Alistair looked at Vane, then tore the remaining cloak off the scholar. He walked toward the old man, asked for a dagger, and punctured holes in the fabric.
Using a vine he cut with the same dagger, he tied the cloak around Vane's head, hiding his appearance.
"Good job, er... Kael, right?" Alistair nodded. "Good. I'm Aldric, by the way." He shook Alistair's hand, then patted his shoulder. "Alright, let's head inside."
Asarmose looked confused. "Aren't we already inside?" he asked."No, this is just the entrance," Aldric stated before moving towards a large boulder hidden in the dark. He began pushing it sideways with all his might. "Could you lend me a hand?" he grunted. Alistair moved to his side, and together they pushed the boulder, revealing a passage with light pouring from it.
Elara commanded, "Let's go," and both her people and the ones from the labor camp followed. Diana ran to Asarmose, pulling his hand with her little ones. "Come on!" she said.Asarmose stepped inside, revealing a plain landscape stretched far and wide, beneath a clear, orange-colored sky. Looking back at where they came from, he muttered, "A mountain."
Elara smiled softly as they continued walking. "Yes. We hid in the caves after escaping, expecting the King's men to find us. Then we found the chamber leading to this place."
Asarmose stood in a daze, his black eyes reflecting the warm, sunset hue of the sky. This wasn't a cave; it was an anomaly—a vast, lush valley tucked inside the hollowed-out belly of the mountain range, protected by stone and ancient magic. The air here didn't smell of soot or sulfur; it smelled of damp earth and blooming jasmine.
Alistair walked beside him, still hauling the hooded Vane. He looked at the orange sky, his brow furrowing as he tried to reconcile this "Haven" with the maps he had studied in his palace. This place didn't exist in any royal record. His "no-good" kingdom had a secret heart he knew nothing about.
"How is the sky this color?" Asarmose whispered, his regal curiosity getting the better of him as he watched the light dance across the plains.
"The crystals in the ceiling," Elara explained, pointing upward. High above, massive quartz veins embedded in the mountain's roof caught the external sunlight and filtered it, creating a perpetual, warm twilight. "It's the only place the Council can't see. No scouts, no trackers... and no Kings."
As they walked further, Asarmose noticed small, sturdy cottages made of river stone and wood. Fields of crops were being tended to by people who look broken —they looked… Happy.
Diana tugged on Asarmose's hand again, pointing toward a large central building. "That's where we eat! Mama says tonight we celebrate because I'm home!"
Asarmose looked down at the girl, then at the hooded figure of Vane. The contrast was sickening. He felt Alistair's gaze on him—a silent, heavy reminder that they were deep in enemy territory, surrounded by people who would kill them if they knew their true names.
"Aldric," Alistair said, his voice dropping into its serious "Kael" tone. "Now that we're safe, where do we put the prisoner? He's beginning to struggle again."
"Place him in my cottage," Aldric ordered, gesturing toward the hooded, trembling Vane. "We'll interrogate him tomorrow. I'm sure everyone's had a long day."
The transition from the brutal, soot-stained labor camp to the serene, orange-lit valley of the Haven was jarring. After the chaotic arrival, the community moved with practiced efficiency. Small stone cottages were prepared for the influx of people from the camp, including a shared space for Alistair and Asarmose.
As the thousands of weary workers were led to their new shelters, a heavy silence finally settled over the mountain's heart.
Inside their assigned cottage, the air was cool and smelled of cedar. It was a simple room—two modest beds, a wooden table, and a small hearth. For the first time in weeks, they were behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of guards and the desperate gaze of the oppressed.
Alistair sat heavily on the edge of a bed, the exhaustion finally catching up to his massive frame. He looked at his hands, still stained with the grime of the Black Barrack, then looked up at Asarmose.
The Prince stood by the small window, his silhouette framed by the perpetual orange twilight outside. He looked untouched by the dirt, his black eyes deep and contemplative as he watched the smoke rise from the hearths of the other cottages.
"A 'selfish, no-good king,'" Alistair repeated quietly, the words tasting like ash. He looked at Asarmose with a weary, challenging tilt of his head. "Is that what I am to them? A man who builds palaces while his subjects build mountains to hide from him?"
Asarmose turned away from the window, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. He didn't offer comfort; his nature was too refined for pity. Instead, he walked toward the table, his movements graceful despite the drain on his divinity.
"They don't hate the man, Alistair. They hate the shadow he casts," Asarmose said, his voice a smooth silk in the quiet room. "But tomorrow, when we peel that hood off Vane's head, you'll find out just how long that shadow really is."
