The city of Schwarzreich thrummed like a beast freshly fed: banners snapped in the wind, garlands looped from lamppost to balcony, and the air smelled of roast meat and sugared pastry. Merchants hawked trinkets, nobles preened on crimson carpets, and the populace—curious, hungry for spectacle—pressed into the square with the hungry politeness of people waiting for a show. Hanz had staged it like a play with a single, obvious purpose: parade the prize, dull the appetite. If the queen's image could be served up in velvet and jewels, the women's strike would look like a tantrum that a pretty wedding could tidy away.
He'd counted on the optics—the rings, the glitter, the pomp—to quiet the streets. He'd imagined the women, tired and dazzled, slipping back into their accustomed roles because spectacle had the old, soft magic of distraction. What he had not accounted for was the furnace that had taken residence in Kaelani's chest. The protest in Schwarzreich was not simply a rumor or a fashion; it was, at its heart, her. And parading her like a prize would not cool that ember — it would scatter sparks.
Crowds leaned forward expecting submission; instead, they found glare. The queen—draped in court silk but wired with a live core—moved like a thing that could not be roped in by velvet. Her eyes scanned the faces she'd rallied, and in that look was invitation and warning: she would not be bought with ribbons. Hanz could marshal soldiers and summon notaries; he could place her under roof and paper, but he could not, with all his gilded certainty, paper over the part of her that burned.
The engagement was meant to be a curtain. Instead it became kindling. Hanz, fingers still smelling of ink and triumph, had misread the room. The tinder he thought he'd smothered was already a living heat—and Kaelani, stubborn as a struck flint, was not about to watch the city be lulled back to sleep.
Kaelani had only come because Hanz had blackmailed her into it. He knew she hated underaged marriages; he'd promised to spare her half-sister by making himself the predator. He thought he was corralling a kitten. He'd failed to notice the dragon he'd tried to cage.
Schwarzreich's square had been dressed to distract: banners like teeth, garlands of flowers, tables slick with silver. Men preened and smiled the way men do when they think spectacle will stitch up scandal. A few in the crowd—mostly men—applauded with greedy relief, certain the show would hush the strike. Others watched with narrowed eyes: some skeptical, some already knowing Kaelani's temper would not be placated by a ring.
She mounted the dais in silk and spite. Ritchor's hand sat on her back like a claim; he leaned close and whispered that he couldn't wait to taste her, to claim their first night. Kaelani showed him a smile like a closing blade.
"Your ass will be so sore," she told him, quiet and venomous. The words landed like a physical thing. He straightened, coughing, suddenly aware that she was not a docile prop to be arranged on a pillow.
Hanz raised his hand, the practiced signal that cut the square's chatter down to obedient silence. He spoke of unity and joy and law—ceremony as ownership. Eyes tracked to the scribe, to the quill, to the custom kiss that would make consent a public fact.
Ritchor slanted forward, grin lubricated by entitlement. He leaned in to kiss; he murmured a last, ugly promise about her little sister being next if she didn't behave.
That did it.
Kaelani moved like a coiled thing. Her knee snapped up with a clean, brutal sound and folded him in half—he bent like a reed. The slap she delivered after was hard and surgical; Ritchor's body flailed as if caught in a stage fight, then collapsed to the boards with a thud that hushed the plaza.
She spat in his face—slow, deliberate—and turned to the crowd. She raised her hand and shouted, voice iron and hot: "I am not free until we all are free!"
The shout landed like a thrown coal. Women screamed and laughed and wept; some men cheered, others looked suddenly guilty of their own complacency. The square split into noise and fervor and the first real fracture in Hanz's glittering show.
Kaelani stepped over Ritchor's writhing form as if he were nothing more than a rug. She gave Hanz an insolent air-kiss, then cocked one eye and winked at him — slow, mocking, the kind of look that dared him to do worse — before turning away.
"Seize her!" the King roared. Soldiers surged. Kaelani fought—fierce and graceless—tearing at wrists, biting, kicking. But the dress the court had wrapped her in was a trap: heavy skirts and a corset that stole her leverage and turned her power into a spectacle. It snagged on a boot; a sleeve pinned a hand.
