Perhaps that is why I am here. To ensure you don't die before you see exactly what your ignorance has cost," Asarmose said, sitting with a terrifying, still grace in front of Alistair.
"My ignorance?" Alistair's voice was low, sharp enough to cut the heavy air of the cottage.
"My 'ignorance, as you call it, is what kept me alive in that palace filled with greedy men ready to slay a child for their gain!" He stood abruptly, his voice rising, echoing off the stone walls. "My ignorance is what made me crawl from the pit of hell to stand as the King before you! My ignorance is what is keeping this kingdom from falling into absolute ruin!"
"No," Asarmose interrupted, his voice a cool blade that sliced right through Alistair's volume before he could continue. "This kingdom is already hollow, Alistair. It is a shell held together by the fear of the people you refuse to look at."
Asarmose leaned forward, staring straight into Alistair's eyes with a look of utter, freezing disappointment. "You do not have the right to make excuses for your cowardice, Alistair," Asarmose said, his hazel eyes narrowing. "I could understand the reason when you were simply a child, but at this moment, you are a KING. You have the power to tear down the Council and rewrite the laws of this land, yet you chose to hide behind a mask of indifference because it was easier than being a leader."
Asarmose stood up, his regal silhouette blocking out the orange light of the window. He looked at Alistair not as a partner, but as a project that was failing.
"Your ego isn't strength, Alistair. It's a shield for a man who is too afraid to admit he let his people rot. You aren't just a 'no-good' King; you are a selfish one who values his own comfort over his crown's duty."
Asarmose turned away, the air in the room feeling lighter as he withdrew his presence. "I need to clean myself. We will discuss this later," he said coldly, before walking out and leaving the King alone in the silence of the mountain.
Alistair stood frozen in the center of the small room, his chest heaving as the door clicked shut behind Asarmose. The word "coward" felt like a physical brand on his skin, burning hotter than the soot and grime of the Black Barrack. His blood didn't just boil; it turned to liquid fire, a roar of narcissistic fury screaming that he had survived things an arrogant prince could never comprehend.
He gripped the edge of the wooden table so hard the grain groaned under his strength. He wanted to shatter it. He wanted to tear the stone walls down with his bare hands just to prove he wasn't hollow.
Then, a soft, rhythmic thumping broke through the red haze of his thoughts."Kael, are you still awake?"The voice was muffled by the thick wood, but it was unmistakable. It was Aldric.Alistair flinched at the name. Kael. He had to be Kael now. He couldn't be the King who had just been dismantled by a Prince; he had to be the weary survivor who helped push a boulder. He forced his hands to uncurl, though his fingernails had left deep, crescent-moon marks in his palms. He gritted his teeth, forcing the royal resonance out of his throat until his voice sounded as small and tired as the room around him.
"I'm awake," Alistair rasped, leaning his forehead against the cool stone wall for a fleeting second before turning toward the door.He didn't open it yet. He couldn't. His pheromones were likely a jagged mess of aggression and wounded pride, and if Aldric was as sharp as he seemed, the "Alpha" of the mountain would smell the lie on him.
"What is it, Aldric?" Alistair called out, his voice steadier now, though his eyes remained dark with the lingering sting of Asarmose's judgment.
Aldric looked Alistair up and down, his eyes lingering on the King's white-knuckled grip on the table. "You look like you've been fighting ghosts."
"Something like that," Alistair rasped, forcing his fingers to uncurl. He grabbed a damp cloth from the table and wiped the worst of the grime from his neck, his movements jerky and violent.
"Where's Aris?" Aldric asked, nodding toward the empty room. "Saw him walking toward the stream. He looked... focused."
"He needed air," Alistair muttered. He stepped toward the door, his height forcing Aldric to take a half-step back. The King's "Kael" persona was slipping; the raw, wounded authority of a man called out on his own failures was leaking through. "And I need it too."
"Easy there fella" Aldric says lightly before his tone turned serious
"The Leaders are waiting at my cottage," Aldric said, his voice steady but carrying a weight that hadn't been there before. "They're unsettled. You brought a thousand people here, Kael. And that prisoner... he's got the stench of the Palace on him. They want to know what's going on."
Alistair felt the grit of the soot on his neck, a stinging irritation that matched the slow burn in his chest. He let out a long, heavy sigh, looking toward the flicker of light coming from Aldric's home."We'll be there," Alistair said, his voice flat.
Aldric nodded once, a sharp, perceptive look in his eyes, before turning to head back.
Alone again, Alistair didn't head for the meeting. He couldn't go in there smelling like the Black Barrack and feeling like a fraud. He turned toward the distant sound of rushing water, seeking the one person who had the power to make him feel like a King and a coward in the same breath.He found him at the stream. Aris was standing in the shallow water, his back to Alistair. The orange twilight shimmered off the ripples around his ankles. He had already discarded his upper garments, his skin glowing with a frustratingly clean clarity against the dark, rugged stone.
Without a word, Alistair stripped off his own soot-caked tunic and stepped into the freezing water. The shock of the cold hit his skin, but he barely felt it; he was too focused on the man a few feet away."You're late," Aris said. He didn't turn around. His voice was a cool chime over the sound of the water."I had to deal with Aldric," Alistair growled, wading closer until he was nearly touching the Prince's shadow. "He says The Leaders are at his cottage. They're sitting there right now, Aris, waiting for an explanation. What should we tell them?"
Aris finally turned. His hazel eyes were sharp, catching the orange twilight. He didn't flinch at Alistair's proximity, though the King's pheromones were beginning to leak out—a jagged, aggressive scent of woodsmoke and wounded pride.
"Tell them whatever you wish, Kael," Aris whispered. He reached out, his wet fingers hovering just inches from Alistair's chest, where the soot was still smeared thick. "But look at you. You are scrubbing your skin raw to get rid of the dirt, but the dirt isn't the problem. The problem is that you are terrified of the people in that cottage because for the first time, you cannot command them to look away."
Aris leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "Wash yourself. We cannot keep them waiting at Aldric's forever. They want the truth, and tomorrow, when we unmask Vane, you won't have a stream to hide in."
Alistair gripped Aris's wrist, stopping the Prince's hand before it could touch his skin. The heat between them was a physical spark.
"I'm not hiding," Alistair hissed. "I'm surviving."
"Is there a difference?" Asarmose challenged, pulling his wrist back with strength. "Go on then. Cleanse yourself. I'll go to the cottage first. You can join us when you're done."
The silence that followed Asarmose departure was heavier than the freezing mountain water swirling around Alistair's knees. He watched the Prince's silhouette vanish into the treeline, a ghost of white and hazel blending into the shadows. The sting of Aris's words remained, more abrasive than the soot still clinging to Alistair's skin.
He plunged his hands into the stream, the cold biting at his knuckles as he scrubbed. He wasn't just washing away the grime of the Black Barracks; he was trying to rub out the sensation of Asarmose's fingers hovering over his heart. Every splash of water felt like a physical attempt to reassemble his fractured ego. He was a King who had built a throne out of survival, yet in the presence of the Prince, he felt like a child holding a wooden sword.
By the time he stepped out of the water, his skin was flushed red from the cold and the friction. He pulled on a fresh tunic, the coarse fabric feeling like a hairshirt against his raw nerves. He took a long, steadying breath, pulling the "Kael" persona back over his features like a shroud. He needed to be the weary traveler, the reluctant savior, the man Aldric could trust—not the King Asarmose despised.