"I promise, I'm fine," he says instead, forcing a smile that feels like broken glass on his lips.
Queen Amelli doesn't look entirely convinced, but she doesn't press. After she leaves, Bellamy remains at the window, staring out at nothing. The afternoon sun slants across the courtyard, casting long shadows that remind him of other shadows, other light, the golden glow of lamplight on skin and the darkness of eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul.
He tells himself to focus on the Northern threat, on King Kent and his hungry soldiers and the very real danger they represent. He tellshimself to forget the Barbarian King of Everitt and whatever madness had possessed them both in a dungeon cell six nights ago.
He tells himself a lot of things.
But as evening falls and he finds himself in his study, supposedly reviewing intelligence reports about northern troop movements, his attention keeps drifting to the map on his wall. To the thick black line that separates his world from Ivah's, and the impossible longing to cross it.
The reports lie forgotten on his desk as he traces the border with his finger, following the familiar curves and angles, wondering what lies beyond. Wondering if somewhere in the darkness of Everitt, a Barbarian King stares at maps and thinks of golden princes and nights that changed everything.
The thought is foolish, romantic, dangerous.
It's also the only thing keeping him sane.
Outside his window, night deepens and stars wheel overhead, indifferent to the struggles of kingdoms and the hearts of princes who dream of things they cannot have. But inside his study, Bellamy stares at a map and makes a decision he doesn't quite admit to himself.
Not yet.
But soon.
Chapter 8
Bellamy tells himself he's conducting reconnaissance.
It's a thin lie, threadbare as old cloth, but he clings to it as he adjusts the rough brown cloak that conceals his royal colors. The servant's clothes are not a good fit. They’re too loose in the shoulders and too short in the legs, but they serve their purpose. From a distance, he looks like any other traveler: a minor merchant, perhaps, or a messenger carrying letters between distant relatives.
His horse is a different matter. Tempest is a destrier bred for war, her bloodlines as noble as his own, and no amount of mud rubbed into her coat can disguise her quality. But Bellamy can't bring himself to take another mount, can't bear to leave behind the one familiar thing in this madness he's about to commit.
The border crossing is quieter than he expects. A handful of Mirn guards man the checkpoint, checking papers and collecting tolls with the bored efficiency of men who see the same faces day after day. They nod respectfully when they recognize him beneath his hood, but ask no questions about his destination.
"Safe travels, Your Highness," the captain murmurs as he waves them through.
If only he knew.
The road into Everitt is well-maintained despite the kingdom's fearsome reputation. Trade must continue, after all, even between enemies. Bellamy passes merchants heading toward Mirn with wagons full of furs and amber, farmers driving cattle to market,ordinary people living ordinary lives that have nothing to do with the political tensions that shape his world.
It's strangely comforting to see that normal life continues even here, in the realm of the Barbarian King. Whatever else Ivah might be, his people don't look oppressed or terrorized. They look... content. Prosperous, even.
The observation sits uneasily with everything Bellamy has been told about Everitt, about the barbaric kingdom ruled through fear and violence. Either the stories are wrong, or Ivah is a far more complex ruler than anyone realizes.
Or both.
The deeper he rides into enemy territory, the more Bellamy's rational mind screams at him to turn back. This is madness, pure and simple. He has no plan, no excuse for being here, no explanation that will satisfy anyone—including himself—for why he's risking his life and his kingdom's security on what amounts to a fool's errand.
But his heart knows the truth even if his mind refuses to acknowledge it.
He can't stop thinking about Ivah.
Six days and nights of trying to forget those dark eyes, that knowing smile, the way it felt to be truly seen by someone who looked past titles and expectations to the man underneath. Six days of telling himself it meant nothing, that it was just physical attraction mixed with adrenaline and proximity.
Six days of lying to himself until the need to see Ivah again became a physical ache in his chest.
But what if he's wrong? What if those moments in the dungeon were nothing more than a calculated manipulation? Ivah had escaped, afterall—broken free of his chains and vanished into the night like smoke. What if every gentle word, every heated look, every promise of connection had been nothing but a masterful performance designed to make Bellamy drop his guard?
What if Ivah sees him as nothing more than a useful enemy—someone to be seduced and discarded when his purpose is served?
The thought makes his stomach clench with something that feels dangerously like heartbreak. But still he rides on, drawn by hope and desperation and the terrible certainty that he'll go mad if he doesn't at least try to find out the truth.
