Chapter 34: The River’s Edge

Carrying twenty-four separate cardboard-and-leather parcels through a cobblestone plaza will make a veteran soldier contemplate desertion faster than a three-week siege.

By the time the group ambled down the winding stone steps toward the river district, Caldrin looked like an overworked ox, his shoulders hunched under the ridiculous weight of stacked hatboxes, leather satchels, and two bolts of dark blue silk. Therin wasn’t faring much better. His usual pristine aide’s posture had yielded to a slight, long-suffering slant, his knuckles turned white around the cord handles of four different shoe boxes.

"If His Grace discovers a sudden craving for hand-carved mahogany furniture," Caldrin muttered under his breath, stepping over a patch of damp river moss, "I am throwing myself directly into the barge lane."

"Be silent and breathe through your nose," Therin grunted back, adjusting his grip on a box of scented bath salts. "You are representing the ducal household."

"The ducal household currently smells like wild raspberries and wet leather," Caldrin grumbled.

They finally reached a quiet, tree-shaded bend where the broad river curved away from the noise of the central market. A massive, ancient willow leaned far out over the slow-moving water, its sweeping green branches spreading a cool, dappled shade over a long stone bench. It was a lovely, restful spot. The busy docks lay half a mile downriver, but here, the only sounds were the gentle lap of water against the stone embankment and the distant shouts of barge captains guiding their timber rafts downstream.

With an audible, collective groan of relief that they didn’t even try to hide, Caldrin and Therin dropped the mountain of purchases onto the dry grass beneath the willow.

Evelia didn’t even pause. "I am going to inspect those floating flower stalls near the stone arch," she announced, already pulling her skirts out of the dust as she gestured toward the riverbank fifty yards away. "Come along, Therin. Caldrin. Let’s take a break from guarding this mountain of vanity."

Evelia headed toward the water, with Therin and Caldrin following behind her. Their departure left the bench surprisingly quiet, with only the gentle sound of the river filling the space between Lioren and Xavion.

Lioren let out a long, contented breath, dropping onto the sun-warmed stone seat with his legs stretched straight out in front of him. He patted the empty space beside him on the bench, looking up at Xavion with a bright, easy smile that contained none of his earlier, frantic shopping energy.

"Sit down, Your Highness," Lioren said softly, his voice dropping into a relaxed, unhurried rhythm. "Your boots have had a brutal workout today. Mine certainly have."

Xavion lingered for a second before stepping over the grass and taking a seat beside the Duke. He sat straight-backed, as he always did, but the rigid, guarded tension in his posture had softened just a fraction. His eye drifted over the water, watching a heavy wooden barge laden with grain sacks drift lazily past the opposite bank.

For the first time since they had stepped through the gates of the Roscaire residence that morning, nobody was trying to sell them silk. Nobody was throwing cream tarts. There was nowhere they had to be, no formal court schedule to maintain, and no awkward diplomatic protocol to navigate.

Lioren turned his head, resting his arm along the back of the stone bench as he looked at the prince’s sharp, pale profile.

"So," Lioren began casually, a small, genuine curve touching his lips. "Be completely honest with me. Have you enjoyed the outing so far? Or are you secretly planning to murder me in my sleep for dragging you through four different boot shops?"

Xavion didn’t answer immediately. He watched a white river-gull dip its wings toward the water, its shadow skimming across the ripples, before turning his gaze to Lioren.

"I have enjoyed it," Xavion said smoothly, his tone low and remarkably honest. "It was... very lively. Much more so than I anticipated."

Lioren’s face lit up instantly, bright and clear as morning sun breaking through mountain mist, but almost immediately, a familiar, slightly anxious frown tugged at his brows. He shifted slightly on the bench, leaning a fraction closer.

"That’s good. That’s really good," Lioren said, rubbing the back of his neck with a slight, self-conscious chuckle. "But listen... if anything today was too much, if the crowds got overwhelming, or if any of those shopkeepers made you uncomfortable, or if I was being too annoying with the coat options, you have to tell me, okay? Don’t just suffer through it because you think you’re supposed to be a polite guest."

