The bed was comfortable, though not as much as the Prince's had been for the last few nights. But compared to the paper-thin mattress in his home, or at times even the old creaking floor, it certainly did not leave anything to be desired.

Silas felt himself grit his teeth, the screeching sound resonating in his head. It was loud, loud enough for anyone close by to hear, or at the very least so he hoped — yet Lucian sat in front of him, mere inches apart, apparently unbothered.

His face, dimly lit by a candle on the bedside table, was focused — his gaze firmly pointed at his chest.

Much like the previous time, he was meticulously applying bandages over freshly cleaned cuts, which from the looks of it were already in far better shape. He disliked the thought of admitting it, but the Prince kept proving himself to be fairly skilled at taking care of wounds.

But Silas' jaw was not clenching in pain, for the hands tending to him were far too delicate to cause it. No, he was furious.

As soon as they had entered the room, Lucian had wasted little time settling in before ordering him to sit.

"What? Why?"

He had raised an eyebrow, looking down at his chest and then back at his face. "Have you forgotten your injuries already? Must I teach you that they need to be cared for regularly?"

Silas scoffed, turning his back to him. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be away from the Prince — and allowing him to touch his bare torso was certainly not the best way to go about it.

"You don't even have supplies with you."

"Oh, how you underestimate me." Silas looked over his shoulder, reluctantly, only to see him pull out a small wooden box from under his robe, one he had been carrying ever since they had left the Palace. His lips pressing into a sharp line, Silas reached back, offering the palm of his hand.

"I can do it myself."

But his wrist was met with a slap, and from behind him, a sigh. "Allow me to make this as clear as possible." Lucian's boots thumped against the floor, coming closer to him and circling all the way around his figure until they were face to face. He bent over slightly, meeting his eyes. "Very soon, you are to meet my Father. As a Princess. In a dress. Which means you will need to be mostly healed by then. And I believe I've already proven to you I am quite the medic, when I wish to be."

And at that, to his dismay, Silas had admitted defeat; for the most part, it had been the sudden knot forming in his throat that convinced him. The daunting reminder of his soon-to-be performance. Of his meeting with the King. Of his marriage to the man facing him with a victorious grin on his face as he sat down on the bed.

Marriage.

The Prince's spouse; that was what would become of him in a matter of a few weeks. And as much as he kept repeating to himself that it was all just a big farce, that this grand Royal wedding was surely nothing but a small step in Lucian's twisted and mysterious plan, one thing stayed true: their union would have to be real, at least for a short while.

And those thoughts only added to his current rage.

"If only my face was a bit closer to you, the steam coming from your ears would burn me." The sound of Lucian's snickering finally brought Silas back to the present moment, snapping him away from his spiraling just as the Prince shut the wooden box closed. It had only been a few minutes, but he was already finished; and irritatingly, the dressings felt impeccably applied.

"You think my anger is not justified? Is that why you mock it?"

Lucian hummed, turning his attention back to him after resting the box on the bedside table. "Perhaps I would not do it if you told me the reason for it."

Silas' teeth sank into his bottom lip, a desperate attempt at stopping him from bursting. "Fine. Why would you sell us as... as..." Heat rose to his cheeks for a brief moment, as fast and sudden as a whip. "Lovers? Why would you ask for only one room? I understood there was no other choice in the Palace, but here? Do you truly enjoy torturing me so?"

Lucian stared at him for a brief moment, at the pinkish hue growing more and more visible on his face by the second, embarrassment vivid in his eyes. He chuckled, leaning back and resting his weight on outstretched arms.

"Torturing you? How offensive. I never thought of being in my presence as a means of torture." He shook his head, promptly ignoring the sight of Silas' brows furrowing further in annoyance. "Very well, allow me to ask you a question. What do you think is more likely — for a Prince to visit a humble inn in the outskirts of town with a servant for no reason, or for him to visit it with an illicit lover, in hopes of keeping the affair hidden from prying eyes?"

Silas opened his mouth to reply, but stopped before any sound could come out of it. Then, Lucian continued.

"And, do tell me, would it be more convincing for two secret lovers to book a single room, or ask for two separate ones?"

Silas pondered the words for a moment, the patronizing tone in the Prince's voice grating at his ears — but despite that, he could not deny it; it was, apparently, reasonable. Even he, who knew nothing of nobility, was well aware of how those people liked to spend their time whenever they grew tired of their riches.

It was a rare sight in the slums, but not a foreign one: every so often, he had witnessed noblemen whispering in the ears of young girls, engulfed by the shadows of a quiet alley. He had seen men in expensive fabrics dangling necklaces in front of them, their grotesque smiles barely concealed. He had heard the girls laugh, or pretend to do so, before following the men in their carriages, stealing glances at the streets to ensure no one had seen.

He had always found them repulsive — so-called aristocrats flaunting their fortunes in order to seduce teen-aged women who were too desperate to refuse them, all for the steep price of their bodies. Or, perhaps, even more.

