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The courtyard resonates with the sounds of fighting — grunts of exertion; the melodic ring of steel against steel. The rain falls steadily over the makeshift battlefield, although Krauser scarcely notices it. He’s already drenched to the bone with sweat.

Despite the inclement weather, a small crowd has gathered, of various servants of the crown, the stable boy, even one of the dogs. It’s quite a spectacle to behold, after all: two opponents clashing with all their might, one a squire wearing a helmet, the other a knight — Commander of the Royal Guard, and the son of the King’s Shield himself.

Some years and several inches stand between them, yet they’re surprisingly well-matched; what his young charge lacks in training and finesse is made up for in tenacity. Their sparring is a delicate dance, a give and take, and Krauser feels the licks of pride sparking within his chest as he sees so much of himself in each thrust, each riposte.

‘You’re improving,’ he says, in a rare moment to catch his breath, as they circle one another slowly, warily. ‘I’ll make a passable swordsman of you yet.’

The comment jibes at his student — as he had known it would — and he quickly backsteps to evade a stab aimed at his midsection.

Back into the fray, then.

As the fighting wears on, the ranks of the onlookers grow. Before long the courtyard is filled with cheers and jeers alike, some for Krauser, some for his unlikely contender. The tide seems to be shifting steadily in the latter’s favour. Perhaps he should be concerned that so many would gladly see a young upstart knock him flat on his arse. 

He sees it in his student, steadily, like the first bloom after the frost has thawed: a rising boldness. More risks taken, more parries won. With this renewed confidence, though, comes hubris — Krauser chooses his moment carefully, and when his opponent is in position, he advances with a sweep of his blade. 

The strike is easily dodged, but that was his intent. The only room his opponent has to manoeuvre is backwards, into a patch of sludgy mud where the rain has turned the ground to mire. His opponent slips, staggering to a knee, and Krauser promptly raps his sword against the helmeted head with a deafening clang. 

Krauser sheathes his sword and offers his opponent his hand. 

His charge refuses it, stubbornly, and clambours upright. Uninjured, save perhaps for a bruised pride. 

‘Again,’ Krauser barks. ‘Carelessness on the battlefield would cost you your life.’

Their contest resumes in earnest. His opponent is more cautious now, though no less ferocious, and for a time they seem to be at an impasse, circling each other as two beasts of prey locked in a deadly battle for territory. 

‘Milord!’

He hesitates for only the briefest of moments, and his student takes full advantage — a deft forward hop, and all at once the sword’s tip is at Krauser’s throat. 

His vanquisher holds the blade in place, using the flat of it to tilt up his chin. It was an easy win — too easy — and yet he cannot deny that his student learned it from him. His pride smarts, though he scarcely notices it over the thrum of pleasure singing through his veins, spurred by the knowledge that his charge may yet surpass him someday. 

With a flourish, the squire lifts the plate of his helmet, revealing only his eyes and the straight, proud line of his nose. A regal face: the heir to the throne.

‘Milord!’ 

The voice chimes in again, and for the first time Krauser gives it his full attention. It’s one of the handmaidens, and she stands just at the edge of the mud, afraid to sully the hem of her skirts in the filth. 

‘What is it, Edith?’ 

‘It’s the Queen, sir. She—’

Whatever she means to say — whatever warning had been on her lips — it’s too late. 

Only trumpets could make more of a fanfare of the Queen’s arrival; she cuts a figure of severe elegance, towering a head taller than many of the men in the castle, her shapely figure clad in a sweeping pale gown. One by one, as the spectators notice her presence, they drop to their knees in reverence. 

As duty dictates, Krauser takes a knee, though it gives him no pleasure to do so. The Queen is only such by marriage, yet she rules the castle as though she were born into the role. 

His charge is so buoyed by his success that the reaction is sluggish: too slow. Freezing in place, as though the Queen might somehow fail to see what plainly lies before her, the only one still standing in a courtyard of obedient servants to the crown. 

‘Are you quite finished with your childish trifles?’

Her voice booms across the space, echoing about the stone walls. Even the hound seems loath to attract her ire, his barks of encouragement now silent. 

The Queen treads down the steps from the castle and straight into the mud, making a face for only a moment at the feel of it beneath her. She strides towards the sparring partners with impossible dignity, head held high — hips swaying from the burden of her rounded belly, ripe with child — and from his vantage on the ground, Krauser feels strangely small. 

‘Your Majesty, I apologise,’ he says, suitably chastened. ‘It was my—’

‘Enough.’

The Queen follows the command with a sharp wave of her gloved hand. She might well have stolen the very voice from Krauser’s throat with how quickly his tongue stills. 

With a few careful strides, the Queen is upon them, and her gaze turns not to Krauser, but to his charge. Anyone else might fail to recognise the face obscured in part by the steel helmet, but those eyes give it away — the same deep, sparkling blue as the king himself. 

‘Remove it,’ the Queen snaps. 

Much as his charge might rebel against her in private, meeting face to face with her quells any defiance. Carefully, the helmet is removed, and the squire’s identity is made known to all. 

A ripple moves through the crowd at the sight: the mane of golden hair, unmistakable even tamed into a long braid; the soft lips arched in the shape of a cherub’s bow. 

Princess Léonie. 

If there were any uncertainty as to the identity of the one beneath the helmet, the Queen makes no show of her surprise — it strikes Krauser now how careless they have been to believe she was unaware of what has been going on beneath her nose. 

She reaches forward, taking her victim’s chin into her hand, and turns it upwards so that blue eyes might meet steel-grey. 

‘Do you think me a fool, child?’

A panicked shake of the head, but her grip only tightens. She leans closer, that her next words won’t carry across the courtyard; Krauser can scarcely make them out from his genuflect. 

‘Your father might encourage your play-acting, but I will not tolerate it. You are a princess, my dear. You will learn to carry yourself as one of her station.’

A timid nod, and the grasp is finally released. The Queen straightens up and turns to Krauser next. 

‘On your feet.’

Krauser obeys at once, rising to match her height.

‘You.’

She spits the word as if he were little more than a mongrel begging for scraps at the butcher’s door.

‘Any other knight would be stripped of his title for such a transgression. I will consult with the King as to the nature of your punishment. Count yourself fortunate that your father is who he is; do not mistake any leniency for absolution. You are dismissed.’

At the sight of the helpless look in his charge’s eyes, he hesitates for just a moment — it’s long enough that the Queen’s face contorts with ire, and he promptly bows his head and retreats.

The Queen’s voice follows him as he makes his exit, booming dangerously over the courtyard.

‘Have you all nothing better to do than gawk? Return to your duties at once!’

***

As promised, his punishment is only a portion of what it might have been for anyone else — his pay is to be docked for a month, and he’ll split his time between his role as Commander and menial guard duties. It is a huge insult: if her intention had been to demean him, it worked.

The worst of it all, though, is not his own punishment — it’s Leon’s. Outside of his meals and studies, Leon has been restricted to his chambers for the foreseeable future, until he proves himself repentant to the Queen. 

No more sparring. No more strolls through the countryside. No more giving Leon a taste of freedom to be the boy he’s always dreamt of being. 

He knows what most people see when they look at Her Highness: the lanky, awkward princess who fills silences with jesting and is always, always, kind to those below her station. Yet Krauser sees the child who once gadded about in the ponds trying futilely to catch tadpoles in cupped hands; the fine soldier that might someday have come of Krauser’s careful tutelage, if only things had been different.

He sees his little lion. His Leon.

In truth, he knew the risks when they embarked upon their folly, and yet he did it anyway. Each concession was a flouting of the norms, of the rules that bind him to the Crown. Bad enough that he not only allows — encourages — Leon to live as a boy in these rare, stolen moments; it’s immeasurably worse that he ever went along with Leon’s request to train him with the sword to begin with. 

It hardly came as a surprise when Leon first confided his secret. As a child, he’d made for a terrible princess, always getting into scrapes, returning to the castle from a day’s adventures with grazed knees and a trembling lip. His mother and father had only been too happy to indulge him, teaching him to ride a horse and allowing him to wear a simple tunic in place of the stiff, unforgiving dresses expected of a princess. They had doted upon their child as though he’d been their trueborn son, no matter what the court might say amongst themselves. 

Things had changed after the Queen died. The loss only forged an even stronger bond between father and child, yet the council never ceased in pressuring the King to remarry. He needed a male heir to secure his legacy, to rule with a steadfast hand over the kingdom. 

Lady Dimitrescu had driven the first wedge between them, arriving in opulent finery from her castle in Wallachia, her gaggle of daughters in tow. For some years now her immense presence has cast a shadow over the castle; it’s difficult to remember a time before she arrived. 

If there had been any hope of salvaging the bond Leon and his father once shared, it had been shattered several moons ago when Queen Alcina revealed she was with child. Now, the council waits with bated breath to see if the babe should be the much-craved son and heir. 

She was the one who insisted that Leon dress as a princess should — the one who would sooner have him practicing embroidery and etiquette than gambolling about on horseback. 

It’s become a miserable existence for Leon, who used to enjoy so much liberty. His brief reprieves in the sparring ground have become something of a safe haven, and now they will be no more. 

However Leon has been faring since his isolation, Krauser is not privy. Save some shared glances as they cross paths in the hallways, they have not had leave to speak to one another since their ill-fated spar. 

Krauser distracts himself from his predicament with his duties, commanding his men with an iron fist; he knows that they think him too soft when it comes to Leon, but he shows no such mercy among their ranks. 

***

Krauser rolls his shoulders, shaking off the burden of the day’s labours. His bed already calls to him, but it’s not quite time for the embrace of sleep just yet; first, he must oversee the changing of the guard.

He patrols the halls, dismissing his men as the next guard takes over duty. All the while he does his usual checks; it is as quiet as he should expect it to be, but for one room in particular. 

The arrival of the babe is imminent — the Queen lies sequestered in the birthing chamber with a retinue of midwives to see to her every need. He puts the sounds coming from within out of his mind. They are not meant for his ears. 

The King is within the royal chambers, ostensibly asleep, although Krauser doubts that he can rest when his child will soon be here. More than likely he sits awake poring over his papers, preparing for tomorrow. 

The Queen’s youngest daughter holds a garishly-appointed room near the royal quarters. He has only been inside once, when he had to pull Leon off of her during some childish squabble.

He pauses outside Leon’s door, with a perfunctory nod at the sentinel stationed outside it. He knows his men are loyal to him — would never dare divulge his indiscretion, if he were to slip into Leon’s chambers just long enough to see that he is well. The temptation is almost bewitching; the inevitable tug that he always feels in Leon’s presence, so much more than the bond of a prince and his sworn protector. 

Perhaps it’s better this way, he muses, as he strides down the long corridor towards his quarters. Those flutterings of something more are a dangerous thing: reckless. Leon will one day marry a noble in some suitable political marriage, and entertaining anything to the contrary is as foolhardy as it is selfish. 

