Intriguing Royalty





Danya watched with sharp eyes Graydon's unguarded state as he answered the door. The Deinian ran a hand over his face. He looked exhausted. Danya had disturbed him.

Danya took in Graydon's tired expression and his heart skipped a beat. My friend.

But was he still his friend?

The change in Graydon's appearance alone had Danya reeling; what to say of Dein's long-held (mutual) hostility to his people? Would Graydon welcome him or cast him out?

Danya's eyes traveled lower, taking in more of Graydon's presence. He noted that his shirt was open and he saw socked feet.

Well, now. He wasn't the gangly boy he once knew. He had filled out considerably if that lean torso was any indication. Graydon's features were familiar, but Danya found himself standing across from a brand new man. It was surreal.

And then Graydon saw him, saw him and the way his eyes changed seemed to belie what he thought of Danya's unexpected appearance. Danya watched Graydon drop into a bow that seemed so wrong that Danya found himself hurriedly returning it. He felt so self-conscious. Graydon stepped back from the door and Danya sheepishly followed the servant's confident, if unassuming, stride in.

The Heir of Dein was doing this strange bobbing thing as if he was unsure of where he should be and what he should be doing. Poised and strong though he stood, Graydon appeared vulnerable. Danya supposed he hadn't been fair in this surprise appearance and the smallest voice in the back of his mind acknowledged just how easy it would be to sabotage and kill him.

Danya immediately felt sick to his stomach at the intrusive, unwanted thought. He had no intention of taking Dein that way. Immediate disgust with himself saw a tick of a frown grow on his face.

Danya nodded at the departing servant as he passed on his way out the door. The polite manners that Graydon showed the servant were not lost on him.

He would be a benevolent king.

When the first thing that came out of Graydon's mouth was the risk of scandal, Danya froze and the pensive look on his face may have revealed just how little he had considered that possibility. All he had been aware of was his single need to confront the man alone. Perhaps he hadn't thought this through?

Of course he hadn't. And he hated how much he knew the uncertainty was probably showing on his face. He was literally showing a political enemy his throat; so quickly Danya had unconsciously reverted to their childhood dynamics.

He couldn't let that continue, though. Danya feigned disregard.

"I couldn't wait."

It was a simple statement. And then a tag on: "What's one more enemy, then?"

And an attempt at rationalization for his brash actions. "I would think what looked to be a very public poisoning of our closest enemy this afternoon an even more justified cause for concern. I'm simply being vigilant."

Did that sound half-cocked? Danya was certain that sounded half-cocked. And maybe a little strange. Why on earth was he bringing up poisoning around his childhood best friend? Graydon must think him strange. Perhaps, even an enemy. A threat. Danya hoped that Graydon wouldn't pay his idiotic comment any mind but of course he would because this was Graydon.

Oh, dear grief. It was just now sinking in that he was under the eyes of a hawk.

He really hadn't thought this through.

Danya turned away and moved towards one of the chairs near the hearth to sit down. He was perhaps disregarding any social protocol he should have been following. It wasn't a political statement--he was just so tired. Today had already been tiring with the commencement ceremony, but with the least expected reunion he could dream up, too? Danya just needed some closure for today. He wasn't really thinking properly at the moment.

But, luckily, some semblance of self-preservation flashed in his mind and he remembered he was in the presence of a King. Or, at least, a future one--personal history be damned. So Danya paused in sitting down, bowed in apology instead, and remained standing.

Just in time to catch the smile on Graydon's face.

Danya froze for the tenth time that night. Wasn't Graydon upset with him?

Although he felt his chest warm and the overwhelming need to embrace the auburn-haired man set his fingers a-twiching, he couldn't move. He wasn't at all sure what to do.

His mind flashed back to when Graydon had first kissed him. He had felt the same way then.

'It's been quite some time, hasn't it? Goodness, how you've changed,' Graydon commented.

It was so unreal. They were together again. Danya tried to get his mouth working.

"Yes, it has. Ten years, at least. A lot has changed. You have, too... Your Majesty," Danya apinned, not unironically. Danya looked meaningfully at Graydon now, even though the man's eyes still saw through him in their eery way. "How are you? Really? I..."

How could Graydon even manage to smile? Danya felt as if there wasn't enough air in the room. He was beginning to become increasingly light-headed. He tried to continue on. He wanted to tell Graydon how much he had missed him but he felt that it was somehow inappropriate given their current situation.

He could still speak how he felt--just... maybe about something else.

"You never told me you were a prince," Danya made an attempt at humor but it just came out sounding bitter. "I should have known--only a prince would be brave enough not to run when he came across a wild boy in the forest." The dark-haired man thought back to their first meeting in the Deep. He had been so afraid and unsure while Graydon had been calm and sensical.

'Just more qualities of a king,' Danya thought to himself. Qualities that he feared he himself did not possess.

Danya gripped the back of the seat that stood in front of the fireplace. He worried the wood trim with blunt nails, a nervous tick.

His eyes found the floor. And then they found the wall, the brilliant tapestries hung from it. Anywhere but where he needed to look.

"What on earth have you been up to all these years?" Danya sort of chuckled, sort of whined. He finally found the courage to say what he really wanted to once he met the grays of the other man's eyes again:

"I didn't think I would ever seen you again. I have missed you, Gra--" Danya caught himself.

He could no longer call him that.

He changed the subject.

"I hope you don't mind if I sit, Your Majesty. Today has been particularly trying." Danya licked his lips and pulled at his high collar. He realized that sitting would mean he was staying; Graydon may not want that.

 
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graydon


crown prince of dein

Graydon blinked in surprise at Danya’s question. He was asking him for permission to sit? He wisely kept his mouth shut against any further objections, not wanting to argue with the taller man. He simply gestured at the chair opposite him as he settled into his own.

“Yes, I’m very sorry about earlier. You gave me a terrible shock when I first saw you. My God, I thought my heart was going to stop…”

He petered off when he realized how foolish he sounded. Shocking or not, Graydon should not have abandoned court in such a fashion. He cringed when he thought about the ostracism it might’ve brought Danya. Not to mention their earlier, not-so-friendly conversation. He thought about how Danya was calling him “Your Majesty” instead of by his name, an honorific distinctly impersonal. Something shifted in his heart.

“Please.” He intoned softly. “When we’re alone, just call me Graydon.”

Maybe they would never be alone again after that night. All he knew was that they were not going to spend the entirety of the night addressing each other in honorifics. Graydon met Danya’s eyes intently, working over all the things he had said some moments ago. He would address them, one by one.

“I never told you I was a prince because...well, would you have believed me?” He gave a short laugh. “I know I was many things, but prince-like was never one of them. I was certainly never as composed as you. It’s what I always loved about you.”

That, and everything else about him. He'd loved his thick black hair tumbling loosely across his shoulders. The way his lips had felt pressing against Graydon's hands. The way his hands had cupped Graydon's face as they kissed, strong yet gentle. How Danya had gone from that boy in the woods to Commander of Tuzkaya was the largely unanswered question. He didn’t know how to broach the subject without the conversation going south. His brows furrowed, and he watched the flames flicker in the fireplace for a moment.

Danya had asked what he’d been doing all these years. Maybe he could go about it through that avenue.

“There was an attempt on my life,” He stated bluntly. His eyes went to the refreshments perched on the table beside them. Staring into the bowels of the drinks, he tapped one of the goblets lightly. “Poison, now that you mentioned it. That’s why I stopped coming to meet you. It took me quite some time to recover...it was weighty stuff, whatever they slipped in my drink. And when I finally did get better, well...”

He looked back up at Danya, sadness rimming his eyes.

“It was too late. You had moved on, old friend.”





 
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Danya
Graydon had been in shock? Had Danya not been, also?

Then again, it hadn't been entirely shock. Sure, he couldn't argue that it was the least expected meeting he could have ever anticipated. However, if anything, Danya had felt more alive from a glimpse of his old friend's face than he had in years.

It was like a missing, lost piece of his past had resurfaced and been reclaimed. He had lost so much over the years that he had never expected to regain--at least, hopefully--a friend.

His best friend. And, dare say, probably his only friend. One that wasn't tied to the rebellion, any way; those friends didn't count. They had as much at stake in this new rule as Danya did.

Danya accepted Graydon's granted invitation and eased into the chair as if its seat was lined with sewing needles. The Tuzkayan found the fireplace in front of him of particular interest.

"Please ... When we're alone, just call me Graydon." This was enough to pull Danya's attention away from the hearth. He looked at Graydon.

Who was looking back at him intently. Danya suddenly felt very nervous, though he tried his best to remain impassive.

Did Graydon remember his name? The role of the question was simply for self-deprecation--this was his commencement, of course Graydon had had plenty of opportunities to relearn Danya's name. Danya supposed he just wanted to be reassured that he had been significant to the young heir's life.

Danya listened patiently to Graydon's words, revelling in the richness of his voice and the new timbre it carried. He still heard Graydon in there, if only in the easy and carefree way in which he spoke. He had missed that. He joined Graydon's laughter when Graydon pointed out that Danya would have never believed him. He was wrong, though--if Graydon had told him he was a faerie living in the forest, Danya would have believed him. Danya would have believed anything Graydon would have told him back then. So was the way he held onto the prince's every word.

Composed? Danya lifted a brow and looked elsewhere, a subtle rolling of his eyes that caused the corner of his mouth to lift. Oh, Graydon had no idea. What Danya had perfected was simply a mask. He had needed it when he faced the atrocities of war; something to protect him so that he could safely break down behind it.

"It's what I always loved about you."

Danya swallowed hard. He could feel his face heating up again. Or was it the fire? He was still in his formal robes, perhaps he was simply overheating.

Yeah, right, Danya thought to himself. Even Danya's own self-conscious was against him.

Silence drug between them. And Danya was finding it increasingly hard not to jump up and grab the man and crush his body to him. It'd be quite the way to start a war.

