The “quieter” supper is only quieter in the sense that there’s less music.

They eat in one of the smaller dining rooms, with a long table that still feels too large for the number of people present. The candles are lower, the food less elaborate, as if simplicity can disguise the purpose of the gathering.

Elian sits between Isla and his mother. Across from them: his father, King Aldren, one of Aldren’s advisors, and Lord Ferris, who looks like he’d happily trade his left foot for the chance to turn this into a full council session.

Elian’s appetite deserted him sometime between the courtyard and the washbasin. He picks at his food, putting things on his plate and moving them around so it looks like he has participated.

His father clears his throat. The conversation tapers off.

“We’ve had productive discussions while you were traveling,” the king says. “I’m pleased to say the marriage contract is nearly finalized.”

Elian’s knife scrapes his plate. He feels rather than sees Isla go still beside him.

Aldren nods. “My advisors agree. We’ve gone through the last of the terms. Unless there are objections, we can have a final draft ready within a day.”

“A day?” Isla’s voice is even, but Elian hears the sharpness under it.

“The alliance cannot linger in half-measures,” Aldren says. “Our eastern neighbors are restless. We’ve already had to divert forces to the border. The sooner we present a united front, the better.”

Elian feels the air thin.

“A day seems… quick,” his mother says delicately.

Elian’s father shakes his head. “We’ve been preparing for this for months. This is merely signing what has already been agreed.”

“And the ceremony itself?” Aldren asks. “We should set a date while we’re together.”

Elian’s fingers go numb around his fork. He puts it down before he drops it.

“We thought…” The queen glances at her husband. “Within the season.”

The king nods. “The capital is already stirred to expectation. Three weeks, perhaps. Enough time to prepare properly, not enough for rumors to fester.”

Three weeks.

Elian hears the number like a physical blow.

Isla’s jaw tightens just enough that he notices. “That is sooner than we discussed,” she says.

“Our circumstances have changed,” Aldren replies. “Winter will not be kind. The sooner Virell has secure grain routes, the better.”

Elian’s father looks at him then, as if to include him in the decision.

“Elian?” the king asks. “You understand the urgency.”

He does. He understands all of it. The politics, the supply lines, the war pressures. He understands that this is not just about him. He also understands that his body is suddenly too small to contain his heart.

“Yes,” he says, because that is what he’s supposed to say. His voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere down a long corridor.

“Three weeks,” Isla repeats, as if she’s testing the words for sharp edges.

“It’s not unreasonable,” Aldren says.

She gives him a cool, polite look Elian suspects her father either doesn’t see or chooses not to. “No,” she agrees. “Of course it isn’t.”

The conversation moves on. There are questions about details: procession routes, religious rites, guest lists. Elian’s mother makes notes on a small card. Ferris is practically vibrating with bureaucratic joy.

Elian’s mind floats somewhere above the table.

Three weeks.

He will stand in a church with Isla’s hand in his and say vows that bind more than their lives. He will be blessed by priests who see his future as a set of duties and heirs. He will walk out to cheers from a crowd who will never know what he’s given up.

He stares at his plate. His stomach twists.

He feels Rowan before he sees him—the awareness of being watched by someone who knows his every tell.

Rowan stands by the door, aligned with the other guards, but his attention is on Elian, not the cutlery.

Elian forces his face back into something neutral.

At some point, the dinner ends. Elian stands when expected, says the right words, offers Isla his arm as their parents drift toward a quieter sitting room to talk over the last details.

“Three weeks,” Isla says under her breath as they walk down the corridor. “They really don’t waste time.”

“Efficient,” Elian manages.

She looks at him, studying his profile. “Are you all right?”

He almost laughs at the size of the question. “Define all right.”

“Not about to collapse,” she says.

“I’m standing,” he replies.

She considers that. “If you need to shout at someone, I recommend picking one of the tapestries, not your parents. They shout back.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “And you?”

“I am…” She searches for a word. “Adjusting.”

His mouth twists. “To the idea of me?”

“To the speed of all this,” she says. “You, I’m still assessing.”

He glances at her. “And your assessment?”

“Inconveniently human,” she says. “I was hoping for something more like a statue.”

“I assure you, if I were a statue, I’d be much easier to manage,” he replies.

“Perhaps,” she says. “But I suspect the stone wouldn’t be as good in meetings.”

They reach the turn where their paths diverge.

“I have letters to write,” Isla says. “My council will want to hear the news before it travels through everyone else’s mouths.”

“I’m sorry,” Elian says.

She looks at him. “So am I.”

There’s nothing else to say.

She inclines her head and walks away.

Rowan falls into step beside Elian as he heads toward his chambers.

