"Nothing serious." Harwick's gray eyes study the damaged cell door with professional interest. "Clever bastards, I'll give them that. This whole thing was planned from the beginning."
Bellamy's stomach clenches. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it. The Barbarian King lets himself be captured after a battle he could have won. Allows himself to be brought here, locked up, studied. Meanwhile, his forces scout our defenses, map our tunnels, plan their approach." Harwick shakes his head with grudging admiration. "We've been playing into their hands from the moment we put him in chains."
The words hit Bellamy suddenly. Had he been used? Had every conversation, every moment of connection, every whispered confession been part of some elaborate manipulation? The thought makes him feel sick and foolish and heartbroken all at once.
"Did you notice anything suspicious during your visits to the prisoner?" Harwick asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
Bellamy thinks of broken chains hanging loose around Ivah's wrists, of the way he'd been able to move with such fluid grace when he chose to. He thinks of Ivah saying he stayed because what he wanted wasn't outside these walls, and wonders now if that had been another lie, another manipulation.
"No," he says, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Nothing suspicious."
The lie sits heavy on his tongue, and he can't meet Harwick's eyes. The general has been like a father to him, has taught him strategy and honor and the weight of command, and Bellamy hates that he's lying to him now.
"I'm worried, lad," Harwick says quietly. "The Barbarian King left you alive during that first battle, but only barely. This might be his way of finishing what he started—getting close enough to complete his original mission."
"His original mission?"
"Your assassination. Think about it—what better way to cripple Mirn's resistance than to eliminate its heir?" Harwick's expression is grave. "We need to double the patrols, post guards at your door. If he makes an attempt on your life—"
"I understand," Bellamy says quickly, though part of him rebels against the idea. Some deep, foolish part of him still believes that Ivah would never hurt him, that whatever else might have been false, the gentleness in those dark eyes had been real.
But maybe that's exactly what Ivah had been counting on.
"Good." Harwick clasps his shoulder. "I know this is hard, having your enemy slip through your fingers. But we'll be ready for him next time."
Harwick leaves him alone with his doubts and the terrible possibility that everything he thought he'd shared with Ivah had been an elaborate deception. Bellamy stares at the empty cell and tries not to feel like his heart has been ripped from his chest and taken with a man who might never have cared for him at all.
But even as doubt consumes him, some traitorous part of his mind whispers that no casualties might mean something. That the gentle way Ivah had dressed him after, the patience in his voice when Bellamy had panicked—that those moments had been real, whatever else might have been pretense.
He tries not to hope. He fails miserably.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity. Bellamy throws himself into the work of damage control—coordinating repairs, reviewing security protocols, meeting with his mother and the council to discuss the implications of the Barbarian King's escape. He speaks when spoken to, makes decisions when required, and maintains the facade of a prince dealing with a strategic setback.
But underneath the competent exterior, he feels like he's bleeding from a wound no one else can see.
Every time someone mentions the escaped prisoner, his chest tightens. Every time they discuss pursuit or retaliation, he has to fight not to defend a man who is once again his enemy. When one of the councilors suggests that the escape proves they should have executed Ivah immediately, Bellamy has to excuse himself before he says something that would damn them both.
Queen Amelli watches him with the sharp eyes of a mother who knows her son is keeping secrets. Harwick hovers nearby like a concerned guardian, clearly wrestling with suspicions he can't quite voice. The other members of the council offer sympathy and advice that feels like salt in an open wound.
Through it all, Bellamy maintains his composure. He is, after all, a prince. This is what he was trained for—to put duty before personal feelings, kingdom before self.
It's only when night falls and he's finally alone in his chambers that the careful control begins to crack.
He stands at his window, looking out over the kingdom he's sworn to protect, and tries not to think about dark eyes and gentle hands and whispered promises in dead languages. He tries not to imagine where Ivah is now—riding hard through the night, putting distance betweenhimself and the castle, between himself and the prince who was foolish enough to believe that something real could grow in the space between enemies.
The rational part of his mind knows this is for the best. Knows that whatever had been building between them was doomed from the start, a beautiful impossibility that could only have ended in disaster. Ivah is the Barbarian King of Everitt. Bellamy is the Prince of Mirn. They are enemies by birth, by duty, by every law of politics and war.
Last night was a moment of madness, nothing more. A temporary break in reality that couldn't have lasted.
He tells himself this as he lies in his empty bed, staring at the ceiling. He repeats it like a prayer, like an incantation that might make it true through sheer repetition.
This is for the best. This is for the best. This is for the best.
He almost believes it.
But when sleep finally claims him in the early hours of morning, his dreams are still full of chains and shadows and the phantom memory of lips against his throat, whispering words he's already beginning to forget but can't stop longing to hear again.
