Page 9 of Noble Charms

Aria almost smiled again. Almost. “Sure, Noble.” He approached the girls, gathering their reins.

“So, has it worked? You harbor no affection?” Noble asked, because Aria treated the horses with a kindness he had yet to show to Noble himself.

Aria led the mares towards the parking stable. “To you? No. To the horses? Maybe. But there’s no need for a horse in New Hieroph, anyway. The trams cover the whole city.”

“Hm. You seem more certain in your affection for the horses than your affection for your ex-lover.” Noble followed along, hands tucked into his trousers. Aria ignored his goading and handed the horn-bearer the reins and explained the reservation of their stay. Noble didn’t pay attention to their mumbled discussion of payment—until Aria said, “Lord Noble Yves St. Clair, yes,” as some kind of confirmation.

“What?” Noble said, stepping forward.

“Nothin’, yer highness,” said the attendant. “Honored t’have you’s a guest. Dinner’s paid up already inside.”

Noble wanted to correct him—he was no highness. At best, he should be referred to as ‘My Lord,’ but if Noble learned anything about the common man in the last four years, it was that they had no idea how the line of monarchy actually worked. Not that he blamed anyone. The appropriate terms of address for his family could fill an entire textbook. As he and Aria walked towards the front of the inn, he said, “You used my name?”

“Yes, of course. You’ll get better service that way. More attention. Better rooms.”

Noble said, “Exactly the reason to not.”

“What?”

Noble stretched his back, spine popping after the day of sitting. “We shouldn’t use my name at inns like this. I’ve no guard. It took years to convince my family I didn’t need one, and my only real line of defense is that no one knows I’m a royal unless I announce myself as one. I could be targeted—harassed—” or worse. He wouldn’t even speak the word assassination aloud. “We should keep my title to ourselves.”

Aria glanced Noble up and down, visibly skeptical.

“What?” Noble grinned, preening and proud of himself. It wasn’t the first time someone had been surprised he didn’t mean to benefit from his family’s many fortunes.

“You don’t pass for a common man as easily as you think you do, My Lord.” Aria opened the door to the inn and held it for Noble to pass, which he did, frowning all the while.

“I do so.”

“You’ve not once opened a door yourself,” said Aria. He seemed to hesitate before he added, “And, well. There’s the matter of your appearance.”

Noble tried not to scoff in offense. “What’s wrong with the way I look?”

“Nothing is wrong with it,” Aria said, stepping through an archway, gesturing towards the dining hall visible at the end of the corridor. “But it’s not ordinary. At least not to my elven eyes.”

“What does that mean?” Noble asked. Aria didn't reply except to track a gaze down from Noble's head to his feet, lips pursed in thought. Noble said, “That. That look—what does that look mean?”

Aria stood in the dining room doorway and said, “You look noble, Noble. You look like a prince. Or near to one.”

Noble had no reply as the words sank into his very bones. First, he was deeply offended. King Agolde carried himself like he was the Sun God’s gift to humanity—and perhaps he was—and his children kept their noses upturned to the rest of the kingdom. To be thrown in with their lot meant Aria spat in the face of all Noble’s hard work to blend in with the common man.

Second, his stomach flipped, and his heart went warm, and he didn’t understand the tingling in his extremities. Aria thought him noble in appearance.

“Wow,” said Aria, a smile growing upon his pink mouth. “I finally said something that struck you silent. I’ll remember this.”

Noble could have punched the air to celebrate his victory. A smile. Aria smiled. Noble found himself again and smiled back. “You shouldn’t get used to it. I learned a lot at Argosin, but my ability to chatter on was nature-made.”

“I don’t get you.” Aria sighed. “You call yourself Noble. But you’re insistent on acting like a common man.”

“It’s what my nanny-maid called me. Noble Yves. It became the way I introduced myself.”

“You could just go by Yves.”

“I could.” He smiled. “And I do.”

“Then I can call you that instead⁠—"

“I like for my friends to call me Noble. Everyone else, when socializing, can call me Yves. It’s how I can tell friends from allies from enemies.”