Chapter 3: The Remedy
The silence in Vil’s chambers after Envoy Selene left was a different beast than the quiet of the savanna. This silence was thick, pressurized, full of the unsaid things that scraped like sand against stone. Vil stood by the cold fireplace, the slender scroll case from Selene feeling like a bar of lead in his hand. The Luminary Fellowship nomination should have been a pinnacle, a validation of every sleepless night, every sacrificed pleasure. It tasted like ash.
He crossed the room to a heavy desk of blackened oak, its surface an expanse of empty, polished darkness. With methodical, almost violent precision, he arranged a fresh sheet of parchment, a silver inkwell, a razor-sharp quill. The tools of order. He sat, his back rod-straight, and began to draft the wedding itinerary.
Sunrise: ceremonial ablutions. Third bell: arrival of the officiant from the shifting sands. Fifth bell: procession…
His pen moved, etching black lines in clean, unflinching strokes. But his hand, usually as steady as a surgeon’s, betrayed him. A faint tremor disrupted the downstroke of a ‘p’. The elegant script wavered. He stared at the flaw, a hot spike of frustration jabbing behind his sternum.
He dipped the quill again, the ink bleeding a little too much from the tip. He wrote: Exchange of vows and binding sigils.
The image flashed unbidden: Leona’s face in the savanna sun, powdered sugar on his chin, his laugh rough and surprised. Leona’s green eyes, sharp and assessing in the marble hall, seeing right through Selene’s polished threats. The feel of the wind, real and demanding, tearing at his carefully arranged hair.
A drop of ink fell from the poised quill and landed on the parchment with a soft, accusing blot. It spread, a dark, ugly star marring the pristine schedule. Vil’s breath hitched. He tried to blink the blurriness from his vision, but it persisted. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was too late. A hot tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheekbone faster than he could catch it. It splashed onto the desk beside the ruined parchment.
Humiliation burned through him, hotter than any anger. Crying was a flaw. A catastrophic system failure. He dashed the back of his hand across his face, smearing the evidence, but another tear followed. He was trembling in earnest now, his chest tight. The pressure of the cage—the elegant, gilded cage of his own making, reinforced by Selene’s scrolls and his grandmother’s failing health—felt like it was physically crushing him. He couldn’t breathe in here. The air was dead.
The door to his chamber opened with no ceremony.
Leona didn’t knock. He just shouldered it open and slouched in, as if crossing the threshold of the Crown Prince’s betrothed’s private room was no different from wandering into the kitchens. He had a small, steaming clay cup in one hand.
He took in the scene in one sweeping glance: Vil, bolt upright at the desk, his face averted, the single tear track gleaming in the weak firelight, the ugly ink blot on the perfect parchment.
Leona didn’t say a word about the tear. He didn’t offer sympathy. He just ambled over, the quiet scuff of his boots on the rug the only sound. He looked down at the meticulous, ruined itinerary, his expression unreadable. Then, with a dismissive flick of his fingers, he picked up the parchment by its corner and tossed it aside. It fluttered like a wounded bird onto the floor.
Vil stiffened, a flash of outrage cutting through his misery. “What do you think you’re—”
“Shut up,” Leona said, his voice a low rumble. Not harsh, but final. He placed the clay cup on the desk where the parchment had been. A faint, herbal scent rose from it—lemongrass, ginger, something earthy and sweet. “Drink this before you stab someone with that quill.”
Vil stared at the cup, then up at Leona. The prince’s face was impassive, but his eyes held a familiar, stubborn green gleam. Not pity. A kind of pragmatic impatience.
“What is it?” Vil’s voice was rougher than he intended.
“My mother’s remedy. For when the walls start breathing.” Leona leaned a hip against the desk, looking down at him. “She used to make it when my brother and I would get… caged in. After state dinners. During the rainy season. When the weight of the damn crown got too heavy for kids to carry.”
Vil’s fingers unclenched slowly. He looked at the steaming liquid. It was a simple, ugly thing, rough-fired clay, not porcelain. An artifact from a world of real comfort, not displayed grace.
“I don’t need a remedy,” Vil said, but the protest was weak, automatic.
“Yeah, you do.” Leona nodded toward the scroll case, still clutched in Vil’s other hand. “You’re holding that thing like it’s a live snake. Is it biting you, or are you biting it?”
The question was so absurdly blunt it punctured the swelling panic in Vil’s chest. He looked at the scroll case as if seeing it for the first time. He slowly set it down next to the clay cup. The two objects looked obscenely mismatched together.
