The Prince and the Ice King by Amanda Meuwissen

Chapter 8

REARDON’S BEDwas usually comfortable, but he didn’t remember it being this comfortable.

Then again, beds were always comfiest when one least wanted to leave them, and Reardon did not want to leave this one at all. He struggled to recall why he was so loath to move, and the dull throb in his head reminded him.

Ale. Far too much ale. And eventually wine when they’d tried to take the ale away from him. Reardon would have been fine if he’d just listened when his friends tried to cut him off, but he’d been in such a good mood.

The only thing missing had been the king.

The king, who Reardon had announced he was going to see, and no amount of persuading from the others had swayed him. They’d helped him up the long staircase to the king’s chamber, tied his head with a long strip of cloth, and—

Oh no….

Reardon snapped his eyes open to see—darkness.

Reaching up blindly, he felt the silken cloth still covering his eyes, even though it had to be morning, and this was definitely not his bed. Snuggled beneath the soft sheets, Reardon tentatively felt down his body but breathed relief at discovering he was still fully clothed.

“Majesty?” he called to an eerie silence.

It must be past dawn, that’s why the king wasn’t here, but Reardon kept his eyes closed for several long pauses after removing the blindfold before he dared peek around.

The bedcurtains had not been drawn, but he had been neatly tucked in, left in the center to slumber through the night alone. There were no windows in these rooms, so he could not tell if the sun was up, but the lacking presence of the king made him certain. He took what time he’d been granted to take in the parts of the king’s chambers he hadn’t been able to see the other night.

The bedroom was as lavish as the study, leading into the bathroom through a large, open archway. Everything was silver, gray, and blue, with only faint accents in gold and everything else colored so coolly. He remembered the feel of this bed now, but seeing it for the first time brought back flashes of sensation that hadn’t included visuals before—the king’s hands, his fingers inside Reardon, his cock in Reardon’s mouth….

Reardon closed his eyes to stop the onslaught, but that only brought the memories up stronger, and his usual morning hardness pulsed between his legs for attention. That was not an option. He wouldn’t dare pleasure himself in this bed without permission.

Although an audience would be interesting now that he knew the king had watched before, even if he couldn’t meet the king’s eyes or have him in daylight.

The king must be furious with him, though Reardon immediately doubted that thought, given how gently he’d been treated.

Then he saw the note.

Scrambling for the end of the bed, Reardon snatched up the piece of parchment, precariously balanced at the edge of the mattress. The elegant penmanship matched what Reardon had seen in the verses he’d stolen.

Bathe and dress in what you wish. Your soiled clothes can be dropped down the chute. There are potions, food, and water on the table beside the bath. We will talk once you are finished.

It wasn’t signed, not that it needed to be, but Reardon’s stomach churned at that final sentence from more than just a belly full of spirits—which reminded him how desperately he needed to pee.

Lurching up from the bed, Reardon had to wonder if he was dreaming and had merely passed out in the dining hall last night. Here he was relieving himself in the king’s chambers, disrobing, and once again soaking in a hot bath already prepared for him with those same sweet-smelling oils. The dream didn’t fade, however. No matter what the king said after this, he was hardly treating Reardon like a stable boy.

The wardrobes were numerous, and Reardon couldn’t resist opening every single one. He’d already placed his old clothes down the… “chute,” which had a basket beneath it, but was otherwise a small door set into the wall that opened to a long dark drop like into a deep well. The washing room must be directly below. Everyone else left their clothes in baskets that were picked up by whoever was on duty that day.

Looking through the multitude of wardrobes for what to borrow, Reardon wondered what the king had been wearing the night they spent together, though he knew it had been a mere shirt and trousers, not any of the gorgeous doublets with glittering accessories he found.

There were many in shades of blue which, like the décor of the rooms, didn’t surprise Reardon—this had been the Sapphire Kingdom, after all—but none were embroidered with white gold or silver, which made him smile. He’d started making that secret garment in his own size since he didn’t know the measurements of the king, but seeing examples now, he knew he wouldn’t be far off.

It was easy to tell among the doublets, jackets, and cloaks what had been tailored for the king before versus after the curse; the signature look of the kingdom today was simple patterns in brilliant color. Any of the more luxurious articles would have been out of place, especially for Reardon to wear now, but there was a doublet in deep purple with maroon accents and matching embroidery that drew his eye.