Four soldiers finally got purchase. They dragged her down by the arms until she was on her knees, breath coming hard. Hanz crouched a slow, cruel inch toward her as if he were righting a broken toy.
"That's enough of your shit, Kaelani," he spat, cold as ink. "You will marry my son. You will be my daughter-in-law. This stunt changes nothing."
She snapped toward his face and tried to bite—teeth bared like a cornered wolf—but the guards were faster; a gloved hand clamped her jaw shut and left her spitting curses the King could enjoy like spice.
Then the world detonated.
A booming rip of sound rolled through the square as a building behind the dais blew outward—wood and plaster vomited flame and smoke. Torches toppled, a vendor's stall collapsed, and the plaza lurched into chaos. People screamed and ran; the carefully ordered court became a panicked flood.
"GET HER OUT OF HERE!" Hanz barked, voice cracking like a whip. "Drag Ritchor with you!" Soldiers obeyed with brutal haste, scooping Ritchor and hauling Kaelani like a bundle to the waiting carriage.
The horses shrieked and the carriage lurched away from the burning square as the crowd scattered into alleys. Kaelani, shoved into the dark, pressed a hand to the carriage window and watched the square dissolve into smoke and shouts. Her dress was torn, her wrists a mess of bruises; she tasted copper and fury.
"You bitch, you humiliated me!" Ritchor wheezed from the floor, clutching himself where her knee had hit. He still writhed, face purple with pain.
Kaelani lifted a hand—half a mock flourish, half a warning—and he flinched, a tiny, ashamed jerk like a dog that's just learned the slipper can land. She saw it, smiled with a blade in her mouth, and let the hand fall. "That's right. Remember who the real bitch is, Snitchor," she purred, venom soft as silk.
Ritchor's face went red. Fury made him stupid. He lunged, hands scrabbling for her throat. "You know I hate being called that!" he choked, fingers closing.
He'd forgotten who she was. Kaelani's hands were quick as knives; with one motion she seized his wrists, slammed the heel of her palm into his ears so hard his head snapped and a ringing exploded in him. While his fingers loosened, she kicked him in the chest—nice and brutal—and sent him sprawling like a puppet with the strings cut.
The carriage shuddered. Footsteps pounded on the roof. Both of them looked up as a footman crashed through canvas and wood, tearing a hole that spat him into the coach. Hooded figures swung over the edges; men in the night's dark landed like wolves. Swords flashed. Guards cursed and met blades.
"Assassins!" Ritchor squeaked, scrambling toward the door.
Kaelani watched the attackers for a beat and scowled. These weren't silent killers; they weren't sneaking into beds. This was noisy, messy — something else. The driver was shoved; hands seized the reins. The carriage veered off the road.
"Shit," Kaelani said. The dress was useless. "Take the knife."
Ritchor blinked, scandalized, then half-hesitant, hands shaking, cut the strap at her thigh and freed the small blade she kept there. "What are you doing?!" he whined, indignant.
"Cut the bodice," she ordered. "Now." He did it, clumsy and slow, ripping through silk. She stripped away the worst of the ruffles and shoved them under the skirts to use as wraps. She slid the knife into her palm and braced.
The carriage slowed, turned down a narrow alley, and was driven into a dark, tucked-away carriage-house. The back panel thudded down. The driver was shoved aside; the carriage was led into a garage filled with shadow and the smell of horses.
From the roof they saw guards fighting hooded figures on horses — blows, curses, a man falling. Footmen and attackers scrambled; the stablemouth opened onto a hollow where ropes creaked and lanterns swung.
Inside the carriage, Kaelani pressed the blade to her palm, breathing hard. Ritchor struggled to his feet, pale and winded. The back panel thudded shut behind them, and the carriage sat in the dark, men shouting beyond the wood. They were still inside — not out in the flurry — braced, knife ready, as the sounds of a fight closed in around the coach.
Then it went quiet — the kind of quiet that sits like a held breath, waiting to see which side won. Kaelani tucked the little knife back against her thigh, warm from use, and waited. The carriage door swung open. A masked man's gloved hand shot in and yanked at her wrist; she went with it because fighting in nothing but puffy drawers and stockings felt ridiculous even for her. The man hauled her out into the stinking dark of the carriage-house.
