Chapter 51: A Home Away from Home

"Okay, enough with the dreary and weary. Let’s go with something a little more cheery!"

They had only just wrapped up their quiet, earnest discussion regarding the fate of the guild spy sitting in the holding cells. Not exactly a light conversation, certainly, but one Lioren was entirely determined to wash away with a bit of fresh air and light movement.

What followed was less a formal guided tour and more an energetic, whirlwind journey through the history of House Roscaire’s capital residence.

Throughout it all, Xavion walked half a pace behind, taking in the grand archways and the towering marble hearths. But more than the architecture itself, Xavion found himself observing the man leading him.

Lioren didn’t walk through the residence like a stern lord inspecting his property. He moved through it with an easy familiarity, as though every corner held some small, ridiculous memory.

As they crossed the central gallery toward the eastern wing, Lioren suddenly let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, clasping his hands together in mock prayer toward the high ceiling.

"And praise be to the mountain spirits above," Lioren muttered under his breath, leaning in slightly toward Xavion with a conspiratorial wink, "Evelia is out visiting her friend! Which means we can explore in absolute peace without my sister hovering behind us, making comments about my walking posture or analyzing the exact color of my waistcoat."

Xavion let out a soft, almost imperceptible huff of air through his nose, the closest he usually came to a laugh. "She does seem to possess a remarkably sharp eye for your wardrobe choices."

"Sharp? It’s lethal!" Lioren insisted, though his eyes sparkled with obvious, fond warmth for his sister. "If she were here right now, she’d tell you I’m walking too fast, taking up too much air, and giving a terribly disorganized tour."

Yet, despite his lighthearted rambling, Lioren’s intentions were entirely transparent.

He didn’t simply point out the rooms, he made a point of showing Xavion how he could use them, too. In the study overlooking the inner courtyard, Lioren pulled out a plush leather armchair and told Xavion he was welcome to use it whenever he wished to read or write dispatches. He even mentioned that the light fell best there in the middle of the afternoon. When they passed the smaller pantry, he showed Xavion where the staff kept the spiced honey and dried mountain plums, telling him to help himself whenever he fancied a late-night snack rather than trouble the kitchen maids.

Every word and casual gesture carried the same unspoken message: You are not a captive here. You are not a temporary guest being tolerated out of political obligation. This is your home. Well, one of your homes, technically. House Roscaire owns properties all over the place.

After nearly an hour of wandering through the sprawling estate, Lioren led the way out through a set of heavy brass-trimmed doors into the private walled garden behind the main wing.

The garden was quiet, sheltered from the noise of the capital’s busy streets by high stone walls covered in fading green ivy. The air carried that earthy scent of turned soil and fallen leaves. In the center of the lawn stood a massive, ancient oak tree, its thick, sprawling branches casting a wide patch of shade over a moss-covered stone bench.

Lioren practically threw himself onto the grass near the tree’s thick roots, leaning his back against the rough bark with an ungraceful, satisfied groan. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and took a deep, exaggerated breath of fresh air.

"Ahhhh!" Lioren exhaled loudly, patting his stomach. "Oh yes! Sweet, crisp oxygen!"

Xavion stopped a few feet away, staring down at the Grand Duke of Roscaire sitting in the dirt with zero regard for his expensive trousers. After a brief hesitation, Xavion sat down on the grass beside him, settling against the tree trunk.

He looked around the tranquil garden, taking in the neat gravel paths, the well-pruned rose bushes preparing for winter, and the grand stone facade of the manor rising behind them.

"You have a great house, Your Grace," Xavion said softly.

Lioren opened one eye, looking up at him with a proud grin.

"Oh, this old thing?" Lioren waved a dismissive hand toward the sprawling manor, though his grin widened. "This is just our residence in the capital. It’s stone and plaster, made for formal dinners, political posturing, and waiting out the royal court sessions. Just wait until you see the North, Prince Xavion. Just wait."

Lioren shifted his weight, turning his torso so he could face the Prince properly, his eyes lighting up with that fierce spark that always appeared whenever he spoke of his true homeland.

