Chapter 22: Fatigue

Levan kept his eyes on the fire, watching the flames leap and twist as Melyn’s voice droned on. His mind circled back to the night before, when the princess had clung to him, trembling and terrified. And then again to this morning, when she had appeared so bright and disarmingly cheerful while bearing a sweet roll and his cloak like a child who just found a secret treasure.

He lowered his gaze to the cloak draped over his shoulders. Ash and stray embers from the hearth had already marked the fabric, and with a sharp flick of his hand he pushed it aside, clearing it. He could still recall how tightly she had held this very fabric in the morning, and it irked him in a weird way.

Without meaning to, his thoughts drifted to the sweet roll she had offered, her smile proud as she declared how she had made it herself. Truthfully, he do not think he needs to know that, especially because he has never been a fan of sweet things. The pastry still sat untouched on his desk in the palace, and by now, he was certain the ants had already claimed it.

Melyn’s voice rose in a bitter spat, snapping him from the thought. “Figures. If anyone’s fool enough to waste their breath cursing you, it might as well be me.”

He did not respond, instead his gaze returned to the fire, to the way it greedily consumed everything she fed into it. He did not know why thoughts of the princess kept intruding, why her face surfaced unbidden ever since his return from six months away, but he did not want to let it cloud his mind.

“You did well,” he suddenly said, causing Melyn to frown at the unwanted compliment amidst her rude remarks. Was he mocking her?

“You’ve kept her safe, kept her out of trouble. You braid her hair, you keep her smiling, you keep her well-fed, you stand between her and danger. That’s efficiency, exactly what I expected from you.”

He regarded her for a long moment, almost too idly, and before Melyn could open her mouth and outright cussed at him, he said, “But you’ve grown attached.”

The statement hit sharper than any accusation, and Melyn’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“And it’s making you careless,” he continued, his voice calm but cutting. “Dragging a maid into the shadows, tying her up, revealing yourself without a second thought. You used to move without leaving a trace, but now? You’re letting sentiment pull the strings.”

Melyn scoffed, though there was a flicker of unease in her chest as his words sink in. “So now it’s wrong to do my job too well?”

“You’re not doing your job,” Levan countered. “You’re overreacting, that’s not the same thing.”

He adjusted his stance against the stone wall, arms crossing as if the matter were already decided. “The princess will not die so easily, no matter how carefree she may appear. She’s not witless, and she certainly is not a child that needs constant monitoring. If someone truly meant her harm, she’d think for herself. And if not, I would know before anyone else.”

Melyn clenched her jaw, ready to spit another retort, but the words stalled. She knew better than most that when the crown prince spoke, it was not out of arrogance or idle cruelty. His words were never empty. He was the kind of man who measured twice before cutting once; who calculated the outcome long before the blade ever fell.

And that was the problem. He always knew. He always saw further than the rest of them, which meant he could stand there unshaken while others bled themselves raw out of fear or loyalty. It infuriated her so much. And yet, deep down, she understood, because this has always been how Levan worked.

“Is that all?” He finally asked, tired and too bored to hear anymore of her jeering mouth.

“Yes,” Melyn snapped, rolling her eyes. “If I knew you would be this careless, I wouldn’t even consider telling you at all. But…you—” She paused, frustrated, then shook her head again. “Where are you going?”

He stretched his arms slightly, brushing an invisible dust from his elbow. Finally, she was asking a reasonable question. “I have things I need to do on my own, as usual.”

Melyn narrowed her eyes, he always has things to do. Even though she had worked with him for years, she still could not uncover what it is that kept him awake every night. Alas, it is not her place to be nosy. To be frank, she do not want to meddle either. “Right.”

She was muttering under her breath, yet it was loud enough for him to hear. “Just don’t ignore your wife too much…”

Levan did not react. Instead, he gave a slight nod, dismissively noting the warning before turning away and left the dark cellar like he has been itching to do so. But not before saying, “Sleep. You look like you haven’t closed your eyes in days.”

Melyn watched him go. Her frustration had not faded, if anything, it had only doubled. And just once in this lifetime, she wished she could throw a fist on his deadpanned face.

~×~

The Royal Library was vast enough to feel like a palace within the palace. Its ceilings arched high, the beams carved with constellations and gilded filigree that caught faint glimmers of the torch. Shelves of dark oak stretched from floor to ceiling, their ladders on wheels standing ready like sentinels.

At this hour, the library was hushed, almost reverent. The air carried a faint scent of old parchment, leather bindings, and melted wax from the lamps left burning along the aisles. A long carpet muffled steps across the marble floor, though even a whisper here felt like a transgression, as if the rows of books themselves demanded silence.

The great hall opened into a secluded chamber tucked behind towering shelves, a private place where only the royals were permitted, though few ever found the time to linger there. By day, its high windows bathed the room in light; by night, it stood abandoned, save for the occasional visit of the Royal Archivist when duty compelled him.