He can blame no one but himself, he reasons — his first mistake was believing he and Leon could ever be equals. The second, far graver error was knowing this to be true and continuing with the folly anyway. It will only make the wound smart more keenly when their duties finally drive them apart.

It has been almost a month since they last exchanged more than pleasantries with one another. On those rare occasions when their paths cross, any attempts at conversation are met with brisk tuts of disapproval from Leon’s chaperone, Lady Miranda. 

Krauser’s efforts at distracting himself only go so far. His thoughts turn to His Highness so often that it's shameful. 

The weariness is heavy in his bones as he lets himself into his room. He sheds his garb and crawls into bed, willing slumber to pull him under without a fight. 

***

They are by the river; Krauser watches as Leon rolls the cuffs of his trousers up from his ankles and dips a toe experimentally into the water. He exclaims at how cold it is, and Krauser cannot help but laugh.

There is no one expecting them back at the castle — no need to steal about in secrecy. The day is theirs. 

Leon beckons him to the edge of the water, and even though Krauser knows better than to take the bait, he goes along anyway. He is rewarded for his foolishness with a splash straight to the face, and the resulting peals of laughter from the prince echo about the lea. 

Krauser marches straight for Leon and scoops him off his feet, fully intending to duck him into the water, but something in Leon’s eyes arrests him — something fond, as though he never wants this moment to end.

Leon slips an arm around his neck and pulls himself close, laying a kiss upon—

Krauser jolts awake. His heart pounds against his breast; he can still feel the warmth of Leon’s arm draped around him. Half-shrouded in dream, he touches the tips of his fingers to his lips. 

He swears he can smell the sweet scent of rosewater in the air, a spectre of his dream. 

He has dreamt of Leon before — often waking with the shame of his arousal in his breeches — but this had felt different. Something about it makes his heart ache all the more. 

He turns onto his side, putting the dream from his thoughts. Yet sleep eludes him, his mind awhirl: whatever had woken him — his own mind denying him the guilty pleasure of wherever the dream would lead, or some noise in the night — he feels too awake now, too alert. 

He closes his eyes and breathes in and out, slowly and carefully. He relaxes each of his limbs, working his way from shoulder to fingertips, and from thigh to toes. 

Heaving a sigh, he rises from his bed and feels about beside it for the basin set out for his ablutions. The water is long-cold now, although perhaps that suits him all the more. When he splashes it onto his face, his neck, it washes away the last lingering shrouds of his dream. 

He considers whether to take the excuse to make a patrol of the household chambers. It must have been some hours since there was last any word of the Queen’s progress. Surely there will be news by now. 

There is a dusty creaking from somewhere in the room — the old wooden boards settling most likely, yet the noise makes his skin prickle with alarm. 

It could be the overly-suspicious mind honed from years of learning to perceive any and all threats to the throne, but he cannot dismiss that it sounds like the soft shifting of the weight of a person. 

He busies himself with drying off on a linen towel and, when he is done, he reaches for the clasp of his window shutters, opening them just wide enough to search out the moon.

On a clear, cloudless night like tonight, its cool glow is a beacon in the ebon sky. The position of it suggests that some hours have passed since midnight, although the heavens are not yet coloured with the oncoming dawn. Enough time to return to sleep, then, and be alert on the morrow.

It is as he clasps the shutters once more that he hears it again: the whine of the floorboards beneath someone's weight. This time, he does not hesitate. 

He grabs the dagger from beneath his pillow and whirls, and grabs his assailant. They tumble, the pair of them, onto the bed; Krauser uses his stature to gain advantage, pinning them to the bed with his body and pressing the tip of his dagger to their throat. 

‘Who sent you?’ he demands. 

The perfume of rosewater fills his nostrils, sweet as a summer’s day.

His would-be assassin uses his momentary lapse in concentration with deadly precision; they shove at the hand wielding the knife, almost disarming him, and as he grapples to maintain his hold they throw the entirety of their weight against him, sending them both rolling onto the floor. 

The collision knocks the air from Krauser’s lungs, but he feels his blade make contact in the tumult and a cry of pain rings out. 

‘It’s me, idiot!’

His blood turns to ice. He knows that voice. 

‘Highness!’

Leon acts as quick as lightning; while Krauser reels in alarm, the prince grabs both his wrists and pins them to the floor above his head. He is strong — stronger than Krauser had ever considered. A twinge of pride cuts through the dismay, making his heart quicken. 

Krauser bucks against the restraint, but it’s scarcely half-hearted. His chest heaves from the exertion, from the thrill of the fight, and Leon’s body is so warm where he straddles his, so warm he can hardly think. 

‘Go with your gut; don’t think,’ Leon taunts, leaning close. His hair surrounds the two of them in a fragrant cascade. ‘Did the master forget his first lesson?’

‘I could have killed you,’ Krauser protests.

‘Oh, to think of the scandal — a prince slain by his sworn protector, on the very day his successor was born!’

There is humour in Leon’s voice, but his words are barbed with hidden meaning. 

His successor — the babe. 

‘A boy?’

Leon heaves a weary sigh. All at once he releases his hold on Krauser and climbs from astride him. Krauser hears his footsteps move across the room, sees the faint shape of his form resolving in the darkness. A flare of light as he strikes the flint, and the room is cast in the flickering glow of a candle’s flame. 

He stays there for a long while, his back to Krauser, head hanging low. In silhouette, he looks like some spectral thing. Krauser half wonders if this is still a dream. 

Krauser rises to his feet and sets his blade aside. He shifts to approach Leon, but the Highness moves first, revolving on the spot. By the candle in his hands, Krauser sees for the first time that he drew blood — the hand that had been so quick to strike his would-be assassin caused harm only to Leon. 

‘Highness,’ he blurts, lurching forward. ‘Your face.’

Brow furrowing, Leon lifts a hand and touches his fingers to his cheek, where a straight cut sweeps neatly across his fair skin, trickling crimson. They come away slick with blood; he inspects them for a moment, lost in his thoughts. 

‘I owe you my thanks, sir,’ he says, lifelessly. ‘Who will want to marry me if I’m damaged?’

Marry you? 

Krauser’s stomach churns unpleasantly. Of course he had known there would come a day when Leon would be expected to wed, but thus far the King has quelled any attempts to arrange a match with the insistence that choosing the future monarch’s betrothed is not a matter to be entered into lightly. 

With the arrival of the babe — a son — Leon is no longer heir to the throne.

This detail does not trouble Krauser; he has known for some time that Leon dreads the thought of presiding over a kingdom when his days could be spent pursuing childish follies, when there is so much of the world to be seen and explored at his leisure. 

If Leon is no longer the heir, however, there is nothing preventing him from being found a suitable husband.

‘The Queen surely isn’t already considering a marriage—’

‘She is,’ Leon interjects. ‘She summoned me to meet the babe and she took great pleasure in telling me she’s already written to someone about me. Some Spaniard. A count.’

Krauser’s pulse pounds in his ears. He had thought they had more time — a piteous deception he has gladly indulged in, refusing to meet the truth face to face. 

Spain is not so very far away, yet it might as well be on the farthest edges of the world. They will be taken from each other, and there will be nothing Krauser can do. 

Blindly, he stumbles toward the bed, barely perching himself on the edge of it. 

He looks down at his hands in his lap — at the nicks and scars covering his fingers, more than a few left by Leon himself.

What use are these hands if he cannot keep the fates from tearing Leon away from him? 

He swallows, thickly, and reminds himself of his station. He is neither Leon’s friend, nor his lover — he is his protector. Soon, they will scarcely be more than strangers. 

‘It will be a good match, God willing,’ he says. 

His words are hollow platitudes. He sees the way they get to Leon, turning his eyes to steel. 

‘I cannot marry,’ he says stubbornly. ‘Do you think I could abide by some husband chosen by her? He’s likely as ugly as he is old.’

Krauser’s heart twists. He doesn’t want such a fate for the man he has loved since they were young — an unhappy marriage brought about to seal an alliance. 

Yet to attempt to fight fate would be futile; they are simply pawns in the plans of others more powerful than them.

‘What will you do, then?’ he asks gently. ‘Why not try to make peace with it?’

Leon worries at his lip; by the candle’s glow, light and shadow war across his face in a complex dance as dejection ripples across his features. A flicker of the flame, and his expression resolves into one of determination. 

‘I’ll leave,’ he pronounces, certainty ringing through his words. ‘I’ll go far away, where she’ll never find me.’

‘Highness—’

‘Come with me.’

The words snatch the breath from Krauser’s chest. How dearly he wants to say yes — to embark upon this folly at Leon’s side.

He says nothing. His heart compels him to agree; his mind reminds him of the countless ways such an act would be impossible. He is frozen in place, gaping stupidly at Leon, blood pounding through his veins.

‘Come with me,’ Leon says, again, softer this time.

He approaches and sets the candle aside on the trunk at the end of the bed. He bridges the gap between them and stands before Krauser; a head shorter than him, he has to stretch up to meet his gaze. Intensity burns in his eyes.

‘I’m nothing without you. Please — come with me.’

It is a strange thing to hear from Leon’s lips when it echoes what Krauser has felt for years. For so long, he has contented himself with the knowledge that even if he cannot have Leon in any meaningful way, at the least he can serve as his sworn protector — ever at his side. 

The arrival of the babe puts such thoughts to a swift, merciless death: whether Leon marries now or indeed never, Krauser will be pledged to offer sword and shield to the legitimate heir. Their paths must never cross again.

It would be so easy for Krauser to cast aside honour and duty alike, if it only meant he could grasp at the chance to stare longer into those eyes; to drink in the sight of those soft lips, of that milky-white skin. 

They would be pursued relentlessly, of course. The King would believe it a kidnapping and charge all the armies at his disposal with returning his child — Krauser would surely be put to the hangman’s noose. 

Krauser opens his mouth to protest, but Leon shushes him with a gentle finger placed against his lips. The Highness’s eyes are afire with hope: with promise. 

It is as though Krauser watches the scene as an onlooker. He finds himself powerless to do anything but stand there, willing and pliant, as Leon drapes his arms around his neck and stretches up on tiptoe to reach him.

His lips are even more supple than Krauser had expected, as they brush against his — warm and tentative and gentle. Even that most tender of kisses is enough to awaken a fire within Krauser. His heart pounds out a tattoo against his ribs, yearning surging towards his cock. 

He could scoop Leon into his arms now as though he weighed nothing at all, could lay him out on the bed. He has never dared to believe the prince might harbour feelings in kindred with his own, but now that the possibility is there, it lays so much before him. 

Instinct impels Krauser’s arms around the prince’s narrow waist; his hands are large enough to almost encircle Leon entirely. He gives in to the urge to return the kiss, and all at once Leon’s lips are parting, soft moans of need trickling out. 

Leon wants this. Wants him. 

To give in would be their downfall. 

With monumental effort, Krauser breaks away — uses his hold on Leon’s middle to push him back. The Highness’s cheeks are pink, eyes glazed with desire; his mouth hangs slack in protest at the sudden cessation of affection. 

