The palace at night wasn't majestic; it was just cold.
Krystian walked the halls toward Miles's suite, his boots sounding way too loud against the stone. He'd been in the castle for a few weeks now, and the novelty of the gold-leafed ceilings had worn off, replaced by the crushing weight of the palace. He felt like he was becoming a ghost—just another silent fixture in a house full of statues.
He stopped outside the study doors a little before midnight. He took a second to adjust the small, cloth-wrapped bundle in his pocket—a piece of honey-wheat bread his sister had managed to smuggle in through one of the kitchen staff. It was still soft.
When he entered, the room was dim, lit only by a few dying candles. Miles was slumped slightly over his desk, a sight so rare it made Krystian hesitate. The Prince's silver hair was a mess, falling over eyes that looked bloodshot and strained.
Krystian didn't say anything. He went straight to the side table, picked up the crystal inkwells, and started the mind-numbing task of scraping out the dried residue.
The only sound for ten minutes was the scraping of Krystian's knife and the occasional heavy exhale from the desk.
"You're early," Miles said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't used it in hours.
Krystian didn't look up. "Three minutes. Thought you might want to finish up sooner so you could actually sleep, Prince."
Miles dropped his pen. It made a sharp clack against the wood. He rubbed his face with both hands, looking less like an untouchable heir and more like a guy who was drowning in paperwork.
"The reports from the border are garbage," Miles muttered, more to himself than Krystian. "Numbers don't add up. Logistic maps lead to dead ends. It's all just... noise."
Krystian finished the inkwell and reached for the quills. Shhhk. Shhhk. He focused on the feather. "Maybe the problem isn't the numbers."
Miles shifted in his place, finally looking over. "And I suppose a fruit seller has a better analytical framework?"
"I'm just saying," Krystian said, shrugging. "In the market, if the apples start bruising before they even hit the cart, we don't just recount the apples. We check the soil. We check the person picking them. Sometimes you're so busy looking at the data that you miss the fact that the person writing it is lying to you."
Miles stared at him. The silence stretched, but it wasn't the usual icy silence. It was the look of someone actually considering a thought they hadn't had before.
"The land doesn't lie, Krystian," Miles said, though his voice was softer now. "People do. But data is supposed to be the truth."
"Data is just what someone decided to write down," Krystian countered. He stepped toward the desk to return the sharpened quills.
As he set the tray down, Miles reached for one at the same time. Their hands didn't just brush; Miles's cold fingers fully pressed against the back of Krystian's hand.
Miles froze. He didn't pull away immediately. He just stared at the point of contact, his brow furrowing as if he'd encountered a sensation he couldn't categorize.
"You're always this warm?" Miles asked. It wasn't a prince asking a servant; it was a genuine, confused question.
Krystian didn't pull back either. He actually leaned in a bit, his other hand instinctively coming up to give Miles's shoulder a quick, firm pat—the kind of contact he'd give his dad after a long day. "It's the sun, Prince. Spend a day in the dirt and you'll warm up too. At least my mom said so"
Miles flinched at the touch on his shoulder, drawing back to his cushion on the floor as if he'd been burned. He straightened his collar, the wall of "The Heir" slamming back into place.
"Your mother sounds superstitious. And don't... touch me more than necessary," Miles snapped, though his eyes were still wide. "Go to bed. You will have an early morning drill tommorow."
Krystian sighed, but he couldn't help a small grin. "Right. Got it."
He turned to leave, but remembered the bread. He took the bundle out and set it on the very edge of the desk, far away from the 'important' scrolls.
"It's my sister's honey-wheat," Krystian said. "Palace food tastes like cardboard. This actually tastes like something. Eat it, Prince. You look like you're about to faint."
He didn't wait for a reply. He slipped out and shut the heavy doors.
Inside, Miles stared at the small, lumpy piece of bread. He picked it up, feeling the lingering warmth of the cloth. The room felt quieter than usual—and for the first time, the quiet didn't feel like peace. It felt like loneliness. And for the first time, he looked forward to the company of someone.