"Oh, we're being formal now?" Ivah leans back in his throne, studying Bellamy with casual interest. "How delightfully proper of you, Prince of Mirn. Though I have to say, your disguise could use some work."
A few of the guards chuckle at that, the sound echoing in the vast hall. Bellamy feels heat rise in his cheeks, but underneath the embarrassment is a growing certainty that he's made a terrible mistake.
"Tell me," Ivah continues, rising from his throne with fluid grace, "what exactly did you think you were accomplishing? Did you honestly believe you could ride into my kingdom undetected? Or perhaps you thought I'd be so charmed by your boldness that I'd simply let you walk free?"
Bellamy bites his tongue to keep his words safely in his mouth. He can’t say what he really thought, or what he really wanted. He can’t let this man know he came all this way drawn by his own traitorous heart.
“My guards tell me you came without a fight,” Ivah continues, descending the steps slowly. There comes more laughter from the assembled men, harsh and mocking. Bellamy's jaw tightens, but he forces himself to remain silent even as humiliation burns through his veins.
"Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Ivah muses, circling Bellamy like a wolf studying prey. "You weren't exactly impressive on the battlefield either. What was it—thirty seconds? A minute at most before you were flat on your back, completely at my mercy?"
The memory should fill him with shame, but instead it sends unwelcome heat through Bellamy's body. Even now, even convinced that Ivah sees him as nothing more than a convenient enemy, his treacherous body responds to the recollection of being pinned beneath that powerful frame.
"Of course," Ivah continues, stopping directly in front of him, "perhaps that was your plan all along? To throw yourself at my feet and hope I'd find you entertaining enough to keep?"
The words are a perfect echo of Bellamy's deepest fears—that he's nothing more than a plaything, a momentary amusement for the Barbarian King's entertainment.
"That's not—" Bellamy begins, then cuts himself off. Anything he says will only give Ivah more ammunition, more ways to twist the knife.
"No? Then please, enlighten us. What brings the precious Prince of Mirn to my doorstep, dressed like a common merchant and sneaking through my lands like a thief?"
The hall falls silent, every eye trained on Bellamy as they wait for his answer. He can feel the weight of their attention.
"As I told your men," Bellamy says finally, his voice steady despite the tremor he feels inside, "I was conducting reconnaissance."
Ivah throws back his head and laughs—a rich, genuinely amused sound that makes Bellamy feel smaller than all the mockery combined. The guards join in the laughter now, their amusement echoing off the stone walls.
"Either you're the worst spy in history," Ivah says, his voice still warm with mirth, "or you're lying through those pretty teeth."
The endearment sends another confused spike of heat through Bellamy's body, even as his heart continues to ache. How can Ivah call him pretty in that same tone he might use to describe a particularly amusing pet?
"Guards," Ivah says without taking his gaze off Bellamy's face. "Leave us."
"Your Majesty—" one of them begins, concern clear in his voice.
"Leave. Us." The authority in Ivah's voice brooks no argument, the words cutting through the air like a blade.
The hall empties quickly, boots echoing against stone as the soldiers file out. In moments, they're alone in the vast space, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the laughter and conversation.
Bellamy has a single moment to regret everything that has led him to this point, before Ivah moves closer to him. The sound of metal against leather makes Bellamy's heart stop as Ivah draws a dagger from his hip, the blade gleaming in the torchlight.
Bellamy flinches reflexively, his bound hands jerking against their restraints even though there's nowhere to go. But instead of raising the weapon, Ivah drops to one knee before him, bringing them to eye level. His movements are deliberate, careful, as he reaches for Bellamy's wrists.
The blade slides between rope and skin with practiced precision, and the bonds fall away in neat cuts. Bellamy flexes his fingers as circulation returns to his hands, the relief immediate and overwhelming.
Ivah sets the dagger aside and takes Bellamy's freed wrists in his hands, his thumbs tracing over the raw marks left by the ropes. Then one hand rises to cup Bellamy's face, thumb brushing across the bruise blooming on his cheek where the guard had struck him. The touch is so gentle, so reverent, that Bellamy forgets to breathe.
"I instructed them not to hurt you," Ivah says, and though his touch remains tender, there's iron in his voice—a promise of retribution for the men who had dared to harm what was his. The genuine anger makes Bellamy's heart stutter.
Bellamy inhales sharply, unable to come to terms with what's happening. The contrast between what he'd expected and this careful gentleness leaves him reeling, hope and confusion warring in his chest.
Ivah's thumb moves to brush across Bellamy's lips with the same careful reverence, and Bellamy can't stop himself from leaning into the contact, his face flushing with desperate longing.
"Now then," Ivah says softly, his voice intimate and warm in a way that makes Bellamy's knees weak. "What do you think you're doing here, little prince?"
The pet name is spoken with such tenderness that Bellamy feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He wants to believe it means something, wants to trust in the gentle touch and warm voice, but he's been so wrong about everything else.
"I... I don't know," he whispers, because it's the only honest answer he can give.