‘Highness,’ Krauser says thickly. ‘We can’t.’

Hurt glints in Leon’s eyes. He pushes Krauser’s hands from him brusquely, stepping back. 

‘No. You’re right. You’d sooner die than sully a princess’s virtue.’

His words are carelessly cold, belying the pain in his eyes. He doesn’t want Krauser to see how deeply he has been wounded, but It’s a paltry effort. Krauser knows him too well for that. 

‘Leon—’

‘I’ve stayed too long,’ Leon says, cutting across him. He smooths the crinkles of his nightgown down with his hands, looking at his feet. ‘Please forgive the intrusion.’

He turns away and marches towards the door — Krauser reaches out as if to stop him, but he finds himself rooted in place. 

He watches, wordlessly, staring like a fool as Leon retreats from the room and closes the door with a thud. 

***

Krauser cannot recall a time when he was so stiff and aching, the fruits of a gruelling day’s sparring with the young hopefuls vying for a place on the Royal Guard. He relishes the tenderness of his flesh, the torturous ache that each movement brings — it anchors him, a fitting distraction from the churning of his mind. 

The baptism will take place this evening; he will be in attendance, vowing unwavering fealty to a child too small to conceive of what such a thing might mean. 

The castle has been abustle since the cock’s crow in preparation of the joyous occasion; already messengers have begun to arrive with gifts for the newborn as word spreads across the kingdom.  

Krauser imagines that it must have been this way when Leon was born, as well. It pains him to imagine the King and Queen, resplendent with joy, welcoming their new child to the world with so much hope and happiness. 

If he had the choice, he would avoid the festivities entirely, and yet he is one of the few whose absence would not go unnoticed. At least his part in the baptism will be simple. He will swear a vow, and kneel before the babe, offering up his sword and his life. Henceforth his fealty will be bound to the future king. 

It pains him all the more to know that Leon will be there, as well. He has thus far been successful in his endeavours to avoid the Highness, but they will have no choice but to see each other at the chapel. 

Sleep came with great reluctance after Leon’s visit; it seemed he had only just closed his eyes when he was roused to begin his duties. He spends much of the day being irritable and short with people who do not deserve it, and by the time of the baptism he dreads the long, overly indulgent proceedings all the more for how foul his mood is. 

There are council members and vassals from nearby domains, all those who could rush to attend the ceremony. It is a momentous occasion to see the advent of a new prince, when it seemed for so long that the King would never sire another child. 

Leon is nowhere to be seen. The relief that Krauser should feel at being spared the pain of seeing him gives way to worry; he would be forbidden from missing the festivities without good reason. 

He will have to wait to find the cause of it. 

The squalling infant is baptised with the name Henri. The godparents come forward, and they vow to teach the babe his prayers and help raise him as a good servant of the Lord. 

Soon it is Krauser’s time to step forward. Feeling strangely out of place in front of a dozen sets of eyes, and wearing the finery that always feels terribly alien when he’s given cause to wear it, he kneels before the King and pledges his loyalty to the infant son, reciting all the vows he once made to Leon as a newly fledged Shield-in-Waiting. 

Thus, it is done. Forever more, Prince Henri is his lord and master.

***

The evening’s festivities are loud and bawdy — there are yet more gifts for the newborn, who has safely been returned to his mother’s bosom in seclusion, and the minstrels compete with one another over who can come up with the most rousing ode in the name of the new babe. 

Krauser excuses himself for a time, with the pretext that he means to check on his new charge. The King scarcely notices him, so caught up in the revelry; it is his father who dismisses him with a nod.

He will attend to the infant, of course, but that is the least of his concerns. Prince Henri is safe with the Queen, closed behind a locked door guarded by two of Krauser’s men; no harm will come to mother or child. 

He passes their door, striding for Leon’s chamber. The guard puts a hand up to stop him with a shake of his head. 

‘Apologies, sire,’ he says. It is Bertram, a relative of Krauser’s on his mother’s side. ‘Her Highness is unwell.’

Krauser bristles. It would be inappropriate to persist, yet the worry gnaws at him. Likely he could use his superiority to dismiss Bertram, but questions would be asked. 

‘What manner of ailment?’

Colour rises to Bertram’s cheeks. He shifts on his feet, decidedly uncomfortable.

‘She’s, er. She’s in her flowers, sire.’

Krauser is struck with sudden clarity. It is forbidden to enter the chapel at what the Church deems an unclean time — thus Leon’s glaring absence. It is for this same reason that the Queen was confined to her chambers for the baptism. 

He frowns at the door. He has never known Leon to hide himself away for a week of each month, no matter how aggravating the condition might be. He and the Queen have butted heads many a time over it. 

The memory comes to him, unbidden, of the night before: his dagger slicing smoothly through pliant skin. If Leon appeared at the baptism with such a blemish marring his face, questions would be asked, and it would inevitably find its way back to the Queen. 

‘As you were,’ Krauser says.

He turns on his heel; he only makes it three strides before Bertram stops him. 

‘Sire — I forgot.’

He plods over with his wide, swinging gait and reaches into his tunic, withdrawing from it a folder leaf of parchment.

‘Slid it under the door and asked me to give it to you. The Highness, that is. Said you were to open it on the morrow, not a moment sooner.’

Krauser takes the proffered note. It’s sealed with a blob of wax adorned with Leon’s emblem — a lion tossing its mane, taken from his mother’s coat of arms. Pressed into the wax is a single daisy. 

He gives Bertram a nod. 

‘Thank you, cousin.’

He clutches the note in his hand as he hurries toward his room. It is not unheard of for Leon to send him secret messages, usually invitations to meet for sparring after dark, or requests for contraband sweets from the kitchens. Never before has it been sealed — and never the instruction to wait to open it. 

He could tear it open now, but betraying Leon’s trust has never sat right with him. This conviction has wound up getting him into trouble on more than one occasion in the name of guarding Leon’s flights of fancy. 

Within his chambers, he eyes the note one last time. The daisy makes for a poor token of affection, if that was Leon’s intention — it’s already wilted. 

His curiosity can wait for the time being; he should see to his charge first, and return to the fête before he’s missed. 

He brushes a thumb over the seal, conjuring an image in his mind’s eye of Leon sitting attentively at it, melting the wax and pressing his seal into it. The slight furrow of concentration at his bow; the way his tongue pokes out slightly when he has his mind set on a task. 

The note remains unopened. Krauser slips it beneath his bedding for good measure and, once he is content that it will not be found by the wrong eyes, he sets off on his way.

***

It is long after dark by the time the festivities wind down. Despite his best efforts at abstaining, Krauser partakes of more than his fair share of ale.

His head hums as he weaves his way back to his quarters. He has been drunk enough before to know he isn’t now, but the merriment has lifted his spirits somewhat — he only hopes he doesn’t awaken to a banging headache come morning. It’s only fortunate that he isn’t on duty tonight. 

Nevertheless, he maintains a watchful eye over the household, reporting in with the guards as he goes. 

‘Milord. You’re late to bed.’

His feet drag him to a halt at the sound of such an insipid voice. The skin prickles at the nape of his neck, as if he has suddenly wandered into a veil of cobwebs. 

He can smell her perfume in the air, thick and cloying, oversweet. 

The Queen has three daughters, born of her previous marriage to her late husband. Krauser has had the distinct displeasure of coming to know each of them since their arrival at the castle, although one by one as each of them has been married off to a suitable bridegroom, their repellent presence has been purged from the household. 

Lady Daniela is the youngest, and to see the way the Queen babies her one might think her an infant. She is a woman grown, though, and her girlish behaviour — the tantrums, the flirtatious giggles — only conceals her true nature from those who don’t care to look deeper. 

‘Lady Daniela,’ he says, mustering all the decorum at his disposal as he turns to face her. ‘Did you enjoy the festivities?’

She leans against the frame of her door, head tilted to the side. Her copper hair is uncovered and loosened from its braids, falling in luxuriant coils about her shoulders.

‘Oh, I never care too much for those tedious things. All that dim-witted drivel… No one ever has anything interesting to say.’

Krauser gives a grunt in response. He certainly knows the feeling. 

‘I must bid you goodnight, milady. The day has been long.’

He moves to leave — he has barely taken a step before he feels her hand at the crook of his arm.

‘Come now. You’re not so tired you can’t spare a moment in my company? I’m positively starved for stimulation — of the intellect, of course.’

It would be rude to brush Daniela’s hand away, yet the temptation is almost irresistible. 

She is of an age with Leon, and they have often quarrelled. More than once she has said something so callously cruel that it led the Highness to storm out in a temper. Krauser has heard it said that she amuses herself by pitting the maids against each other, as well: dripping honeysweet lies in their ears about dreadful words shared behind closed doors. 

He has no time for her boorish behaviour. It leaves a dreadful taste in his mouth. 

‘My apologies. Some other time, perhaps.’

He lets his arm drop and her hand falls away with it. 

‘There are whispers,’ she says slyly. ‘I hadn’t dared to believe it… a princess and her Shield.’

Krauser knows better than to lunge for such obvious bait, yet he cannot help himself. It’s hardly a secret that he and Leon have been fast friends since childhood, but he thought he’d been more discreet with the true nature of his feelings. Certainly, he hadn’t believed that Leon ever felt the same way until last night. 

He turns to Daniela, watching her guardedly. Is it true that there has been talk of him and Leon, or is this another of her fabrications? 

‘I’m afraid you have me at a loss, milady.’

Her laughter rings out, clear and sharp. There is no mirth behind it. 

‘Oh, spare me, sir. The girls speak idly, when they think no one is listening — it’s surprising the secrets they divulge. Rumour has it you were once quite the scoundrel when it came to a woman’s heart, yet that changed, didn’t it?’

Krauser finds himself in the hungry gaze of a serpent. He is frozen in place, unwilling prey. 

‘Lady Daniela—’

‘Come now.’

She sidles closer to him, her stare never leaving his. Her eyes are almost yellow in the torchlight, like those of some sinister beast. 

‘It might be admirable if it weren’t so pathetic,’ her voice honeysweet; pitying. ‘Pining over someone like her.’

Her hand slides up his arm, across his shoulder, and settles at the base of his throat. He is trapped in the maws of the serpent, unable to move. 

He shoots a desperate look towards Bertram some way down the corridor, but the man seems to have made it his mission to turn a blind eye to what occurs here. His scarlet face is the only thing that betrays he is at all aware. 

‘A man has needs, even a lady knows this. Such a piteous waste to deprive yourself of the pleasures of the flesh…’

Her overtures are an insult — as uncouth as they are brazen. 

Finding his agency once more, he takes her elbow in a firm hold. 

‘Milady,’ he says briskly. ‘Spirits are high, so I’ll do you the favour of pretending this never came to pass.’

He removes her hand from him and takes a step back. It’s utterly satisfying to see the ire in her eyes at the rebuffal. He’s eager for another sup. 

‘For what it’s worth, though — I’d sooner bed with a viper.’