He chose it without hesitation, a white shirt, and dark brown trousers.

Not wanting to languish too long, despite the king’s hospitality, Reardon fussed with the clothes and his damp hair, which was difficult without a mirror, before downing the potions left for him—first, a mild healing potion for his headache, and then his customary draught against the cold. He finished with much water, and finally, ate every crumb of food. When it was over, all that remained was to face the king.

The sound of yelling was not encouraging when Reardon neared the door to the frozen chamber beyond, but better than it being directed at him, he supposed. The voices became clearer the moment he pulled the door open, doing so slowly to not alert the figures outside.

“I didn’t pour the ale down his throat!” Branwen argued.

“You didn’t do much to stop him from pouring it down his own!” the king roared back.

“It was his first night with the secret out—second, technically. We always get the new offering drunk after that.”

“But most aren’t left on my doorstep, blindfolded. What if my door had been locked? What if I hadn’t let him in? He might have stumbled back to the staircase and broken his neck toppling down them!”

Reardon flushed at the obvious concern in the king’s tone. Branwen must have noticed too, because he snorted from where he stood only a few feet from the large, hulking Ice King.

“Didn’t seem there was much chance of that. And look—” Branwen turned to face Reardon, making him jump and clutch the door handle at being caught. “—seems we were right.”

The king’s gaze was just as paralyzing, his maw closing and his towering body tensing with tightly clenched fists.

Branwen’s snort caused a burst of flames this time, as he pivoted to leave. “Not bad, princeling. Next time, maybe you’ll even be able to keep up.” He headed off, ignoring the king’s shout after him.

It was difficult for Reardon to keep the smile from his face as he approached the king. “I am truly sorry for my behavior, Majesty,” he said, offering a low bow. “Please don’t blame the others. I didn’t make it easy for them to tell me no.”

The king dropped to all fours, but not to pound the ground or shake the throne room as he had many times before. He merely wilted, like he wished he could make himself smaller in Reardon’s presence. “That does seem to be your specialty.” Now that they were alone, he took in Reardon’s form with a dissecting stare, eyeing the clothing he’d chosen.

“I-is this all right?” Reardon stuttered.

“It’s fine. I’ve just… never seen anyone in those clothes.”

“Except yourself.” Reardon startled after he said it, remembering that the king didn’t have mirrors in his rooms, and he almost never left them at night. He didn’t look at himself any more than he let others look at him. “I suppose you haven’t seen yourself in them either, have you? Well….” Reardon tried to keep the mood light, spinning slowly. “What do you think?”

Invited now to continue looking, the king’s gaze pierced sharper, blue eyes sparkling in the depths of all that white. They were human eyes, the one part of him that remained so, and Reardon tried to imagine, thinking of Josie too, what his real face must look like.

He couldn’t quite picture it, but he didn’t mind that this was the only face he knew.

A low clearing of the king’s throat broke the quiet. “A tad large, but they won’t require much tailoring.”

“Oh, you don’t need to let me keep—”

“You chose those pieces out of everything I have. Call them a gift.”

“A gift? After the way I acted?”

“I should banish you,” the king said more seriously. “I should end all this right now.”

Worry buzzed up Reardon’s spine, and if it hadn’t been for his potion, he would have shivered. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because if I did, you couldn’t finish your endeavor to bring your mother’s killer to justice.”

The breath stole from Reardon’s lungs. He didn’t remember everything about last night, but he did remember telling the king that. “And my endeavor to break your curse,” he added.

For once, the king didn’t refute him.

He stood upright and gestured at the base of his throne, where Reardon noticed their book, Pillars of Virtue, resting in wait. “I had Zephyr fetch it from your room. Shall we read more on the ramparts, little prince?”

It was the best outcome Reardon could have hoped for—and he also had the pleasure of getting further in that story. Sir Waite and Sir Kent were fascinating heroes, each so different and yet equally capable, proving there was no one way to accomplish anything and compromise often solved a situation best.

Reardon liked Sir Waite more than Sir Kent, if he was being honest, and he didn’t fool himself over why. Waite portrayed a grouchy disposition to cover a deeply caring heart.

For the first time, Reardon stayed beside the king long past the lunch hour, since he’d eaten breakfast late, wanting to get as much time together as he could. But, like any day, once his first real shiver set in, the king dismissed him.