How could Danya even broach just how much he wanted to touch him?

He saddened, because he couldn't.

Danya sighed audibly, just as Graydon spoke--only to stop quite abruptly when Graydon mentioned he had been poisoned. What?

"What?" Danya said incredulously. Okay, maybe that was a little too eagerly for someone of his position, but it had been a shock. His mind flashed back to the bruises he had witnessed on Graydon's cheeks those many years ago. It had been knowledge he had never--could never--quite forget. Someone had wanted to hurt the boy back then--should he really be surprised about anything worse? Danya's eyes flicked down to the goblet Graydon touched before meeting his eyes.

Danya was silent for a moment as he processed it. Graydon had almost died and he would have never known... What if Graydon had been lost to him those many years ago? Danya didn't know if he could suffer a world upon which his friend did not also walk.

Graydon had been Danya's happiness on many days. But Danya hadn't been the same for him... Not when he had really needed it. The title of 'old friend' felt like a burden then.

An apology was on the tip of Danya's tongue, but he didn't yet speak it. "I came a few times after our last meeting. Truthfully, I thought I had scared you away." The Tuzkayan remembered quite vividly the way Graydon had returned his kiss that last meeting and, subsequently, how he had started shuttering himself after. Danya always wondered what thought had crossed Graydon's mind as they embraced. Maybe Graydon had just meant to teach an ignorant boy after all.

"But, then, our exercises began picking up. The former ruler had suffered his greatest loss yet in Urgench that summer. There were great casualties on both sides but it was enough to decimate our army. He needed new recruits," Danya trailed off, turning his gaze to look into the fire. He could feel his anger building; he didn't want Graydon to feel as if it was directed towards him. "Luckily for us," Danya spoke ironically, "the rebels got to us first."

The young village boys hadn't even finished training when scouts from the king's army had come to their commanders, demanding the boys be ready by summer's end. The parents had protested, but what could they do? It was the king's command. In this hot bed of tension, it only took the slightest coercion and the grandest promises from the rebel army to influence the villagers. Many of the young recruits, Danya included, began to abdicate from the King's Army in favor of the People's. It was a staunch political move that weakened the king and allowed the rebel commanders to rise in power.

"I was a soldier's boy; it was only natural that I, too, went into military service. Though, likely not in the way my old man intended," Danya left it here. This was Graydon he was talking to, and yet, he did not yet know if this Graydon could be trusted.

They were on opposite sides of the aisle now. Never again could they truly speak freely and confide in each other. Nations were at stake.

Danya hated it. He wanted what could have been.

The Tuzkayan briefly looked at Graydon before taking the goblet he had gestured to and taking a hearty sip. He paused as he mulled the contents over his tongue and swallowed. He met the Deinian's eyes as he proffered him the same goblet from which he had drank.

"Did they ever catch the culprit?"
 
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graydon


crown prince of dein

It was just as Graydon suspected. Danya had been pulled into the war, just as his father had. And somehow, through a yet unexplained elaborate series of events, that led him to become the Commander of Tuzkaya, current enemy nation of Dein.

Gods. Fate was having a cruel laugh at his expense.

He looked down at the glass Danya offered him. He wasn’t thirsty, but he took it anyways, letting his fingers glide over Danya’s hand. His gaze met the other man’s once more. Graydon’s eyes mirrored the flames of the fireplace.

“Yes. It was my own uncle.”

His words were casually spoken, as if they were simply talking about the weather. Thinking about his poisoning was like pricking at old wounds. It was a subject he rarely spoke on, and so he left it at that. Without any further context or explanation, he raised the glass to his lips and drank, all the way until it was empty. He set the glass aside and shrugged at Danya.

“Can’t trust anyone these days, I’m afraid. I hope you remember that while everyone’s speaking honeyed words into your ears tomorrow.”

He wondered if Danya was prepared for what was to come. Playing court was a skill honed only by the strongest of minds. Wars were fought subtly behind thinly veiled insults and underhanded comments. They would eat Danya alive if he wasn’t prepared for it, especially if they discovered any vulnerabilities. He was sure they had sensed Danya’s inexperience just as he had. Graydon’s brows worried together.

“Danya, I...hope my presence here doesn’t complicate things. On your behalf, I promise that no one will know of our history. And if things become heated during political forums tomorrow…” He smiled wanly at Danya, amusement clear in his eyes. “I apologize in advance. Dein demands that I be unyielding at this summit, so I’m bound to offend someone. I promise I’ll limit my sparring to words only.”

He didn’t mention that he wanted to see Danya again, that the thought of reverting back to their stale, public relationship made his heart ache. It would only make things harder. For the both of them, he assumed, although the expression on Danya’s face betrayed nothing. Maybe it was a very small matter for Danya to see him. He had shared Graydon’s laugh earlier, but he wondered if it was only out of politeness that he did so. Graydon didn’t know if he could handle seeing Danya in private on a regular basis, especially knowing how temporary his stay would be. Could they even sustain a relationship in these circumstances? He hardly knew the man now; did Danya even want a friendship still?

Sentiment. What a terrible thing to possess in a time like this.





 
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Danya


Graydon accepted the proffered goblet. It was far from lost on Danya.

He hadn't hesitated.

Hope sprung from his chest, even as his mind began to ponder the extent of Graydon's perceived trust. Was the lack of hesitation from their shared history or was it simply a political gesture?

Danya was doomed to forever question the true intent of Graydon's actions. The hope fizzled. His hand burned where Graydon's fingers had ghosted him. He clenched his fist.

So it had been his uncle? His uncle? Danya thought to himself. Did Graydon not have any siblings? Was he an only child, too? Danya couldn't properly remember if talk of siblings had ever come up between them. Still, it seemed strange for Graydon's uncle to attempt assassination if he wasn't directly in line for the throne. Danya wondered how precarious Graydon's position truly was.

He supposed he'd probably never know, now.

Graydon lifted the goblet to take a drink and Danya found himself captured. A simple enough action, but one Danya realized he couldn't pull his eyes away from. He used the opportunity to really look at Graydon, the bob of his throat as he drank, the few loosed buttons he hadn't managed to secure in his earlier surprise. Danya's eyes slid to the right once Graydon returned the glass to the tray.

"Does not trusting anyone include not trusting you?" Danya relaxed back into his seat somewhat as he challenged Graydon, amusement in his eyes. He was feeling a bit ornery. He couldn't tell if the prince was issuing a warning or being spiteful. Did he know something?

"On my behalf you promise not to share our history?" Danya chuckled. He reached for a piece of melon and swirled it around in the clotted cream. Food was a good distraction, he was grateful to the servant who had brought it. He popped it into his mouth. "I suppose there's a lot you could do with that. I'm not blood-borne nobility, after all. I suppose history's all I've got." Ha! Graydon hoped his presence at court didn't 'complicate' things. If that wasn't the understatement of the literal century! Was he playing meek? The prince looked amused with himself.

"Have you already started your sparring, then, Graydon?" Danya's laugh was ironic as he bodily turned towards the prince. "By all means, don't censor yourself on my behalf. I've never known you to anyway--don't start now." Danya tried to speak as plainly and as lightly as he could but the impossibility of the situation was starting to dawn on him. His voice grew harder.

They could never be friends again.

"We are not friends, Graydon. We haven't been for centuries. I'm not some conqueror from a far-away land who has no idea of the age-old politics of this region," he likely had no clue--and he would soon be finding out. But wouldn't any common Tuzkayan know their country's enemies and allies? Even he was beginning to doubt that. "I am Tuzkayan and you are Deinian. Even in our shared history, that not once changed. I doubt one decade-old friendship could have any effect on that. So, please, speak freely tomorrow. I will need you to." There. Permission that Graydon didn't ask for to be as brutal as he pleased. Graydon had his own nation to look out for. He might well focus on that.

Oh, but, this muddied things quite terribly. Danya spoke confidently even as his heart broke. He had no clue what he had wished for--it hadn't even been long enough to wish for anything. But what he did know, however, is that this was a terrible, terrible complication.

 
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graydon


crown prince of dein

Ten years ago Danya’s words would have cut to the very core of Graydon’s being. Their bond had been unbreakable then, something neither boy could have imagined possibly ending. More than a decade of leading separate lives had reduced the pain to a faint ache; dulled, but not entirely gone. It would take more than the Tuzkayan’s denouncement of their relationship to break the Deinian prince.

And yet, he still cared. As he should and always would.

It made sense for Danya to distance himself. To understate it greatly, their situation was not an ideal climate for them. Tuzkaya and Dein were not officially at war, but their nonexistent relationship made them rivals, if not enemies. Somehow Graydon and Danya had come to virtually embody the history of their lands: once unified many years ago but now split.

“I doubt one decade-old friendship could have any effect on that.”

And that was where Danya was wrong, for it was because of their decade-old friendship that Graydon intended to rend the very heavens to ally their countries, tradition and gods bedamned. He had set his mind to peace between Tuzkaya and Dein, and peace was what he would have. The fact that Danya was the new ruler of Tuzkaya changed nothing.

It dawned on him that he’d let the silence drag on. Graydon’s momentary good cheer had long since dissipated, and he cleared his throat, casting his gaze away so that Danya wouldn’t see the strange look in his eyes.

“Fair enough.”

A pregnant pause followed as the prince struggled to find a more diplomatic response. There were so many things he’d hoped to share with him in the eve of that night. He wanted to tell Danya to be careful. He wanted to tell him to mind the ambassador of Brüinsar, to pay no heed to the inflated bragging from Ymaltguz and Resqas Isles, as they held as much worth as a pile of dirt. But those sayings would not be appropriate from one ruler to the next, now would they? And he wasn’t his friend, so Danya said. He wasn’t at a liberty to say anything at all, was he?

Best he set himself now to that reality, lest he end up getting hurt. A ghost of a smile hovered over his lips as he returned to looking at Danya.