He reached for the cup. The heat was nearly scalding, a sharp, grounding pain against his palms. He brought it to his lips and took a cautious sip. The flavor burst across his tongue—spicy, bright, familiar yet foreign. It was nothing like the subtle, curated teas of his home. This was a shout in a quiet room.
He drank more deeply, the heat spreading through his chest, loosening the tight knot beneath his ribs. A shaky exhale escaped him, one he hadn’t known he was holding.
Leona watched him drink, then his gaze drifted to the fireplace where the fire was struggling against the damp chill of the room. “Your fire’s pathetic,” he commented. “No wonder it’s like a tomb in here.”
Without waiting for permission, he walked over to the hearth. He crouched down, ignoring the pristine toolset arranged beside it. He used his hands, rearranging the half-burnt logs with a series of rough, efficient moves, poking at the embers with a metal rod he grabbed without ceremony. He blew on the base, a long, steady breath that made the ashes glow a fierce orange. Flames leapt up, greedy and sudden, casting a warm, dancing light that chased the steady shadows from the corners of the room.
The new light painted Leona in gold and wavering shadow as he crouched there, his profile intent. He wasn’t a prince in that moment. He was just a man tending a fire, a basic, human act.
Vil watched him, the cup warm against his lips. He remembered the savanna sun on his face, the wildflower in his hand. A different kind of chaos.
“Why are you here?” Vil asked, the question leaving him quietly. He wasn’t asking about the fire.
Leona didn’t look up from the flames he’d coaxed to life. “You looked like you were planning your own execution with that quill. Boring.” He finally stood, brushing ash from his hands onto his trousers. “And that envoy woman. She talks like she’s got a stick permanently installed. Annoying.”
“She represents my queen. My family,” Vil said, but there was no conviction in it anymore.
“She represents a deal.” Leona turned to face him, the firelight warming his skin. “And she’s trying to renegotiate it in her favor. Moving the deadline. Swooping in with shiny prizes to make you forget you’re the one being traded.” He shrugged. “Oldest trick in the book.”
Vil flinched. “It’s not a trade. It’s a merger. An alliance.”
“Same thing with better embroidery.” Leona walked back to the desk. He didn’t sit, just loomed over it, his presence somehow making the large room feel smaller, more contained. “So. This fellowship thing. It’s a big deal for you.”
It wasn’t a question. Vil looked into the depths of the herbal tea. “It’s everything I’ve worked for. The pinnacle of academic recognition in my field. It would open doors… cement my family’s standing.” He traced the rim of the clay cup. “It would mean prolonged periods in the Shifting Sands. For research. Lectures.”
“Right.” Leona’s voice was flat. “Convenient.”
The word hung there. Vil finally looked up at him. “You think it’s a ploy? To pull me back?”
“I think,” Leona said slowly, picking up the silver quill from where Vil had dropped it, twirling it idly between his fingers, “that they don’t like seeing their perfect, polished asset getting dusty in the savanna. They saw the dirt on your shoes.” He met Vil’s gaze, his own sharp. “They’re reclaiming you.”
The truth of it was a cold stone in Vil’s gut. He knew it. He’d known it the moment Selene mentioned the accelerated timeline. The fellowship wasn’t just an honor; it was a leash. A beautifully crafted, academically endorsed leash.
“What would you have me do?” The question was raw, stripped bare. “Refuse it? Spit in the face of my queen, my grandmother, my life’s work?”
Leona was silent for a long moment. He placed the quill back down on the desk with a soft click. “I’m not having you do anything.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I stole a pastry to piss you off. You fed me the whole tray to make a point. We’re… even.” He looked away, toward the newly vigorous fire. “Do what you want. Just… stop looking like you’re marching to the gallows every time you think about it. It’s depressing.”
He began to turn, as if to leave, his usual dismissal in place.
“Leona.”
The name, spoken aloud by Vil for the first time without title or rancor, stopped him.
Vil stood up. He placed the empty clay cup on the desk. The herbal warmth was inside him now, a small, defiant glow against the internal chill. “I don’t know what I want.” The admission was terrifying. For Vil Schoenheit, not knowing was the ultimate failure.
Leona looked back at him. In the firelight, his guarded indifference seemed to thin, revealing something else beneath—a faint, tired understanding. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I got that.”
He didn’t offer answers. He didn’t promise solutions. He just stood there, a solid, unmoving presence in the chaotic swirl of Vil’s obligations and desires.
“The tea helped,” Vil said finally, because he had to say something to fill the quiet that wasn’t oppressive, but strangely charged.