She stood there in the horsehair light looking like an upper-class brothel girl who'd been dumped in a gutter: white stockings, puffy underpants with ribbons, a lace top chunked off her bodice, hair half-untamed. Around her, cloaked men hunched like crows, faces hidden in hoods. The whole tableau was obscene and delicious in a way that made her cheeks warm — and then she felt the absurdity and the danger and shoved the flush down.
"Who're you here for — me or the prince?" she asked, trying to make her voice casual when it wanted to tremble.
They didn't answer. They just waited, like men waiting for a cocky animal to break first. Minutes stretched. Then a hooded figure burst in as if he'd run half the city, pausing when he saw her. He stopped for a heartbeat, hood still up, mask shadowing everything but the narrow slit for his eyes; a single straight strand slipped free from beneath the hood, and through that thin cut of cloth she caught the flash of blue—cold, bright, and impossible to look away from.
Masked. Hooded. Dangerous. Mmm. Hot.
She scolded herself out loud. Girl, not now. You will not be horny when someone might slit your throat. But the thought sat in her like a spark on gunpowder: him, under her, bound. Nope. No. Focus, you skank.
He didn't laugh or swagger. He walked over with that ridiculous, controlled confidence of a man who knows how to move without being seen. For a heartbeat Kaelani only watched him watch her — blue eyes cutting over her like a knife measuring cloth. He reached to the man beside him, took the cloak without a word, and in one smooth motion wrapped it around her shoulders, the heavy fabric swallowing the lace and the cold alike. Without ceremony the outlaw took the cloak and wrapped it tight around her shoulders. The fabric smelled faintly of river smoke and leather; it was too big, but it hid her like a promise. He waved the man holding her away with one quick motion: a motion that said he was done with eyes on her and wanted them focused on the job.
She looked up and saw a black strand fall free from beneath his hood. Black hair. Blue eyes. Holy shit, Christmas came early. Her brain supplied a dozen filthy thoughts in as many seconds. Most men didn't like a woman who handed herself out too eagerly; the game was about the tease. She tried for the damsel shtick—awkwardly. "So... are you here to save me, big boy?" she chirped, half-docile, half-mock.
He scoffed; the sound was a small animal's warning. He didn't answer with words, but his next move was all language: gloved fingers closed over hers and his hand was strong and warm. He didn't look at her when he spoke, and his voice was rough, too deep, not the sort of thing that belonged to a man who hid under a hood for theater. "Keep your head down and move," he said, the words low and blunt.
That should've been the end of it—command and compliance. But Kaelani felt something else, the stupid flare of wanting to provoke instead of comply. She half-smiled under the cloak, feeling ridiculous and dangerous, and let him lead her out of the carriage-house into the daylight where the city smelled of smoke and copper and panic.
She had been too dazed to notice what was going on — everything had been a smear of silk and shouting and the feel of ropes — but now it seemed he was trying to shepherd her toward another carriage. Kaelani's eyes snapped open wide. "Stop! Where are you taking me?" she demanded.
He looked down at her without answering, shoulders a low, steady slope beneath his cloak, and then his voice came, rough as gravel. "Somewhere safe. Don't worry. We won't harm you. We're here to stop the wedding."
They reached the carriage and she pulled her hand free of his grip. "I can't go with you," she said fast, almost pleading. "You don't understand — if I don't marry him they'll force my half-sister to marry in my place. She's barely a teenager—" The last words sounded small on her tongue, and for a breath she looked painfully, achingly vulnerable.
The stranger's head dipped; his eyes—blue and flat in the slit of his mask—travelled over her face and then slid down, taking in what she really meant. Understanding slid like a blade through him. He tugged her forward a step. "Your sister is none of my concern," he said, clipped. "You are the one who needs saving."
Kaelani braced herself and dug her heels into the straw-strewn floor. "No," she said, voice hard as flint. "I will not let what happened to me happen to another child. You'll have to kill me to get me to go."
For a second his hood bowed, as if to measure the weight of her obstinacy. "You are their primary target," he said at last, low. "You must be safe. Your sister can be saved after."