He waits only long enough to see the slight register upon her comely face; when it does, it’s as though she’s been struck. 

Gladly he leaves her in his wake, marching towards his quarters. 

The triumph is short-lived; his heart pounds at the memory of her words as soon as he is behind the closed door. 

If Daniela spoke true, then there are those at the castle who have come to realise how he feels for Leon. After the kiss last night — after Leon’s frantic pleas for Krauser to flee with him — he can’t help but wonder if in allowing those feelings to take hold within him, he has doomed them both. 

***

Sleep eludes him; he tosses and turns, the scant moments of shuteye he manages to snatch at so fitful they bring him no relief. 

His mind churns in those yawning hours of wakefulness, his thoughts a theatre for the previous night’s events: Leon’s lips pressing needily against his; the surge of his body in answer; the indelible mark he left upon His Highness’s fair face. 

The darkness bewitches him, rending him with some spectral fever — unaware if he wakes or dreams, he indulges himself in the fantasy of taking up Leon’s invitation to run away together. The kingdom at times feels like the whole world, but there are lands beyond its borders: lands where they might  live in anonymity.

They could carve out a life together. Meagre, certainly, but theirs alone. It would bring Krauser immense pleasure to give Leon such a life, far from the pressures of the court, where he might live as he sees fit — ride horses, cut his hair short, wield a sword. 

Guilt isn’t far behind such thoughts. To abscond with the Highness would be an act of treason — to act upon his own base desires doubly so.

Still veiled between the worlds of slumber and waking, Krauser climbs from his bed and slips his hand beneath the mattress. He finds the note where he left it and thumbs over the seal — still intact.

Wearily, he unlatches the shutters and allows the moonlight to spill in.

He ponders what Leon might have written that must wait until the morning. This secrecy makes him bristle with unease, almost enough for him to have him ripping it open now despite himself. He allows the urge to take him only so far before he finds dominion over it again. 

He carries the note with him when he returns to his bed. In the wan light he turns it over in his grasp, as though the blank parchment on the outer edge might reveal some previously unseen clue. 

He lifts it to his nose, on a whim, and inhales. The scent of roses tickles at his senses, tantalising. He recalls the night before with such clarity it makes his heart constrict — how it felt to have Leon sitting astride him. Their kiss. The temptation to damn everything and run away together. 

His cock twitches to life. Furtive, he slips a hand between his legs — ostensibly to quiet his urges, but of course Leon is in his thoughts now, the fragrance of his rose-scented bathwater rendering his presence almost tangible. Krauser kneads impatiently at his arousal and, when that only makes it worse, he pushes down his breeches and pulls his lance free. 

It is a sin, by the word of the Church, to spill one’s seed without the intent of procreation. Yet he has done this so often with Leon’s name upon his lips that it seems futile to fight it; if his soul is already damned, then so be it. Better this than finding his way into the Highness’s bed. 

His cock throbs. Oh, he can see it now — ordering Bertram away, shoving the door open. Leon lying there ready and waiting, draped across the featherbed: otherworldly. 

How Krauser aches to enter him again and again until their completion; to feel Leon’s cunt constricting around him, tight and wet and warm.

He chokes out a groan. It is hard to know whether this is louder, or the obscene sound of his hand palming at his swollen manhood. They are visceral noises, and he adds to the chorus with his own imagining: Leon’s plaintive moans, so similar to those uttered on the sparring ground.

He rolls onto his stomach, rutting into his mattress, pressing the note to his nose. The scent of roses washes over him, transporting him into Leon’s arms.

Pictures flood his mind’s eye — the soft swell of Leon’s lips; the curve of his cheek. He imagines running his fingertips over every inch of skin, exploring Leon and truly seeing him for the first time.

He shoves his face into the coarse texture of his pillow, muffling the groans burrowing from him, the name that he knows will soon tumble from his lips—

A bloodchilling scream stops him in his tracks. Instinct takes over — he scarcely wastes time in making himself presentable before grabbing his sword and hurrying to the door.

Heart pounding, he bursts into the hallway and looks towards Leon’s chambers — there, Bertram lies slumped against the wall, legs kicking weakly as he holds a hand futilely to a gaping wound at his throat. 

Krauser’s heart betrays him. His first instinct is to run to Leon’s aid, but a plaintive cry rings out to his left, dragging his attention over. 

Edith stands pale-faced in the clutches of the assassin — a figure in black garb, face obscured by a hood. They are some way down the hall to the west, close to the stairwell. There is no chance that Krauser might reach the attacker before Edith’s throat is slit. 

He takes a slow step forward, and the assassin presses the blade into Edith’s flesh, drawing a trickle of blood from it. A warning. 

The only reason he hasn’t killed her yet is the knowledge that Krauser will cut him down thereafter.

He has no intention of allowing the assassin to go free. If he can spare Edith’s life in the process of apprehending him, all the better — but the duties of the Royal Guard are clear. No hostage is more important than the lives of the King and his lineage. 

‘Let her go,’ he commands. ‘She’s just a girl.’

Whether the attacker is considering it, or merely weighing how quickly he might drag the blade across her skin before making his escape, he remains in place. He edges backwards, step by step, towards the stairs. 

‘Jack!’

His father’s voice is enough of a distraction to break Krauser’s attention; he hesitates, and the assassin shoves Edith sprawling forward on hands and knees — shaken, but unharmed — before disappearing down the stairwell. 

‘The Highness,’ Krauser barks, rushing to help Edith to her feet. ‘The King!’

‘I will see to them. Go!’

Krauser steps around Edith and hurries for the stairs. He gropes at the wall as he follows the spiral downwards, the other hand clutching his sword. He reaches the bottom just in time to see a shadowy figure disappearing through the door leading to the servants’ corridors. 

Where the warren of hallways might confuse visitors, Krauser knows them better than most — as children, he and Leon took great joy in exploring the labyrinthine pathways. He hopes to cut the assassin off somewhere along the way. 

The place is deserted and pitch-dark, the torches quenched. He gropes around on the wall for a lantern and finds it, and the striker, hanging in their usual place. With this light in tow, he steps into the darkness. 

He treads slowly with his ears pricked, yet he hears nothing save his own careful footfall. It is a strange thing to feel unsafe in the place he has called home for most of his life.

He despises this sneaking about — the hidden blade, the subterfuge. There is a great deal of honour to be found in fighting by sword, and it is a comforting familiarity to him. He has no doubt that he could best many men in martial combat. An assassin in the dark is a furtive, deadly thing, however, even for him. 

He checks doors as he passes, finding many of them locked, or latched from this side. Impatience prickles at him: he is wasting precious time. 

There is a juncture ahead, one path leading towards the kitchens and the other towards the servants’ quarters. With any luck, the fugitive will not have chosen the latter.

He steps into the fork — too late he feels the shift in the air heralding the movement of another. He barely manages to sidestep in time to miss a slash of a dagger from the right. 

Recovering quickly, he thrusts his lantern forward — in part to defend against another strike; in part to try to see the face of the assassin. His face is still shrouded by the hood, but he sees a mouth contorted into a hideous snarl. There is something alarmingly  familiar in that grim smile. 

Too soon, the fighting begins in earnest. The attacker slashes at the lantern, knocking it from his grasp — it tumbles to the floor with a clattering of metal against stone. The flame wavers, and gutters out. 

Plunged into darkness, Krauser has only his ears by which to anticipate his opponents next strike; he listens keenly, stilling his breath. A foot scuffs on the stonework and he lunges towards the sound — only to realise his error too late. 

A blade stabs at his arm, eliciting an unwilling cry from him as ice lances through his skin, followed by the hot gush of blood. 

His assailant does not wait for him to recover. A firm kick connects with his midsection, and he stumbles backwards, scarcely maintaining his footing. While he’s unbalanced, the assassin rushes at him, and he feels the air whoosh past his face as he narrowly avoids a dagger to the face, clutching blindly at his attacker.

The manoeuvre sends him and the assassin both tumbling. The stone beneath him knocks the wind from his lungs. His sword clatters uselessly to the ground. 

Death is but moments away — he can feel its maws at his throat. In a rush of desperation he grapples on the ground for the fallen lantern and feels a thrill of triumph as his fingers connect with metal. Clutching at it, he slams it blindly at where his attacker’s head might be, hoping to distract him long enough to buy himself a few moments. 

A grunt, and the assassin doesn’t falter — but his dagger’s next strike goes wide of its mark, slicing over Krauser’s ribs in place of plunging into his heart. 

Krauser steels himself through the stinging pain and drives his knee upward. Whether gut or bollocks, he doesn’t know, but it makes contact in any case and he shoves his opponent off, fumbling about on the ground until he finds his sword.

The assassin gives an unholy roar, and Krauser attunes himself to the sound. Readying his sword, he turns its point upwards, awaiting the attack—

His sword drives true, plunging into the assassin’s belly with little resistance. Krauser hears the soft gurgle of blood from the man's throat; he twists the sword and yanks it upwards with a wrench. 

There is no riposte, no struggle. The assassin dies quickly. Brutally.

Quaking with the heat of the battle, Krauser feels around on the walls until he finds a flint and sparks his lantern anew. With it, he examines the body. 

There are no identifying features about this man’s attire, but that much is to be expected. When he yanks the hood back from the head, he is overcome once more by the sense of familiarity as though he has seen this man before. It alarms him to think such a thing — that the attack might have come from someone known to the King is unthinkable. 

The fight floods out of him, bit by bit, as each moment passes. Now that his survival is no longer the most pressing matter, he begins to feel the throb of his wounds — and all at once it strikes him that he never had the chance to make sure Leon was safe. 

After briskly making certain that the assassin is truly dead, he confiscates the dagger lest it might hold some clue, and hurries back to the stairwell. 

He is out of breath by the time he reaches the top. His ribs smart, and his left arm throbs insistently — and yet all of that falls away as his eyes land upon the sight before him. 

Edith sits in a heap on the floor, weeping as the cook, Marion, soothes her. Beyond, Krauser spies Bertram cold and lifeless, having succumbed to his wounds. 

His father stands at the King’s open door, his face grim. When their eyes meet, the man gives a somber shake of his head. 

Krauser already fears the worst as he approaches Leon’s door, yet he hopes against hope that the Highness will rush out to greet him. He cannot face the truth of what he will find within — already his heart is unbearably heavy. 

After all the clamour and chaos, Leon’s chamber is eerily still. It seems at first glance that the Highness is merely asleep, a lump beneath the quilt, lost in peaceful slumber. As Krauser steps into the room, however, it’s impossible to miss the tang of blood in the air. 

He might as well be walking to his own demise, step by weary step. He rounds the bed and hesitates at the side of it, afraid to venture any further.

Perhaps if he reaches out to that shoulder and gives it a gentle shake, Leon will swat him away and grumble moodily at being woken. 

Fantasy can only sustain him so far. Filled with churning dread, Krauser extends a hesitant hand, watching it tremble treacherously before him. Drawing in a breath, he slips the quilt down over Leon’s shoulders. 