“Told you,” Leona grunted. He eyed Vil up and down. “You still look like hell. Get some sleep. Your perfect face is gonna get permanent cracks.”
It was so stupidly, typically Leona that Vil felt the ghost of a real smile touch his lips. “Concerned about your investment, Your Highness?”
“Nah.” A slow, familiar, lazy grin spread across Leona’s face. “Just don’t want to be seen with a zombie at the signing. Gives people the wrong idea.”
He turned fully then and walked to the door. He paused on the threshold, not looking back. “The fire should hold. Don’t let it die.”
Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him.
Vil stood alone in the room, but the silence was different. It was filled with the crackle of honest flames and the fading scent of ginger and lemongrass. He looked at the discarded, ink-blotted itinerary on the floor. He looked at the elegant scroll case next to the rough clay cup.
He walked to the window and pushed the heavy drapes aside. The savanna at night was a vast, dark expanse, pricked by a million indifferent stars. No walls. No rules. Just space.
He didn’t know what he wanted. But for the first time since Envoy Selene had spoken, the crushing weight had shifted, just a fraction. Not lifted, but shared. Leona hadn’t taken it from him. He’d just… shouldered in beside him, blunt and uninvited, and made the load feel different.
Vil touched the cool glass of the windowpane. Outside, in the consuming dark, something howled—a long, lonely sound that spoke of a freedom that was terrifying in its emptiness.
He turned his back on the view and went to bed. He left the fire burning.
Vil lay in the absurdly large bed, staring at the ceiling where firelight sketched shifting patterns. The herbal tea sat warm in his belly, a quiet rebellion against the chill in his bones. He replayed the feel of the clay cup in his hands, its rough practicality so unlike anything he owned.
The memory of Leona’s hands, deftly rebuilding the fire with a casual, inherent competence, intruded. He hadn’t used the polished tools. He’d just done it. Vil traced the seam of the silk sheet with his thumb. Every interaction here was a performance, a calculation. Leona’s actions weren’t. They were infuriatingly, bafflingly sincere.
He thought of the pastry theft, the savanna wind, the snorted laugh. A stubborn, lazy brute wouldn’t have seen the trap in Selene’s words. A mere brute wouldn’t have brought that specific tea, wouldn’t have known its purpose was for a feeling, not a fever. There was a shrewdness there, a kindness so well-hidden it almost wasn’t there at all.
Vil turned onto his side, facing the fire. It was still blazing, just as Leona had ensured. That simple command—don’t let it die—felt heavier now. It wasn’t about the fire. It was an indictment of the cold stillness Vil clung to. A challenge. He closed his eyes, and for the first time since his arrival, he didn’t see a cage. He saw a vast, gold landscape, and a figure standing in it, waiting to see if he’d follow.
Across the castle, in a room cluttered with discarded hunting gear and stray scrolls, Leona wasn’t sleeping either. He was stretched on a low divan, one arm thrown over his eyes. The ceiling here was familiar, a map of cracks he’d memorized through years of bored afternoons.
His mind replayed the look on Vil’s face in the East Hall—that fractured second where ambition warred with pure, animal panic. He’d seen cornered creatures make that face. The stupid, brilliant bastard actually cared about his work. Leona got that. What he didn’t get was the flinch, the way Vil folded the second someone from his old life snapped their fingers.
He growled, rolling onto his side. The scent of Vil’s room clung to him: not perfume, but ink, crisp linen, and that underlying herbal note from the tea. It was a clean, complicated smell. Annoying.
Vil was annoying. Intensely, profoundly annoying. And sharp. Leona hadn’t had to explain the envoy’s ploy; Vil had seen it instantly. Their conversation hadn’t been the formal, dancing verbal sludge of the court. It had been direct. Acknowledgment of a shared enemy, even if that enemy was their own futures. He hadn’t been bored for a second.
Two weeks. The thought landed with a dull thud in his gut. Two weeks until the signing, until the official noose tightened. He’d spent his whole life evading duty, shrugging off expectation. Now he was barreling toward the biggest one of all. And for the first time, the person at the center of it wasn’t a vague concept. It was Vil, with his trembling hands and his razor-sharp quill and his stubborn, stupid hope.
He pictured Vil’s tear, one solitary, treasonous drop in the firelight. He hadn’t cried. He’d malfunctioned. The distinction was vitally, peculiarly Vil. A strange protectiveness surged in Leona’s chest, hot and inconvenient. He didn’t want to protect Vil from the marriage. He wanted to protect him from the people who’d made him think crying was a flaw.