"You don't know what they'll do to her in there," she snapped, fury abrading the edges of her voice. "You speak like a man outside the walls — you don't know what it is like. You have no idea." She tugged at the cloak the man had wrapped around her and the temper flared bright and dangerous.
He was losing patience; his jaw tightened. Before he could answer Kaelani shifted her tactics like a predator changing course. "I must go back until she is safe," she said, softer now. "I will not leave her."
The stranger planted his hands on his hips and weighed her words like a man considering a route across thin ice. She stepped in, pressing her body against the line of his cloak, testing him. "If you wish," she purred, voice sliding into something slow and predatory, "I could pay you to rescue her right now."
The motion registered on him like a small shock. He jerked back an inch, hands coming up to her shoulders — not to seize, but to keep a clean distance so he could look her in the eyes. "Your Highness—now is not the ti—" he began, voice about to cut into command, when she moved.
She caught him by surprise. Her hand flew up and found his groin with a practiced, vicious efficiency. A grunt broke out of him, low and involuntary. He staggered, breath hitching.
She leaned in so close his masked face brushed hers, and whispered for his ear only, breath hot and dangerous: "I could always make time in the haystack behind the stable." She giggled, a sound half-iron, half-innocent.
The hooded figures' grips on her shoulders tightened reflexively; some of them flinched at her aggressive boldness. For a moment it would have been sensible for the masked man to step away — to recoil from the audacity. Instead he stood very still, eyes closing as if the suddenness of it had unmoored him. His breath came ragged, a quick in and out. Instinct made him reach up, fingers brushing the edge of his hood, as if for a bare instant he might take the thing off.
"No," she murmured, soft and fierce, and pressed a finger to his mouth. Then, reckless and ridiculous, she ran her tongue along the hollow of his jaw.
She felt the silk-smooth strand of hair tickle her nose, felt the heat of his breath through the mask. The fantasy — the masked vigilante, the dark savior — pulsed alive under her ribs in a way wine never did. For one thin, incandescent second she let herself want it all: the danger, the secrecy, the illicitness of being held by a shadow before being handed over to a crown.
He didn't unmask. The cloth stayed, the mystery intact, and Kaelani relished it — the hiddenness made him every dangerous possibility at once. She pressed her mouth to the hollow of his jaw, whispering, "I like it better this way," meaning it: the dark, nameless thing was exactly the last, filthy thrill she needed before the world tried to cage her.
She stared at him, breath ragged, and asked flatly, "Will you help save my sister—or not?"
The man behind the mask let out a long, breathy sigh. His eyes—bright in the slit—went soft for a second and he answered, low and steady, "You are the only mission."
That wasn't enough. Kaelani squeezed—hard—fingers closing around the cloth of his trousers. He let out a sound between pain and something else, raw and surprised; he doubled over for a beat, one hand coming up to steady himself.
Other hooded figures were moving toward them then, curious why the carriage had not left. His attention snapped to them, and in that breath Kaelani saw her opening. She leaned in and hissed into his ear, "If you want to play more, come find me at the palace—if you dare. And if my sister is safe, I'll reward you." Then, quick as a strike, she stepped down hard on his foot. He grunted—a short, ugly sound—and she was already turning away, sprinting toward where the palace guards were marshaling, toward the one thing that still felt like an anchor in this chaos.
The hooded men halted as he straightened, one hand pressed to his groin, his body bent from the double shock of blow and squeeze. For a breath he tried to compose himself, then let loose a short, barked laugh—his normal voice cutting clean through the tension. "Let her go," he said, loud enough for the nearest to hear. "My queen has spoken. She wants me to come."
Two guards dragged a gagged prince forward and stopped before the one they called Nightwatch.
One of them asked quietly, "What do you want us to do with this one?"
Nightwatch turned, his eyes burning electric blue under the hood. They landed on the trembling First Prince — pale, bound, and soaked in his own fear, the stench of piss clinging to his fine clothes. Nightwatch crouched, grabbing the prince's chin and forcing him to look up. There was no warmth in those blue eyes — only that sharp, terrible calm of a man who had thought too much about this moment.
A cruel, deliberate smile curved Nightwatch's lips.
"Make sure," he said, voice cold and calm, "that he'll never be a good tool for his daddy again."
