Bellamy's hand moves instinctively to his cheek, where the guard's strike has left a purpling bruise. "Tree branch," he says quickly. "I was riding through the forest and didn't see it in time."
Harwick's eyes narrow. The lie is weak and they both know it—the mark is too precise, too clearly the shape of knuckles rather than wood. But he doesn't call Bellamy on it directly.
"I see," Harwick says slowly. Then, before Bellamy can react, the general's weathered hand shoots out and pulls aside the collar of Bellamy's shirt.
The exposure is brief, but it's enough. Harwick's eyes widen as he takes in the constellation of marks scattered across Bellamy's throatand collarbone—bruises of an entirely different nature, dark and damning and impossible to explain away as accidents.
Bellamy smacks Harwick's hand away with more force than necessary, yanking his collar back into place. Heat floods his face as he glares at the older man.
"I'm fine," he snaps. "It's none of your concern."
"Isn't it?" Harwick raises both eyebrows, his expression a mixture of alarm and something that might be understanding. "You often make your welfare my concern, lad. Especially when you come back from mysterious overnight trips looking like you've been—"
"There's nothing to be worried about," Bellamy interrupts, his voice sharp with defensive anger. "I told you, I went riding. I needed to clear my head after everything that's happened."
Harwick studies his face for a long moment, clearly weighing whether to push the issue. Finally, he nods, but the suspicion in his eyes hasn't dimmed.
"Very well," he says carefully. "But next time you feel the need for... extended solitude, you take an escort. I don't care what kind of thinking you need to do. The risk isn't worth it."
The way he emphasizes certain words makes it clear he doesn't believe a word of Bellamy's story, but he's choosing not to press—for now.
"Understood," Bellamy replies, relieved to be moving away from dangerous territory.
"Good. Now go clean up and report to your mother. She's been worried sick." Harwick pauses, then adds quietly, "And Bellamy? Be careful. Some mistakes can't be undone."
The warning sends ice through Bellamy's veins, but he forces himself to nod calmly. "Of course."
Bellamy heads for the castle, feeling Harwick's eyes on his back until he disappears through the main doors. Once he's safely in his chambers with the door locked behind him, he sags against the wall and lets out a shaky breath.
Harwick knows something. Maybe not the full truth, but enough to be suspicious, enough to be concerned. The general has known him since childhood, has watched him grow from boy to man, and is far too experienced in reading people to be easily fooled.
He's done it. He's lied to Harwick, to his people, to everyone who trusts him to put their welfare above his own desires. He's betrayed every principle he was raised to uphold, and for what? One night with a man who is, by every measure that matters, his enemy.
But even as self-recrimination floods through him, even as he hates himself for the lies and the deception, he can't bring himself to regret it. Because beneath his shirt, something burns like a brand against his chest—not a physical token, but the memory of Ivah's touch, his voice, his promise of safe passage.
For the first time in weeks, the ache in his chest feels less like an open wound and more like hope.
Chapter 10
Things get easier with time, as he learns how to be more discreet. His golden hair remains untouched, catching the afternoon light as he rides, but he's traded his royal garments for the simple traveling clothes of a minor noble—well-made but unremarkable, the kind worn by younger sons of distant houses or successful merchants' heirs. No crests, no identifying marks, nothing that would immediately proclaim his true identity to casual observers.
It's a calculated risk, but one that's become necessary. The elaborate deceptions of his early visits had grown increasingly difficult to maintain, and Ivah's court has grown accustomed to their king's mysterious blonde lover who arrives without fanfare and departs just as quietly.
The Everitt border guards recognize him now, though they know him only as "the king's guest." Their treatment is respectful but curious—they clearly understand that he's someone of importance, someone their king values enough to grant free passage through the kingdom, but they ask no questions about his origins or purpose.
"Welcome back, my lord," the captain says with a slight bow as he examines Bellamy's papers—simple travel documents that identify him only as a lord from the eastern provinces. "His Majesty is expecting you. Shall I arrange an escort?"
"That's kind, but I know the way," Bellamy replies, and it's true. These roads have become familiar over the months, each landmark astepping stone on the path to something that feels increasingly like home.
The ride through Everitt's countryside reveals the same prosperity he's noted on previous visits, but now he sees it with different eyes. This isn't just enemy territory anymore—it's Ivah's domain, shaped by his vision and protected by his strength. The villages he passes through show signs of genuine contentment, and more than once he catches glimpses of his own people among the crowds—refugees who've found sanctuary here, traders who've discovered profitable opportunities despite the political tensions.
The castle courtyard is busier than usual when he arrives, filled with the controlled chaos of a kingdom at the height of its power. Servants move with practiced efficiency, craftsmen work on ongoing improvements, and in the training yards, warriors drill with the discipline of men who know their skills might mean the difference between victory and defeat.
But it's the way people look at him that strikes Bellamy most. There's recognition in their glances—not of his true identity, but of his significance to their king. Servants bow slightly as he passes, guards nod with respectful acknowledgment, and courtiers study him with the careful attention reserved for those who hold real influence.
His reputation precedes him here. The Barbarian King's golden lover, the mysterious blonde who appears and disappears like some figure from legend. They know nothing of his name or his lineage, nothing of the crown he's destined to wear or the kingdom he represents. To them, he's simply someone their king treasures enough to grant unprecedented access and protection.
"Lord Bellamy," a familiar voice calls, and he turns to see Commander Randall approaching with a welcoming smile. The older warrior has become something of an unofficial liaison during these visits, ensuring Bellamy's needs are met without requiring Ivah to neglect his royal duties. "His Majesty is in council, but he's asked me to see you settled. Your usual chambers?"