Xavion tilted his head, his eye fixing on Lioren with a quiet, intense curiosity that seemed to search right through the Grand Duke’s expression.

"Why are you so worried about whether I dislike something?" Xavion asked plainly. "I am a foreign prince under your custody. Most lords in your position would not care if their charge found the market noisy or the shoe-fitting tedious."

Lioren hesitated, his fingers tapping an idle, nervous rhythm against the stone bench. He looked down at his own boots for a second, scratching his nose, that maddening, ghost-like itch had blessedly vanished hours ago, before looking back up into Xavion’s face.

"Because my main goal right now," Lioren admitted, his voice dropping all its usual theatrical dramatics, leaving behind a straightforward, almost vulnerable honesty, "is just to make sure you’re comfortable. I don’t want you sitting in my house, or walking through the streets, feeling like you’re walking on eggshells. I want you to feel... welcome. That’s all."

Xavion sat in silence, the gentle rustle of the willow leaves overhead filling the space between them.

He waited for the rest of it. He waited for Lioren to demand some acknowledgment of his generosity, or to casually drop a hint about how House Roscaire expected political loyalty in exchange for warm milk and silk tunics. But nothing came. Lioren simply sat there on the stone bench, looking entirely satisfied with the knowledge that Xavion hadn’t hated the afternoon.

Slowly, Xavion offered a single, quiet nod. "I see," he murmured softly.

Lioren’s smile returned, softer this time, as he turned his gaze back out toward the river. "It’s a nice city, isn’t it? The capital, I mean."

"It is very beautiful," Xavion agreed, his eye tracking a pair of swans paddling near the reeds. "Though... it still feels remarkably unfamiliar to me."

Lioren let out a quiet, rumbling laugh. "Well, of course it’s unfamiliar! You’ve only been here for two days, Your Highness. I’d be genuinely terrified if you already felt at home in a city that was sending troops against your border months ago."

He leaned back against the bench, crossing his ankles. "Nobody expects you to adapt overnight. It takes time to get your bearings in a new kingdom."

The quiet between them returned, but it was no longer the cautious, polite silence of two strangers. It felt easy, settled, like the calm water drifting past their feet.

"Lioren! Prince Xavion!"

Evelia’s crisp, ringing voice cut through the afternoon air from fifty yards upriver. She was standing near the stone arch of the bridge, holding a small bouquet of pale blue river-lilies, gesturing for them to join her. "Come here!"

Xavion stood up first. "We should probably go before your sister decides to purchase the flower stall as well."

Lioren laughed, standing up and brushing a stray willow leaf off his sleeve. "A very wise observation, Your Highness."

Xavion offered him a small, polite dip of his head and began walking up the grassy bank toward Evelia and the attendants.

Lioren lingered near the stone bench for two seconds longer.

The bright, breezy smile on his face slowly, deliberately vanished. His posture straightened, his blue eyes narrowing as his gaze cut sideways, looking past the willow tree, past the stone steps, toward the crowded upper avenue fifty yards behind them.

The streets were still crowded with people making the most of the evening. Shoppers weaved between the stalls, vendors called out their final bargains while packing away their goods, and tavern patrons spilled onto the cobblestones, laughing loudly enough to turn heads.

Lioren replayed the entire outing in his head, scrutinizing every little detail as though his life depended on it.

The tailor’s shop. The bootmaker’s. The apothecary. The street performer’s platform. And now, this quiet bend in the river district, far off the main commercial strip.

Coincidence had died three streets ago. This wasn’t a curious citizen gawking at their group. This was an active, methodical tail, keeping a tight perimeter, tracking their exact movements through the capital.

Still following, huh? Lioren thought, a cold, sharp danger flickering in his chest, entirely hidden behind his calm face.

He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t signal Caldrin. Instead, Lioren turned his back on the suspicious figure and slapped the brightest, most suspiciously innocent smile onto his face before trotting up the grassy slope to catch up with Xavion and Evelia. Whoever that person was, they could continue their little game of follow-the-Grand-Duke-and-the-others for a while longer.

Whatever game was being played in the capital’s streets, Lioren wasn’t going to let it ruin the evening. But as he fell into step beside Xavion, his hand rested casually just an inch above his sword hilt.