The prince's eyes went wide. He shook his head violently, the gag muffling his strangled cries, a desperate sound that only made Nightwatch's grin widen.
Nightwatch stood, brushing his gloves clean as if shaking off filth.
When no one moved, he turned his head, grin widening into something bright and terrifying.
"Well?" he said, voice suddenly lilting, far too cheerful. "Go on, lads! Don't look at me like I've lost my mind — I've simply found my purpose."
He turned on his heel and strode away, humming a jaunty little tune under his breath. There was a strange lightness to his step — almost a bounce — as if something heavy had finally been lifted from him.
The guards stared after him, pale and still, until one muttered under his breath, "Saints preserve us... he smiled the whole time."
And he had — that same calm, steady smile that made everyone wonder if Nightwatch had come to save the world...
or if he was just enjoying taking it apart, one piece at a time.
____________________________________________________________________________
The King was a wreck. His study looked like a storm had passed through — papers torn, a decanter smashed, his temper breaking faster than glass.
Kaelani sauntered in like she was on her way to brunch. A soft, satisfied smile curved her lips as she took in the chaos. "Things not going as planned, dear father-in-law?"
He turned so sharply his medals clinked together. "How dare you show your face here without my son—where is he, you whore?"
Kaelani rolled her eyes. "How the fuck should I know? I was kidnapped too, remember? I just happen to have enough brains to escape. Maybe if you'd chosen smarter women, you'd have smarter children."
That did it. He lunged. Soldiers had to grab him by the arms as he spat curses at her, face red and trembling with rage.
"Oh, relax," she said sweetly, waving her stolen fan — the one she now carried like a badge of defiance. "You've got, what, ten other spawn to groom? Or did you waste all your effort on the one? Shame, really. You should never put all your eggs in one basket."
He was shaking so violently that his crown pins came loose. "I swear, Kaelani," he hissed, "once you marry my son, you are dead—"
She cut him off with a laugh. "Please. Hell would be staying alive long enough to have that pig's ugly inbred babies. I'd sooner die than risk your bloodline mixing with mine."
The King was a wreck. His study looked as if a siege had passed through it. Papers lay in drifts around the desk, the decanter on the floor was bleeding a dark stain into the carpet, and the shutters banged against the wind like drums.
Kaelani slipped through the doorway as if she owned the place. Her hips swayed lazily, the stolen fan flicking open and shut between her fingers. She smiled, slow and sharp, savoring the storm in front of her.
"Things not going as planned, dear father-in-law?"
He spun so quickly that the medals on his sash rattled against his chest. His eyes were wild.
"How dare you show your face here without my son—where is he, you whore?"
Kaelani's brows lifted. "How the fuck should I know? I was kidnapped too, remember? I just happened to escape because I have a working brain. Maybe if you'd chosen smarter women, you'd have bred smarter children."
That broke him. He lunged, roaring, and it took three soldiers to restrain him. Spittle hit the desk as he shouted curses, voice breaking into a feral rasp.
She stood just out of reach, fanning herself. "Oh, calm down, you've still got ten other brats to groom. Or did you waste all your vigor on the one?" Her fan hid the grin that curved her mouth. "You really shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket, Hanz. Especially when the basket leaks."
He strained against the men holding him. "I swear, Kaelani, once you marry my son you are dead—"
She cut him off with a laugh that filled the room like perfume and poison.
"Hell would be staying alive long enough to have that pig's ugly inbred babies. I'd rather bite my own tongue off than push out your defective bloodline."
For a heartbeat it looked as if he might break free and throttle her. Then the door slammed open.
Bennihan strode in, her usual sardonic ease stripped away. "Enough!" She caught Kaelani by the shoulders, shaking her once. "Stop. We don't need this right now." Her voice faltered. "We found him. Ritchor. He's in the medic ward."
Even Kaelani froze at her tone. Bennihan's voice never cracked.
Hanz straightened, brushing down his uniform as though dignity could be buttoned back into place. The hint of triumph returned to his face. "Alive then," he muttered, adjusting his sash. "He'll answer for this humiliation. The boy's always been weak, but he's still my heir."
He strode for the door, motioning for them to follow.
