The Morning drill was supposed to be a standard assessment of Krystian's stamina. In reality, it was just Miles standing in the middle of a damp, foggy training field, watching Krystian run laps until his lungs burned.
The fog was so thick Krystian could barely see the Prince's silhouette. Every time he passed Miles, he expected a critique on his form or a sharp command to move faster. Instead, Miles was unusually quiet, his eyes tracking Krystian with a look that wasn't quite professional.
On the tenth lap, Krystian finally slowed to a stop, doubling over and bracing his hands on his knees. "I think... my lungs are... officially retired," he wheezed.
Miles walked over. He looked perfectly put together in his dark training gear, not a single silver hair out of place despite the damp air. He held out a leather flask filled with water. "Your pacing is inconsistent. You burn too much energy in the first half and leave nothing for the finish."
Krystian took the water, his fingers brushing Miles's as he grabbed the leather flask. He took a long swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's just how I work, Prince. I give it everything until I can't. Better than holding back and missing the moment."
Miles frowned, taking the canteen back. "In the field, 'giving it everything' without a plan gets you killed."
He reached out, his hand hovering near Krystian's neck. For a second, Krystian thought he was going to touch him again, but Miles just gripped the heavy, stiff collar of Krystian's borrowed staff tunic and tugged it straight.
"This is too tight on you," Miles murmured, his eyes fixed on the fabric. "It's restricting your breathing. Why didn't you say anything?"
"It's a palace uniform," Krystian said, leaning back slightly to look him in the eye. "I figured 'uncomfortable' was part of the job."
Miles let go of the collar as if it had suddenly turned into lava. He cleared his throat and looked away toward the horizon. "I'll have someone get you a bigger uniform untill you new one arrives. That will be more.....comfortable"
The silence that followed wasn't the heavy, awkward kind from the first week. It was almost comfortable, filled only by the sound of the distant birds waking up.
"Did you eat the bread?" Krystian asked suddenly.
Miles stiffened. He didn't answer for a long moment. He just stood there, looking at the fog. "It was... unnecessarily sweet. And the crust was too hard."
Krystian grinned, stepping closer. "So you ate the whole thing."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't say you threw it away, either."
Miles finally looked at him, and for the first time, there was a tiny, almost invisible tug at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smile, but it was close. "The bread was decent. My mother used to... never mind."
He cut himself off, his expression flattening instantly. He turned on his heel, heading back toward the palace. "Get inside and wash up. We have a briefing with the Officials at noon...And Krystian?"
Krystian looked up from stretching his calves. "Yeah?"
"Don't tell anyone about the bread. It would be... an administrative complication."
Krystian watched him go, the "Future Heir" walking a little faster than usual. Krystian laughed quietly to himself, feeling a surge of that fire in his chest again. Miles wasn't just a statue; he was a person who had a personality, liked honey-wheat bread, and clearly didn't know how to handle someone being nice to him.
As Krystian headed back, he didn't feel like a ghost anymore. He felt like he was finally starting to leave footprints in the frost.