Edric was tired.
The kind of tired that settled into the bones, that clung like damp wool and made every breath feel heavier than it should.
He sat on his throne in the grand, towering courtroom of his castle, surrounded by voices that battered against his skull like crows pecking at a carcass. His father had always hated these halls, he'd gripe about it after his meetings with King Aerund. Edric liked to think that the only reason why he'd crowned his son as the new king of Aeryndale and not himself was because of this throne room but, to be honest, he could never guess what his father was thinking.
Now, Edric was the king of a stolen castle and it felt like a cage.
Across the wide chamber, nobles and commoners alike stood in clusters, each vying for a moment of his attention. At the foot of the dais, a red-faced merchant gestured wildly.
"I am telling you, Your Majesty, the tariff on imported grain is strangling us! If this goes on, the people will starve!"
"You exaggerate," scoffed the man beside him— a nobleman with a lined face and a paunch that suggested he had never starved a day in his life. "The tax is necessary to maintain trade routes. We cannot allow cheap foreign grain to undercut our own farmers."
Edric resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
A farmer stepped forward next, hands calloused, shoulders stooped. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, the price of a heifer has doubled. If the grain tax remains as it is, we'll be forced to sell livestock just to eat."
"A temporary struggle," the nobleman sniffed.
"A death sentence," the farmer shot back.
"Enough," Edric said, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. "The tax will be reviewed. Next."
His advisors exchanged glances, clearly unimpressed with his deflection, but Edric was too drained to care.
A woman stepped forward now, dressed in simple robes, her dark eyes sharp. "Your Majesty," she said, "bandits have grown bolder along the western trade roads. They robbed a caravan just days ago and left two guards dead."
"They grow bolder because you are lenient," one of his older advisors chimed in. "Your father would have them hanged at the city gates."
Edric's jaw tightened. His first instinct was to snap, ' father had many solutions. None of them were particularly good.' But it wouldn't be good politics for the High King of Aeryndale to disrespect the King of Velentis like that, so he said, "Well, I'd prefer if the gates of my kingdom were not beautified with hanging bodies."
A murmur ran through the hall at his tone, but Edric was done pretending to care about the expectations of men who had no idea how difficult running a kingdom was.
He lifted a hand. "I will assign more patrols to the western roads and have the guard investigate. If there is nothing further—"
His words barely left his mouth before another noble stepped forward, nose wrinkled as if he'd caught a whiff of something foul. "Your Majesty, the question of marriage still lingers—"
"I am not discussing that."
The man hesitated, as if debating whether to push forward. He did not.
"Now," Edric said, rising to his feet, "I am going for a walk. If any of you would like to complain further, write it down."
Before the advisors could object, before the bickering could resume, he stood and strode from the throne room, letting the heavy doors shut behind him.
---
The castle was quieter in the courtyards.
Edric exhaled slowly, the shadows of a migraine still pressing against his skull.
He walked past tall, arching corridors, through sun-dappled gardens, past the ancient oak tree that stood near the training grounds. Once upon a time, he had walked these paths with Caelan.
He could still hear his voice—excited, ambitious, pointing out all the things he would change when he became king. 'I'll tear down that old tower first, it's useless. And those hedges? Hideous. We need more color here, more life.'
Edric had never made any of those changes.
He told himself it was because they weren't practical. The tower still stood, the hedges remained untouched. But the truth was, he had left them because of Caelan. Because they were the last echoes of the prince who had dreamed of a throne he never got to sit on.
'You stole it from him.'
A sharp growl broke him from his thoughts.
His head snapped toward the sound. Across the courtyard, near the training stables, a young Kinnarion twisted against its restraints.
The handlers surrounding it looked tense, their grip on the ropes white-knuckled as the beast snarled and bucked, straining to break free.
"She's still fighting?" One of the stable hands groaned. "We're going to lose a damn hand at this rate."
"Stubborn little thing," another muttered.
"She doesn't want to be ridden," a third said. "Almost tore Tomas's fingers off yesterday."