“In the morning, you will be a stranger to me, as I am to you. This night will have never happened, and I will consider the ceremony yesterday as being the first time having ever met you.”

His fingers knotted together. An age old friendship thrown to the wind. He could admit that it still caught him off-guard, but...

Ah, but what had he been expecting? It was politics. All politics.

“So? Is that all, Commander?” Graydon asked pointedly, before his treacherous heart betrayed him further. He smiled a politician's smile, all teeth and no warmth.





 
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Danya

What had he done?

What had he done?

He was being dismissed.

Shit!

But, he didn't want to go. Now, or ever.

And, yet, Graydon had so easily tied up their encounter and sealed it with a bow. He was done with him. However could he be done with him?

Graydon.

Danya felt heat rising below his eyes, his eyes slammed shut as he tried to calm his racing breath. His throat constricted. His mind felt as if it had been split in two, moving images flashed behind his closed eyes. He was panicking. What had he done?

What had he done?

Danya couldn't bear to look at the Deinian prince and yet when he opened his eyes, they immediately set upon the other man. He looked at Graydon, really looked, and if all of his frustration, sadness... hope. Lust. Resentment. Betrayal. And... love... could be construed in but one look, it was there. It was there. And he stared at the man. Stared until even Danya became uncomfortable, fearful of what he truly conveyed. Finally, he broke the contact. It was the last way he could touch Graydon, wasn't it? To hold him in his gaze?

"Very well," the Tuzkayan grated, staring at the flames of the fireplace. The fire was so high and Danya was the coldest he had ever been. His jaw was so tight his teeth could crack. There he sat, doused in his own created disappointment.

Suddenly, he pushed to his feet. He turned his back to the prince, pivoting towards the door. It would have been appropriate--kingly, even--to bid the Heir of Dein a good night after their veiled confrontation, but fuck Graydon. The Tuzkayan stalked out of the room. Luckily, he had just enough sense to stop short of slamming the door.

He didn't need a war.

And he didn't need to isolate his friend further.

But they weren't friends. He--Danya--had said so.

How could Graydon ever care for him again?

The sounds of dying merriment could he heard just ahead.

That was when Danya realized he was going the wrong way.

...

Ah, hell, he had to get Graydon out of this palace.

 
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Danya, Danya, Danya. What in the world is going on with you?

Hadn’t he given the man what he wanted? Danya had placed their relationship on the chopping block; he’d lined it up just right for Graydon, so he’d swung the figurative axe. Just as planned...right? Wasn’t that why Danya had come to him that night?

So why was Danya staring at him in such a way that made Graydon want to get up and embrace him? The turmoil on his face, the regret, gods. What was the man thinking?

It was impossible not to ignore. Graydon fought hard to keep his own face impassive, though gradually his own bewilderment came to show. When the man’s reply finally came, the prince scrambled to say something in return. But he had nothing. Not until the Commander abruptly rose, a stormy expression on his face. Graydon’s eyes went pointedly towards the fireplace. He was afraid of what the other man might see in his face.

“Good night,” He called after him, far too softly to be heard. The only reply from Danya was the sound of his footsteps moving farther and farther away. The clink of metal on wood as he grabbed hold of the doorknob. The door closed without so much as a whisper.

All the tension left the air. Immediately, Graydon deflated in his chair.

“Gods. Damn it all,” He groaned, massaging his temple. “Danya, for god’s sake.”

He was glad for the remaining wine by his side. He would need it, if he intended to get any fitful rest that night. To think that only hours from now he would be expected to play the fool, completely oblivious to this shared moment. To talk to Danya as if he was just another ruler to woo, just like the rest of them. Could he do it? Maybe. Would he have to? Of course. He had to.

Graydon quelled the shaking in his hands.

He’d never been so nervous before in his entire life.

----------------

There was a shark loose among the gathered guests.

In the grand dining hall, amidst the waning laughs and drunken rabble, a nondescript man strolled leisurely about the room, mingling indiscriminately with the others there. He was of good form, a man of perhaps of his mid-30s, with features that were neither harsh nor memorable. As he dipped to kiss a lady’s hand, the metallic coat of arms at his right shoulder glinted in the candlelight. A phoenix soaring in rays of red and gold. Bruinsar.

He was deep in conversation with several dignitaries. His audience drank in his every word.

“Offer a gift to him, and you’ll be turned away in deference to his people. Offer a gift to his people, however, and it would be taken as a slight, as if we’re insinuating his country needs charity. No, no…”

Ambassador Beullion twirled the garnish around in his drink. He spoke at a level that often compelled others to draw closer to him, and he cast an eye about his tight-knit group, smirking a bit.

“The best thing now is to offer nothing. We’ll wait for official negotiations before we show our hand.”

“Agreed,” another man chimed in. He was from a country so obscure that no one really considered him as a serious contender. “I dare say Dein got ahead of itself--”

He let them do the rest of the talking. It was his role to start conversations, not finish them, and he did so with the expertise of one well-versed in the way of court. Wine was making them share things they would not have in ordinary circumstances, and Beullion absorbed all of it, somehow there amongst them and at the same time not there. So discreet was he that soon they forgot the ambassador was even there at all. He took in all he could; when the conversation changed tack, he excused himself, leaving with the bountiful wealth knowledge he’d received. He would remember all of it.

Gathering information was not just a pastime of his. It was a terrifyingly deadly talent. Every kingdom had its blind spots, every room its door to open. It was why he insisted on arriving two days prior to the commencement ceremony. He’d just need time...It was only a matter of finding the weak animal in the herd. The sun-parched flower desperate for a ray of light. His sacrificial lamb.

His lamb’s name came to be Lavyna. It was amazing what a little bit of baubles did for the common folk; he had spotted the maid’s isolation on sight some days ago, and he’d swooped in, showering her with the attention she so desperately craved. In return, she’d told him things. Too many things.

“Anything for me tonight?”

The ambassador came upon the maid in the shadowy alcove of the west servant stairway, their assigned meeting spot. Lavyna tried to greet him with a kiss, but he was quick to pull away, repeating his former question. At that, she balked.

“I...I’m not sure if…”

He forgot that his weak links were typically cowards as well. He lamented the fact that he had asked his questions before bedding her; that order of action seemed to make her talk more.

“Don’t be afraid. Remember; this is all temporary. I’m going to take care of you, my love...back in Bruinsar. With me. Remember?”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

Lavyna’s hands kneaded frantically in her apron. “W-well, I’ve been keeping an eye on the Prince of Dein as you’ve asked and...he had a visitor some time ago. And the Princess of Peros made an unusual request today...”

The man was only really interested in the former. But for appearance’s sake, he remained outwardly invested in all parties.

Beullion’s gaze was predatory in the moonlight.

“Go on...”
 
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The highly regarded Commander-in-Chief was dead. Not long after, so had fallen a smattering of several other decorated commanders.

Everyone assumed the effort lost, the rebellion succinctly quelled.

Yet, they were ignorant.

No one knew the rebellion was a single-minded beast with many heads. Lop one off only for another to grow in return.

The rebels' ability to rebound was what would grant them success in their mission. They could not be stopped. And, now, the villagers were in charge. Finally--an army that truly represented them.

So why did
he stand in his way?

"Danya, this isn't you. We will forgive you--you were used. Led astray."

The metallic slide of a sword could be heard somewhere off to his left. The pain of betrayal bubbled up his throat.

"These men are no better than Sheraliev and his lot. We never meant to wrest control--only subdue the King's."

A crash to his right. Flames lit the night. The man in front of him was on fire from a different source.

"Don't you see?! The King is dead! Look what you've done. This is not what our fathers fought for. This slaughter! This--this chaos! Tuzkaya has been slain!"

And you're the cause.

You're the cause.


"When will you stop? Until you have control? Until you've killed all nay-sayers?"

It was Danya's time to be stopped.

Flames danced across the blade's surface.

He wasn't ready. He just wasn't ready.


====

Danya's eyelids burst open, his body coated in a sheen of sweat. He lurched from the bed, clumsily knocking items off the nightstand as he fought for freedom of his sheets. He came crashing to the floor and luckily grabbed the bedpan in time. He vomited so fiercely that his stomach threatened to turn itself inside out. Tears streamed down his face, but was it from the physical pain? Danya couldn't tell. All he felt was despair.

When only spittle could be brought forth, Danya pushed away from the lurid pan, dropping to his side. He seized into a ball, crying and rocking himself with all the anguish and guilt he felt. He had caused this--every, single, little event. It had been him. It had been him.

Danya's tortured cries shook his athletic frame which seemed to turn in on itself. He always visited like this, in times of turmoil, when Danya was tormented and unsure of himself. Now, Danya's heart had been broken and here he was, right on time, ready to mock Danya in all of his pain.

The pain of living.

Danya's position turned fetal. He was but a lost babe--misguided and a murderer.

A murderer.

Danya's stomach lurched again. This time he did not make it.

===

"What could possibly be all the fuss?" Aysha could be heard saying just outside the door. She fought to wrap her silk robe around herself as she rushed disorientedly to the Commander-in-Chief's room. When the guards opened the doors, though, Aysha tripped over herself as she rushed inside.

"Danya!" she cried, falling down next to the man and trying to lift him up. Was it poison? Illness? So many trying thoughts flitted across her mind.

The dark-haired man who was not all in his right mind looked up at the face above him and screamed. He fought away from her, the shadows of ghosts chiseled into his eyes. "Get off of me!" He shoved at the face of death.

The wind was knocked out of his aunt's lungs as the man's hard jab found her square in the chest. That was when the guards swooped in, Akmal on their tail. Danya was having his fits and it would take sedatives to stay him.

"Hold him down," Akmal bit out as he used his teeth to pull a stopper from a bottle. He'd have to force this down the Commander-in-Chief's throat. "Hold him down, I say!"