After grabbing a few leftovers from the kitchen to snack on until dinner, Reardon headed to his room to drop off the book, unsure how last night had ended in a win but not willing to question it. He received several stares from passersby as he trekked the halls—friendly ones but stares nonetheless—and wondered if it was because of how much he drank last night or the outfit that obviously wasn’t his.

He’d been without his weapons belt when he woke up, vaguely remembering it being removed, so he half expected to find his dagger missing again, yet the belt and weapons remained, waiting for him neatly on his bed.

Reardon traded the book for his belt but decided not to change out of the king’s garments. He might keep them after all.

His intended destination was the alchemist tower, but as he crossed the castle along the main landing above the large entryway doors, Oliver’s wife, Amelia, came bursting inside, frantically looking for someone, anyone, it seemed, but no one was in the immediate vicinity.

Save Reardon.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, hurrying down the steps.

“Thank goodness,” she said, rushing forward to meet him and grasping his arms once they collided. “Shayla caught a pair of trespassers sneaking over the wall left of the gate. She’s trying to hold them back, but we must warn the court.”

“Zephyr!” Reardon called, causing Amelia to sag, as if in reprimand at herself for not thinking of that first.

A few beats passed, but then Zephyr appeared like always. “You know it’s rude to assume—”

“Shayla’s fending off trespassers outside. Tell the others,” Reardon interrupted, not waiting for a response before he nodded resolutely to Amelia and took off running out the main doors, grateful once more that he had his belt.

The cold air made Reardon shiver, since his protection draught had long since waned, but he hurried onward regardless, left as directed toward the wall on the Shadow Lands side of the castle.

It was just at the far edge of the ice garden that he spotted them: Shayla with her twin daggers drawn, circling a pair of men dressed simply but each armed with a sword—and clearly wearing Emerald’s colors.

“Stop!”

Shayla didn’t look over her shoulder, eyes glued to the men, but the soldiers both glanced at Reardon, immediately showing recognition.

“My prince!” one of them called. “General Lombard sent us to find you, fearing the worst when you disappeared. Get behind me,” he added with a sneer at Shayla. “We’ll take this knave.”

“You most certainly will not!” Reardon claimed his proper place at Shayla’s side, staring the men down, stern and with authority he rarely used with any of his people. “Stand down. Now. I am not a prisoner, and you will not harm anyone in this castle.”

“But…,” the second soldier began, only to trail off just as a sound like the crack of thunder preceded the smell and taste of copper.

“Fiends!”

This time, Shayla did take her eyes from the soldiers. They all looked skyward, because that cry had come from above, and the sight would have been something out of a nightmare fairy tale if Reardon didn’t already know what the court wizard looked like.

Liam had leapt out of the alchemist tower window, flying fast enough that it looked more like plummeting, lighting shooting out all around his already crackling form, until he landed in the courtyard with an explosion of snow and frozen dirt.

The soldiers gaped, both turning their swords toward the creature.

“Wait!” Reardon tried, holding out his hands. “No one here has to be enemies—”

“They’ve bewitched him,” the first soldier said in horror, eyes wide at Liam, and then at Reardon. “The stories are true.” He lurched forward, snatching Reardon’s wrist and yanking him around behind him. “We’ll save you!”

“No, I—”

“Get away from her!” Liam roared, clearly not listening either.

“Wait,” Shayla said, starting to lower her daggers, but her good faith only caused the first soldier to lurch at her next, and not to grab her arm.

He swung with his sword, with Shayla barely managing to leap backward out of its path, though the swish nearly sliced the front of her shirt.

Liam swept forward—

“No!” Reardon raced to intercept.

—and fell upon the soldier with a wide swoop of his arms, as if to pull the man into an embrace.

A pop, not even a scream, was the only noise, as the man became but crackles left to dissipate within Liam’s grasp.

Reardon had tried to not imagine what it might look like if one of the other court members touched someone.

He had truly tried.

“Liam!” Shayla cried, snapping Reardon back to the perils at hand, because Liam was turning toward the other soldier now, who’d frozen stock still.

“Stop!” Reardon dashed in front of him and spread his arms once more. “They know not what they do! Please! Please… don’t kill him too.”

The fury on Liam’s elemental features was plain, but faced with Reardon rather than an enemy, he faltered, caught between his love and what he’d been trying to protect her from. The fury faded, the crackles lessening, but Reardon saw no sympathy on the wizard’s face.

