The irony isn't lost on him.
When the door closes behind them with a soft but decisive click, Harwick turns to face Bellamy with the particular stillness that precedes a storm. For a moment, neither of them speaks, and Bellamy can hear his own heartbeat in the silence.
"You were seen," Harwick says without preamble.
The words land like hammer blows, but Bellamy forces his expression to remain neutral. Years of court training serve him wellnow—he's learned to school his features even when his world is crumbling around him.
"Seen doing what?" he asks, proud that his voice doesn't betray the turmoil within.
"Crossing into Everitt territory. Three days ago, by Sergeant Morris on border patrol." Harwick's voice is carefully controlled, but Bellamy can hear the anger simmering beneath—not just anger, but hurt. The pain of a man who's discovered that someone he loves has been lying to him. "Care to explain what the heir to Mirn's throne was doing in enemy territory? Alone?"
Bellamy's mind races through possible explanations, discarding each one as quickly as it forms. Hunting expedition? Morris would know the prince's preferred hunting grounds. Trade negotiations? That would require an official escort. Reconnaissance? Far too dangerous to attempt alone.
For a moment, he considers denial—claiming Morris was mistaken, that he'd been somewhere else entirely. But the steady weight of Harwick's gaze makes it clear that would be pointless. The man has raised him since childhood, taught him everything from swordplay to statecraft. He knows all of Bellamy's tells, can read his expressions like a favorite book.
"I've been working on building peace between our kingdoms," Bellamy says finally, lifting his chin with as much dignity as he can muster. The half-truth feels better than an outright lie, at least.
Harwick goes very still, his eyes widening in surprise. Whatever answer he'd expected, it clearly wasn't that. For a moment, confusion flickers across his weathered features—surprise that his protégé mightbe attempting diplomacy, perhaps even a flicker of pride that Bellamy would take such initiative.
"Peace?" he repeats slowly, as if testing the word on his tongue.
"Yes. Diplomatic relations. Finding common ground." The words come easier now that he's committed to this version of the truth. "Someone needs to try, and traditional channels haven't been successful."
It's not entirely false—peace is something they've discussed, even if it's wrapped up in far more personal motivations. And there have been moments, lying in Ivah's arms in the afterglow of passion, when they've spoken of a future where their kingdoms might coexist without the constant threat of war.
"Diplomatic relations," Harwick says carefully, and Bellamy can see him trying to reconcile this information with what he knows of recent events. "You've been conducting unauthorized negotiations with a hostile foreign power."
"I've been trying to prevent a war that would cost thousands of lives," Bellamy corrects, allowing some heat to creep into his voice. "I've been trying to find solutions that our councils seem incapable of imagining."
Harwick begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back in the military bearing that's become second nature to him. Bellamy watches the familiar rhythm—three steps to the window, pivot, three steps back—and remembers being a child, standing at attention while Harwick explained the complexities of battlefield tactics with the same measured movements.
"Have you..." Harwick swallows hard, as if the words are difficult to form. "Have you seen the Barbarian King himself?"
"I have."
The admission hangs in the air between them like a sword waiting to fall. Harwick stops pacing, his face going pale beneath his weathered tan.
"What in the devil are you thinking?" The explosion comes suddenly, Harwick's careful composure finally cracking like a dam under pressure. "You could have been killed! Or worse! That man is a savage, a conqueror who's destroyed four kingdoms—"
"He would never hurt me," Bellamy interrupts, the words coming out with more certainty than he intends.
The statement seems to echo in the sudden silence that follows. Harwick stares at him in shock, his face cycling through disbelief and horror.
"And how, exactly, would you know that with such certainty?" Harwick's voice is dangerously quiet.
"He's had ample chance and has never acted on it," Bellamy says, lifting his chin defiantly. "If he wanted to harm me, he could have done so already."
"He could be biding his time," Harwick counters, his soldier's mind already working through tactical possibilities. "Earning your trust, making you feel safe, while he plans the perfect moment to strike. Or to use you."
Bellamy shakes his head firmly. "It's not like that."
Harwick goes very still, studying Bellamy's face with the intensity he usually reserves for battle maps and strategic planning. Something in Bellamy's expression, some telltale sign that years of training have taught him to recognize, makes his eyes narrow.
"What aren't you telling me?" he asks quietly.
Bellamy opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again, unable to form the words that would either damn him completely or provide the explanation Harwick is clearly seeking. The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken truths and terrible implications.
And then understanding dawns in Harwick's eyes, slow and horrifying, like watching a man realize he's been standing on a battlefield moments before the charge begins.
