Twilight draped the estate in muted gold as Alexis stood before the mirror, fastening the cuffs of his formal coat.
His fingers moved with practiced precision, yet the man reflected back at him looked… thinned.
The lines beneath his eyes were sharper than he remembered, his cheeks drawn despite the regal cut of his attire.
Blue and gold, majestic and bold, fitting a king-to-be for it painted him as immaculate and imposing.
But the illusion faltered when his gaze lingered too long.
He scoffed softly.
"What a facade," he murmured to no one.
The mirror did not argue.
For a fleeting moment, his hands paused at his sleeves, and his thoughts drifted—unbidden—to a quiet room down a long, cold hallway.
Longing.
Should I…?
The thought rose, heavy and tempting.
If he went now—just a glance, just to reassure himself—
No.
Alexis exhaled through his nose and straightened, shoulders squaring as if bracing for battle.
Not tonight.
Not before the Prime Minister.
He could not afford a wandering mind. Not when every word spoken over dinner would carry the weight of a crown not yet settled upon his head.
Still, as he studied his reflection again, something in his resolve wavered.
He looked tired.
Hollow.
A bitter thought surfaced.
Perhaps I want him to see through it.
The Prime Minister had always been perceptive.
He knew more than he showed.
So there was a quiet part of Alexis—small, almost ashamed—that yearned to be seen. To be understood without explanation.
To admit, just once, that he was not holding together nearly as well as Ro believed.
The thought made his lips curve into a weak, fleeting smile.
"Enough," he said softly, almost gently chiding himself.
He turned away from the mirror.
The front hall was dim, lit by lanterns that cast long shadows along the stone floor. As Alexis reached for his gloves, his steps slowed.
His gaze slid, almost against his will, toward the corridor branching off to the right.
That hallway.
Long. Silent.
Leading to a room he had not entered today, just for today.
His chest tightened.
For a heartbeat, he stood there—caught between motion and memory.
The butler, ever attentive, cleared his throat politely. "My lord? Did you forget something? Or would you like anything before you depart?"
Alexis blinked, the spell breaking.
"No," he replied at once, voice even. "Nothing."
He did not look back again.
The door opened.
Cool evening air brushed his face as he stepped outside, the sky deepening into indigo overhead.
Moments later, he was mounted and riding through the lamplit streets toward the Prime Minister's mansion, hooves echoing softly against stone.
He did not know.
He could not know—
That in the quiet room he left behind, breath stirred.
Those eyes, once shuttered by blood and darkness, had finally opened.
If he had turned back—just once—
If he had followed the pull he denied—
He would have seen it.
The miracle he had been hoping for.
Praying for.
Wishing.
Begging the night for, even when he pretended not to.
Hiral awake.
****
At first there was only the weight—heavy, suffocating, as though the darkness itself had been laid upon his chest.
Then came the sound: the distant crackle of a hearth, the low hush of wind brushing against stone, the slow, unfamiliar rhythm of breath that he slowly realized as his own.
Hiral stirred.
His lashes trembled before his eyes opened, and when they did, the world arrived in muted shades of amber and shadow.
Light pooled softly along the walls, steady and patient, illuminating a ceiling too high, too finely carved, to belong to a cell or an infirmary.
The scent of clean linen and dried herbs lingered in the air.
Somewhere beyond the tall windows, night presses close—ink-black, vast.
He swallowed.
His throat was dry, but not burning.
His chest rose without protest.
Night, he thought distantly. So I lived long enough to see the night again.
Memory surges without warning, sharp as a blade sliding between ribs.
He did not move at once.
His mind, unlike his body, was sharp.
Too sharp.
Alexis's face rose unbidden before him: the frozen disbelief, the split second where resolve shattered into something raw and unguarded.
The sound of steel biting flesh echoed in memory, clean and final. Hiral swallowed, reminding him of his dry throat.
So that is the last thing I gave him, he thought bitterly. Shock. Betrayal. Blood.
A soft sigh escaped him, barely more than air.
If Alexis hated him now—loathed him—Hiral would not blame him.
In truth, he would consider it mercy.
He tried to move, and his body answered—slowly, reluctantly, but without the searing agony he expected.
His fingers curled against the sheets.
His legs shifted beneath the covers.
A dull ache lingered where searing pain should have arisen.
Frowning faintly, Hiral lifted the edge of the blanket and looked down.
No blood seeping through. No feverish heat radiating from his skin.
"…Almost healed," he murmured, disbelief threading his voice.
That alone told him how long he must have been gone. Weeks, no, months perhaps.
Hopefully not longer.
Still, long enough for the body to knit itself back together under careful hands.
Then as he shifted his attention away from his body, the room stole his breath.
High ceilings traced with subtle carvings.
Walls paneled in pale wood polished to a quiet sheen.
A hearth lay cold but immaculate, and beside it stood a small table bearing a crystal carafe of water and a folded cloth.
The bed beneath him was no infirmary cot, no hidden chamber for inconvenient truths—it was a guest bed.
A noble's bed.
Linen fine enough that his fingers sank into it when he lifted his hand.
Hiral let out a short, incredulous breath, something dangerously close to a laugh.
"Still… so kind," he murmured, voice rough from disuse. "Even now."
With care, he tested himself.
His limbs answered slowly but without the agony.
Then realization settled heavily in his chest, followed swiftly by a crooked smile.
"I won," he whispered. "The gamble paid out."
For a fleeting moment, relief warmed him.
He was alive.
His plan—reckless, desperate—had not ended in oblivion. He had bought himself time.
But relief was a fragile thing.
It shattered under the weight of guilt that followed.
Alexis.
The name pressed against his ribs like a blade turned inward.
Hiral leaned back against the pillows, eyes lifting to the ceiling as the enormity of what awaited him crashed down.
Trust broken not once, but repeatedly.
Good intentions twisted by necessity, truth sacrificed to strategy.
And now this—forcing Alexis's hand, making him the instrument of Hiral's own supposed death.
How many times can one man forgive before forgiveness becomes a sin?
Hiral's jaw tightened.
Earning back Alexis's trust felt less like a task and more like an impossible climb, a mountain that grew steeper with every step already taken.
And yet… he had known this. Had accepted it the moment he set his plan in motion.
He let out a long, measured sigh, one that seems to empty him out completely, then drawed in a deep breath as though bracing himself against an oncoming storm.
His eyes close, not in surrender, but in resolve.
Whatever Alexis decides, he thought, steadying his heart. Chains. Exile. Judgment. I will meet it.
And yet—
If Alexis asked for his life.
If he looked at him with that same shattered disbelief and demands the only thing Hiral still possesses—
"…Then I may have to hurt you one last time," he whispered, voice barely more than breath. "Even if it breaks us both."
His resolve hardened, quiet and unyielding.
I will not run.
Somewhere beyond the walls, hooves carried Alexis farther away into the night, unaware that the prayer he had carried in silence had already been answered.
Hiral opened his eyes again, staring into the dark, fully awake at last—and ready to face whatever dawn brings.