It took four men and Akmal with his knee across the Commander-in-Chief's throat to finally restrain him. Danya continued to scream. The tears that flowed seemed to be burning trails down his flushed cheeks. He choked on the liquid the Court Physician dumped down his throat, but soon the cries lessened and his eyes became unfocused. His mouth slowly closed and his breathing calmed.

Akmal grimaced down at his friend as he released his hold. He watched as Danya's eyes slid closed, a brief moment of manufactured peace taking him.

"Chamberlain, oh, Chamberlain! Are you alright?" a female servant fanned the older woman as she bodily supported her. The chamberlain lay across her, coughing harshly but managed to reply.

"I am fine, my dear girl. Don't worry. I've dealt with much worse than this. War has a way of fracturing men's minds. It was the same with my…"

Husband, she had meant to say. Both her husband and Danya's father had suffered from the war's nightly terrors. It was no surprise that her nephew would suffer from the same. Though, Danya's did seem a bit heightened--likely the stress of his newly founded position added to it. The family's men had only had to worry about a soldier's life--this young man had to worry about the welfare of an entire country.

"Let him rest. Someone, bring some towels to clean this mess."

Would he be fit for what was to come? Luckily, court wouldn't be held until high noon.

===

Location: The Inner Hall, The Walled Capitol

The brilliant blue that laced through the inside hall's walls and domed ceilings was enough to put anyone on edge. There was nothing comfortable about this room. It was a room to unsettle you, to create unrest. This was where official court would be held.

A long, oval table demanded space in the middle of the room. Ornate stools stood around it--all of them equal height--where the visiting dignitaries would sit. The Chamberlain had insisted on a strict seating arrangement, one which would sit enemies to enemies and friends to friends. The Chamberlain had thought it best to have a bit of turmoil in the room--something about fostering everyone's true face.

After a light breakfast, the doors to the Inner Hall were opened. The announcer from yesterday's ceremony was again present, assisting each country with their proper placement. While their party could facilitate their placement at the table, only the esteemed guest would be allowed to remain.

Danya would be the last to arrive--thankfully. It had taken a lot of work and conjoined effort to get the Tuzkayan back to rights. He had been doused in ice-cold water to wake him and effectively scrubbed of any sick that remained on him. His hair had been brushed and bullied and his face steamed. He finally looked normal to the world and hadn't a clue of why he had received such treatment. His aunt had been especially coarse.

Surrendering to but one of her asks, Danya draped a royal blue jacquard tippet around his neck--the only spark of color against his morosely dark robes. His hair was bound, braided and tucked up under a tall cap. Brilliant blue stitching shown against the cap's black velvet.

"Remember to listen and observe. No one before us has ever done something of this magnitude--which means you set the precedent. Remain the disciplined warrior--patient, composed, and just. This will be the true representation of Tuzkaya--not one of false wealth."

Danya found his Chamberlain's eyes in the mirror as she stood off to the side of him, eyes hard and unwavering. Personal history told him these were eyes of fear, uncertainty. Danya smiled sadly at her.

She wasn't alone in her worry.

It would soon be time for him to occupy the same space as that man. Danya was deathly afraid.

But he wasn't afraid of Graydon, no. Graydon had historically been his safe space, his calm. Now, he was simply his resentment. Though their personal ties were now cut, he doubted he could ever see that man as an enemy, even if he were at the end of Graydon's blade.

No, he wasn't afraid of Graydon. He was afraid of the man he'd be in Graydon's presence.
 
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All around him danced the lights, myriads upon myriads of tiny stars trapped in the castle hallways. Graydon spun about. He didn’t recognize this part of his home. Where…?
“Graydon.”
The voice hummed in his ear, and the man spun about, finding nothing but air. The voice called from the end of the hall, and he took off, beckoned by pure fancy.
And recognition. He knew that voice. It was older now, deepened with age and tinted with maturity, but he knew it, all the same. He tried to call out for the man, but he found that he could make no sound. He grasped at his throat.
“Graydon?”
Now it was coming from the left. The lights brightened, blurring his vision, and Graydon whipped about as the voice called his name again and again. Where was it coming from?
“Graydon!”
His feet had turned to wood. His eyes widened. He tried to scream out but couldn’t, and he flailed forward in a mad attempt to move. The voice called again and again, sounding more and more distressed. And yet, he was frozen.
“Graydon!”
“Your Majesty?”
Graydon’s eyes flew open. The round face of an unfamiliar woman hovered above his, and she jolted back the moment the man stirred. She looked to be a chambermaid.
“Oh. Forgive me,” She apologized, eyes downcast. “You asked me to wake you this morning.”
“Did I?”
He couldn’t recall asking her to do any such thing. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the intrusion. Who knows how long he would have slumbered without her interference. He glanced about him, disorientated. He was still sitting in the same chair by the fireplace. Someone had draped a blanket over his body, and he pulled at it, bleary-eyed.
“Were you dreaming, Your Majesty?”
Graydon shot the maid a quizzical look, and she blushed. “It’s just...you were talking in your sleep.”
“Ah.” His senses were slowly returning to him. “Not too much, I hope.”
Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he stood up, eyes trailing the chambermaid as she went immediately to open the curtains.
The room was flooded with the pale colors of dawn. The fireplace, once brilliantly illuminated with dancing flames, had whittled down to a few burning embers. He glanced at the armchair across from him, half expecting Danya to still be seated there. But that was silly; his friend was long gone by now...in more ways than one.
Well. He had seven days to change that. Best he get to work on that right away instead of moping around.
By the time heavy knocks came at his door, Graydon was fully dressed and seated, a page having being sent to assist with his attire. The young man paused as he brushed the prince’s hair.
“Shall I…?”
“Yes, yes,” Graydon sighed. He already knew who was behind the door. There was a storm brewing; better to engage it now than to let it swell into a much bigger issue. As a multitude of footsteps approached him, he calmly preened his hair. He could hear the tinny voice of the page announcing all his men-in-waiting to him, and he spun around to face them, an innocent look on his face.
The glower on Garth’s face was enough to burn the first layer of skin off one’s face. Graydon grinned impishly at him.
“Well? Did you enjoy yourselves last night?”
------------------
Sevan’s voice was nonstop in his ear. Knowing that the young prince would be alone at his first political summit had set the older man’s anxiety at a new high. He continued to fill the prince’s head with last minute advice as they made headway towards the Inner Hall, and Graydon placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.
“Sevan, you must relax. Please. You’re starting to make me nervous.” As well as aggravate him to no end.
“I know but-” The bearded man lowered his voice as they passed a group of Tuzkayan nobility “-it is imperative that you remember our guidelines.”
“I know this. You have made mention of it many times.”
Their conversation continued on quietly, until they neared the threshold into the Inner Hall. Several guards stood by near the entryway, and Graydon’s eyes drew up, taking in the immense doors they’d propped open. He wondered if they would be closed as their discussion ensued. He glanced at Sevan, giving him a small smile.
“I believe this is where we part ways.” Finally. “Thank you, Sevan.”
“Yes, do what you must, Sire. In the meantime, I’ve received word that Princess Annabeth should be here within a day or so, so I will be-”
Graydon stopped dead in his tracks. “What? My sister?”
The prince had few misgivings about the way of politics, save that his baby sister be spared the dirty tactics of it. At the mention of her name, Graydon felt a familiar heat rise in him, and his shoulders squared.
Graydon shot his advisor an icy look. “I thought I told you to wait before you sent for her.”
“Well, I felt-”
“You felt. You felt.”
“Sire, you must let me explain.”
The prince rounded on the older man at once. Sevan’s hands went up into a defensive position, though he was not to be cowed. “Prince Graydon. As your trusted advisor and friend, I felt, to the best of my wisdom, knowledge, and experience, that it was best for the young princess to come now rather than later, before negotiations were over.”
“And pray tell, why is that?” Graydon hissed.
“Because,” Sevan explained, ever patient, “your sister is our trump card. While it is well and good that you charm the Commander in the meantime, it is your sister who must seal the alliance. We will have nothing if Commander does not accept her hand in marriage. It is the ultimate sign of trust and union between the two nations. We cannot let the opportunity slip through our hands.”
It was almost exactly like - if not verbatim - what his father had told him several weeks prior as they’d hatched out their plans together. Of course, it had been his father’s idea to offer Annabeth’s hand in marriage. He hadn’t liked the idea one bit, but there was little else to be said; Annabeth was no longer a baby, but a beautiful young lady eligible for marriage. And unfortunately, Sevan was right. She was their best bet. Especially...given last night...
But oh, how the thought pained him. Danya and Annabeth. Together. He cast the thought from his mind and gave Sevan a weak squeeze of the shoulder.
“Fine. Let me know when she’s arrived.” He nodded his head. “Until next time.”
His party drifted away, dismissed. In the ornate Inner Hall, the buzz of conversation hummed throughout, easily swallowed up by the immense size of the room. There was an intensity about the vibrant blue draped over the walls and ceilings. He sensed a cold austerity to it; it made the hall appear all the more larger in size, and he wondered if that was meant to impress upon those who entered.
At Graydon’s request, a Tuzkayan man who the prince vaguely remembered as the announcer from yesterday showed him to his seat. He had not been sitting more than a minute before a voice engaged him from behind, a voice as cool as a summer breeze, a voice that evoked disconcerting memories. It was the past coming to haunt him once again.
“It seems fortune smiles on me today.”
Graydon stiffened. Unbidden, an icy chill went down his spine, and he turned to face the man poised behind him. An automatic smile came to the young man’s face as he recognized the ambassador of Bruinsar, the darker-haired man’s head dipping down into a bow.
“Beullion.”
“Your Majesty. May I?”
As the man took Graydon’s hand in his own, the prince could not help but think of how Danya always used to greet him in the same way. He did not feel the same warmth in his heart when Beullion’s lips pressed against his skin, only an unsettling cold. The ambassador was merely doing it for show.
“It’s been some time since I last saw you. I hope all is well, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, indeed.” Graydon managed, forcing a crooked smile on his face. “How is that brother of yours?”
There was enough history in that one line alone to make the ambassador’s face tighten, if only for a moment. But the wolf was never caught off-guard for long. He shrugged half-heartedly as he slid into the seat next to Graydon, meeting the other man’s eyes promptly.
“Eh. Still king, unfortunately.”
“My, that speaks of discontent. Do you disagree with your choice of ruler, Beullion?”
Beullion smiled. Despite his unassuming features, he managed to look momentarily handsome and much younger than his thirty-four years.
“I am but a bastard child, quietly waiting in the wings for my due portion.” A hard malice lined his smile. “It is only natural I long for the throne...it’s in my blood, after all. Surely there are many others here who can sympathize? Perhaps even Your Majesty Himself?”
Graydon did not like the pointed edge to his last question. Raising his goblet to take a sip, he chewed over his reply, aware that the eyes and ears of others were set hard upon them. He wondered if Danya had sat the two together on purpose, knowing the frayed history between the two nations. A smaller part of him wondered if Danya knew of the tumultuous history between the two men themselves, but that was impossible. The prince’s eyes drew back to the other man’s face, unreadable.
“I believe,” he began carefully, “that we are all given our lot in life, and so must make due with it to the best of our abilities. Fate does not come about by accident.”
It was the safest thing to say. He dared not say anything else, not then.
Beullion’s smile was unwavering.
“We shall see, Your Majesty.”
 
