For the first time since Krystian had arrived at the palace, the midnight routine was broken.
Miles sat at his desk, the silence of the study feeling heavier than usual. He kept checking the doorway for even a glimpse of Krystian. One minute. Ten minutes. The quills on his desk were blunt, the inkwells were half-empty, and the room felt unnervingly cold.
When the door finally creaked open, Krystian didn't enter with his usual skip. He looked tired, his hair messy, and he was missing his typical "sunshine" energy.
"Sorry I'm late, Prince," Krystian said, moving straight for the inkwells without even looking at Miles. "Tara had a nightmare. I was just... helping her settle down. She's pretty shaken up."
Miles felt a sharp, localized spike of irritation in his chest. "I was unaware that 'emotional support' was part of your obligations."
Krystian paused, a half-cleaned inkwell in his hand. He looked over at Miles, his brow furrowed. "She's a guest, Miles. And she's alone. I'm just being a decent person. You should try it sometime; it's actually pretty rewarding."
"I am being 'decent' by providing her sanctuary," Miles snapped, his voice echoing too loudly in the room. "What I require from you is the maintenance of this office and your focus on our departure logistics. Every minute you spend playing nursemaid to a girl who is clearly lying to us is a minute wasted."
Krystian slammed the inkwell down on the table. The clink of glass was sharp. "She's not a 'girl who is lying,' she's a person! Why is everything a calculation with you? Why can't you just see that she's scared?"
Miles stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He walked around the desk, stopping exactly a metre away—the rule he had established to not ineract with Krystian unnecessarily was slowly crumbling.
"Because being 'scared' is the easiest mask to wear," Miles said, his eyes flashing with a cold, frustrated light. "You are being distracted, Krystian. Your energy is... unfocused."
"Oh, is that what this is about?" Krystian stepped into the space, closing the gap. He was breathing hard, the heat of his frustration radiating off him. "You're upset because I'm not spending every waking second entertaining you? Because I found someone else in this castle who actually knows how to say 'thank you'?"
The accusation hit Miles like a physical blow. He wasn't jealous. He couldn't be jealous. Jealousy was a messy, inefficient emotion. He was simply concerned about mission integrity.
"Don't be absurd," Miles hissed, though he didn't move away. "I am concerned that your judgment is compromised. You barely know her."
"And I barely know you!" Krystian shot back. "But I still sharpen your quills. I still bring you bread. I still stay up late just to make sure you aren't drowning in your own maps. Why is it okay when I do it for you, but 'distracting' when I do it for her?"
Miles opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. Krystian was close—closer than the measuring tape incident, closer than the training field. He could see the anger burning in Krystian's eyes and the way his jaw was set in stubborn defiance.
The air in the room felt thick, charged with something neither of them could put their finger on.
"It's different," Miles whispered, his voice losing its edge.
"How?" Krystian challenged, his voice dropping too.
Miles looked at Krystian's mouth, then back up to his eyes. He felt a terrifying loss of control, a kinetic surge that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the person standing in front of him.
"Because she is a guest," Miles said, his voice straining for its usual clinical tone. "And you... you are mine."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unintended. Miles's eyes went wide as he realized what he'd just said. Krystian froze, his anger melting into a confused, wide-eyed shock.
"I mean," Miles scrambled, stepping back and nearly tripping over his own chair. "You are the Kingdom's asset. Under my specific command. Your time is... spoken for."
Krystian didn't look angry anymore. A slow, knowing grin started to spread across his face—the bubbly, mischievous Krystian was back, but with a new, dangerous spark.
"Right. An asset," Krystian said, his voice low and playful. "Spoken for. Got it, Prince."
Krystian picked up the quill knife and started to work, whistling a low, jaunty tune.
Miles sat back down at his desk, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He picked up a report, but the letters were blurring together. He had just admitted—out loud—that he viewed Krystian as something he didn't want to share.
Across the room, Krystian sneaked a glance at the back of the Prince's silver head, his chest feeling warmer than any sun could manage. The Ice Prince wasn't just melting; he was starting to crack.
And in the servant's wing, Tara Thorne sat by her window, watching the moonlight and listening to the palace breathe, her secret weighing heavier with every passing hour.