His hair is matted with blood; his milky skin is ashen. The bedding has been turned to a deep crimson, jarringly vivid next to his pallid flesh and the white of his nightgown.

It is as though a great, yawning chasm has taken root inside Krauser, swallowing him bit by bit from within. He watches the scene from without himself, in a daze. It feels like only a heartbeat ago that he kissed those perfect lips, now blue with pallor. 

His world is cracking, shattering around him.

Distantly, as though through water, he hears his father’s voice somewhere in the room. The words are unintelligible to him; he cannot drag his gaze away from Leon. 

This is no fit way for a prince to lie in death. Gently, Krauser does his best to neaten the Highness’s hair, smoothing it out of his face. 

His heart leaps.

He must have missed it before, in his anguish: the mouth shows some passing resemblance and the hair is similarly flaxen, but the nose is all wrong — and the eyes that stare lifelessly out are green, not blue. The cheek is unmarred by the mark Krauser left there in his carelessness. 

This is not Leon. 

Joy erupts within Krauser, luminous and triumphant. Blood has been shed, yes — but his love still lives. 

‘This… this is one of the servant girls.’

‘What?’

He hears his father’s hurried steps approaching; a steadying hand rests on his shoulder as the man steers him aside to inspect the corpse. He might not see it as readily as Krauser had, but it dawns on him with time.

‘How can it be? What trickery is this?’

Krauser looks at the girl anew. She bears enough of a passing resemblance to Leon that someone might not tell them apart without a closer look. It is plain, however, that His Highness was the true target of the assassin’s blade. 

Did Leon somehow know danger was at hand? Was it merely chance that kept him out of harm’s way? Or was he spirited away, his death staged to hide his absence? 

‘You’re hurt,’ his father remarks, as though only noticing for the first time.

‘The bastard got a few licks in with his dagger. He fell to my sword in the end.’

His father makes a sound of disgust. 

‘A coward’s tool.’

‘And yet lethal nonetheless,’ Krauser murmurs. ‘The Queen? The babe?’

‘Alive and unharmed. Both slept through it all.’

That is a saving grace, indeed. Perhaps the assassin was unaware that the Queen had been sequestered to the birthing chamber. 

And yet, something troubles him. 

‘Bertram was slain,’ he says, ‘yet I saw nothing of the other men.’

His father flicks a glance towards the door. He moves close to Krauser, settling a hand on his shoulder and dropping his voice. 

‘This plot has been brewing beneath our noses, I fear. I do not yet know whom we can trust. What is most pressing is that we find the princess and ensure her safety.’

Krauser nods his head in understanding. His mind flicks back to Leon’s note, discarded thoughtlessly in his chambers. He may yet uncover something in its contents.

‘I will see to it,’ he vows, ‘if I may take my leave.’

‘Tarry a moment.’

The man slips his signet ring from his finger and presses it into Krauser’s grasp. 

‘The Redfields hold domain to the west. They are loyal to His Majesty — they will provide safe harbour for Her Highness. None must know that she yet lives.’

I need to find Leon first.

‘Yes, father.’

His room is as he left it, bedding tousled from his earlier exertion. The note lies forgotten by his pillow, untouched. He spares only a moment to clean the blood running in rivulets down his wounded arm before he tears it open. 

A message is written within, in a looping, careless script that he recognises at once as Leon’s. 

Find me where the bear won his crown. I asked if you would leave with me — if you aren’t there by nightfall, I will know your answer.

He puzzles at the words. Leon had made good on his threats of leaving — and the timing couldn’t have been more fortuitous. Krauser pores over the message once more. Cryptic as it is, it must be something that would only be understood between the two of them should the message fall into the wrong hands.

Where the bear won his crown. The bear,of course, must be a reference to the heraldic charge of the Krauser family, yet to the best of his knowledge none in his lineage has ever borne a crown — whether won or inherited. 

He turns the parchment over and looks at the daisy, carefully pressed into the wax seal. There is no doubt that it must be a part of the riddle. He allows his mind to fill with an image of Leon stooping to pluck it, his golden hair cascading around him, veiling his face. 

Something tugs at him, distantly: something half-remembered. Childish games with buttercups held beneath chins; pressing wildflower petals between the pages of a book. 

Leon with a garland of daisies perched atop his head, his flaxen mane glinting in the resplendent sunlight. Krauser sat so often with the Highness as a child while he made such strings of flowers that he couldn’t begin to count the times if he tried. Something about one such occasion must have stood out enough for Leon to use it to signal their meeting place. 

With utmost care, Krauser pinches the stem of the daisy to free it and twists the tiny flower between his fingers, inspecting it closely. Yes, he can scarcely recall all the times Leon adorned his hair with these modest little blossoms, but it was only once that he gifted such a garland to Krauser. 

Gently, Krauser closes the daisy within his hand.

Dawn has not yet broken; nightfall is many hours away. There is still time before Leon will steal away and be gone forever, but the assassin’s foul deeds impress urgency upon finding him. Every moment that Krauser delays, the danger grows. 

He must hurry.

***

The onset of dawn turns the clear and cloudless night to a murky grey; already the castle is beginning to come to life, and by the time the sun has risen all will know of the passing of the King. Word of Leon’s death will only add to the burden of grief — as long as all believe him to have died in the attack, he will remain safe for the moment. 

Krauser keeps his head ducked low as he hurries to the stables. He does not have time to explain the events of the night, and the fresh wound on his face will likely draw attention. Fortunately, his path keeps him from encountering anyone, and he reaches the stables unhindered. 

Leon’s dappled grey, Matilda, is notably missing from her stall. The Highness must have taken her already — at least they’ll have two steeds for the journey. 

Krauser’s bay charger whickers softly as he gets near. On a typical day he would take pleasure in grooming the stallion and offering the beast some oats as a treat — it will have to wait. He loads the saddle with the sparse belongings he thought to bring — a couple of changes of clothes, some rations of cured meat and bread, and enough coin to see him through whatever else they may need. 

He would have brought his armour if he’d had his preference, but the steel plating is too heavy and cumbersome for the journey. He doesn’t plan on provoking any combat, at any rate — and if they should be attacked on the road by brigands, he has his leather cuirass. His sword is in its sheath; he procured a spare for Leon, which sits wrapped and secured to his charger’s back. 

Krauser has never been one to flinch in the face of duty. His father taught him a great deal of what it truly means to be a man, and a knight — and there are those who now look to Krauser for guidance with the same overeager eyes. 

As he frees his charger from the standing stall and mounts it, he feels the first flutters of uncertainty. He has trained for war, certainly — but absconding with a prince whose life is in grave peril is another matter entirely. His father said the Redfields can be trusted, but what if their loyalties have been turned with coin? Will he know what to do, should the time come? 

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind as he spurs the bay onward, out of the stables. He hasn’t even found Leon yet; he will worry about the rest once he knows he’s safe. 

The guards greet him bawdily at the gates, unaware of the tragedy that has happened within the castle. That will soon change, certainly, but it suits him that they do not know. They might question his sudden flight. 

Beyond the gate, he pauses at the bridge and glances back towards the castle. He has known this place as his home since he was a boy; he recalls first riding here with his father and looking up with wonder at the battlements and towers, gasping at the sight of something larger and more impressive than he’d ever seen in his scant years.

It seems so small now, in contrast with his memory of that day. Grand, yes, but strangely frail. Perhaps it is the knowledge that those walls that had once seemed impenetrable failed to prevent the worst from occurring. 

He turns away and urges on his steed, and when the question clamours to the surface of his thoughts — whether he’ll ever see this place again — he buries it down and focuses on the road ahead. 

***

Once Krauser had solved the clue provided by the daisy, it had only taken him a moment to decipher the message text.

It had been one of their usual jaunts, Leon having wheedled his protector into helping him escape the drudgery of a day’s lessons by slipping from the castle unseen. They seldom strayed far from home back then — the world had seemed impossibly vast outside the castle walls, and they could quite easily squander an entire day getting up to mischief and still make it back in time for supper. 

Yet they had ventured out farther than ever before that day, under some pretext now long-forgotten. Krauser had been uneasy at the prospect but it was difficult even then to refuse Leon. He had known the Highness would follow his whims in any case; at least if Krauser was there, he might keep an eye on him.

It had started out innocently enough, Leon plucking daisies from the long grass until he had a handful of them. Then he flopped to the ground and began braiding them together until at last he had a whole crown of them, which he’d placed atop his own head. 

And there it had remained for some time as Leon gadded about with innocent abandon, until he’d gone over on his ankle while scaling a hillock. When he’d tried to put weight on it, he’d given such a terrible yowl of pain that Krauser had promptly picked him up and carried him. 

The field where Leon hurt himself isn’t Krauser’s destination — he very much doubts he could find it again, even with Leon here to guide him. No, it was elsewhere that he’d won his crown, and if he’s right, he’ll find Leon there. 

Familiar landmarks pass by in his wake — the castle town, just beginning to come awake; the parish church; the farmlands farther afield. He keeps riding until the castle is some distance behind him, chasing the rising sun. 

It had taken them all morning to reach the field that day, and they were already late for lunch when Leon took his tumble. Leon had been stubborn and insistent about making his own way home, with it taking too long for Krauser to carry him. The Highness had permitted Krauser to bring him only as far as a crumbling well on the lands of a dilapidated farm, where Krauser had seated him at the edge. Leon had done his best to hide the wince when he’d set his foot down, but Krauser had seen through it, worry overcoming him. 

Leon had hid his face to try to conceal the pain as Krauser slipped off his riding boots and probed at his ankle. A bruise had already begun to blossom there, marring Leon’s milky-white skin with shades of angry purple. 

It had been then, as Krauser tended to him with utmost gentleness, that Leon had slipped the crown of daisies from his head and set it atop Krauser’s. 

‘My fearsome protector,’ he’d said, with a brilliant smile.

Krauser’s heart knocks a rhythm against his chest as his steed brings him closer to the well, where it lies hidden by a copse of wizened trees. Perhaps it had been then that he’d felt those first fragile, wonderful flutterings inside of him — the thrill that quickened the blood in his veins whenever Leon was near. 

He does not see Leon here — and yet Krauser hears on the breeze the soft tramping of a horse’s hooves as it shuffles about restlessly. There is a whinny, and a person’s soft, soothing words. 

Leon. 

Heart pounding, he slows his steed to a halt and dismounts. After the madness of the past few hours — and even though he had seen the servant girl’s face for himself — he scarcely dares to believe the Highness is here now: safe. 

With a lantern in hand, he picks his way carefully towards the trees with his horse’s tack in hand. Leon doesn’t seem to have heard his approach yet, but Matilda stirs and grumbles, turning toward the newcomers. 

Krauser passes the broad trunk of an old oak. Just beyond it he sees Leon, alerting at last to his presence, face turning towards the sounds of his footfalls.