The corridors of the palace were full of whispers. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as the royal entourage passed, eyes averted, hands shaking. From ahead came the sound of shouting, the panicked bark of doctors, and beneath it all, a single, ragged scream.
Hanz smirked. "Pathetic. He's been beaten before; he'll live. He needs discipline, not coddling."
Bennihan said nothing.
They reached the ward. The smell met them first—iron and medicine, sharp and raw. Inside, men stood pale as ghosts. Some had gone outside to retch, one was on his knees, head hanging between his arms.
The King pushed through them, ready to scold his son for embarrassing him in front of the staff. But the words never came.
The prince lay half-covered, blood seeping through the linen like ink through parchment. His body shook uncontrollably. A doctor shouted for more bandages; another tried to hold him still while they worked. The sheet shifted and the room fell into silence so heavy it crushed the air.
Where the pride of Aschenmark's line once was, there was only ruin. A clean, deliberate ruin.
A few soldiers staggered out, gagging. One collapsed against the doorframe, eyes wide and empty.
The King stood rooted, mouth open, color draining from his face. The edges of his vision blurred. "No," he whispered. "No—who would—who could..." He clutched his chest, breath ragged. "They should have killed him. Gods, anything but this."
The doctors kept working, voices desperate. Ritchor screamed again, a high, animal sound that didn't sound human anymore.
Bennihan closed her eyes. When she opened them, her gaze found Kaelani's.
The Queen stood perfectly still, fan lowered at her side. Her eyes flickered once, betraying something between shock and relief. The corner of her mouth twitched, and for a moment she looked almost—grateful.
Hanz sagged to his knees beside the bed, shaking. "My son," he rasped. "My legacy... ruined..." His fingers trembled over the sheet but did not touch it. He couldn't bring himself to.
Kaelani stepped closer, voice soft enough that only Bennihan heard. "Maybe the gods finally found a sense of humor."
Bennihan's jaw tightened, but she didn't answer.
Maybe—just maybe—she had a guardian angel after all.
One with black hair, blue eyes, and a very intimate understanding of divine retribution.
And gods help her, she was already thinking about how she was going to reward him.
____________________________________________________________________________
The tavern was a madhouse. The air was thick with beer breath, gossip, and the kind of laughter that comes from people too poor to care if it's appropriate. Every drunk, rebel, and idiot with a voice was shouting about the Queen's engagement — or rather, how it exploded like a keg of powder and scandal.
The Queen had apparently given the King and his precious piglet of a son the middle finger heard 'round the realm. Some said she'd thrown gasoline on the fire of revolution, others claimed she was the fire.
Half the tavern was ecstatic, shouting toasts to her name; the other half whispered nervously like they were afraid she might burst through the door, steal their lovers, and tax their souls.
Nightwatch sat in his usual corner, nursing a mug of beer and glaring at his untouched bowl of stew as if it had personally offended him. He should've been happy — hell, he should've been gloating. He'd pulled off the coup of a lifetime: stopped the King's plans, wrecked the wedding, avenged his Queen.
But he wasn't happy. He was... simmering.
Across the room, Darius spotted him instantly. He always could — the man sat too straight for someone trying to look casual, and he drank like the mug had insulted his mother.
Darius slipped through the crowd, all lazy charm and sharp eyes, and dropped into the seat next to him. "What's the issue now?" he drawled. "You accomplished everything you wanted, yet here you are brooding like a jilted mistress. Why?"
Nightwatch grunted something that might have been words but mostly sounded like rage in a foreign language. The kind of noise that suggested a man having an argument with his own thoughts and losing spectacularly.
Darius studied him with the patience of a saint and the smirk of a sinner. He reached across the table to tug the hood down, curious to see the face hiding underneath all that brooding. The hand was slapped away before he got halfway there.
"Get off me, Darius. Leave me to my drink and misery."
The words came out low and rough, like gravel dragged over stone.
"Oh for the love of the unholy trinity," Darius sighed, leaning back. "You stopped a wedding, castrated a prince, and brought a king to his knees — all in one bloody day. That's a record, even for you. What more could you possibly want?"