“I will kill whoever I must,” he said, as assuredly as Jack would say, Reardon was certain.

It was the first time Reardon had looked on one of the court members, save his first impression of the king, when he thought the figure before him a monster, heartless and deadly.

“He’s only one man,” Reardon said. One because the other was dead—copper on the wind. “I will handle him. Drop your sword,” he said over his shoulder, and barely a pause followed before there was a thud on the ground.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Shayla said, just as unsympathetic, Reardon thought, with her face a calm mask. “But we’ll be watching.”

She and Liam turned almost as one to head back into the castle through the front doors.

Reardon felt like he might be sick, but he had to appear strong for the sake of the survivor.

Steeling his expression, he turned to the man—though man was relative since the soldier looked younger than Reardon upon closer inspection. The other had been the superior, clearly, leaving behind a trembling figure with eyes that seemed perpetually widened.

“My prince… we thought at worst we’d find you dead at the feet of the Ice King, and instead he’s…. What was that?”

“Not the king,” Reardon said, “but the stories are not the truth of things here. You must go home. I am safe.”

“Safe? Are they not monsters?”

“They’re….” They’re not, Reardon wanted to say, and yet… how could anyone kill so thoughtlessly?

How could Shayla, too, look on as if it didn’t matter, even if she had called for Liam to stop?

There had been accidents, Reardon had been told. How many? How many had died here undeserving?

“It doesn’t matter,” Reardon said. “But you must go. You have supplies?” He didn’t appear to have anything on him other than the sword he’d dropped.

“We… I have a camp not far, with horses.”

“Then return to it, take your things, and go. Tell Lombard and my father that I am safe, and that I will return home when I deem it time.”

“But why—”

“Go,” Reardon ordered.

The soldier hesitated, pausing to lean forward and whisper, “You could come with me.”

Reardon felt a terrible twist of guilt that part of him felt like he should. Part of him wondered if those cursed here deserved to be freed, or if he should simply abandon the idea after what he had seen.

But he would not only be giving up on them if he ran, and on Jack, but on his best chance to discover his mother’s killer.

“I can’t. I’m doing something important here. Just tell them… tell them I know what I’m doing, and do not frighten them by saying how the other soldier died. Say nothing of the creature you saw. Promise me.”

“I….” The soldier’s eyes went wider still. Then his voice fell once more to a whisper. “What shall I tell his family?”

Reardon winced, unable to stop the furrowing of his brow. “Tell them it was an accident, and that I send my deepest sympathies. Now go.”

The soldier bowed, reclaimed his sword from the snow, immediately sheathing it, and Reardon watched him head out the gate, ensuring that it closed behind him.

He wasn’t surprised to find the entryway of the castle bursting with people when he returned—along with every member of the court, save Liam.

Jack stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to his chamber, looking grave. “You let him go?”

“They didn’t mean any harm,” Reardon said. “They came to rescue me.”

“He’ll tell them what he saw,” Branwen grumbled.

“He won’t. I made him swear that he wouldn’t.”

“And you believe he’ll honor that?” Jack asked.

Reardon honestly considered the question. The soldier, though young, had seemed a loyal sort, however frightened for his life. “Yes.”

For the first time in ages, Reardon feared what Jack might do. Would he disagree, storm out of the castle after the surviving soldier, and freeze him into an undeserving statue before he reached his horse?

Another twist of guilt assaulted Reardon as Jack said, “All right. Then we will consider the matter closed and hope no more soldiers darken our grounds.” With a simple bow of his head, Jack turned to lumber up the stairs.

Reardon felt so awful for doubting Jack that he could barely muster a smile as various members of the castle came to him afterward, including Josie, praising him for deescalating the event and keeping the castle safe.

As soon as Reardon had the chance, he pulled Barclay aside. “Where did Liam and Shayla go?”

“Back to the tower. I don’t think Liam’s taking this well. They never do.” The sorrow on Barclay’s face brought yet another twist of guilt.

Only minutes had passed since Reardon was initially headed for the tower. Now he headed there with Barclay, feeling an awful weight in his stomach.

When they arrived, Shayla was organizing the components rack and lining up items they must be meaning to experiment with later. Caitlin was mixing something that, as she finished stirring, turned green. Liam stood separate from them, purposely shooting his lightning into mixes already lined up on another table or drawing glowing runes on the glass.