He is clad in a riding tunic and breeches, hair braided and tucked away down his collar. He looks truly alive, his eyes wide with surprise, the cut on his cheek mostly obscured by the pink tinge the chill of the air has brought to his skin. 

‘Jack.’

The lilt of Leon’s voice makes his blood sing; all at once Krauser drops to his knee in a bow. His heart thuds at his throat and he keeps his glance downturned, lest something in his gaze should betray him. He had thought Leon dead — and when his greatest fear was proved false, he had thought they might never see each other again. 

‘Highness,’ he says, the words coming out needlessly terse. His resolve is already cracked; to let the fissure deepen any farther would crumble it entirely. 

He remains in place as Leon’s careful footsteps pick their way across the grass. Even as Leon comes to a halt within arm’s reach, he is unwavering. 

Leon’s hand comes to rest against his cheek, agonisingly gentle. 

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

For you? Of course I came.

The slightest nudge coaxes at his cheek and he lifts his chin, powerless to resist. The sight of Leon before him, face bathed in the glow of the lantern, sets his heart afire. Somehow he is even more beautiful than Krauser had remembered; perhaps it’s the urgency of coming so close to losing him. 

There are countless things he wants to say, but each word quells on his tongue unspoken. Anything he might bring himself to utter seems overly candid and pitifully inadequate at once. 

He knows that he must tell Leon of the tragedy. Must be the one to break news of his father’s death. What should be a joyous reunion is overshadowed by loss, and he wishes he could spare Leon from it entirely. 

‘Highness,’ he says thickly. ‘There is—’

Leon silences him with a shake of his head. 

‘Please. Let me enjoy this moment before you tell me the folly of my actions.’

It is with these words ringing in the air that Leon slowly lowers himself to his knees before Krauser. 

All of Krauser’s efforts at maintaining his resolve suddenly seem so frivolous — who is he serving, truly, in concealing his heart’s deepest desires? Leon might have died; that another took his place renders this no less true. Each day he has shrouded his heart in armour has been a day he could have allowed himself the joy of tender moments such as this. 

It seems the cruelest stroke of irony that it is only now, when he must be strong for Leon, that he feels his weakest. 

‘Something’s wrong,’ Leon says, his face darkening. ‘What happened?’

Shamefully, Krauser looks away. He cannot bear to look into those eyes as he delivers such ill tidings. 

‘An assassin infiltrated the castle in the night,’ he says. ‘We found a girl dead in your place.’

‘Agnes. God forgive me — I had her take my place. I never meant…’

He draws his hand to his mouth, his face pale. Krauser forces himself to look upon him once more. There is still more anguish to be meted out. 

‘The King, he…’

He does not look away; he watches as emotions ripple across Leon’s face, casting him in a new light as each one dawns. Confusion, at first, and shock — then outright disbelief. 

‘No,’ he says, hurriedly shaking his head. ‘No, it cannot be. You’re mistaken.’

The prince rises to his feet and frets about, moving this way and that. Nervous energy bristles from him like a lightning storm. It feels as though at any moment he might erupt. 

‘They— they can’t have hurt him. Your father would never let that happen. The guards!’

Krauser relates it all, detail by bitter detail — Edith’s scream, how she might have met a similar fate had he not intervened in time. 

There is little he can do to lighten the burden on Leon’s shoulders, but he tells him the King had been still and peaceful where he lay, when Krauser came to pay his respects. He died in his sleep, unaware of his fate.

‘And the murderer?’ Leon demands, in a cold and measured voice. ‘What of him?’

‘Dead, by my hand.’

Krauser reaches within his tunic and withdraws the dagger. It is still encrusted with his own blood, a souvenir of their desperate clash. 

Leon takes it and turns it over, inspecting the shape of the blade, the hilt the assassin had held only hours earlier. He closes it tightly in his hands, which seem so small now, clasped around this morbid thing. 

‘Then I owe you my gratitude, milord. The blood debt has been repaid.’

He rises, regal and poised. He has the bearing of some grim spectre — a shade forbidden peace even in death. He turns and moves towards Matilda, stowing the dagger in the saddle. 

‘Highness,’ Krauser says, clambering to his feet. ‘What are you—’

‘I will return to my home. The Queen will need my aid in her time of mourning, and I must ensure Henri is safe.’

He wastes no time in readying himself to mount — Krauser rushes to his side and takes him by the arm with a careful tug. 

‘Highness, you don’t understand. Someone wanted you dead. Do you think they won't make another attempt when they know you still live?’

He tells Leon of the absence of the guards in the night: that Bertram was the only one found at his post, throat cut. Those guards still haven’t been found — men Krauser picked and trained personally. If his own knights cannot be trusted, then the castle isn’t safe for Leon. 

‘We must take flight, Highness,’ he says, looking into Leon’s eyes. Imploring him. ‘Do not let Agnes’s death be for nothing.’

Leon’s gaze hardens, tougher than steel — and within it, Krauser sees the first cracks forming. One moment he is statuesque, a boulder unmoved by the flow of the river; the next he is crumpling, falling into Krauser’s arms. 

Krauser holds Leon as the sobs rack through him, until it seems he might never stop. Pain washes over the prince, wave after wave, and Krauser feels its echo within himself — the twisting, piercing feeling in the centre of his chest, as though his heart were being torn apart. 

He lost his King, but Leon — Leon lost the most precious thing in the world to him. 

***

Leon insisted that they squander no more time before riding, but Krauser had seen the pallor in him, the agitation in his trembling hands. After a shock like the one Leon has endured, journeying by horse for any sort of distance would be ill-advised. With some reluctance, he had obeyed Krauser’s command to stay and rest awhile — to nibble at what little food he could tolerate. 

He sleeps now, in the ruins of the farmhouse, long abandoned by whoever had tended these lands. The door has fallen off the hinges and part of the roof is collapsing in, but it’s good enough shelter for now. 

Krauser sits watch nearby, one ear pricked for the sounds of anyone approaching, the other for Leon’s steady breathing. He is the fortunate one: he can find his own peace in carrying out the duty he has been sworn to since he was scarcely more than a child. For Leon, there will be no such relief. 

They will spend the night here, for the time being. Come dawn they will depart on their arduous trail, not knowing when they will next have the chance to sleep, to rest easy. 

Krauser scrubs at his face, warding off exhaustion. It has been some hours since the sun set, Leon having fallen asleep in the afternoon. If he were being sensible he would rouse Leon to take over the next watch, but he can’t bring himself to disturb the prince, now that sleep has finally brought him blissful oblivion. 

He busies his mind by plotting their route, visualising the countryside as the topography of a map. Following major roads, they would reach the Redfields’ domain in good time, but he is loath to tread the beaten path. He doesn’t know when their enemy will discover that Leon is alive — how long it will take before someone is sent to find them. They’ll find more safety in lesser-travelled roads, hiding their true identity to any they may pass along the way.

Perhaps it was wise, after all, not to bring his plate armour. The Krauser heraldry is displayed proudly upon it; for this, he needs discretion. 

A tentative hand touches his shoulder. In his state of readiness, he startles, and Leon presses against his back, murmuring a soft apology in his ear. 

Krauser feels the warmth of his breath against his skin; it makes his flesh prickle with pleasure. He chides himself internally — and then Leon nips gently at his earlobe, and a pang of arousal goes straight to his cock.

‘I need you,’ Leon whispers, his hands slipping around Krauser’s middle, working at the buckles of his leathers.

‘Highness—’

Leon silences him with another nip, this one at his neck. He’s less gentle this time and heat pools under Krauser’s skin in response to the sting. He knows he should put a stop to this, for Leon’s sake, but he finds himself frozen in place as his body surrenders to what it has wanted for so long. 

He has certainly never shied from seeking pleasure in the body of another — the many girls who have tried to win his attention; his comrades in the Crown’s Guard. Increasingly, though, he has begun to tire of such dalliances, and has sought them out much less of late. 

In their place, there has been many a night spent alone with his hand, filling his mind with images of faceless companions, half-remembered liaisons — and always, always, his reveries turn to Leon with the inevitability of the tide. 

It is a shameful thing to think of Leon in such a prurient way. The eldest of the king’s heirs: the one he has sworn to protect. 

‘Leon,’ he says, half plea, half desperate groan. ‘We mustn’t.’

Leon slips one of the buckles free. Promptly, he begins tugging at the next. 

‘Tell me to stop, then,’ he says. ‘If you don’t want this, tell me.’

There’s something desolate in his voice — as though he might simply cease to be if he doesn’t chase this fancy to its conclusion. Krauser knows the feeling all too well. 

All the mustn’ts and shouldn’ts and can’ts seem so pitiful now, when Krauser has wanted this for so long. 

When no rebuff comes, Leon continues his efforts. One by one he loosens the buckles and pulls the cuirass away. He mouths into the curve of Krauser’s neck, near frantic now, and Krauser’s blood sings in answer. 

This is taking too long. It’s torture. 

Krauser gently pushes Leon’s hands away that he might take over. He all but tears at his gear in his haste, spurred on by the fresh slew of kisses Leon leaves against his neck. 

His armour is off, his tunic barely open before impatience finally wins out.

With a growl, he turns on the spot and scoops Leon into his arms, their lips crashing together in a feverish dance.  

Krauser’s head swims, pulse gushing in his ears, his prick coming alive with arousal. His skin is set afire as Leon tears at his tunic without care, pushing it urgently from his shoulders.

A gasp of pain shudders from Krauser’s lips as Leon’s wandering touch sets upon the wound at his arm. He had done his best to tend to it before he left the castle, but glancing down now he finds the wrapping dark with blood. 

‘You’re hurt,’ Leon says, concern turning his voice meek. 

‘I’ll live.’

Krauser uses the break in their embrace to set his sights on Leon’s garb. It is the simple tunic he keeps for riding — quick enough to wriggle out of when the Queen comes looking for him — so it is loosely secured and comes away with ease. Beneath is a linen shirt, and when Krauser tugs impatiently at the hem of it, Leon pulls it off and discards it readily. He wears his chest bound; Krauser moves his touch elsewhere, plucking eagerly at the band of Leon’s breeches.

The prince shifts, helping him remove the garments. They’re scarcely past his knees before he pulls Krauser atop him and the two tumble to the floor, Leon’s hands going for Krauser’s loincloth. Greedy fingers work at the material, closing around Krauser’s swollen shape — even these clumsy efforts provoke a groan of need from Krauser. 

This feels so good, so right, that it almost hurts; some wavering voice within Krauser warns him against his recklessness and he ignores it, lost in the feel of Leon’s body so close to his own. 

Leon scatters kisses across Krauser’s throat, breathing skirting hotly against his skin. He moves upwards, pulling Krauser close with a needy hand in his hair. 

‘I have wanted this for so long,’ he says, his gaze aflame. ‘I… I need to feel you.’

Krauser takes his meaning at once with a surge of wanting. The beast inside of him demands to be sated — but this feels too precious a moment to rush. 

‘Patience, little lion,’ he chides. ‘We have all night.’