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When Danya entered, no formal to-do was made--no announcement, nothing. He didn't need anyone to rise for him for, in truth, he was likely the lowest born in the room. He knew that and honestly wouldn't have it any other way. The former officer turned Commander-in-Chief sauntered towards his seat in the middle of the oblong-shaped table, giving measured glances to all of the attendees. It was something he planned to continue to do throughout that evening.

The least he could do was try to garner their respect, though he was no fool to believe they'd have any for him. Look at them... reprobates born into their power and position. What knew they of hard work, sweltering burns under an unforgiving sun as they toiled the fields? The differences between he and they were vast and to the point of absurdity. The irony of the situation, however, was the fact he needed them. He needed them to see him, his people, as a nation under their own power and control. He would try establishing legitimacy through whatever bureaucratic means he could manage.

And if that did not succeed… well... Tuzkaya would not be overrun.

The truth of the matter was that Tuzkaya was in a very precarious situation. It was unstable. Not only had the nation's wealth been depleted by piss-poor foreign policy and war, Danya now had a treacherous noble class on his hands, waiting at his heels to strike when he was at his most vulnerable. The only impetus that kept those individuals at bay was the fact the common citizenry outnumbered them--and the citizens were hopeful. Now that their servicemen had returned from war, the soldiers could now resume their lesser trades--the professions they practiced while off-duty. Danya anticipated a resurgence in their economy with this plentiful, skilled labor returning to the workforce. He would use it as his bargaining chip.

Danya stood behind the stool and moved it back ever so slowly. The dull sound of the wood scraping against the marble was pronounced. It brought all attention to him, and before he knew it, Danya had inclined his head in greeting. This time, however, instead of internally chastising himself for the blatant sign of his status, he offered a genuine smile to all those seated around him as he took a seat.

'I set the precedent. I make the rules.' Danya mentally recited the positive affirmations to himself.

"Good morning, Honored Guests. Thank you for joining us for these deliberations. I hope you rested easy… and well, and enjoyed the delights that traditional Tuzkayan hospitality has to offer," Danya greeted, making a stern effort to keep his tone as light and even as possible. The young Tuzkayan wasn't merely just setting the tone; he was simply scared as shit. Bureaucracy was a new skill for him. Danya felt more at ease at the end of a blade than he did at the end of thinly-veiled insults and double-edged words. Add into the mix the man he idolized sitting somewhere around this very table and Danya only had his pleasantries and script to cling to.

"As you all know, Tuzkaya, under its former administration, has long been absent from these regional assemblies during its ill pursuit to conquer lands to the north. That escapade has been abandoned; we now usher in a new era, one where the prosperity of our people and rapprochement with our neighbors is of our highest ambition. Tuzkaya's burgeoning economy is leading the way for our nation and it is our wish to establish friendly--"

An older man, early 60's, scoffed aloud and all eyes swung to him. He was from a small, growing nation-state by the name of Turfan. There were talks of it being annexed by a larger kingdom and the expression "no pot to piss in" came to mind.

Danya stopped mid-sentence and tried his best to keep the ice from his gaze. His mouth closed slowly as silence hung in the air.

So, it began.

Danya forced calm and addressed the man in an even-tone. "Chancellor Aliyeva, do you have something on your mind?"

The old man had clearly seen a thing or two, and from what Danya had heard of him, was a tolerable government official in his own right. The man now turned to Danya, meeting the Commander-in-Chief eye-to-eye.

"Do I have something… bah!" He threw his hand in the air, as if trying to brush Tuzkaya right off the map. "Pray, tell me. How, Commander, do you expect us to believe that after 14 years straight of waged war and turmoil across this entire region that Tuzkaya," Danya didn't particularly like the way he said it, "would be in the slightest way trusted to maintain friendly borders? That is what you were going to say, isn't it?" The man's tone was accusatory. Knowing.

And he wasn't wrong--so had been the defining quality of his people's nation for the majority of young Danya's life. The disgraced Tuzkayan king's expeditions--the term "war" made it sound as if his foolish missions were justified--had largely been fought on foreign soil. Tuzkaya had escaped most of the physical destruction caused elsewhere and many a nation believed Tuzkaya had never atoned for its sin. So had been the king's foolery. Danya wouldn't be surprised if Chancellor Aliyeva had been a victim.

But he would not make Danya his.

Danya nodded in acknowledgment. "I am aware of our tumultuous past, Chancellor."

"And did you not also fight in these wars, Commander?"

Danya's eyes narrowed momentarily. "As a child soldier, yes. My predecessor, Commander Sheraliev, saw to it that they were some of my last. I have no intention of continuing this turmoil of which you speak."

"But Commander," a lighter voice cut through the Chancellor's fuming. Danya turned his attention to a man at Princess Maria Urban of Peros's side. No formal retinue was allowed in as part of these discussions so the site of the two representatives meant only one thing--a regency. Princess Maria was not yet of governing age. "While I understand Tuzkaya's future intentions to be all well and good, we can only put our trust in actions. What does Tuzkaya plan to do in order to regain that trust?"

"Open borders," Danya answered without any hesitation or doubt in his voice. He heard a slight intake of breath from someone around the table but he paid no mind as to who. Tuzkaya was infamously closed off--whether by choice or circumstance, no one really knew anymore. "It has always been our country's desire to increase access to trade--you can trust in this fact. Instead of trading with our neighbors, former policy sought instead to control a portion of the great trade route to the north. I believe it of more value to trade with all of you," Danya stated simply. "This would be of mutual benefit for all of our countries and will, hopefully, lead to improved relations over time."

Open borders could mean a lot of things and Danya had no intention of expounding upon it here. The details and agreements between each country would come with time. For now, he simply wanted to throw the dogs a bone. After all, there would be no progress without sacrifice. He only hoped his citizenry would understand.

And if it must come to it--they may not have any choice.
 
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Graydon hardly recognized the man standing at the head of the table. There was just something magnetic about the way he commanded attention with so little bluster. No words were needed. Perhaps Graydon was a bit biased in his assessment, but as the prince gave the military leader his full attention, he could not help but feel some swell of - respect? Praise? - grow in his heart.

Danya, he noted absentmindedly, looked quite handsome in his attire.

The summit kicked off with little preamble. Outwardly, Graydon was the picture of perfect attentiveness. Inwardly, his thoughts raced impatiently. Sevan had drilled their master plan into his head so severely that even in the spells of silence he heard him, endlessly nagging on and on. The prince had no idea what the other dignitaries and leaders hoped to gain from being there. He did know, however, what Dein sought; he would be free from this ridiculous summit the quicker negotiations came to a head, and his fingers tapped restlessly on the table.

One of the chancellor’s tempers flared, and Graydon suppressed a long sigh as the man tried - in vain - to spar verbally with Danya. Or at least, he thought he’d suppressed it; his action drew the attention of the young princess across from him, and he blinked as he met Princess Maria’s eyes.

Poised though she was, she looked as nervous as he felt. He smiled gently at her, pleased when she returned the gesture with a small crinkle of the eye. She looked to be about Annabeth’s age. That might make his sister happy knowing that someone else was in her shoes, obscenely paraded about at the behest of her countrymen. Maybe he could acquaint the two…

Ah. He was getting distracted again.

As the conversation lulled into silence, and Danya announced Tuzkaya’s grand gesture of goodwill, Graydon let his eyes drift away back down to his hands. Danya was making bold moves, it seemed. Open borders? That was...The young prince let his eyes drift around the table, taking in the varied expressions on the dignitaries’ faces. It was a groundbreaking initiative on Tuzkaya’s part, and seeing the earnestness on Danya’s face made his heart ache.

He didn’t want to crush the moment. But he would have to, at least momentarily.

“Funny that you should mention the northern trade route...seeing as Dein controls a central part of it.”

All eyes swiveled the prince’s way. Graydon rapped his knuckles against the table, his spine straightening as his eyes flitted around his audience.

“While I admire the Commander’s optimism, I’m afraid he- you,” He added sharply, turning his attention to Danya, “-leave much to be desired. Open borders? Does that entail the dissolution of the neutral zone between Dein and Tuzkaya?”

“Surely you don’t expect the Commander to tailor to Dein’s needs entirely?”

All it took was one round table discussion, and suddenly everyone had nerves of steel. The prince turned towards the ambassador with an icy stare, and the man - yes, that spineless fool from Resquas Isles - visibly righted himself in his seat.