“Damn it,” he muttered into the quiet of his room.
He sat up, restless. The inertia that usually held him felt thin, inadequate. He had two weeks. Not to stop the wedding, but to… what? To see if the person who could match him wit for wit in a stone corridor was the same person who clutched a wildflower like it was a secret. He needed to know.
He needed to know if that flicker of something in the savanna sun—that unguarded, real thing—could survive the signing, the fellowship, the weight of both their crowns. The curiosity was a live wire in him, unfamiliar and urgent. He’d gone from vehemently against this marriage to actively, fiercely wanting to unravel the mystery of Vil Schoenheit.
And that was a problem. Because mysteries you cared about solving were the ones that could destroy you.
The thought coiled in his gut, a restless, unfamiliar thing. Sleep was pointless now. He swung his legs off the divan, the stone floor cold under his bare feet. He needed to do something, even if it was stupid.
He didn't plan it. He just found himself padding through the silent, pre-dawn corridors, the castle hushed in that strange blue hour before the sun. His feet carried him past tapestries he didn't see, toward the wing housing his future husband. He stopped outside Vil’s door, the heavy oak imposing in the gloom. What was he doing? His hand hovered, then knocked—three sharp, decisive raps that echoed in the hall.
He expected silence, or a curt dismissal. Instead, after a brief pause, the latch clicked.
The door swung inward. Vil stood there, backlit by the weak, grey light from his chamber window. He was wearing a robe of charcoal-grey silk so sheer it was nearly a vapor. It clung loosely, tied at his narrow waist, but it hid nothing. The lines of his torso were clearly visible, the planes of his chest and stomach pale and finely drawn in the dim light. He wore only simple, dark undergarments beneath.
His usually impeccable hair was a soft, disheveled mess, strands of platinum falling across his forehead and catching the light. His eyes were heavy-lidded, blinking slowly against the intrusion, free of their usual calculated sharpness. He looked soft. Real. Unmade.
Leona’s breath caught in his throat. All words, all purpose, dried up and blew away. He just stared, his brain short-circuiting. The calculated beauty he was used to was gone, replaced by something far more devastating. This was unstudied, intimate. His future husband was gorgeous even when just waking up.
Vil rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand, a surprisingly childlike gesture. “What?” he mumbled, his voice sleep-rough and lower than usual. “Has the castle caught fire?”
Leona finally managed to reboot his vocal cords. “No.” The word came out scratchy. He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze back up to Vil’s face, away from the distracting sheerness of the silk. “I came to… ask you something.”
“At this hour?” Vil leaned against the doorframe, the motion making the robe gape slightly. “It’s barbaric.”
“Yeah, well.” Leona dragged a hand through his own messy hair, struggling to remember why he’d come. The sight of Vil, sleep-soft and half-dressed, had scrambled every thought. “Do you… would you want to…” He faltered, then blurted it out. “Breakfast. Do you want to have breakfast? Together.”
Vil blinked. He looked down at his own state of undress, then back up at Leona, one fine eyebrow arching. A slow, knowing awareness dawned in his violet eyes, cutting through the sleep fog. He saw Leona’s arrested stare, the uncharacteristic fumble.
A faint, smug smile touched his lips. “Is this a formal request, Your Highness? Or are you just hungry and lost?”
“It’s a question,” Leona growled, recovering some of his composure. “A simple yes or no will work. Don’t make a production out of it.”
Vil studied him for a long moment, the smile not fading. He seemed to be weighing the unexpectedness of the offer against the pleasure of seeing Leona off-balance. “I require coffee,” he stated finally. “A substantial amount. And something that isn’t covered in powdered sugar.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Leona turned to leave, desperate to escape the hallway and the confusing heat coiling in his chest.
“Leona.”
He stopped, not looking back.
“Give me twenty minutes,” Vil said, his voice shifting from sleep-soft to its usual precise tone. “I refuse to be seen in public like this. Even by the kitchen staff.”
“Whatever.” Leona waved a dismissive hand and walked away, his heart pounding a stupid, rhythmic beat against his ribs.
He waited in a small, sunlit antechamber near the kitchens, drumming his fingers on a stone windowsill. The image of Vil in that doorway played on a loop behind his eyes. He’d seen attractive people before. This was different. This was a glimpse behind the stage curtain, and the view was dangerously compelling.
Exactly twenty minutes later, Vil appeared. He was now impeccably dressed in tailored trousers and a high-collared linen shirt, his hair restored to its perfect, silken order. He looked like he’d been awake for hours, not minutes. Only a slight redness around his eyes betrayed his recent sleep.