But, if he really thought about it, had he not been doing the same thing the past few days? Had he not been whisked away from his home on a fancy carriage too, with promises of wealth and comfort? Had he not sold himself to the Prince?

He did not like to be faced with his own disgrace.

"Fine, I understand. I do not enjoy it, not at all, but I cannot say it is incorrect."

"Such high praise from you."

Silas rolled his eyes, lowering his gaze toward his shirt as he began buttoning it once again. It was better not to focus on it too much. He was starting to realize with a painful amount of clarity the similarities between him and those girls, whom he had never blamed but rather pitied.

And yet he could not allow this to let his motivation falter: his purpose was clear, he had never lost sight of it, not for one moment. He was doing it for them — for his family.

He cleared his throat, the silence growing more suffocating as the voices inside his head grew louder.

"What about Riven? Why did he leave?"

"Oh, Riven?" Lucian waved a hand, turning his head to the side and letting his gaze fall to the window on the far right side of the room. "I sent him back to monitor the situation back at the Palace. I assume it is going to be quite... chaotic, dare I say."

"And why would that be?" He asked, tongue poking out slightly from between his lips as he concentrated on matching the last few buttons.

There was a brief pause, one which Silas did not pay any mind to. Then, Lucian let out a surprised gasp. "Did I not tell you yet? I announced our engagement. You will be making your grand entrance in seven days."

It was only by sheer luck that in that moment, Silas did not bite his tongue off due to the wave of shock that hit him as the words of the Prince settled. He had announced it. It was official.

There was no longer any possibility of backing out.

"So... it is decided then." His hands froze in mid-air, fingers still curled around the collar of his shirt.

Lucian smirked. "Set in stone." He pursed his lips, expression akin to that of a pleased cat, before rising to his feet and heading toward the small round table placed just under the window. He removed his robe, which he had been wearing the whole time, dropping it with little care onto the chair and stretching his shoulders.

Silas swallowed, eyes following the Prince's every move. He needed to snap out of it. Yes, it was frightening — to be made aware that their little scheme, which up until that point had only been a flimsy secret, had now become concrete. But, after all, he always knew it would have happened sooner or later.

Letting out a long exhale, he finally allowed himself to inspect the room, a feeble attempt at keeping his mind busy.

It was quite small, though not in an unpleasant way, but rather in a comfortable, familiar sense. Made almost entirely of wood, from the floor to the walls, and then again the structure of the bed, the table and chairs under the window, the hanger in the corner behind the door — it certainly did not try to hide the many years since it had been built. But perhaps that was what made it so intimate; that, and the dim candlelight casting shadows all around them while shining a warm hue of orange on both of their figures.

He looked up, past Lucian's frame, and saw the full moon trying to peek at them through the sheer curtains, its white glow reflecting on the surface of the furniture. Silas followed it, mindlessly studying the way it danced on the different textures and fabrics, until it guided his sight to the opposite side of the bed; and there he saw it.

He hummed under his breath, curious, an arm reaching forward — a folded piece of paper.

Lucian turned around, mid-stretch, the rustling of the sheets alerting him that at last, Silas had moved.

It was quite amusing, that much he had to admit: the way the boy would so clearly and so desperately try to hold his tongue and not let anything slip out, only to be constantly betrayed by his very own body. For Lucian, it was all too clear: the redness on his cheeks when he was uncomfortable, the glimmer in his eyes when deep in thought, even the thinning of his lips when he was stuck in his own head.

And despite not knowing what had been living in his mind, Lucian could tell from the way it mellowed his entire being, his innate fire, that it could not be anything pleasant. Much like a few moments before, when he had grown silent and still.

But when his sight fell on the boy, he found him with a confused expression painted on his face, holding a note just a few inches away.

He smiled, the corner of his mouth raising ever so slightly.

"Ah, is that a note? What does it say?"

Silas looked at the Prince, his arms crossed in front of his chest and a look of amusement in his eyes. He clicked his tongue. "Nothing of interest."

"Is that so?" Lucian stepped toward the bed, and as he reached its side, he bent forward, towering over Silas and glancing at the paper from above. "Welcome to The Golden Goose. Breakfast is served at dawn. Should you require anything, knock twice at the kitchen door."

Suddenly, the boy snatched the note away, turning around and resting it on the bedside table. "As I said, it was nothing." He glared at the Prince. "You didn't need to read it. I know what it said."

Lucian chuckled once again, noticing the tip of the boy's ears warming up. "Do not fret, I am sure you are familiar with plenty of finer literature than this note. However, this reminds me, we will still have reading lessons tomorrow. Perhaps you could even teach me a thing or two."

Silas didn't reply — instead, he furrowed his brows, his skin itching from below. He rose to his feet, heading for the door, hands buried deep in his pockets.

"Perhaps I could." He grumbled, yanking the handle. "I am going to look for the bathroom. I will be back soon, your Highness."

And as the door closed behind him, Lucian sighed, glancing back at bed.

In his hurry, the boy had forgotten his own robe behind.

How amusing.