"That is no mean feat,” the man went on, “Tuzkaya has been insular for centuries-"

"Yes, I'm well aware of their history," Graydon cut in smartly.

“-Not to mention enemies for Dein even longer. Why, surely even this could be considered a great bounty for your people?”

“Surely not. Surely not now, surely not ever.”

A murmur rose up amongst the dignitaries, but Graydon was quick to shut it down by clearing his throat. He was not finished.

“Dein does not barter with enemies. And quite frankly, I can’t be convinced to bring home such a soddy deal to my people, to the king, or much less accept it. That’s not why I came here.”

There was an arrogant tilt of Graydon’s head, and he turned the full force of his gaze back towards the Commander. For the first time, he hesitated, almost seizing on his words as he looked at his former friend.

But then he felt the weight of everyone’s eyes on him, of the country resting on his shoulders. He took a deep breath and powered through.

“How about something more concrete? What say you about an alliance instead?”
 
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When cold, sharp dread raced up his abdomen and surrounded his heart, the Tuzkayan leader realized he had been clinging to some severely mistaken pipe dream. A fruitless hope that maybe Graydon wouldn't speak at all, too equally shocked and cautious of their history to partake in any petty discussions.

But he knew better. Danya knew better! Why on earth had Danya secretly wished for the Deinian's silence? Silence never became the boy he once knew--of course it wouldn't become him now!

And far from silent Graydon was. Danya tried his best to keep a neutral face, but the pinch of his brow and the set of the scowl across his lips portrayed something else.

Was it possible to hate the one you loved?

"Neutral zone… you mean the river?" The very same river I crossed to see you? The very same river that you kissed me in? Even after all these years, Danya had never forgotten that specific order of events.

Dissolve it, then. Absolutely. It mirrored perfectly the dissolution of their friendship. It was ironically fitting.

"Ah, yes; that brings up another topic of importance. A majority of the countries in attendance share this river as a border. While I would never support one single state controlling it, I do think all of our nations can benefit from this mode of transportation in some way. A formal discussion surrounding port agreements and subsequent taxation should be our next order of business." Danya nodded, though his words came through gritted, tightly clenched teeth.

A small voice in Danya's head reminded him that he had asked for this, had asked for Graydon not to hold back. He should be proud Graydon did not let their past ties cloud his ability to rule. Danya should do the same.

And yet, the feeling of betrayal crept into his heart.

Danya's lips parted to continue, but to his surprise, the ambassador of Resquas Isles spoke up, noting the insular history of Tuzkaya and challenging Dein's one-sided stance. Interesting… Though the ambassador's words surely worked in his favor, Danya couldn't help but wonder about the source of the ambassador's interest. While Danya could afford to be more optimistic about Tuzkaya's value to the continent, he was also realistic. Tuzkaya had much to rebuild and little to offer in resources save their commodities. He would revisit that later.

For now, he would focus on Graydon's vehement dismissal of Tuzkaya's offered olive branch.

Soddy, was it? For the first time that afternoon, Danya found himself growing angry. He tried his best not to see Graydon as the source behind it, but with the set of Graydon's jaw and the aggressively calm posture that he took, Danya saw more and more that it wasn't Dein he was dealing with.

In a perfect, never-to-exist world, Danya wondered how it would be to rule beside this man. A shared kingdom just as well as a shared bed. He knew that could never be, but the thought succeeded in quelling a bit of his distaste. Danya wasn't one to submit, but he would indeed submit to this man. He even possessed a history of it.

And, so, maybe--just maybe--that was why Danya bothered to entertain Graydon's brazen offer.

Concrete? You want something more concrete than free passage within our borders? Danya made an obvious effort to try to remain as flippant and unbothered as he could, but when his gaze reluctantly met the steel-grey's of the heir to the Pomplear throne, something within him tightened defensively.

"Go on," Danya invited, though his tone was cautious. But, then he added, "Enlighten me of anything Tuzkaya could possibly want from an enemy." In spite, Danya threw Graydon's own verbiage right back at him.
 
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Graydon could tell he was getting under Danya’s skin. Good. Some part of him - hell, he couldn’t lie to himself - a large part of him still smarted from the Tuzkayan’s words the other night, and he fought very hard to tamp down the petty feelings rising in him. This wasn’t about him and Danya; this was about Dein and Tuzkaya, about the future of their ruling class, about an age-old rivalry--

Oh, who was he fooling? Everything was about Danya. Everything.

Still. He didn’t want to upset the man too much. He was aware he had a sharp tongue, and he tried to be mindful of that as he spread his hands wide in an open gesture, a fragile smile on his face.

“Peace,” Graydon replied evenly, “Peace is what Tuzkaya could want from an enemy.

“War is the talk of yesterday, Commander. The neutral zone was enacted to stay the hands of bloodshed from both our sides, and it has been so for, quite frankly, far too many generations now. I propose that we mend the bridge between Dein and Tuzkaya. Ally ourselves as has never been done before.”

Well, maybe it had been done before. There was talk of there being a time many centuries ago when the kingdoms were one, but there was no record in the royal documents. The notion seemed fanciful: Dein and Tuzkaya together with no divides between them. A boy and his friend playing without the worry of judgement upon them, no hostilities to shoulder, and nothing to hide from...

The thought softened him. It softened his words and his facial expression into something kinder, and he added, “I am aware my request comes brashly, and I must apologize. But little time has been afforded me. I am to return to my father’s side some days from now, and I would prefer to return with news more good than bad. It is not my intent to monopolize this conversation…”

“Failure is not an option, Graydon.”

He swallowed. Once again, his fingers tapped nervously on the table.
 
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How assumptive.

And, damn the man, he was right. Tuzkaya would want peace--what country in their right mind wouldn't? And who wouldn't clamor for the security of an ally? It was just the thing Danya needed to solidify his rule.

He couldn't forget about himself in all of this--Danya may sit at the helm of the country but it had nothing to do with his people's trust in him. His rule was simply the result of a strange series of events and extraordinary timing. He hadn't been elected based on favorability--not outside of his regiment anyway--there was simply no one left to lead once the noble class fell, their treachery exposed for all to see. If Dein, an established and familiar country were willing to ally with a new, unknown leader, it would instill a source of trust that Danya himself might never win on his own accord.

Perhaps, unknowingly, Graydon was throwing Danya a bone. The Tuzkayan wondered about Dein's true goal in all of this. It was a hard offer to pass up--Danya hadn't even considered what an alliance with Dein would mean for his people!

Before responding, Danya took the opportunity to steal a glance about the room. Graydon played a room well, it was obvious that everyone in attendance sat at the edge of their seats--granted, for different reasons. He noted the defensive looks across some of the dignitaries' faces, the smugness in others.

Danya had to remember who he was now. Had to remember he was Tuzkaya now, much like Graydon was Dein.

The Commander-in-Chief turned his focus back to Graydon, who had inhaled. He wasn't done speaking. Danya noted Graydon's shift in demeanor, his conciliatory language. Was this man really a snake? Was he a hard-ass official or a bargaining monarch, despite his earlier declaration to the contrary?

Danya had almost let his guard down. His walls slammed back up.

"And yet you have successfully done just that, Prince of Dein," Chancellor Aliyeva commented suddenly as Graydon released the room from his grasp. Danya had forgotten the surly old man was there. He wasn't any less boisterous than he had been during Danya's speech. "You talk of how antiquated times of war are and yet you make this declaration, in front of us all. I had no idea that Dein was in the habit of offering alliances. If there's anyone more insular than Tuzkaya," he parroted the words of the ambassador of Resquas Isles with extra distaste on Tuzkaya's name, "it would be Dein. How did you think this suggestion would fare among all those present here? Many a year my countrymen knocked on your gold-encrusted doors, seeking asylum from the very country you seek to ally yourselves with now. Is this evidence of your country's stance, Your Highness?"

It was as if oxygen had been sucked from the room. Just what was the nation-state of Turfan implying?

"Chancellor, I think it warranted to allow the Prince an opportunity to finish what he came to say. As of yet, Dein is the only state who has extended an offer and, as I had mentioned before--if you happened to hear over your own concerns--peace is much in alignment with Tuzkaya's mission. I'm no fool; I know the costs weren't equal, but war broke our country, just as it did yours. I plead you to let him finish unimpeded, Chancellor. It is only respectful that we hear from everyone equally," Danya spoke in an even-toned, patient voice as he pinned the Chancellor with a steady glance. Danya felt strangely about the Chancellor--unsavory though he was to deal with, the Tuzkayan found he held respect for a man who steadfastly defended his own country.

"Your Highness," Danya spoke Graydon's title softly, and it had not been his intention, "please continue as I'm curious to know in what way Dein wishes to ally itself with our country. Chancellor Aliyeva brings up a good point--Dein isn't necessarily the most welcoming to outsiders." A ghost of a smile played on Danya's lips at that last bit. Ha, ha. It was an inside joke of sorts, one that only Graydon knew the true meaning of. After all, it had been a Deinian who had reassured a foreign boy lost in the wood a long time ago.

Wait. He couldn't joke with the enemy. Danya sobered and the smile was gone instantly.
 