He withdraws — Leon’s whine of protest prompts a fond chuckle from him — and he takes a moment to carefully remove Leon’s riding boots, and slide his breeches down the rest of the way so they won’t be a bother. 

Now that he sees Leon like this, laid bare before him, he looks like some heavenly creature consigned to the mortal plane — his golden mane glinting by the lantern light, his  skin alabaster. 

It’s enough to give Krauser pause. Here lies the only thing he has only ever truly longed for, and believed to be eternally out of his reach; now that Leon is here, willing and wanting, it only makes him question his wicked desires all the more. 

Yet to look at Leon’s face, there is nothing to suggest he has his own misgivings. His cheeks are heated with passion, his lips full and swollen, begging for more kisses. 

An intensity comes to his eyes, as he lies beneath Krauser’s gaze, burning brighter than an inferno. Glancing away almost shyly, he allows his legs to fall apart and slips a hand down to sit at the mound above his sex. 

His cunt glistens in the lantern light, wet with arousal; Krauser salivates at the sight. If he wanted to back down now, it’s far too late; the beast has taken hold. 

He prostrates himself before his prince, hands pushing at Leon’s supple thighs. Pressing his mouth to Leon’s cleft, he delves his tongue downwards into the sweetness dripping from his cunt. He moans at the taste, his lance searing with need. His hands clutch feverishly at Leon’s thighs, nudging them wider apart. 

A gasp hitches past Leon’s lips. It isn’t long before he’s writhing under Krauser’s skilful ministrations — he moves his hand to the back of Krauser’s head, fingers twining through his hair, urging him on. 

Even as a virgin — sworn to chastity until marriage — his body responds as though it were made precisely for this: made for Krauser. 

Krauser laps hungrily at him, suckling at his pearl, lewd sounds filling the air. The blood thunders through his veins, made only more furious by the whimpers tumbling from Leon’s lips. His own arousal is impossible to resist any longer; he shoves a hand between his thighs and palms at his cock, his own low groan of need adding to the cacophony. 

A tug at his hair pulls his gaze upwards. Leon looks down at him with profound yearning written across his countenance, and when he gives another greedy tug at Krauser’s hair, there’s no mistaking what he craves. 

Krauser works his way upwards, covering Leon’s body with his own. 

‘Are you sure, little lion?’

Leon gives a tiny, pleading nod. His fingers stroke through the strands of Krauser’s hair – the other hand slipping downwards to the work carefully at the ties of his trousers. His eyes bear such intensity that Krauser is overcome by a whim to kiss him; the taste of Leon’s sex is still sweet on his lips and Leon savours it as their mouths meet, tongue hungrily darting between Krauser’s parted lips for more. 

The trousers come loose. Leon struggles to pull them free and Krauser carelessly yanks them down, freeing his throbbing cock. Leon’s fingers close around it and that first touch against bare skin leaves Krauser giddy, delirious with wanting. 

‘You’re… larger than I was expecting,’ Leon admits, the ruddiness of his cheeks deepening. ‘Will it… Will it fit?’

It’s jarringly sweet and earnest. Krauser fights back a fond laugh, although he can’t quite help the smile that crosses his lips.

‘I’ll be gentle,’ he says. ‘I would never hurt you.’

Another nod from Leon, trust written in his eyes. Tenderly he slips his arms around Krauser’s neck and pulls him close. 

Krauser has bedded virgins, certainly — blushing maidens so easily seduced by the finery of the Royal Guard. As gentle as he was with them, he treats Leon as though he were made of glass, bracing a hand softly at his hip. As he touches the head of his prick to Leon’s sex, the wetness is profuse, but he hesitates to cause him the slightest discomfort.

He presses in against that chaste tightness and when a soft gasp escapes Leon’s lips he moves to withdraw — the Highness clutches at him with a hurried shake of his head, eyes wide. 

‘Don’t stop,’ Leon begs. ‘Please.’

Krauser slips an arm under Leon’s leg, wrapping around to grip his hip, tilting Leon’s pliant form. He beds his fingers lightly into Leon’s supple flesh and uses this moment to sheathe his sword within. 

A soft cry from Leon, and they are joined as one. 

Krauser waits out the trembling of his paramour; soon he thrusts deeply within, provoking another cry from Leon’s lips, and he withdraws only enough to drive back home again. Leon’s fingers tangle through his hair and tug, urging him on — he’s lost in the moment, utterly enraptured. 

Krauser has seen Leon nursing bruises and scrapes, has held him while he cried, sobs racking his slender frame. He has seen his eyes lit up with simple childish pleasures, and ire smouldering within them. 

He has never had the privilege of this — the chance at witnessing his bewitching face contorting in ecstasy. Compared to Leon, none of Krauser’s other bedfellows come close. 

He cants his hips in a steady rhythm, rocking into Leon’s quivering cunt, feeling it throb around him. When Leon drags his nails over Krauser’s scalp, down his neck, digging them into the flesh of his shoulders, he picks up in pace. 

‘Touch me,’ Leon pleads, tossing his head back. His hair looks like a golden halo where it fans around him, coming loose from its braid in their tousle. ‘God, please touch me…’

Krauser obeys wordlessly, his lover’s every wish his command. His fingers trace over the union of their bodies, his sword buried hilt-deep within Leon’s sweet sex, and then he finds Leon’s pearl and rolls it in careful, well-practised circles. 

He’d never thought he might someday have a use for his talents where Leon was concerned. He feels no shame in his conquests, though — perhaps they were merely guiding him to this moment, to showing Leon’s body the worship it deserves. 

‘You’re beautiful like this,’ he says, the words trickling freely from his tongue.

He’s never much been one for the bard’s lyricism, but some of the more poignant ballads come to him in fragments. They scarcely convey what it is to truly feel this oneness with another: to finally hold the object of one’s desire, and feel the world and all of its trials fade away into nothingness.

Here is the heavenly in the mundane; the truest expression of human nature. It is the slick slide of him entering Leon, over and over, that beguiling tightness swallowing him whole; it is the kiss of Leon’s lashes against his cheeks, fluttering like wings of gossamer. It is the wonderment, the devotion in his eyes as he coaxes them open, as though afraid to miss even a moment of their joining. 

Leon arches upward, his lips finding Krauser’s once more, his kisses careless and frantic. He’ll reach his peak soon — that much is plain — and Krauser snakes his tongue between Leon’s parted lips to dart against his, moving in concord with the plunging of his cock. 

Leon tenses, quivering, his hips rocking desperately against Krauser’s — with a desolate cry he goes rigid as though possessed, his fingers clawing wantonly at Krauser’s back. His cunt throbs and clenches, constricting around Krauser’s lance; this sends him, too, hurtling towards the most sublime of deaths. 

A roar rips itself from the depths of Krauser’s being. There is only this pleasure, and Leon whimpering beneath him, and that tight, wet warmth ravishing him, engulfing him, hungrily welcoming his seed. 

He has the presence of mind not to simply collapse in a heap atop Leon, although it takes a monumental effort from limbs that no longer seem to obey him. He unsheathes himself with some reluctance and settles onto the ground at Leon’s side. 

Leon wastes no time in nestling close, curling in against the shape of him as they might have when they were foolhardy younglings, shirking duties and obligations to lie together beneath the stars. 

Already the chill has begun to set in as the fires of passion smoulder down to embers; when Krauser feels Leon trembling with the cold, he leaves only long enough to take his cloak from his pack and drapes it over the two of them, wrapping an arm protectively around the trembling figure beside him. 

They’re close enough that their breaths mingle, close enough that Krauser can see the dappling of freckles across Leon’s face and could count them by the lantern’s glow, should he choose to.

It is late, though, and he is spent. There is too the modest pleasure to be had in sleeping side by side, in one another’s arms; whatever the morning should bring, they shall face it together. 

‘Sleep some more, little lion,’ Krauser murmurs, touching a kiss to the tip of Leon’s nose. ‘I’ll be here when you wake.’

Leon’s blue eyes study Krauser’s for a time, as though weighing the truth within his words. When he seems satisfied, he tucks his head in against Krauser’s chest, one hand resting possessively over his heart. 

Come morning, they’ll depart, and their flight will begin in earnest. He doesn’t yet know what perils may lie before them, and so too will he have to contend with Leon’s grief. 

He knows he must be strong enough to do all that needs to be done — to protect Leon, to comfort him, to see him through whatever trials he has yet to face. 

His blood still thrums from their joining, his pulse quickening at every slight movement of the prince’s drowsing form. He knows there is shame in what they have done — what he has done — yet he cannot entirely bring himself to dwell in regret. 

Somehow, midst the pain and fear of the past night and day, he has found the most joyous of joys. He resolves himself that he will cut down anyone who dares threaten it. 

***

His dreams pale against their tryst, but he allows each one to pull him under, drifting love-drunk through his mind’s most sentimental conjurings. He is so sure their joining must have been some blissful fantasy that each time he wakes through the night, he spends an eon watching Leon sleep, drinking in the sight of him. 

The cold rouses him sometime close to dawn, along with the pressing need to relieve himself. Leon is peaceful at his side, hair spilling across his face. One hand rests against Krauser’s chest, as though defying anyone to will them apart. 

Carefully, Krauser slips away on tiptoe and finds a spot outside to empty his bladder. The brisk early morning air chaps at his skin and he wishes he’d had the thought to reclaim his tunic before emerging.

His body is sore and tender, not least from the night’s adventures — bruises have sprung up on his ribs, where the assassin must have caught him without his realising; the wound on his arm throbs sharply. There are other marks in which to take pleasure, though: the tender bruises at his neck where Leon sought to claim him with his teeth. He’ll wear those as proudly as any other scar. 

Leon still slumbers when he returns. Loath to wake him, Krauser carefully lays down at his side, propped up on an elbow. It’s a rare opportunity to see Leon like this. So vulnerable. So innocent. 

Unease twists at Krauser’s belly. To call Leon innocent seems perverse, when only hours earlier he was the one to sully his purity. He must have been consumed by some sort of madness to have allowed himself to be so swept away by his desires — grasping greedily at a moment’s pleasure and, in the process, leaving an indelible stain upon Leon’s immortal soul. 

If only it were as easy as taking it all back. If only he could conjure a spectre to go to the night before and knock some sense into himself before it was too late. 

He’s considering how to proceed — how to make things right — when Leon stirs and gives a sleepy yawn, stretching out an arm and almost punching Krauser in the process. It might seem endearing if Krauser weren’t in such turmoil. 

Leon’s eyes crack open, reluctantly, and he looks around as though trying to familiarise himself with his surroundings. When his eyes land on Krauser, he gives a sweet smile. 

‘Good morning,’ he says. He reaches out and touches a hand to Krauser’s cheek. ‘You were mumbling in your sleep last night. Pleasant dreams?’

With a grin, he shifts in an instant, the last shrouds of sleep slipping away as he pushes Krauser onto his back and climbs astride him. Straddling his waist, he closes his mouth over Krauser’s and slips a hand down beneath his thighs to seek out Krauser’s cock. 