Barclay took up a place beside Caitlin to begin mixing his own concoction. No one said anything about what had happened.

No one mentioned the man who had died.

“How goes things here?” Reardon asked.

“You mean how goes it working on your project even when you skirt your duties and show up late?” Liam sneered with a crackle of sparks leaping from his forearms.

“I am truly sorry, sir. I didn’t intend for that. Please know how grateful I am for your help.”

The wizard grumbled like a distant roll of thunder.

“I seem to recall at least one of Reardon’s refills last night coming from you,” Shayla said.

Another grumble responded, followed by a murmured, “He makes an entertaining drunk.”

The room tittered, even with some laughter from Caitlin, and Reardon decided that this was how they dealt with tragedy. What else could they do when no one could bring back the dead?

They weren’t monsters; they’d simply had to train themselves to accept what they couldn’t change.

Reardon joined the workload. It was his job to catalog their attempts. He was also tasked with making the needed daily potions in their stead, such as elemental protection and healing draughts. Necessities couldn’t cease just because the tower was helping him.

“What are the runes for, if I may ask?” Reardon asked as he set to work.

“Magical transmutation,” Liam answered without looking up, finishing with the final vial. He returned to the start of the row of vials and tapped the first rune, which was a simple straight line. The vial frosted over, and then eventually calmed to a clear blue. “Alchemical transmutation is done differently, and therefore might have different results, so we must test both. It also tells us something about your perpetrator. Come here.”

Reardon paused in his organizing of supplies to answer the request.

“The rune I activated is for ice but also means inertia or stillness. Next is its counterpart: the sun or the will and intent to change.”

The second vial was marked with a more jagged line, almost like a simplistic lightning bolt, but it made sense to Reardon that it and the rigid line of ice were opposites.

“All one needs to do to achieve transmutation using magic is to first draw the rune and then activate it with an intending tap. Anyone with the most marginal of magic can do the same, even without training, as long as they will it. So… tap the rune and think of the heat from the sun as you do so.”

A thrill shot through Reardon at the thought of being allowed to enact any sort of magic. He held his breath and reached out to tap the jagged line as told.

Nothing happened.

“As expected. Like we discovered on your first day—you have no magic at all,” Liam said coolly. “Using runes is easier, faster, and requires fewer components to accomplish similar tasks. Meaning it would have also been easier to cover up. Therefore, if our findings lead us to believe that the poison we seek was created by alchemy with no magic whatsoever….”

“Then the one we seek might have no magic in them either,” Reardon concluded.

“You see? You’re less useless every day.” Liam shooed him from the table. “Now get to work.”

The afternoon wore on with everyone working diligently, and they eventually needed refills on supplies.

“We’re going to run out of everything at this rate,” Liam said. “Better dig into the winter stores. You’re lucky we have plenty to spare, Emerald Prince, or I’d never allow this detour.” He turned into the deeper bowels of the tower and disappeared.

It was then Reardon realized that, besides the wizard’s coupling with Shayla and his role in the castle, he knew the least about Liam compared to any of the other court members.

“Liam was an elf and already a wizard with a leaning toward weather magic when the king appointed him, that much I know,” Reardon said, slowly mixing a batch of healing potions, “but is that all? Everyone else has a story, yet I don’t know anything more about him.”

The room went so suddenly quiet, Reardon stopped his stirring to look around.

Barclay and Caitlin had turned away, so Reardon looked to Shayla, who faced him sluggishly, her usually glib demeanor more somber.

“You’ve wormed your way into a lot of cold hearts, but Liam….” She peered the direction he had gone before continuing in a low voice. “I wondered the same when I first arrived. What is the wizard’s problem? Frankly, I thought he was a prick and didn’t appreciate him ordering me around just because I had talents in foraging. So I decided to play a prank. After a month being here, so I already knew the castle’s secrets.

“My plan was to sneak into his private chambers and steal his clothes, let him go without for a few nights, see if he even raised a fuss, and then return them with little pink hearts stitched into every doublet.” Shayla smiled, only for the expression to quickly fade. “What I didn’t expect was to find a portrait of a little girl, a half-elf with long dark hair.”

Reardon thought back to when he had burst into Liam’s room, and while he hadn’t been paying much attention to the décor, he did think he recalled a portrait.

