whatever your noble motivations, I’m just glad you’re back in one piece. Do you have any idea how quiet these rooms get when you’re out chasing imperial regiments across the barrows? It’s eerie. I actually had to talk to myself for weeks."

"I apologize for depriving you of your own company," Xavion replied.

"You should," Darian shot back over his shoulder as he walked over to the sideboard to pour a cup of dark, spiced plum wine. He brought it back, handing the clay mug to Xavion with a small, affectionate roll of his eyes. "Drink that. It’s got enough honey in it to coat your throat so you don’t sound like a grinding mill tomorrow morning."

Xavion accepted the mug, wrapping his fingers around the warm clay. He watched Darian move around the small chamber, and folding his discarded tunic with meticulous care.

A quiet, introspective stillness settled over him.

Throughout his life, people had circled him like hawks above a carcass, drawn in by his growing military influence, his terrifying battlefield reputation, or the dangerous political capital of his royal bloodline. Others had fled from him, crossing to the opposite side of the hallway whenever they saw his shadow, terrified of the black mana humming beneath his skin or the dark rumors that followed his mother’s name.

For a moment, he said nothing, lost in his thoughts

He hadn’t abandoned Xavion when people began whispering about his questionable royal blood. He hadn’t tried to win favor by flattering him or asking for a military position or noble title in return. He had simply stayed. He was there when Xavion returned from the bloodiest campaigns half-dead from exhaustion, there when old poison scars flared up during the bitter winter nights, and there through the endless, unremarkable stretches of silence when there was no war to fight and no glory to be won.

In a world built entirely on transactions, leverage, and conditional loyalty, Darian was perhaps the only person in the entire palace who looked at Xavion and saw simply... a man.

Xavion took a sip of the spiced wine, letting its warmth spread through his chest. For a moment, he found himself at a loss for words. Darian had always been there for him, and Xavion was more grateful for that than he could ever express

He didn’t have many people he could call his own. The palace was a cage populated by strangers who wanted him dead or useful, and the camps were full of men who respected his sword but feared his shadow. But here, none of that mattered.

Xavion looked up, his eyes resting affectionately on his attendant as Darian bustled past with a stack of fresh blankets.

He really was remarkably fortunate to have him.