“Three weeks,” Elian says, a little too loudly.

Rowan’s voice is quiet. “I heard.”

“Of course you did,” Elian mutters. “You hear everything.”

“Not everything,” Rowan says. “Enough.”

Elian stops walking.

Rowan stops too.

They’re in a side hall, quiet, the only light from a nearby sconce, shadows pooling in the corners.

“I can’t do this,” Elian says.

The words are out before he can bend them into something softer.

Rowan’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen. “Elian.”

“I can’t,” Elian repeats. “Three weeks. We just got back and now there’s a clock above my head, and every tick is another piece of me I’m supposed to carve off and offer on a plate, and I can’t—”

“Breathe,” Rowan says.

“That’s useless advice,” Elian snaps. “I am breathing. That’s part of the problem.”

“Elian,” Rowan says again, voice low but steady. “Come with me.”

“I’m not a dog,” Elian says, but he follows.

Rowan leads him up.

Not to the rooms he knows—the balcony, the solar—but higher, into one of the older towers. They pass two guards who straighten but don’t question; Rowan nods with the air of someone who belongs everywhere in this palace, and they look away.

At the top of a narrow spiral stair, Rowan unlocks a door with a key Elian didn’t know he had.

The room beyond is small and circular, stone walls interrupted by three tall, thin windows. It smells faintly of dust and old wood. There’s a battered table, a few chairs, a couple of shelves stacked with abandoned things: unused candles, a cracked pitcher, a bundle of old maps.

“Where are we?” Elian asks, stepping in.

“Old watchtower,” Rowan says, closing the door behind them. “They used to use it before the new battlements were built. No one comes up here now except me.”

“You?” Elian turns.

Rowan shrugs. “It’s quiet. Good place to think. Or not think.”

There’s a moment where Elian wants to ask what Rowan thinks about up here, alone. But another question pushes ahead.

“Why bring me?”

Rowan doesn’t answer. He walks to a cupboard in the corner, opens it, and pulls out a dusty bottle.

Elian stares. “Is that—”

“Wine,” Rowan says. “The decent kind. Not the stuff they water down for the minor nobility.”

Elian’s eyes narrow. “You’ve been hoarding contraband.”

“Technically,” Rowan says, considering the label, “it was misplaced. I found it.”

“In a cellar marked ‘royal reserves’?”

“On a cart marked ‘to be moved.’”

“And instead of moving it—”

“I moved it somewhere else,” Rowan says calmly. “You’re missing the point.”

Elian folds his arms. “What is the point?”

Rowan sets the bottle on the table and looks at him. “You’re about to be married off for the good of the realm in three weeks. You’re wound so tight you can barely stand upright. Tonight is the last night before preparations eat you alive.” He nods at the bottle. “We’re hiding.”

“Hiding,” Elian repeats.

“Just for a few hours,” Rowan says. “From everything. From them. From what’s coming.”

“And we’re hiding with wine.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even like wine,” Elian says.

“I like you better when your shoulders aren’t around your ears,” Rowan counters.

Elian opens his mouth, then shuts it. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m learning,” Rowan says.

He finds two rough ceramic cups on the shelf, wipes them out on his sleeve, and opens the bottle with practiced ease. The cork pops softly.

Elian listens to the glug of liquid as Rowan pours.

“You’ve done this before,” Elian says. “Up here.”

Rowan hands him a cup. “Once or twice.”

“Alone?”

Rowan leans against the table, lifting his own cup. “That’s a very personal question.”

Elian flushes, then recognizes the dry note in Rowan’s voice. “You’re mocking me.”

“Only a little,” Rowan says. “Drink.”

Elian raises the cup. The wine smells richer than what they had at dinner—dark berries and something earthy.

“To what?” he asks.

Rowan considers. “To forgetting, just for tonight.”

Elian’s throat tightens. “All right,” he says quietly. “To forgetting.”

They drink.

The first swallow warms all the way down. It’s smoother than he expected, less sharp, but strong. He takes another sip, smaller.

Rowan’s gaze rests on him. “You don’t have to finish it all at once.”

“Elian raises his brows. “Is that concern I hear?”

“No,” Rowan says. “It’s self-preservation. You’re an emotional drunk.”

“Lies,” Elian says. “Slander.”

“You cry when people sing overly sentimental ballads,” Rowan points out.

“That was once.”

“Twice,” Rowan says. “And the second song was about a dog.”

“That dog died,” Elian protests.

“Yes,” Rowan says. “In a metaphor for a kingdom.”

“He was very loyal,” Elian mutters.

Rowan’s mouth twitches. “Exactly.”