“He found me standing there like an idiot, and while he was as angry as you can imagine, he did eventually tell me who she was. If you want to find out, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

Liam returned with a flurry and fresh crackle of lightning, a metallic taste resurging on the back of Reardon’s tongue. He straightened and went back to his stirring. Luckily, he’d been nearly done anyway and hadn’t ruined the batch.

“What are you all quiet for?” Liam barked.

“Doesn’t the mood always drop when I say I’m leaving?” Shayla blew him a kiss.

“You are?” Only because Reardon had been here for many days did he recognize the shift in Liam’s tone as disappointment. “Dinner, then?”

“If I think you’ve earned it,” she said and winked before leaving—though Reardon wasn’t sure if it was for Liam or him.

“Looking good.” Liam eyed their progress as he set out the extra ingredients. It still amazed Reardon how lightning in the shape of a man could hold or touch anything without scorching it, but he knew it took intense concentration. “You two,” Liam said to Barclay and Caitlin, “we’ll need more containers before long. Grab a few boxes from the cellar. There’s hardly anything in the stores up here anymore.

“And you,” he ordered Reardon, “finish that healing draught and get over here to help me. I assume you can assist with non-magical transmutation.”

Transmutation was one of Reardon’s favorite parts of alchemy. Fire and water were opposites, air and earth, wood and metal, but lightning was the most complicated, because its opposite was like a void, pulling everything into it if left uncontrolled.

Transmutation could also turn a poison into an antidote—and vice versa.

Reardon understood why magic had been outlawed back home and alchemy heavily regulated, because both could cause much damage if dealt with foolishly. Still, he knew that fear was not the answer, and he didn’t feel any as he followed Liam’s instructions to add just a simple few ingredients, and then applied a little heat with a candle to the bottom of each new vial to cause a reaction.

All the vials changed in some form, some even began to swirl like a pit of endless darkness with a multitude of stars, but none caused the reaction they needed to indicate an untraceable poison.

They were closer, but they didn’t yet have an answer.

“Have you ever tried transmuting yourselves?” Reardon asked as the idea struck him.

“After two hundred years? Of course. It doesn’t do anything. Protection draughts for others is as good as it gets. At least until you save us.” Liam’s tone was mocking, but like with Branwen, Reardon knew that there was more to the wily wizard.

“My apologies again,” he began carefully, keeping his back turned as he tidied, “for the other night, storming into your room the way I did. I hadn’t realized, but I do think you and Shayla suit one another.”

“So glad you approve,” Liam answered snidely.

“I wondered, though… who was the little girl in the painting on your wall? There aren’t any children in the castle.”

If not for Liam’s crackles of lightning, the room would have been dead silent, until Liam said, “Shayla’s been talking, hasn’t she?”

“I really did see—”

“Keep your meddling to the king.”

“May I at least ask who she was?” Reardon peered over his shoulder.

“You are insufferable, you know that?”

“Many have said so.”

“Who do you think she was?” Liam demanded like a floating, angry storm.

“Your daughter?”

“Who deserved better.”

“And her mother?”

“She deserved better too.” Liam looked away as Reardon turned fully to face him. “We married too young and fought constantly, even more after… Joslyn was born. My wife saw the old king’s death as a good excuse to leave the Sapphire Kingdom. I saw it as an excuse to leave her. I took the role of wizard when Jack asked and said Joslyn could visit whenever she wanted.”

“Then you still wanted to see your daughter—”

“I didn’t realize they’d gone until the curse struck and I found our home long abandoned. Don’t excuse being a bad husband with being a good father. I wasn’t good at either.”

“I just thought—”

“You thought I was the hero. That I was the one abandoned. If that were true, I wouldn’t be this.” He let his sparks ripple across his body. “That wasn’t my first accident.”

Reardon startled at the subject being brought up so suddenly. The events outside had shaken him and filled him with undue doubts, but as he looked at the grief somehow discernable even on an electric face, he didn’t doubt the words that left him.

“You were protecting your love. Anyone else would have done the same.”

“Oh? Or are those pretty words only meant to hide that, now, you wonder why Shayla would waste her time with me?”

“No,” Reardon said without having to consider the answer. “You’ve grown. You’ve changed. You deserve the chance she’s given you, because she knows you are better than you think.” And than Reardon had thought for a fleeting moment too.

