In the early weeks of Krystian's stay, the pressure in the Prince's private wing was a constant, low thrum. Miles had assigned Krystian the job of organizing the mission's logistics charts, a tedious test of patience and focus meant to weed out Krystian's reckless nature.
Krystian sat at a small table by the window, the sunlight from the outside world doing its best to warm the cold, polished stones of the floor. He meticulously sorted parchment, trying to ignore the constant, low scratching of Miles's pen across the desk. The Prince wrote with concentration and precision— like he did everything else.
Around midday, Miles abruptly pushed back from his desk, the sudden scrape of the chair the loudest noise Krystian had heard all morning.
"The territorial assessment requires you to be field-ready," Miles announced, folding his hands behind his back. "Your current clothing is unsuitable. The climate in the western reaches is unpredictable, and The Obsidian Pact operates in conditions that demand protection. We will not depart until your gear is certified. You require protection."
"What's the Obsidian Pact?" Krystian asked. Miles rewarded Krystian's question with a scorching look— Hot enough to burn the sun itself. Wait...Hot?
"You will learn more about the Obsidian Pact and their Mission tomorrow. You will attend a meeting to know more information about our mission." A Meeting? Why hadn't he been informed of these things earlier?
Miles turned away from Krystian and walked to a tall cabinet and opened it, revealing a set of fitted, lightweight leather armour plates, a sturdy travel pack, and a length of heavy, dark wool and leather—a cloak designed for harsh weather.
"You will be measured for this protective gear. It will protect you well and allow for free mobility.," Miles stated, retrieving a stiff, silver measuring tape from a drawer.
Krystian stood, feeling immediately awkward and too large in the Prince's perfectly minimalist space. Miles approached him, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Their distance— the professional separation—had just shrunk to inches.
Miles was all business. He did not look at Krystian's face, focusing instead on the practical task. He stood close, stretching the tape measure across Krystian's shoulders. The silver tape felt cool and sharp against the warm, rough fabric of Krystian's staff tunic.
"Shoulder width," Miles dictated, his breath a faint, cool current against Krystian's ear. Krystian could feel the tension radiating off the Prince—Or Maybe off of himself. He didn't understand why he felt so awkward with Prince Miles nor why his closeness was making him feel flustered.
"Why do you have to measure me Prince? Can't a servant do it for you?" Krystian mumbled. He couldn't even form words. He just stood rooted to the spot like a statue. Prince Miles ignored Krystian's question like he ignored his gaze.
Krystian swallowed, trying to steady his own breathing. He could smell Miles's signature scent: clean, cool, and faintly metallic. He found himself focusing intently on the precise, almost hesitant movements of Miles's hands.
Miles measured the chest, the movement requiring him to wrap the tape around Krystian's torso, pulling the commoner's body into a tight, professional embrace with the silver tape. Their forearms brushed, and Krystian felt a sudden, electric rush of heat, an instinctive reaction that had nothing to do with the sun. He instinctively twitched and slipped out of Miles's hold.
"Don't move," Miles warned, his voice low, almost a whisper of concentration as he pulled Krystian to a tighter hold.
"I- I won't," Krystian managed, his own voice sounding thin and rough. He found himself utterly unable to look away from Miles's eyes, which were now locked onto the numbers on the tape.
Finally, Miles stepped back, the tension snapping like a bowstring. He collected his notes, his face returning to its expressionless mask.
"Now, the physical assessment," Miles said, placing the tape aside. "If you are to be effective, I need to know the true range of your speed and discipline. Demonstrate you basic fighting stance."
Krystian took a stance familiar from his market brawls—low, wide, and centered on explosive power.
Miles looked profoundly dissatisfied. "That is a position for a dockyard fight, not strategic engagement. Your center of gravity is too low, and your movements will be wasteful." Miles walked to Krystian and used his hands to correct him.
Miles placed one cool, firm hand against Krystian's shoulder blade, pressing gently to correct the angle, and the other on his hip, moving Krystian's foot inward. The touch was purely instructional, yet intensely personal. Krystian felt a shiver run down his spine, half from the chill of Miles's hand, half from the sheer closeness.
"A proper stance is about using the power effectively, instead of using all your power in the first few blows." Miles explained, his voice suddenly shifting to the tone of a focused tutor. "Like this. You see how much more better this is?"
Krystian tried to hold the position, but his natural strength wanted to revert to his familiar, powerful crouch.
"You are too rigid," Miles criticized, stepping back. He snatched a small, leather-bound training journal from the desk and tossed it at Krystian's head without warning.
Krystian's reflexes, honed by years of training, were lightning fast. He reacted with raw speed, catching the journal out of the air with a loud thwack that nearly dislocated his shoulder. It was a spectacular catch, but his reaction was unnecessarily powerful and aggressive.
Miles stared at the journal in Krystian's hand. He walked to Krystian, not angry, but now completely engaged, his intellectual curiosity blazing in his icy eyes.
"Your speed is fast. Your reaction is flawless, but your expenditure is immense," Miles murmured, his eyes blazing with analytical interest "But still, not bad for someone who hasn't been properly trained." He reached out and gently took the journal back, his fingers briefly brushing Krystian's palm. "If you use that much force to catch a book, you will be exhausted before the first attack."
Miles paused, studying Krystian's face with unnerving focus. "Your physical gifts are undeniable, Krystian. But they are undisciplined. We will work on precision and control. You need my strategy to focus your strength."
Miles returned to the center of the room. He positioned himself directly opposite Krystian.
"We will try again. This time, I will talk you through the motion. Focus your speed, but let my voice dictate the limits of your effort."
Krystian nodded, feeling a strange mixture of shame and fierce pride. He couldn't get one thing out of his head. Miles had been intrigued. And in that shared, charged moment of professional necessity, Krystian had felt more connected to the Future King than he ever had to anyone.
"We will continue these discipline exercises until your movement is reliably balanced," Miles decreed. "You will learn to rely on my instruction to wield your body safely, or you will not leave this palace."