Despite his misgivings, Krauser is already at attention; when Leon finds him thus he breaks from their kiss and gives Krauser a knowing smirk. 

‘I want to feel you again,’ he murmurs, kneading at Krauser’s swollen sex. ‘I’m so empty without you to fill me.’

Krauser opens his mouth to protest — the degenerate beast within him batters him into silence as Leon sets to work tugging aside his codpiece. Krauser is at once powerless, and the only one with the agency to stop this; he fears for his own soul, and for Leon’s, and yet he does nothing to prevent the inevitable. 

Leon gets Krauser’s lance free, and he hitches himself up and eases onto it, his dripping cunt taking its girth with ease this time. Krauser can’t hope to stifle the groan that huffs past his lips at the feeling of Krauser’s tightness engulfing him. 

The beast wins out — Krauser grips at Leon’s hips and watches, bewitched, as the younger man begins to writhe atop him, cheeks flushing pink with exertion and arousal. Each rise and fall of Leon’s lithe form, the slight roll of his hips as their bodies meet, is enough to bring Krauser precariously close to the brink.

‘Leon, I can’t—’

But Leon isn’t listening, or perhaps he’s too far gone to care. He moves with a frenetic pace, head tossed back in abandon, and his nails rake at Krauser’s flesh, scoring his chest as the talons of a bird claiming its prey. 

Pain pricks at Krauser’s breast; he feels the warmth of blood welling at the surface of his skin beneath Leon’s touch and the sensation drives him headlong over the edge, hips bucking frantically as waves of pleasure crash over him.

Seemingly satisfied, Leon leans down and touches a kiss to Krauser’s lips before climbing off and curling up once more at his side.

Krauser is boneless and spent: he stares up at the rotten beams above them, chest heaving with exertion, his cock giving a last few sluggish throbs as his peak runs its course. 

He wets his lips, and swallows, and imagines the Almighty must be watching him even now, judging him for his sins. Which is worse, Krauser wonders — to give in to the degenerate part of his nature, or to know that he would do it again in a heartbeat? 

Leon traces fingers idly over his chest. The sensation is so incongruously sweet it momentarily lulls Krauser, calming his turmoil.

Those gentle fingertips brush over the deepest scratch on Krauser’s chest, provoking an involuntary wince. 

‘Mm,’ Leon hums, thoughtfully. ‘Now I’ve left my mark on you, too.’

He isn’t finished, it seems. His touch wanders over Krauser’s body, exploring — old scars and new bruises; the thatch of hair at his chest, the trail vanishing beneath his breeches. When his touch wanders, slyly, beneath the waist of them, Krauser gives him a scolding look, and he gives a sweet laugh. 

Leon’s fingertips trace up the centre of Krauser’s chest, then across towards his nipple. Krauser catches hold of his wrist before he can get there. 

‘Highness.’

He says it gently, and the prince pouts and twists out of his grasp with ease. 

‘Lie still, won’t you?’ he says, petulantly. ‘I want to get a good look at you.’

With a sigh, Krauser lies back and gives Leon his way. 

Those curious fingers wander over flesh, over muscle, ghosting over the bone at his collar. For Krauser’s face, he uses both hands, taking his jaw into a gentle hold, feeling over the shape of it. He drinks each aspect of Krauser’s appearance in, with painstaking care: the furrow of his brow, the stark protrusion of his nose. He traces his fingertips with near reverence over the old scar on Krauser’s lip.

He is close enough that Krauser can see the careful intent in his eyes, as though he seeks to commit everything to memory. 

When he pulls back, seemingly satisfied at last, he gives Krauser a smile as wan as it is beautiful. 

His father must not be far from his thoughts, the wound fresh and aching. They may have found distraction in one another, but it leaves the burden no less profound. 

Krauser cups a hand to Leon’s cheek, and the prince leans into his touch. The cut is healing nicely, though it may yet scar. It seems a lifetime ago that Krauser left that blemish, and thought it the worst trouble they would ever face. 

‘We need to leave,’ he says, with some reluctance. ‘We have a long road ahead.’

Leon heaves a sigh, and rests his head awhile atop Krauser’s chest, ear covering his heart. He taps a subtle rhythm into Krauser’s stomach, matching the beat of his pulse. 

‘I feel like a coward,’ he says. ‘The kingdom is without a ruler, everyone believes me dead, and yet I want nothing more than to stay here with you, and pretend it’s all some terrible dream.’

‘You are many things, Highness: a quick-witted imp; a cheat at Forfeits; an absolute brat when you don’t get your way—’

‘I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better!’

‘—but you are no coward,’ Krauser finishes. He strokes his fingers through Leon’s hair, relishing the feel of it flowing through them like spidersilk. ‘When I told you what had happened, your first thought was to go back. You would be there now, if you’d had your way.’

Leon lifts his head, looking up at him glumly.

‘And yet here I am,’ he protests. ‘I ran away, and Agnes was killed for it. It should have been me.’

‘But it wasn’t,’ Krauser says softly, gazing into Leon’s eyes. ‘You must live for those who were lost. You cannot make things right if you suffer the same fate.’

They eat sparingly — Leon has a bird’s appetite, and Krauser doesn’t want to use up their rations so soon — and Krauser sets about dressing while Leon goes off in search of the brook that runs through the farmlands to wash off the night’s residues.

Krauser’s arm pulses with heat as he attempts to pull on his tunic. It needs tending to — cleaning and re-dressing — but such supplies aren’t among those he thought to bring with him. He can wash it at the stream, although he’s loath to intrude upon Leon in his ablutions, even after knowing each other carnally.

He spies the Highness’s figure a little way upstream, so he moves farther down, sitting himself down wearily at the edge.

Peeling at the bandage, he unwinds its sullied length from around his arm and inspects the wound. There is no festering smell from it, which is a mercy. A rotting wound would merely add to their already immense burden. 

He bathes it in the cool, clear water, sluicing away the encrusted blood and humours. The assassin’s blade tore at muscle and sinew, a well-placed strike; he is only fortunate that it isn’t his sword arm. As it is, the ride by horse had troubled it greatly. 

Dipping the bandage into the water, he allows the current to wash it clean. Rivulets of crimson drift away, diluting to a pale pink.

He returns to their shelter alone and leaves Leon to his devices. He’ll have to find something new to bind the wound, while the cloth dries — for now he leaves it to breathe. 

There is plenty to be done while he awaits Leon’s return: belongings to be repacked, rations to be counted, horses to be cared for. He is feeding Matilda an apple when Leon returns, trudging carelessly through the wildflowers that have reclaimed this place as their own. 

‘Will you help me?’ he asks, timidly, stepping closer to Krauser.

‘With what, little lion?’

Leon plucks at his hair. For the first time, Krauser notices that a haphazard attempt has been made at cutting it — the tresses near the front are inches shorter than the rest. 

‘I tried to cut it,’ he says, stretching his other hand out. The assassin’s dagger sits in it, washed clean in the purifying waters of the brook. ‘I… I couldn’t bring myself to go any shorter.’

Krauser turns to him and takes the blade from his grasp. He considers it for a moment; perhaps it’s fitting that Leon should seek a new beginning with the weapon meant for his throat.

‘Do you wish to?’

Leon nods, his cheeks colouring.

‘Like a boy,’ he says. 

Nestled within Krauser’s chest, his heart bursts. 

Once, the King had permitted Leon to wear his hair at jaw-length, and he’d exulted in the freedom of it until some cruel words had been said by one of the squires to the effect that he still looked like a girl.

He’d tried with all of his might not to cry, then; he’d never worn it short again, and by the time he was older he was never given leave to, by Queen Alcina’s bidding.

There are no squires to tease him now, and no queen to impress upon him the importance of being a lady. He is freer now than he has ever been. All it cost was everything he had held dear. 

‘Turn around,’ Krauser says, softly. ‘And hold still. I know how you like to wriggle and fuss.’

Obediently, Leon puts his back to him, holding his head high. With his hair loose, the tresses at the back untouched, it falls in a cascade of gold that settles in the small of his back. His hair is something a great many covet — fair as the newly-risen sun, soft waves curling its strands. Krauser can see the beauty in it, certainly, but he knows the weight it holds for Leon: the reminder it serves of who he is, and who he’ll never be. 

The world believes him dead. He can be whomever he chooses, now.

Combing his fingers gently through the lengths, Krauser works out the little snarls and pulls it all to the back, setting it between Leon’s shoulders.

The dagger’s edge is keen; it slices easily through the strands and they fall away like rays of sunlight. He shears it to the base of Leon’s neck first, wary of going any further — when the prince flicks an expectant look back at him over his shoulder, he presses on. 

By the time the deed is done, the wildflowers are scattered with those long tresses, their beauty paling in comparison. Yet it seems to him that the gold has lost its lustre, having been shorn from Leon’s head — and when the prince turns, looking at Krauser uncertainly, his eyes alive with fragile hope, he is no less resplendent now that his mane is gone. The soft gold frames his face now, the colour of sunlit wheat, an errant strand falling into his eyes. 

In fact, it seems his true aspect is free to shine: the proud nose, the angular jaw. He is beautiful, and he is handsome, and he is the most exquisite thing Krauser has ever seen. 

The urge to kiss him is too strong for Krauser to resist. He sheathes the blade against his waist and takes Leon’s face in his hand, tilting it upwards and seeking out his lips.

There comes a sigh from Leon, and a sagging of his shoulders, as though he’s finally been relieved of his encumbrance. He slips his arms around Krauser’s neck, pulling him close, and for all Krauser’s intentions of leaving early, they while away much of the morning in this — soft, exploring kisses, fingers run through newly-short hair, and laughter. So much laughter.

It ends in Leon fussing over Krauser’s arm, the wound having opened anew. He leaves Krauser sitting in the wildflowers and goes to Matilda, rummaging around in his belongings until he emerges with a bundle of cloth. 

He shakes it out, revealing it for what it is: a simple dress, likely borrowed from Agnes or one of the other girls. 

‘I thought I’d have need of it,’ Leon says, before glancing up at the hair framing his brow. ‘I suppose not, anymore.’

He wastes no time in beckoning for the dagger, and sets to work at once, cutting out jagged strips from the hem of the dress. They are clean and, more importantly, there is plenty of cloth left, should they need to tend to any further wounds. 

Leon sets about winding the strip around Krauser’s injured arm, pulling it tightly enough to smart. Krauser winces, and Leon grips at his shoulder to hold him in place. 

‘Stop fussing,’ he teases, although he’s more gentle as he carries on. 

The mood dampens somewhat as they finally ready themselves to depart. For all that this has been a safe haven from their troubles, they won’t be able to ignore the hardships of the road for much longer. 

They set off side-by-side, their horses at a steady trot; Leon, usually chipper and gabby, is uncharacteristically quiet, and Krauser doesn’t much feel the urge to fill the silence. 

Little by little, they put the castle further behind them, until it is scarcely a blot on the horizon — and then, nothing at all.