Nigel and Zephyr had been together since nearly the beginning of the curse, Shayla and Liam only the past forty-five years. That was still a lifetime for many, and yet doubt was a recurring theme among the court members and their partners.

Reardon didn’t want to be counted among their company in that way ever again.

“You don’t have to close yourself off to protect others,” Reardon continued, “especially not her.”

“Even if I’m beneath her?”

There was weight to that question, coming from a royal wizard about a condemned thief, despite that he had so recently ended a man’s life like snuffing out a candle.

“Isn’t she the one who gets to decide that?”

The silence that followed was broken by Barclay and Caitlin’s return. Reardon smiled, not saying more, and went to help his friends stack the boxes before he took his leave.

When he was finally giving his farewells, Barclay gasped at the brush of their hands.

“Another vision?”

“I’m not… sure. I think you better take some extra cold-resistance draught, though, just in case.” Barclay handed Reardon a small case with three ready potions, and Reardon didn’t protest.

“I’ve been spending a little extra time in the cold, I guess. Thank you.”

“We’ll keep on it,” Caitlin said. “Join us tomorrow?”

“Earlier this time.” Reardon looked to Liam, who stared at him silently. “I promise.”

He planned to head for the main halls but decided to take a shortcut through the hidden tunnels—and nearly slipped as soon as he stepped inside.

The entire passageway was coated in frost.

Reardon smiled to himself, fully aware of what that meant, but rather than spoil the game, he headed the opposite direction from where the frost settled.

REARDON KNEW.Of course he knew. Yet Jack followed like always.

He hated the allure of hope, and part of him hated Reardon for giving it to him. He’d wondered, however briefly, if seeing one of the castle’s accidents firsthand would change Reardon’s staunch dedication, but the prince had weathered that too, including their weather wizard. If Jack couldn’t bring himself to banish the hope in his heart or Reardon, then he might as well enjoy what he could have until it was gone.

And he missed Reardon every moment he was without him. He should have shunned him when the prince rose after his drunken debauchery, but even after only one night together, Jack longed for his touch, for his company. Even if Reardon knew he was watching, Jack couldn’t bear to let the prince out of his sight.

Eventually Reardon left the tunnels for the main halls. Jack couldn’t always easily see him, keeping parallel with walls between them, but he could hear Reardon’s steps, and as he tried to stay in line with wherever Reardon was headed, the collision that sounded when someone came speeding around a corner was unmistakable.

“Ouff!” Reardon grunted, another voice groaning in kind, followed by the thud of two bodies hitting the floor.

Jack rapidly removed the closest loose stone to check on Reardon. He appeared to be all right, but he was in a heap of long limbs, tangled with whoever had struck him.

“Apologies, friend! I didn’t see… you,” the other man said when his eyes fell upon Reardon, righting himself and grasping Reardon’s hand to heft him up.

Their legs were still tangled, but they were at least sitting now, facing each other, hands clasped as both stared in recognition. The other man—an elf who’d been at the castle for decades—smiled wide, his angular nose twitching with interest.

“Emerald Prince, our new recruit. We meet again.”

Again?

“After almost two weeks, you’d think you’d have met everyone by now, but I got the impression you were avoiding me.”

“N-no.” Reardon snatched his hand away, fighting to untwist their legs but making it worse on several attempts before finally pulling free. “W-why would I do that? I don’t even know you!”

“Let’s remedy that. I’m Raphael.” The elf grabbed Reardon’s hand once more before he could scramble to his feet.

Raphael. Jack remembered him better now; always sticking that narrow nose where it didn’t belong and far too friendly. He’d been one of the few before Reardon who had tried to make nice, only to give up when Jack made it clear that he did not make friends with subjects.

Raphael clearly wanted more with Reardon, judging by the way he eyed him and let his hand linger inappropriately once Reardon acquiesced to shake.

Frost burst over the stones in front of Jack.

“Sorry I didn’t say hello when we first saw each other,” Reardon said with a bashful drop of his eyes. “I was hurrying after Shayla.”

“I just felt bad for tripping you up. It’s not often I nearly cause someone to flip over a banister.”

Reardon tried to snatch his hand away again, but Raphael used the hold to hoist them to their feet, nearly knocking their heads together with how they rocked into each other’s bodies from the momentum. “A-and where are you hurrying to today?”

“My duties at the stables. Lost track of time. But that can wait a few minutes.”