“Lead the way,” Vil said, as if this were a scheduled diplomatic outing.
They walked to a private balcony overlooking the eastern gardens, where a small table had been laid. The morning sun was warm, chasing away the last of the night’s chill. A pot of strong coffee steamed between them, alongside a platter of fresh fruit, cheese, and seared flatbreads.
Vil poured his coffee first, adding no cream or sugar. He took a long, appreciative sip, closing his eyes briefly. “Adequate,” he pronounced.
Leona grabbed a flatbread, tearing into it. “So, the crying thing,” he said around a mouthful, diving straight into the deep end.
Vil’s cup froze halfway to his lips. His gaze sharpened. “I don’t recall crying.”
“You recall an ink spill. I recall a tear.” Leona took a swig of his own juice. “You malfunctioned. Same difference.”
“Your sensitivity is overwhelming,” Vil said dryly, setting his cup down with deliberate care.
“You hated it,” Leona stated, watching him closely. “The fellowship thing. You hated that she used it like a carrot on a stick.”
Vil’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. He looked out over the gardens, his profile taut. “It’s the culmination of my academic work. To imply I don’t want it…”
“Isn’t what I said.” Leona leaned forward. “You want it. You just hate that they’re using it to yank your chain. Makes it feel cheap.”
The truth of it landed between them, stark and undeniable. Vil said nothing for a full minute, his jaw working. “It doesn’t matter how it feels,” he finally said, his voice low. “It’s necessary. For my family. For the alliance.”
“Right. The merger.” Leona leaned back, his chair creaking. “Tell me something, Schoenheit. When you picture your perfect, shiny future with that fellowship and your name in lights… am I in the picture? Or am I just part of the scenery back here? A dusty statue in the savanna?”
Vil’s head snapped around, his eyes wide. The question was so blunt, so utterly devoid of the usual political dance, it clearly stunned him. “That’s an absurd question.”
“Is it? You’re the one who’s gonna be gone for ‘extended visits.’” Leona mimicked Envoy Selene’s cadence perfectly. “So, what’s the plan? You get your glory, I watch the clouds, and we meet up for state functions to look pretty?”
“It’s not that simple!” Vil’s composure cracked, a flash of genuine frustration breaking through. “You act as if my ambition is a personal affront to you. This is who I am. This is what I’ve built.”
“And I’m what?” Leona shot back, his own frustration rising. “The inconvenient husband? The distraction? The guy who brings you tea when your perfect plans fall apart?”
The air crackled between them. Vil stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the stone. He paced to the balcony edge, his back rigid. “I don’t know!” he exclaimed, the words ripped from him. He turned, his expression open and raw. “I don’t know what you are. You’re a lazy, infuriating, blunt-minded beast who steals pastries and says the things no one else dares to say. You see the traps everyone lays and you either ignore them or stomp right through them. I have no framework for you!”
Leona stared at him. A slow grin spread across his face. It was the most honest thing Vil had ever said to him.
“Good,” Leona said, standing up as well. He walked over until they were a foot apart. “Stop trying to fit me into a framework. And stop trying to fit yourself into one that’s too small.”
Vil looked up at him, the morning sun turning his eyes to liquid amethyst. The fight was still there, but confusion was edging it out. “What are you proposing?”
“I’m not proposing anything.” Leona reached out, not to touch him, but to pluck a stray leaf that had landed on Vil’s shoulder from a nearby plant. He flicked it away. “I’m asking. One prince to another. One person to another. Do you want to have breakfast? Not as a duty. Not as a strategy session.”
He let the question hang, simple and terrifying in its simplicity.
Vil looked from Leona’s face to the table, the remnants of their meal between them. He thought of the savanna, the clay cup, the shared quiet that wasn’t empty. He thought of the gilded leash waiting for him at home.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes,” he said, the word quiet but definitive. “I believe I would.”
“Okay then.” Leona nodded, as if they’d settled something monumental. He gestured back to the table. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”
They sat back down. The tension didn’t vanish, but it changed, thinning into something more navigable. For the rest of the meal, they didn’t talk about treaties or fellowships. They argued about the best way to brew coffee. They debated the merits of various hunting birds. Vil admitted, with great reluctance, that the savanna flatbread was superior to the delicate wafers of his homeland.
It was just a breakfast. But as they stood to leave, the sun now high and warm, something had shifted. The cage was still there. But they were no longer standing on opposite sides of it. They were, for the first time, examining the lock together.