Alistair sighs, looking around the small, cedar-scented room. "First you showed up," he mutters, leaning his back against the rough stone wall, "then you used your pheromones as a weapon, then you healed my scars with a touch of your hand... and now a mountain with illusions."
He runs a hand through his soot-matted hair, his eyes landing on Asarmose, who seems perfectly at home in a place that shouldn't exist. "My maps say this is solid rock. My scouts have ridden these ridges for years. And yet, here we are, standing under an orange sky inside a stone shell."
Asarmose remains by the window, the perpetual twilight catching the sharp angle of his jaw. He doesn't look like a man who just survived a labor camp; he looks like a deity who stepped out of a myth and found the modern world lacking.
"It is not an illusion, Alistair," Asarmose says, his voice a low, resonant chime in the quiet cottage. "It is simply a truth your kingdom wasn't grand enough to see. The world has many pockets where the 'nobility' has no reach.
"He turns, his black eyes fixing on the King with a look that is part challenge, part observation. "You are bothered. Is it the fact that they built this without you, or the fact that I am the only one who doesn't seem surprised by it?"
Alistair lets out a short, dry laugh. "I'm bothered that every time I think I've figured out the limits of this world—or you—the floor drops out from under me."
Before Asarmose can respond, a soft, hesitant knock sounds at the wooden door."Aris?" a small voice whispers from the other side.
The tension in Alistair's shoulders shifts. He watches as Asarmose moves toward the door with that effortless, predatory grace. When the Prince opens it, Diana is standing there, looking tiny against the vastness of the orange-lit plains behind her. She's clutching a small bundle wrapped in a clean cloth—loaves of warm bread and a few dried fruits."
Mama said you might be hungry," she says, her eyes searching for Asarmose's face. She ignores the massive, intimidating Alpha sitting on the bed, her focus entirely on the man who "woke" her soul in the sorting sheds. "She's busy with the others, but she wanted me to bring this."
Asarmose kneels so he is at her level, his black eyes softening just a fraction—a sight Alistair finds more unsettling than the pheromones.
"Thank you, Diana," Asarmose says, taking the bundle.The girl lingers, her hand reaching out to touch the fabric of his sleeve, as if making sure he's still real and not a dream that will vanish when she sleeps. "Will you be here when I wake up?"
Alistair watches from the shadows of the room, a strange, heavy feeling settling in his chest. He's the King of these people, yet it's the stranger they are turning to for hope.
"Yes," Asarmose said, his voice dropping into a tone so gentle it seemed to vibrate in the small room. "I'll be here."
He gave her a reassuring smile—a rare, genuine expression that lacked his usual mockery. Diana's face brightened, her small shoulders finally losing their tension. She nodded quickly, whispered a shy "goodnight," and scurried off into the orange twilight of the Haven.
Asarmose closed the door softly and turned back to the room, the bundle of food held in his long, slender fingers. The smile vanished the moment the door clicked shut, replaced by his usual mask of cool, dignified indifference.
Alistair remained on the edge of the bed, watching the exchange with a brooding intensity. The sight of the Prince—a man who had just used his power to drive a camp into a bloodthirsty frenzy—acting as a source of comfort for a child was a contradiction he couldn't quite wrap his head around.
"You're surprisingly good with her," Alistair remarked, his voice low and gravelly. "For a man who claims to find most things beneath him."
Asarmose set the bread on the wooden table and began to unwrap it, the scent of yeast and honey filling the air. "Children are honest, Alistair. They don't care for crowns or legacies. They only care about who keeps the dark away. It's a much simpler transaction than the one I have with you."He broke off a piece of the bread and held it out toward the King.
"Eat," the Prince commanded, his eyes catching the flicker of the small hearth. "You've spent the day carrying a traitor and pushing boulders. Even a 'selfish' King needs his strength if he intends to face the truth tomorrow."
Alistair took the bread, his fingers brushing against Asarmose's skin. The heat from the Prince's touch was still there—the same lingering, divine warmth that had healed his scars.
"The truth," Alistair muttered, staring at the bread. "Vane is Diana's father. He's Elara's mate. And he was working for my Council. If these people find out that the man responsible for their suffering was funded by my treasury..."
"Then the mountain becomes your tomb," Asarmose finished simply, sitting across from him. "But perhaps that is why I am here. To ensure you don't die before you've seen exactly what your 'ignorance' has cost."