Nightwatch didn't answer. He sat rigid, shoulders tight, eyes on his mug as though if he glared hard enough, the beer might confess something. The tavern around them carried on in waves of noise—cheers, laughter, the clink of mugs—but between them hung a silence that hummed like a live wire.
Darius leaned back, watching him stew. He'd seen dogs guard bones with more serenity.
He let his attention drift, listening instead. If Nightwatch wouldn't explain himself, the room would. The tavern was alive with rumor: scraps of half-truth and wishful thinking thrown together and passed along like cheap wine.
At one table, a drunk shouted, "Did you hear? The Queen was swept away by that masked stranger!"
"Ha! They say she's going to marry him," another replied, sloshing ale across the table. "A dashing mystery, that one."
"Oh, absolutely," a woman giggled. "I heard his hair is black as midnight—that's why she's taken with him!"
And from the corner, someone added with drunken certainty, "She can't resist dark hair. Everyone knows her type."
Darius froze mid-sip, ale halfway to his mouth, and turned slowly toward the man next to him.
Nightwatch's knuckles were white around his mug. The air around him seemed to vibrate with restrained fury.
A grin crept over Darius's face. "You're jealous," he murmured. "By all the gods, you're jealous... of yourself."
Nightwatch's eyes flicked up, dangerous. "Shut. Up."
Darius tried not to laugh and failed miserably. "You could just tell her who you are. Save yourself the ulcer. She's brilliant in some ways and catastrophically stupid in others—put two and two in front of her and she'll start asking if it's wine o'clock."
"What's the point?" Nightwatch growled. "She wants him. The mask. The hair." He gestured at himself like the world's most tragic punchline.
Darius took another long drink, thinking, then leaned forward with mock sympathy. "You know, I could help you take the edge off. Ease the tension a bit." His hand slipped lower, fingers brushing the back of Nightwatch's coat. "I'd do everything she does... and maybe more."
The chair went flying backward. Nightwatch stood, fists tight, the hood shadowing his face. "You are not her, Darius. You will never be her. I don't care that you prefer men, but don't you ever try to get in my bed—no one belongs there but her!"
Half the tavern went silent. Even the lute stopped mid-strum.
Darius, ever composed, lifted both hands. "Alright, alright. Just saying, we had chemistry. That kiss at the ball? I've dreamed about it. You blushed like a virgin at her first confession."
Nightwatch's jaw clenched. Darius gestured for him to sit before he made a bigger scene. "Calm yourself, Vigilant One. No need to draw every eye in the city. You're already a wanted man, and I, unfortunately, am your alibi."
Nightwatch dropped back into his chair with a thud, muttering curses too low for the language gods to recognize. His shoulders slumped, the picture of a man tortured by his own success.
Darius hid a grin behind his mug. "So tragic," he said softly. "The fool's trapped in a love triangle with himself. And somehow, he's the least desirable one."
He let the silence stretch, then dropped the hook. "I do have some news about your Queen."
That got Nightwatch's attention. His head snapped up so fast the hood slipped back an inch.
"She was at your little ruin of a house," Darius said casually, swirling his drink. "Came with guards, crying, calling your name—your real name."
Nightwatch went rigid. The wood under his hands creaked.
Darius leaned on his elbows, chin resting on his folded fingers. "She thought you were dead. Fell to the floor, they said. Whispered for you like a prayer."
Nightwatch's lips parted, a breath more than a word. "She... she was looking for me?"
Darius nodded, watching that flicker of disbelief and longing war in his face.
For a heartbeat, Nightwatch looked almost boyish—then the mask slid back into place. He stood abruptly, cloak swaying.
Darius called after him, voice light. "Not finishing your soup?"
Nightwatch paused long enough to throw the words over his shoulder. "I have a reward to collect."
He pulled his mask down and strode out, boots thudding against the wooden floor, the tavern parting around him like a tide.
Darius took a leisurely sip from Nightwatch's abandoned mug, then claimed his bowl. "That boy doesn't stay down for long," he mused, spooning up a bite. "Though, to be fair, he's usually on his back for that Queen of his."
A few drunks nearby snorted without knowing why. Darius grinned into his beer, proud of his own wit and the chaos he'd just unleashed. "He's the only man alive who can be cuckolded by his own disguise."