Aster breathed heavily, then let out a slow sigh as Elodie's healing magic settled into his ribs, warm and steady, easing the sharp edge of pain.
Nearby, Nikolai moved with quiet urgency, directing the rescued victims toward the waiting mages. Chains loosened. Barriers fell away. One by one, the captives were guided into healing light.
Among them were frightened sheep and trembling cattle, still reeking of smoke and fear.
And then Nikolai saw it.
A small, frail cat with spotted fur crouched near the edge of the camp, ribs showing beneath its coat. Its eyes were wide and wild.
He approached slowly.
The cat hissed, shrinking back.
"It's alright," Nikolai said softly, lowering himself to its level.
Carefully, he lifted the cat into his arms. It tensed at first, then stilled as his hand brushed over its fur, gentle and patient, nothing like the prince the world feared.
"Your owner's been worried about you," he murmured.
He carried the cat to one of the mages. Light bloomed, soft and kind, washing over the little creature until its trembling eased and its breathing steadied.
From where he lay, Aster watched, exhaustion weighing on his limbs but warmth settling somewhere deeper in his chest.
For a moment, the battlefield felt… human again.
They escorted the rescued captives back to the village, where lanterns glowed like small stars against the night. Loved ones rushed forward, arms tightening, voices breaking as they clung to one another as if afraid the moment might vanish.
Laughter mingled with tears.
A small figure broke from the crowd.
"Spots!"
Anaïs ran as fast as her legs could carry her, eyes fixed on the familiar shape in Nikolai's arms. The moment she saw the spotted fur, her face lit up.
"Spots!" she cried again.
Nikolai knelt and gently set the cat down. Anaïs scooped Spots into her arms, burying her face in the cat's fur as it purred weakly but happily.
"Oh, thank you so much!" she said, petting Spots again and again, her smile wide and trembling.
Nikolai rested a hand on her head, careful and light.
"A promise is a promise," he said, his smile warm and unguarded.
The village chief stepped forward, bowing deeply, followed by the villagers. Gratitude spilled from them in hurried words and clasped hands, relief shining in tired eyes.
Before the night could grow cold again, tables were brought out, fires lit, and food shared freely.
The village hosted a feast not of luxury, but of survival and thanks.
"Woah," Aster murmured, eyes wide as he scanned the feast. "I've never been to something this big before."
Long tables stretched across the village square, heavy with dishes prepared by grateful hands. Bowls of jewel bright fruits, roasted meats glazed with honey, steaming stews, fresh bread still warm from the ovens. Villagers laughed, talked over one another, passed plates without hesitation. No hierarchy, no fear. Just people eating together because they were alive.
Aster ate until his stomach hurt and chatted about simple things. Weather, food, horses, nothing that carried weight. By the time the fires burned low, exhaustion finally settled in his bones.
The ride back to the palace passed quietly.
When they reached the stables, Aster slid down from Spencer's back and patted the horse's neck.
"Thanks for the ride," he said with a tired grin. "You're terrifyingly fast."
Spencer clacked his hooves once, proud, tossing his head as if accepting the praise.
Aster laughed softly and headed inside.
His room still felt unreal. Too spacious. Too quiet. He collapsed onto the mattress, the softness swallowing him whole. Sleep almost claimed him, but restlessness tugged him awake again.
Soon, he found himself on the rooftop.
Sketching steadied his hands.
The ink moved easily tonight. Spots curled into shape first, tail flicking. Then Anaïs, wide eyed and smiling, arms wrapped around her cat. Without thinking, he drew Nikolai too. Not scowling. Not intimidating. Just a quiet, warm smile.
Aster froze.
"Huh? What am I doing?"
He tore the page, irritated with himself, but the wind caught it. The paper slipped from his fingers and drifted down.
Below, on a balcony, Nikolai caught it midair.
Aster's breath hitched. "Hey! Give that back!"
He leapt down in a panic, grabbing for the paper, but his footing slipped. The world tilted and suddenly he landed hard against something solid.
Nikolai.
"I knew you admired my face," Nikolai said lightly, holding up the sketch, "but not this much."
Aster groaned. "You absolute menace."
"You sketch beautifully," Nikolai added, clearly amused.
"I said give it," Aster snapped, reaching for it, but Nikolai lifted it just out of reach.
Their faces were suddenly far too close.
Aster felt heat rush to his cheeks and looked away, jaw tight. He hated it. Hated how unfairly handsome Nikolai looked under the moonlight. How the silver of his hair caught the glow. How his eyes looked softer like this.
Nikolai laughed.
With a swift movement, he shifted their positions, pinning Aster to the ground effortlessly.
Aster spluttered. "Get off me!"
"I think I'll frame this," Nikolai said cheerfully, clutching the sketch.
Before Aster could protest again, Nikolai stood, stepped away, and disappeared inside, laughter trailing behind him.
Aster lay there, face burning, staring at the stars.
"…Scumbag," he muttered.
Aster straightened and followed him inside.
It was the first time he truly looked at Nikolai's room.
The air carried a faint scent of blueberries, subtle but unmistakable, clinging to the curtains and sheets like a lingering presence. The room itself was clean and restrained. Whites and soft grays, nothing excessive. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books on literature, warfare, tactics, and strategy. Everything was arranged with purpose.
The bed was immaculate. Untouched. Almost too perfect.
Then Aster noticed it.
A grand piano stood in the corner, polished black, its surface catching the moonlight. Beside it rested a violin, carefully stored, not abandoned.
"I didn't know you could play," Aster said quietly.
"I play when I'm bored," Nikolai replied, casual, almost dismissive.
Aster hummed. "I used to know how to play the piano."
He moved without asking, sitting on the bench. His fingers hovered over the keys, hesitant, then pressed down. The notes came out uneven but familiar, like a half remembered dream.
"My father used to play for us when we were kids," Aster said softly. "Back when he worked here. He was an advisor."
Nikolai's brow lifted. "Your father worked here?"
"Yeah," Aster nodded. "Andrew Foster." His fingers moved again, guided by memory more than skill. "He was dismissed after the last king died."
The change in Nikolai was immediate.
The air felt heavier.
"Oh. I didn't mean to..." Aster started.
"It's fine," Nikolai said quickly, though his voice lacked conviction.
He looked away.
"My uncle dismissed most of my father's subordinates when he reclaimed the throne," Nikolai added quietly.
Silence settled between them.
Not the awkward kind.
The heavy kind.
Aster slowly sat down beside him
Aster glanced at him. "You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready," he said gently. "But if you ever want to… you can tell me."
Nikolai stiffened.
For a moment, something fragile flickered across his face. Something he clearly despised being seen.
"No," he said softly. "I can't. Not now."
Pain lived behind his eyes.
"That's okay," Aster said without pressing. He stood and placed a hand on Nikolai's back, warm and steady. "You can take your time."
Without warning, Nikolai leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him.
Not tight. Not desperate.
Just seeking.
Aster froze for a heartbeat, then slowly returned the gesture, resting a hand between Nikolai's shoulders, stroking his back in quiet reassurance.
"It's going to be okay," Aster murmured. "You're doing well. You've done well.
The night remained still.
No thunder. No tension.
Just two figures in a quiet room, held together by shared silence.