Elian glares at him, but the edge of his frustration blunts.

They drink in companionable silence for a few minutes. The tower room feels like it exists slightly outside of time—apart from the palace below, the decisions being made, the future closing in.

“How did you find this place?” Elian asks eventually.

“Training patrols,” Rowan says. “We used to do circuits of the whole palace, looking for blind spots. Most of the others counted the steps and complained about drafts. I counted the places no one went.”

“Why?” Elian asks.

Rowan’s fingers trace the rim of his cup. “I like knowing where the exits are.”

“Of course you do,” Elian says. “Never just walls and windows. Always routes.”

“You’re one to talk,” Rowan says mildly. “You were mapping escape paths under the banquet table when you were twelve.”

“That was different,” Elian says. “I was trying to find the dessert cart.”

“You bolted past three dukes and hid in the gallery,” Rowan reminds him.

“The dessert cart was in the gallery.”

Rowan gives him a flat look. “You fell asleep on a bench with a tart in your hand.”

“It was a very good tart,” Elian says. He can’t stop the small smile. “You found me then too.”

Rowan’s gaze softens. “I usually do.”

The words land with more weight than he seemed to intend. Elian feels them settle under his skin.

He takes another drink.

They talk about easier things for a while. Training mishaps. Stupid things minor nobles have said in council. The time Ferris tripped over his own robes and tried to pretend he meant to bow to a table.

The wine loosens Elian’s tongue, but not in the wild, slurring way that makes him say things he regrets about taxation. It’s a softer blur—edges rounding, thoughts slipping out with less resistance.

He leans back in his chair, cradling the cup in both hands. “Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks.

Rowan tilts his head. “Leaving where?”

“This.” Elian gestures vaguely. “The palace. Aurea. The life where every day is planned a month in advance.”

“Not seriously,” Rowan says. “Sometimes I imagine what it would be like, but… it doesn’t feel real.”

“What doesn’t?” Elian presses.

“A different life,” Rowan says. “One where I’m not… this.” He taps his breastplate lightly. “Not defined by who I protect.”

“You’d still be you,” Elian says. “With or without armor.”

“Would I?” Rowan’s voice is soft. “If I’m not the man who stands between you and the world, who am I?”

Elian looks at him, throat suddenly thick. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I think I’d like to find out.”

Rowan’s eyes flick to his, searching.

The bottle on the table is lighter now. Elian has stopped counting how many times they’ve poured.

He feels warm all over—not dizzy, not sick. Just… less tightly held inside himself.

He props his chin on one hand, elbows on the table. “What do you want?” he asks.

Rowan frowns slightly. “In what sense?”

“In any sense,” Elian says. “In all senses. What do you want, Rowan? Not for me. For you.”

Rowan is quiet for a long moment.

Elian thinks he won’t answer.

Then Rowan says, slowly, as if testing the words: “I want to not be afraid every time you walk into a room full of people with knives and agendas.”

“That’s still about me,” Elian says.

Rowan’s mouth pulls. “It is.”

“What about when I’m not there?” Elian asks. “What do you want then?”

Rowan’s gaze drops to his hands. “I don’t know who I am when you’re not there,” he says finally.

The honesty in it makes Elian’s chest ache.

“Then maybe that’s the problem,” Elian murmurs.

“Maybe,” Rowan says.

A gust of wind pushes at the shutters, rattling them. The room smells faintly of old wood, dust, and the sharp fruit of the wine.

Elian watches Rowan, the way his fingers curl around the cup, the small lines at the corners of his eyes when he frowns. He thinks of Isla saying he watches you like he’s holding the sun in place.

He feels raw. Stripped down to something that can’t hide behind titles.

“Rowan,” he says.

Rowan looks up, and whatever he sees on Elian’s face makes him sit a little straighter.

“I don’t want this,” Elian says. “Not like this. Not this marriage, not this life where I’m… a role. I know what it’s for. I know why it matters. But every time they talk about heirs and alliances, I feel like I’m watching someone else be written onto my body.”

Rowan’s voice is gentle. “Elian—”

“I stood in that room tonight,” Elian goes on, the words rushing now, “and I watched them talk about my wedding like it was the last piece in a trade deal. And I thought, if I disappeared, they would mourn, yes, but they would also find another way to plug the gap. Another cousin, another alliance. I am both essential and replaceable, depending on the angle.”

“You’re not replaceable,” Rowan says.

“To you, maybe,” Elian says quietly. “To them? I’m a solution. If I break, they’ll find another.”

Rowan flinches, just slightly.

Elian sucks in a breath, realizing what he’s said. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Rowan says.

Elian looks at him. “Do you?”