The words are delivered with the practiced ease of a man who's made such threats before and followed through on them. Bellamy forces himself to breathe slowly, to think past the fear that threatens to overwhelm him.
This is a coordinated operation, planned well in advance. They knew his route, knew his schedule, positioned themselves perfectly for an ambush. Which means they've been watching him. For how long? And more importantly—do they know about his visits to Everitt?
"King Kent grows tired of your kingdom's prosperity while his people struggle," the leader continues as they begin to move, the horses settling into a steady pace that eats up the miles. "Your grain exports, your favorable trade agreements, your cozy relationship with the Eastern Duchies—all of it built on his kingdom's exclusion."
Bellamy can see nothing through the dark good and it makes the world contract to a confusion of sounds and sensations. The creak of leather, the smell of unwashed men and nervous horses, the rhythmic thud of hoofbeats as they begin to move north toward the mountains.
The rope around his middle chafes with every step the horse takes, and his bound wrists have gone numb from the tight bindings. His head pounds from the glancing blow he'd taken, and his ribs ache where the mailed fist had connected, but he forces himself to catalog these discomforts rather than dwell on them. Pain means he's alive. Pain means he can still fight.
As the hours pass and the familiar sounds of home fade into the distance, Bellamy tries to memorize details that might help him escape or help rescuers find him. The horses are moving at a steady canter now, covering ground quickly but not at a pace that would exhaust themounts. Professional kidnappers, then, who plan for a long journey rather than a quick grab.
The air grows colder as they climb into the foothills, and Bellamy can smell pine trees and mountain stone. North. They're definitely taking him north, toward the mountain passes where King Kent rules his struggling kingdom with the desperate cruelty of a man who has nothing left to lose.
"Comfortable, Your Highness?" the leader asks mockingly during one of their brief rest stops. "I do hope the accommodations meet your royal standards."
Bellamy doesn't dignify the taunt with a response, but he files away the information that they're confident enough to stop periodically. Either they're certain they won't be pursued, or they're already deep enough into hostile territory that pursuit would be suicide.
As the horses resume their journey and the night deepens around them, Bellamy's thoughts inevitably turn to Ivah. The Barbarian King will be waiting at whatever meeting place they'd agreed upon, will assume Bellamy has simply chosen not to come. Will believe, perhaps, that the Prince of Mirn has finally tired of their dangerous liaison and decided to end it without explanation.
He'll never know that Bellamy was captured trying to reach him, trying to warn him, trying to protect what they'd built together. Will never know that the silence isn't choice but enforced absence, not rejection but imprisonment.
The thought is worse than the fear of what awaits him in King Kent's hands. Worse than the threat of political catastrophe or personal injury. Because it means that even if he survives whatever ordeal liesahead, even if he somehow escapes or gets rescued, the damage to his relationship with Ivah may be irreparable.
How do you explain months of silence to someone you love? How do you rebuild trust that's been shattered by circumstances beyond your control? How do you prove that love was stronger than duty when duty is what ultimately separated you?
As the horses carry him deeper into enemy territory and further from everything he's ever called home, Bellamy closes his eyes behind the blindfold and tries to memorize the feeling of Ivah's hands in his hair, the sound of that deep voice murmuring endearments in languages older than kingdoms.
Because he has the terrible suspicion that those memories may be all he has left of the love that transformed his world.
The rest is just darkness and the sound of hoofbeats carrying him toward an uncertain fate, while somewhere behind him, the man he loves waits for a prince who will never come.
Chapter 13
The throne room of Everitt feels emptier these days, though Ivah can't quite articulate why. Perhaps it's the way shadows seem to linger longer in the corners, or how the morning light that streams through the tall windows fails to warm the black stone beneath his feet. Or perhaps it's simply that everything feels hollow when the person who gives your world meaning is absent.
He sits in his chair of carved black oak, staring at reports that blur together into meaningless words, his mind occupied with more pressing concerns than trade disputes and territorial squabbles. The parchments before him speak of successful harvests, increased tax revenues, diplomatic overtures from kingdoms seeking favorable trade agreements—all the markers of a prosperous realm at the height of its power.
None of it matters.
It's been a week since Bellamy failed to appear at their planned meeting.
Seven days of waiting at the border crossing like some lovesick youth, of sending subtle inquiries through his network of spies and informants, of telling himself that the Prince of Mirn has simply been delayed by duties or discovered by suspicious advisors. Seven days of growing certainty that something is very, very wrong.
Ivah knows Bellamy's patterns, knows the careful way he plans their meetings, the meticulous attention to detail that allows him to slip away from his royal duties without raising suspicion. The man whorisked everything to see him isn't the type to simply abandon what they've built together without explanation.
Which means something has happened to him. Something that prevented him from sending even the briefest message, the smallest sign that he was alive and thinking of their next encounter.
The possibilities that crowd Ivah's mind in the dark hours before dawn are uniformly horrific. Discovery by hostile forces, political assassination, accidents during travel, betrayal by someone close to him. Each scenario plays out in vivid detail, feeding the cold fear that has taken residence in his chest like a living thing.
"Your Majesty?" Madden appears in the doorway, his usually composed demeanor showing cracks of concern. The seneschal has served Ivah for fifteen years, has seen him through wars and political crises and personal losses, but he's never seen his king like this—restless, distracted, consumed by worry for someone whose identity he can only guess at.
"Yes?"
"The morning council session, sir. Lord Commander Thale is waiting with the other—"
"Cancel it." Ivah waves a dismissive hand, his attention already drifting back to the map spread across his side table—the one showing every road, every village, every possible route between his kingdom and Bellamy's. "Reschedule for tomorrow."
"Sir, this is the third session you've—"
