At eighteen, Prince Aerion wore his duties like a second skin—chafing, tight, and impossible to peel off.
Every morning began the same.
He woke not to sunlight, but to the ceremonial rustle of chambermaids drawing back velvet curtains and the low murmuring of attendants announcing his schedule. No greetings. No "good morning." Just pages from a living itinerary. He didn't need to think; they did that for him.
Today's list was identical to yesterday's:
• Morning prayers at the Sepulcher Hall.
• A diplomatic scroll review with the Chancellor.
• Sword drills in the east yard.
• Luncheon with House Meremont's unmarried daughter.
• Afternoon envoy meeting regarding the Spade Kingdom's festival rites.
And of course:
• Etiquette classes on courtship. Because, as Queen Lysandra liked to remind him with that measured tilt of her head, "The Heart Kingdom does not marry for whimsy, Aerion. We marry for unity."
He'd once nearly asked if unity could bleed when sliced too thin.
He never said it aloud.
Instead, Aerion dressed in silence while the chamberlains adjusted the collar of his garnet doublet. Everything was red and gold these days—colors of pride, passion, legacy. Regal. Heavy. Even his boots felt heavier now, though he knew it was not the leather that had changed.
The only part of the day he looked forward to didn't appear on the schedule.
It never did.
♥♥♥
The route to the annex had changed over the years. More guards. More polished floors. More eyes.
But Aerion knew the quieter ways. He still remembered which doors creaked, which rugs muffled steps best, and where to pause in case of passing footmen. You didn't learn that in etiquette class. Coriel had taught him.
The old annex was still there—tucked behind the lesser library, its doorway half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. Forgotten, in the way that only truly precious things ever were.
Inside, the air was different.
It always was.
There was the warm, musty scent of old parchment, a trace of candle wax, and the ever-present undercurrent of something unspoken.
Coriel sat at the central desk, as if he'd never moved since boyhood—though everything about him had changed.
His shoulders were broader now, his forearms corded with lean strength from years of hauling crates and shifting shelves. His once-messy curls were now pulled back into a loose half-knot, a few strands framing his face, and his tunic—still plain, patched—was rolled to the elbows, ink stains blooming across the cuffs like old bruises.
He looked up the moment Aerion entered.
"Tardier than usual," he said, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Did they chain you to the lunch table again?"
"Worse," Aerion sighed, closing the door behind him. "They sat me next to Lady Elisent of Meremont. She talked about swans for twenty-two minutes. I counted."
Coriel laughed, standing and giving Aerion a mock bow. "Poor Your Highness. How utterly cruel of them."
Aerion rolled his eyes but stepped closer, the knot in his chest already beginning to loosen. He brushed a finger along the edge of a nearby scroll. "What are we drawing today?"
Coriel raised a brow. "You mean, what you are drawing? I already finished mine."
"Oh?"
Coriel held up a smaller parchment, its corners still slightly damp from fresh ink. Aerion leaned closer.
It depicted a single structure—a tower spiraling upward from the sea, surrounded by nothing but waves. A tiny boat rested beside it, anchored, waiting.
Aerion studied it silently. "Lonely," he said at last.
Coriel shrugged. "Not if someone's waiting at the top."
That silence returned between them—thicker than before, heavier with years of things left unsaid.
"You'll be visiting the Spade Kingdom soon," Coriel said casually, returning the drawing to the desk. "Festival season."
Aerion didn't answer right away. He watched the way the light from the window haloed around Coriel's silhouette.
"Yes," he said finally. "And after that, the Clovelands. Then the Diamond Isles."
"A tour of fair maidens?"
"A parade of stifled sighs and terrible poetry, more like."
Coriel chuckled softly, but his hands had stilled on the table.
Aerion moved to stand beside him, close enough to notice the fray in Coriel's sleeve, the tiny ink dot on his thumb knuckle.
"I wish," Aerion said quietly, "that I could take you with me."
Coriel looked up, his expression unreadable.
"Why don't you?"
"Because you're not a diplomat. Or a noble. Or a prospective bride with a neck full of gemstones and a father with a shipping contract."
Coriel smiled faintly, though his eyes didn't.
"No," he said. "I suppose I'm not."
Aerion looked away first.