A pin drop could be heard in the quiet stillness of the hall. Truthfully, Graydon could not confess to knowing how the other dignitaries would react to his declaration for peace. Nor could he confess to caring. There were bound to be the usual suspicions from naysayers: that perhaps Dein was allying itself to make itself stronger, or that Dein was gearing up to lead its own military incursions. The thought always made him laugh. Dein, a country of miners and goat herders, turning into a militaristic operation overnight. It was a preposterous notion. But idle minds led to tongue wagging, and the young prince had no doubt that someone would have something to say, some grand complaint to make to give their own insecurities solace.
That “someone” came to be Chancellor Aliyeva. The lucky winner.
The red-haired man turned his head away from Danya and stared blankly at Aliyeva. The old man was fired up, impassioned by Gods only knew what. Patriotism, perhaps? Though Graydon would never take the man for a zealot. At least Sevan had done his part to prepare him for such an outburst, though the prince could not help the annoyance flashing in his eyes. Annoyance melded into stark anger as the chancellor’s accusation hit square in the chest.
Thank the gods Danya went to speak first. There was nothing but molten heat on the tip of his tongue.
Enough. Calm yourself. He should have expected provocation. It was not the Deinian way to lose one’s head so easily, and Graydon’s nails dug deep into his palm as he stifled his own anger. In contrast, Danya eased the tension with poignant grace. He thought- well, he thought he’d caught the hint of a smile on the man’s tanned face, and the prince blinked slowly as it disappeared. Somehow it pained him, the loss of such a small and fleeting thing. Gone in the span of a breath, like the cold of a wet kiss quickly warming under the sun...
“Yes, Commander.” He nodded dutifully. Tap, tap, tap went his fingers. “I see your point.”
He inhaled sharply. Perhaps the extra oxygen would help his nostalgia-muddled brain.
“It is said that our nations were once one many, many years ago,” He began.
Graydon’s words were quiet, yet direct. He spoke with a calm he did not feel as he flicked his eyes about the room, before eventually returning to meet Danya’s gaze. Therein lay a cold professionalism once more, and Graydon, against his better judgement, felt his visage beginning to crack.
There was the warmth of the sun on the river in his eyes. He looked away, before he showed too much.
“While I don’t expect to see such closeness in my lifetime, I do aspire to emulate what Dein has already with two nations here: Bruinsar and Peros. Peros is aligned with Dein through my grandmother, former princess of Peros--”
Graydon made a gesture towards the young princess, and Maria nodded delicately in affirmation.
“--And Bruinsar through treaty.” He didn’t glance in Beullion’s direction, but the ambassador nodded slowly in agreement. “The terms for each alliance differ, but each enjoy a healthy flow of trade and open border policy that, as pointed out, so few have enjoyed before. That has not only benefited each respective nation materially but culturally as well, and more importantly fostered lasting peace between us.
“Personalized terms can be met at perhaps a later, more intimate setting. For now, know this: should Tuzkaya accept, Dein is willing to offer the hand of younger sister, Princess Annabeth, as a sign of the countries' union.”
The accompanying gasps and surprise crossing some of the dignitaries faces was enough to show the temerity of his offer. The last time a royal member of Dein had been offered to a foreign leader was decades ago. In their current era, it was unhead of, and Graydon momentarily basked in the stunned silence that followed his words. It would have been easy to let the conversation end there and bow out, his instructions from his father and Sevan followed down to the letter.
But he couldn’t. There was one loose end to tie up first.
“As to the accusations presented by Chancellor Aliyeva...well. Allow me to clarify.”
Graydon swung towards the man abruptly, fixing him with a pointed look. With no small degree of bite, he went on, “The events that you speak of are both moot and of little consequence to the subject at hand. There is a limit to the aid Dein will give to a nation so unwilling and unable to reciprocate, and quite frankly, it is known that had your king not squandered military resources on protecting his own, greedy interests--”
“How can you--” The chancellor began hotly.
“--And spared more concern towards his people, perhaps there would have been no need for Turfan to knock again and again on Dein’s gold-encrusted doors! The sin of a foolish king lies not on me, but on your people. Now--”
The chancellor looked ready to come to blows. “Now you go too far, Prince Graydon.”
A fire raged in Graydon’s eyes.
“The truth tends to offend, I’m afraid,” He said slowly. It was all he could to keep his cool. “However, I am in no position to coddle and placate the bruised feelings of men twice my senior--”
“How dare you!”
“I dare! Yes, I dare,” Graydon snapped, his temper at last flaring. “You may take my words as they are. Or not. It matters little to me. And should any other nation here today feel there is a matter of great importance concerning Dein, by all means, please speak openly.
And with that, the gauntlet was thrown.
 
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Further discussion in a more intimate setting? Graydon’s declaration brought about mixed feelings. Though his impression of Graydon had certainly changed as of late, he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t look forward to seeing him again. He’d hate it, yes, but… it had been years. Years since he’d seen his friend only to be confronted with him rather suddenly the night before. Of course he would want to see him again. Graydon, whether he liked it, knew it, or not, would always remind Danya of a happier time.

Perhaps an alliance with Dein could be more than beneficial. Perhaps it could be enjoyable, too.

“… should Tuzkaya accept, Dein is willing to offer the hand of younger sister, Princess Annabeth, as a sign of the countries' union.”
The world stopped.

Muffled voices, maybe shouting, could be heard in a far-away place. He was both seeing and not seeing. Suddenly he didn’t have enough air. A dry tongue skittered across chapped lips. His chest was hot. He thought to strip but his hands were paralyzed. He couldn’t move.

“Offer the princess…

‘What?’ Danya said to himself, perhaps aloud.

Offer the princess.” Graydon was suddenly beside him, whispering intimately into his ear, dragging out the ‘s’ and making his skin crawl. “She’s yours.” Danya’s eyes bugged—where had he come from?!

No. No.

A sing-song voice called to him. “Danya.”

No. I don’t want her. I don’t.

“She’s all yours…”

“… Danya…”


Color returned to the world. Chairs could have been thrown; lanterns could have been smashed. Graydon, if he hadn’t had been hissing in his ear, could have drug the Chancellor of Turfan across the table by his thinning hairs for all Danya knew. He may not know what truly transpired, but he knew what he had heard.

“I never wanted you.”

Rejection. A hard, cold slap to his face.

Happiness was never meant for him.

Already failing daydreams of him and Graydon laying side-by-side in the grass, just like they used to, finally fractured and fell away.

The Tuzkayan felt physically ill. Graydon had played his trump card and it was at the expense of Danya’s heart.

How long had he known? Had he ever cared?

Had he ever cared as Danya had cared?

Danya just wasn’t that good. Wasn’t that recovered and calm to play off this hurt. And it showed on his face. He couldn’t hide it this time. The only thing that saved him was that he turned insular, and as a result, mute.

What a wicked man Graydon was. What a wicked, wicked man.

He couldn’t bear to be in the same room.

Escalated voices rang out over the table. A rather animated Graydon vehemently cut Chancellor Aliyeva low. It was out of character. It wasn’t the Graydon he knew. But what did Danya know anymore? The Graydon he thought he knew was outspoken, surely, but he wasn’t evil. Danya’s stomach flopped and rolled in his belly. He felt so unwanted and he didn’t know what to do.

A woman? A woman? He had been disburdened onto a woman—and not just any woman, oh no, but to the man’s very blood sister. Danya couldn’t think of anything crueler.

Danya was having trouble coming back to himself. Luckily, feeling returned to his arms and he raised his hands to run them aggressively over his face.

“How dare you!”

“I dare! Yes, I dare,”
he could hear the prince of Dein as he threatened the room with his very presence. Who was this man?

“Graydon, please,” Danya intoned, flat, desperate and overwhelmed.

The Tuzkayan promptly locked up. His hands stopped in place before he quickly dropped them to his lap.

Oh.

SHIT.

The Commander-in-Chief of Tuzkaya sat there, stunned at his own slip of the tongue, as blood pounded against his ears. He struggled to think of a way to recover, but there simply just wasn’t a way. What had been said had been said.

Danya had called the heir to Dein by his familiar name. A man he had “met” only a day ago. In a room full of representatives of every country known to their region.

Talk was already spreading; he could feel it. The ramifications of such a slip were three-fold. Turfan was already insinuating ulterior motives behind the alliance. Others would wonder just how well the newly-appointed Tuzkayan leader was acquainted with the heir of Dein. And others, still, would comment that the representative of Tuzkaya had no inkling of respect or social tact regarding its neighbors.

Danya would never fuck up like this. It… just wasn’t what he did. And now he didn’t know what to do except try to smooth it over.

“Forgive me. Graydon of Dein, Your Highness, I believe your point has been viciously made,” the Tuzkayan’s tone was careful and exceedingly tense. He was trying his best not to convey the hurt he felt. “I don’t wish to censor anyone, but let us keep this discussion civil and free from attack.”

Suddenly, the Regent of Peros burst out with the spontaneity of someone who’d just been stuck in the ass with a pin. “We propose an alliance as well!”

More gasps surrounded the table. Danya’s right brow rose exponentially high on his forehead. Well, that was unexpected.

The Chancellor of Aliyeva’s jaw dropped suddenly in pure disbelief and chagrin. Just how flagrant were they going to be about this?

“So, there. You’ll have two offers to consider, Commander… er… Danya,” the Perosian Regent added uncertainly. “We look forward to discussing with the good people of Tuzkaya just what that will look like. The adoption of free borders will be your initiative alone, however. Geographical distance, as it may,” the Regent smiled as he took the glass of water in front of him and took a sip, obviously proud of himself. The princess who sat to the right of him was a new shade of red, however. They had obviously not discussed this. She muttered under her breath to him and he instantaneously ignored her.

The Chancellor of Aliyeva threw his hands up in mutual distress and amazement. The blatant flaunting of Dein and its allies was at unreal levels. “Quite frankly, I’ve had enough of this ass petting. Is there anything more to discuss?”

Things had gone awry very quickly and it left Danya reeling. He was surprised that the Chancellor didn’t just leave after Graydon’s earlier explosion. He would have been fully warranted to. Instead, the Chancellor was now looking at him and Danya gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment. The man owed nothing to Tuzkaya, absolutely nothing. And yet, he stayed.

Quite frankly, Danya was sick of this fiasco, too. He tried hard not to think of the reason.

He was always the reason.

Without turning to look at Graydon, Danya addressed the room instead. “I… regard Dein’s earlier offer to be a vastly generous proposal. It will be graciously considered. And, for Peros, I look forward to future talks to deem how an alliance between your nation and ours might be mutually beneficial for the both of us.”