Levan descended the familiar narrow steps, his gait unhurried, his composure unshaken as always. The dim glow of sconces guided his way through the hushed corridors of the library, leading toward the private chamber he knew by heart. The Ivory Study, only meant for the royals. Halfway down the hall, he crossed paths with Lysander.

The Archivist did not need to be told, he simply and smoothly fell into step behind him, his stride light, almost deferential as he glanced at the back of the Crown Prince’s head.

“You never sleep, do you?” Lysander muttered, half amusement, half reproach.

Levan did not slow. “And you follow me whether I do or not.”

“That’s what makes us a fine pair,” Lysander replied, his tone light and teasing. “Though sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever tell me what you’re chasing so stubbornly. Five years, and you’re still at it. Must be one hell of a prize.”

“Curiosity doesn’t suit you.”

“It suits me just fine,” Lysander shrugged. “But I suppose I’ll have to wait until you decide the hunt is worth sharing.”

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” Levan answered evenly, his voice cool as the stone underfoot. He unclasped his cloak, rolling his shoulders as he eased more comfortably. His back muscles flexed beneath the fabric of his tunic. “You’re nosy for a man who hides behind shelves.”

Lysander smiled. “Archivist, remember? My whole life is built on knowing what others would rather leave unread.”

Levan ignored his words and cracked his neck slightly, rubbing the back of his nape to ease the tension of the day. Lysander can be mouthful when he wanted to be, so he did not bother to reply at every single thing that came out of his mouth.

“You’ll grind your bones into dust before your thirtieth at this rate,” Lysander continue to drawl, hands tucked loosely behind his back. “Do you ever allow yourself anything resembling rest?”

“Rest is for those who can afford it.”

“And here I thought being a Crown Prince had its privileges.” Lysander’s tone carried its usual humour, though his eyes were sharp behind the glint of his glasses. “A warm bed, fine wine, someone who—” he paused deliberately, “—cares if you collapse or not.”

“I have no use for being cared for.” Levan cast him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. “You’d do well to learn silence, Archivist. Might help you live longer.”

“Ah,” Lysander cooed lightly, as though he had expected that answer. “And yet, somehow, the cruel fate of the universe seems determined to put people in your path who care anyway.”

“Like you?”

“Ha— Certainly not me,” Lysander chuckled. “I care more for what’s written in ink than in blood. But…” His voice lowered into something sly. “If I were a betting man, I’d say she might be proving me wrong.”

Levan reached the chamber door then, grasping the iron handle in hopes to shut him up with action rather than words since apparently, words do not work on him. Lysander, however, only tilted his head toward it, his tone smooth and unhurried, like he was having the best night in his life.

“Funny timing. You’ll see what I mean,” he said.

Levan’s eyes narrowed a fraction, catching the edge of meaning in his words. His hand remain idle on the handle as he veered his gaze at Lysander. “…Who’s inside?”

Lysander did not even try to hide the amusement in his voice. “Your wife.”

Levan’s brows twitched the slightest bit at his words. His wife? What in the world would she be doing here at this ungodly hour?

But the thought lingered no longer than a breath. He was never a man who indulged in hesitation. The moment Lysander dropped the info, his hand immediately turned the iron handle, steady and unhurried, causing the heavy door to swung inward on silent hinges. And as the Archivist said, the sight of the Caelwyn princess fell upon his eyes.

Slumped against the velvet cushion beside the darkened window, her small frame looked almost swallowed by its size. The curtains hung open, moonlight spilling across her like a pale veil, silvering the soft strands of her hair. He looked lower and saw a thick book resting on her lap, her arms curled around it in stubborn possession even in sleep.

Her lips were parted, her breaths deep and even as she sleep soundly, her lashes cast long shadows against her cheeks. Then she mumbled something incoherent under her breath. The words slipped out in a drowsy slur, almost comical in their irrelevance, “…and so the crown must weigh…”

Levan stood there, unmoving, his golden eyes tracing the sight before him. He knew the full phrase by heart, an austere declaration once spoken by King Agrathen he read in history. Yet hearing it halved and mumbled like a child’s nonsense rhyme struck him differently, as though she had plucked a thread from the fabric of his bloodline without even realizing it.

He exhaled slowly, the faintest of sighs slipping past his lips as his gaze lingered on the book sprawled across Ilaria’s lap like the sight just adds the fatigue he had to deal with today. He turned his head just enough to glance at Lysander.

“…Did you torture her?” he asked flatly. “Because only torture would explain that thing.”

Lysander pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, his glasses chain catching the candlelight. “I’ll have you know, Your Highness, King Agrathen’s Legacy is a cornerstone of our history.”

“It looks like a cornerstone,” Levan muttered dryly. “One heavy enough to crush her.”

Lysander shook his head, lowering his voice as if sharing a private joke. “She asked for it herself and I, as a humble servant, merely obliged. Who was I to deny the princess when she wished to understand her husband’s world?”

Levan’s jaw tightened, though he said nothing in return. His gaze drifted back to the slumbering girl who was hugging the tome as if it were a velvet cushion, making Lysander smirk in satisfaction.

“If this is torture, then she endured it willingly. Admirably, even.”

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