"The capital residence is fine, I suppose, but the one in the North... now that is a proper fortress," Lioren began, his teasing tone giving way to genuine enthusiasm. "It’s built right into the side of the mountains, with parts of the fortress carved straight into the rock. Real, dark granite that’s stood there for five hundred years and survived more winters than I care to count. The walls are thick enough to withstand a siege, the towers overlook the entire valley, and you can see the mountain ranges stretching for miles from the highest battlements. On a clear day, you can practically see half the northern territory from up there. Well, assuming you have the patience to climb all those stairs, of course. I usually leave that to the guards and pretend I’m far too busy to admire the view."

He leaned forward, his hands gesturing as he painted the landscape with his words.

"And the land around it! Miles and miles of pine forests so dense the sun barely touches the moss floor. Clear mountain lakes so cold and deep they look like fallen mirrors. In the autumn, the valley trees turn this incredible, burning shade of bronze and scarlet, it looks like the mountainside is on fire. And the air! Gods, Prince Xavion, the air up there doesn’t smell like horse manure and wet chimney ash like this city. It tastes like pine needles, fresh snow, and crisp wind. It clears your lungs the second you step onto the terrace."

Xavion listened in silence, his single violet eye fixed on Lioren’s animated face.

Lioren didn’t stop at the scenery. He babbled happily about the people, the stubborn, thick-skinned northerners who wore heavy wool furs, drank bitter herbal ale, and spoke in short, blunt sentences.

"They’re a hilarious bunch, really," Lioren chuckled, leaning his head back against the oak bark. "If you ask a northern farmer for directions, he’ll grumble at you for five minutes about how you’re wasting his daylight, complain that your boots look far too soft, and tell you you’re an idiot for taking the high road. But then he’ll walk three miles through a blizzard beside your horse just to make sure you don’t ride into a frozen ditch. They’re terrifying on the outside, but they’re fiercely loyal. Once a northerner decides you belong there, you’re family for life."

His words spilled out in a warm, rapid stream, slipping occasionally into ridiculous, over-the-top praise that made the northern duchy sound less like a rugged mountain province and more like a mythical paradise carved out by the gods themselves.

Yet, as Xavion watched the bright, earnest light in Lioren’s eyes, he knew it wasn’t just mindless boastfulness.

Lioren wasn’t trying to show off his wealth or flex his territorial holdings. He was desperately, eagerly trying to build a bridge. He wanted Xavion to look forward to the long journey ahead. He wanted to strip away the dread of moving to an unfamiliar, frozen borderland, replacing it with something warm, welcoming, and solid.

He was quietly assuring Xavion that when they finally reached the high mountain fortress, Xavion wouldn’t just be an exile living under a ducal roof, he would have a real, permanent place in Lioren’s life and homeland, far beyond the artificial boundaries of their sudden court marriage.

"It sounds... magnificent," Xavion murmured quietly, his voice soft, sincere, and entirely free of his usual guarded distance.

Lioren froze mid-sentence, his rambling praise catching in his throat. He looked up at Xavion, his eyes wide, a sudden, blindingly bright smile breaking across his face like a sunrise over the peaks.

"It is!" Lioren crowed happily, pushing himself up onto his knees. "It truly is! And you’re going to love it, I guarantee..."

CLAP!

Lioren abruptly clapped his hands together, the sharp crack startling enough to make Xavion look up at him.

The enthusiasm vanished from his face in a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, intense, almost terrifyingly grave expression. He stood up swiftly, brushing a few stray blades of grass off his knees, his jaw setting tight as he stared down at Xavion.

Xavion straightened his back instantly, his military instincts kicking in as his eye narrowed. "Your Grace? What is it?"

Lioren stepped closer, his playful demeanor vanishing as he adopted an expression of grave seriousness.

"We’ve done enough wandering for one morning, Your Highness," Lioren declared solemnly, raising one finger as though delivering a matter of state. "There are other, far more critical matters at hand, matters that demand your immediate, undivided attention right this very second."