A log cracked softly in the small fireplace. Outside, somewhere far above their little sanctuary, bells chimed the hour.
"I'll be gone for two weeks," Aerion said, still not meeting his gaze. "Maybe more."
Coriel nodded. "I'll keep the maps safe."
"And the annex?"
"Always."
Aerion finally looked back at him.
He didn't say I'll miss you. He didn't need to.
It was already etched in the unspoken space between them, just like the tower in the sea.
♥♥♥
For a while, they just drew.
Not maps this time—at least not of faraway kingdoms or imagined terrain. Aerion had started a new piece in the bottom corner of a broad parchment: the edge of a stone window, vines curling around it, and beyond it, the faint silhouette of a figure leaning outward, half-dreaming.
Coriel, beside him, sketched hands. Always hands. He claimed they were the hardest part of anatomy—"Too many damn lines. Like tree roots with anxiety." But Aerion suspected it was something else. Something in the way Coriel's gaze lingered too long when Aerion passed him a quill or when their fingers brushed while unrolling parchment.
They didn't speak of the farewell again until the candle stub burned down to a soft halo and the shadows stretched too far to ignore.
"So," Coriel said at last, his voice casual—too casual—while gently shaking the ink dry on his drawing. "You leave at dawn?"
Aerion nodded. "A caravan at the western gate. Ceremony and all."
"Sounds thrilling."
"Only if you enjoy carriage upholstery and veiled metaphors about marriage eligibility."
Coriel huffed a laugh, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He sat back, folding his arms, his expression suddenly unreadable.
Aerion set his quill down.
"You'll be fine here?"
"Same as always."
That was the problem, wasn't it?
Same annex. Same scrolls. Same silence.
Without him.
Aerion glanced around their space—the shelves filled with crumpled drafts, the corner where a tapestry hung half-loose from the wall, the pile of sketches they never bothered to organize. All of it had grown into something sacred. Theirs.
He didn't want to leave.
But princes didn't choose their roads. They were chosen for them.
He turned back to Coriel and hesitated. There was something heavy behind the other boy's gaze now. Not anger. Not sadness.
Just holding.
Like he was keeping something inside.
"Coriel," Aerion said, his voice low, uncertain.
Coriel stood, brushing his hands on his tunic. "You should go. It's late. They'll come looking if you're not back in your wing by the hour bell."
Aerion didn't move. "Are you… angry with me?"
"What?" Coriel blinked. "No. Of course not."
"Then what is it?"
Coriel looked at him for a long time. His lips parted, just slightly. For a breath, Aerion thought—hoped—he might speak. Say something real.
But he didn't.
He just smiled.
That same gentle, crooked smile he'd worn since they were children. A smile that meant not now and maybe later and don't ask me that question, not tonight.
"I'll be here when you come back," Coriel said instead. "Same maps. Same dust."
Aerion stepped closer, uncertain. The room felt smaller now, the silence thick between them.
Then, impulsively—too fast to think—he pulled Coriel into a brief, firm hug.
It wasn't regal. It wasn't stiff. It was warm, desperate, and unpracticed.
Coriel tensed for a fraction of a heartbeat—then relaxed, leaning into it.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to remember it.
Aerion pulled back, eyes searching his friend's face.
"I'll bring back something," he said.
Coriel tilted his head. "Like what?"
"I don't know yet. Something interesting."
Coriel gave a quiet laugh. "Don't bring me a jewel or some royal trinket. You'll only make me jealous."
"No trinkets," Aerion agreed, smiling. "Just something worth keeping."
They stood there for a few more breaths, and then, with a reluctant exhale, Aerion turned toward the door.
"I'll see you soon."
Coriel nodded. "I'll hold you to that."
Aerion left without looking back.
Coriel stood in the quiet for a long time after he was gone. The fire had burned down to coals, and the shadows stretched deeper now.
The parchment still lay on the desk, half-sketched.
Coriel reached over and traced a line on Aerion's window drawing—just beneath the figure's chin. A shadow. A small detail, almost invisible.
He leaned back, arms crossed, gaze distant.
Two weeks without him.
Two weeks to decide whether to speak the truth or keep hiding it in ink and imagined places.
"I'll hold you to that," he murmured again to the empty room.
And meant it.