He hadn’t heard from everyone gathered there, and he had expected as much. Others weren’t so bold (or, perhaps, weren’t as foolish—only time would tell) as to make grand propositions of friendship with an unknown government and a country with a sullied history. Their proposals might come later, within the shadows of a hall, or maybe, they would never come at all. Either way, this meeting was over.

Regardless if anyone wanted it to be or not.

“This concludes our summit. Thank you all for your attendance today; it was an honor for Tuzkaya to rejoin these discussions. You are welcome to reside at the Walled Capitol for the next few days to arrange your travel. We will have entertainments for you, as well as a formal tour for those unacquainted with our land. Enjoy your evening,” Danya ended promptly before standing up, signaling the end of the talks.

Danya walked to the door. At his approach, the doors swung open and the fresh breeze from the hallway did well to cleanse the stifled animosity that still hung about the room. Danya stood at the door, where his Chamberlain soon joined him, as they jointly bid the attendees farewell. When Danya inclined his head to the first person, his Aunt froze, shocked that he hadn’t shunned this particular cultural habit, but soon mimicked him. She even went as far as to smile. Perhaps it was time for a change.

It wasn’t surprising that the Chancellor of Aliyeva was one of the first to depart. The suppressed rage apparent in his face was enough for Aisha not to question why he stalked from the room without so much as a sidewards glance.

Some were slow to leave, speaking amongst themselves. Others, well. Others couldn’t disappear within the crowd even if they wanted to. Like the man slowly exiting before them.

Danya’s eyes were drawn to the brilliant coat of arms that glinted with the man’s arm movements. He wasn’t acquainted with the man himself, but the symbol—and ostentatiousness of it—could mean only one thing.

Another royal to deal with.

“Ah. The Ambassador of Bruinsar. I regret we hadn’t the opportunity to exchange many words today,” Danya nodded, addressing the man.
 
Never before had Graydon wished to be more like his father than at that table, within that Grand Hall, under the cutting scrutinization of the gathered diplomats. How he longed for the cold stoicism that had come to define his countrymen. The prince leveled his gaze with the impassioned chancellor, and his mouth frowned into a thin line.

Mind your temper, Graydon.

That was all. That was the only piece of instruction that his father had personally given him, and yet, and yet, here he sat, cheeks burning as the heat within threatened to consume him. A prince of Dein so easily baited by some low-breed chancellor. It was unthinkable. It was wholly immature. It was not the Deinian way. And yet--

“Graydon, please.”

He blinked. As did the chancellor. As did the unsavory ambassador besides him, all heads turning sharply to regard the Commander with unnatural focus, the ensuing melee momentarily forgotten.

Had he...did Danya just…?

“Commander?” Graydon started, surprised.

Besides him, pen came to paper with quiet discretion. Beullion had very much faded into the background, as was his talent - though the colorful characters surrounding him had unknowingly aided his efforts greatly. He kept his notes short and to the point. There was no need for a litany of the meeting’s events; only the highlights were recorded to memory, the rest saved for later study as the dark-haired man stowed his paper away in his breast pocket.

Somewhere in the interim of Danya’s poorly covered mistake and Graydon’s gawking, the Regent of Peros decided to open his mouth and quite graciously detour the conversation towards an alternative route. A very unfortunate alternative route.

Graydon gave the Regent of Peros a withering look. Whether the foolish man realized it or not, his half-cocked declaration would only serve to muddy the waters, if not cripple his own potential alliance with Tuzkaya. It was too much for one political summit; he would have to suss this out at another time. Later. As he would the peace negotiations with Tuzakaya.

Both matters were equally headache-inducing. Only one filled his heart with anxiety as well.

He’d never been so grateful for a political summit to end in his life. Soon after Chancellor Aliyeva barreled out, the prince, too followed suit, only pausing long enough to bid both Danya and his Chamberlain a good evening. He was unable to meet either of their eyes.

Ambassador Beullion was one of the last to leave. There were a few notes he had to add; plus, too, the added snippets of conversation he was privy to hearing. It came as a small surprise that the Commander deigned to speak with him as he left, and Beullion paused, bowing his respectfully in the wake of the man’s words.

“Commander Danya.” The man smiled congenially. “Yes, that’s quite alright. We can speak now, if you have a moment to spare...I don’t believe we were acquainted yesterday in an informal capacity. I am Beullion.”

There was an unassuming reticence about the ambassador that put one at ease. He stood, shoulders relaxed and hands clasped together behind his back, his build respectfully turned towards Danya and his attention fully given to him. He did not spare a glance at the last few dignitaries brushing past him.

“I must say that Bruinsar will not be making any declarations for an alliance today,” He said apologetically, shrugging lightly. There was a hint of humor in his voice as he added, “I’m afraid being Dein’s ally does not compel us to follow in their footsteps as it would, say, some other countries. Though I applaud the prince’s efforts, temper aside. Some would say it to be a bit premature, but me? Well…”

Beullion glanced aside at Danya. “I am a bit biased in that regard. I’ve known the prince since he was a child...Quite the idealist, that one. Much unlike his father.”
 
Danya smiled before he knew it and returned the gesture, bowing slightly in return. Danya’s eyes lifted to track the man, trying to understand him. The Ambassador’s sure tone and eloquent words fully belied his birthright but something about the way the man carried himself caught Danya’s eye.

Was he military? It wasn’t unheard of for members of the royal family to head their nation’s armed forces. Danya tried to recall all that he knew of Bruinsar but found he didn’t know much of the man in front of him. Even after the exhausting encounter they had just had, Danya found himself curious about the man. How had they managed to miss each other before?

Oh… that was right. Danya hadn’t exactly stayed around after he’d been confronted by that harlot and her newest recruit.

‘Stop it, Danya,’ the Tuzkayan reprimanded himself. ‘Don’t think of him that way.’

“Certainly, now’s as good a time as any. It’s a pleasure to meet you formally, Ambassador,” Danya replied pleasantly. He casted a glance to his Chamberlain.

Aisha seemed to understand the silent request as she nodded to her nephew. Turning toward the Bruinsarian representative, she bid farewell with a simple, “Ambassador,” before decidedly sweeping further into the chamber to coordinate the room clearing.

As the scent of jasmine and patchouli waned, Danya returned his full attention to Beullion. Not that he needed to—the man appeared to be giving Danya the entirety of his. It settled well with him to be addressed directly instead of being talked at. Danya even chuckled in response to Beullion’s allusion to the prior meeting.

“Ah, that’s too bad. I quite enjoyed adding to our ally count today,” Danya replied, smiling at the man’s half-hearted shrug. He listened as the man continued, commenting on the ill-timed eagerness of Peros and their sudden declaration. But, then…

The prince. There was none other who he could be referring to. The Tuzkayan’s eyes narrowed. Danya found it hard to stay objective in this arena, even if he’d been effectively spurned by Dein’s lofty offer. He found himself suddenly picking apart the Ambassador’s words as he searched for possible double meanings. Premature? Surely, the offer had been, but was it premature on the part of Dein’s forwardness or Tuzkaya’s ability to be trusted?

Danya felt his brow stiffening and he fought to keep his expression neutral. Until Beullion’s next tidbit.

He knew Graydon as a child. Alarm bells sounded and Danya was taken aback.

This knowledge wouldn’t have come as much of a surprise if only Danya’d been born to this world, but the closeness of this man and his childhood friend to that part of Danya’s younger life astounded him. In all reality, a villager’s boy and a monarch’s son should have never met. But, they had and now Danya was irreparably intertwined into Graydon’s story—a story he only knew one side of.

Danya licked his lips, the nervous habit surfacing as he suddenly looked up and around them. What did this man know? Sharp eyes returning to the Ambassador, Danya made an offer. “I see. I regret the missed opportunity of meeting his Royal Highness then, though I’ve heard he’s suffered from a bout of poor health as of late. Shall we walk?” The Tuzkayan tried to keep the intensity from his gaze as he suggested their change in location. “Perhaps it takes an idealist to move a country in a forward direction. I’m afraid I may suffer from the same,” Danya played at the role of bartering diplomat, leaving his comments open so as not to suggest his true intention—which was finding out just what this man knew. “Surely, the prince could not have made an offer of this magnitude without his king’s blessing.”

Offer, heh. It wasn’t an offer, it was a bloody sacrifice--Danya just couldn’t figure out whose it was.
 
He was the Commander’s shadow. Though of a notable status himself, Beullion waited respectfully for Danya to set off before following, keeping himself a foot apart as they walked. Close, but not too close. Appearing at least to be in the man’s confidence, but not in a conspiratorial spirit.

Beullion’s face betrayed nothing as he listened to Danya’s words. He could hardly be expected to; he was, after all, built to observe, and there was much in the young ruler to pick away at. From the man’s rigid stance, to the careful pick of his words. So the Commander was aware of what company he kept. No, on second thought; Beullion’s eyes slid in the Tuzkayan’s direction, assessing him. No, it was simply a formality. A smart move, really, to keep him at arms-length. There was only one other person there whose eyes cut through even Beullion’s carefully constructed persona, and he was not there to lift the curtain on him.

He would use this precious time to his advantage.

“Perhaps.” At length, his head turned ever slightly to look in Danya’s direction. He appeared pensive. “Though it was thought at the time that Prince Graydon’s ascension to the throne was imminent. The king has since recovered. And so the court’s opinion has changed once again to reflect the current monarch...not the prince.”

What the man could have meant by such a cryptic statement was unknown. There was a pregnant pause as Beullion took his time considering his next words carefully. Finally, the man drew to a stop, and he looked at Danya fully.

“Commander. If I may. I believe it wise to consider Dein's offer carefully.” Though he did not smile, there was a degree of amicable kindness in the older man’s face. Feigned, perhaps, but there all the while. Crossing his arms behind his back, he continued, “I speak neither for or against it. Only that such an offer may never be made again.”

He smiled thinly.

“There is reason to believe that the prince will not be made king. You may very well be contending with his brother instead.”