Edric watched as the Kinnarion thrashed, its sleek, spotted fur damp with sweat. It was young—newly weaned, by the looks of it. Likely taken from its mother too soon.
He turned to a worker passing by. "What's going on here?"
"Sire," the man bowed low. "Just the stablehands trying to settle down that cub. Vicious thing almost bit off someone's hand the other day."
Edric hummed and listened as the voices grew louder, in warning. From the other end of the field, a figure moved.
Dorian.
Even now, after a month within these walls, he still looked like a man who did not belong here. He was cleaner now, better fed and not as gaunt, but he still carried himself like a traveler passing through. His long, dark hair was pulled back from his face, his beard sat rough and wild on his face. Around his neck, a small vial rested against his chest—ashes of the Kinnarion he had mourned.
Edric had been the one to help him burn the body. He'd followed that by giving him shelter. But still, Dorian barely spoke to anyone except the Kinnarions.
Even now, while the stable hands shouted for him to 'stay back', Dorian approached the beast with slow, careful steps.
Edric watched, intrigued, as Dorian lifted both hands in front of him, palms open in a gesture of peace. He moved his lips, whispering something Edric could not hear.
The Kinnarion growled, shook its head.
Then, little by little, it stilled.
Dorian reached forward, brushing his fingers against its nose. The handlers hesitated, then—at his nod—loosened the ropes.
The beast shuddered once. Then, at last, relaxed.
A stable hand muttered, "How the hell did he do that?"
Edric barely heard him.
His feet carried him forward before he realized he was moving.
"Your Highness, it's not safe!" someone shouted.
He ignored them.
Dorian must have sensed him approaching because he turned slightly, those dark, sorrowful eyes meeting Edric's. He bowed his head, just enough to acknowledge rank. "Your Highness. I didn't expect to see you here."
'Why not? It's my castle.'
Edric said instead, "I was walking past and noticed how you handled the Kinnarion."
Dorian turned back to the beast, still stroking its fur. "She was afraid. Her mother's warmth was all she had ever known." A pause. "I only showed her that warmth can be found elsewhere."
Something in Edric's chest stirred.
A strange, quiet ache.
He stepped closer. "May I?"
Dorian exhaled a soft laugh, though there was something bitter at the edges of it. "You ask like all that is here does not already belong to you." He gestured. "But of course. Just… be careful."
Edric reached out, slowly.
The Kinnarion flinched, ears twitching back. But Dorian murmured something to it, his voice low and soothing. The tension faded.
Edric's fingers sank into warm fur. He exhaled, the stress of the day loosening slightly, melting into the creature's steady warmth.
"I needed this," he murmured. More to himself than anyone.
Dorian tilted his head. "Something troubles you, Your Highness?"
"Everything troubles me," Edric scoffed. "It seems like there's always a complaint, from bandits on the highway to the suitable price of a heifer, everyone expects me to solve all their problems."
Dorian murmured, "Who else would the troubled turn to but the king?"
Well, that was true. But Edric was tired— exhausted. It felt like his work was never done, like Aeryndale's problems were perpetual. Caelan never complained about it, he kept his leisure time as leisure, but now Edric wished he had. Edric wished he could talk to Caelan again…
"Then who will the King turn to when he's troubled?" He asked.
There was silence, for just a beat. Then Dorian said softly, "A friend."
Edric laughed humourlessly, "My father says good kings don't have friends." He turned to Dorian who was looking contemplatively at his own hands rubbing the Kinnarion's fur. He added, "Then again, I wouldn't exactly call my father a good king."
Dorian was silent for a moment, then said simply, "If you are troubled, then leave those troubles behind. If only for a moment."
Edric studied him.
Noticed the way his fingers had curled against the Kinnarion's fur. The way his shoulders seemed just as burdened, just as heavy as Edric's own.
He turned away, then paused.
"Saddle a Kinnarion for me." A beat. Then, softly—"And one for yourself."
Dorian blinked, as if the request caught him off guard.
Then, after a moment, he nodded.
"As you wish, Your Highness."