“Stables…? You’re a stable boy?” Reardon’s thoughts must have strayed after Jack’s frequent use of the term, though he knew full well none of Jack’s conquests remained in the castle.

“I prefer to think of myself as a man. But then stable man doesn’t roll off the tongue as well, does it?” Raphael raised Reardon’s hand between them and ran a thumb over his knuckles. “Have you not seen the horses yet? They don’t get ridden much in winter and can grow restless. I could take you down to see them sometime.” He raised Reardon’s hand higher to place a light kiss to the back of it, making Reardon shudder. “My, you are pretty.”

Another burst of cold spread over the wall from Jack’s splayed palms, and then again when Raphael started to lean forward.

“I’m with the king!” Reardon wrenched away, leaving the other man’s hand outstretched holding nothing.

“Not… currently.” Raphael looked around in confusion.

Reardon pursed his lips.

“You mean…?”

Jack had never seen anyone move as swiftly as Raphael did to backpedal.

Good.

“You know… horses really shouldn’t be kept waiting.” Raphael continued to withdraw until he hit the wall, instantly shivering, given the other side was covered in ice from Jack angrily pressing his hands to it.

Jolting forward from the telling cold, Raphael turned and sprinted down the hall. “Another time!”

“Wait! You don’t have to—!” Reardon tried calling after him, but Raphael was already gone. Holding a hand to his flushed face, Reardon laughed. “I’m with the king…,” he said again.

He’d turned someone down who he clearly found attractive, someone who didn’t come with any of Jack’s complications, and he’d done it for Jack, for the chance at a love he didn’t even know was real.

That should have made Jack angrier, but it glued him to his spot, made all the icier from the torrent of emotion that had exploded out of him. If Reardon was risking everything on some fleeting hope, and happy to do so, then maybe….

Maybe Jack owed him the same.

REARDON WASN’Tsure when the king was or wasn’t watching him, so he tended to imagine he always was.

Except with Raphael. Oh, he hoped he hadn’t seen that.

Just in case, Reardon focused his time in the music room on helping Nigel, rather than working on his own piece, at least until he could ask Zephyr to inform him whenever the king was watching while he was in there—which would also ensure they knew where Zephyr was for Nigel’s sake, though Nigel insisted he could always tell when Zephyr was listening.

At nightfall, after a quick dinner, Reardon went once more to the king’s chambers and tied that same scarf over his eyes before he knocked.

“I won’t look, Majesty!” he called. “And I promise I haven’t had anything to drink tonight.”

He was ready for a fight, for silence or angry remarks, but after only a few short beats, the door opened, and a gentle hand took Reardon’s to pull him inside.

The thrill of the king’s touch made Reardon shiver for such different reasons than the cold of the room he’d come from. The warmth of these chambers was all the sweeter too, the look of them clear in his mind’s eye now as the door closed behind him to let him know he was welcome.

“While I thank you for admitting me, Majesty, this is rather silly,” Reardon said, carefully following the path the king led him on.

“You mean you coming here every night?”

“I mean you not letting me see you but still letting me in.”

A comfortable hush fell until Reardon crossed what he knew to be the threshold into the bedroom. “Can’t you be happy with what you’re given?” the king said, the hand in Reardon’s keeping hold of him, while the other was suddenly at the curve of Reardon’s cheek.

“Depends on what I’m going to be given.”

“Well, little prince… it seems I owe you this.”

A puff of breath was the only warning Reardon received before the shock of descending lips. He gasped, leaning instinctively into the body before him and nearly going limp at that first brush of another’s mouth. The king had touched him so intimately before, yet this made Reardon’s knees far weaker.

He whined, opening his mouth wider upon the scarred softness of the king’s, and sought the wetness of his lover’s tongue. The king tilted his head to comply, pulling him against him tightly, his tender touch on Reardon’s neck becoming a firm hold as he plunged his tongue deeper to give Reardon what he wanted.

Reardon was still shy of fourteen days in the castle, yet he’d found everything he’d ever wanted his long twenty-two years on this earth and hoped he was giving the king something worthwhile after a far longer two hundred.

“Please,” Reardon panted after his breath had been stolen. “Let me know your touch again. Let me know more… if I can.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then I surrender, my little prince. At least in this.”

Reardon’s chest felt like a jolt of Liam’s lightning had hit him as he followed the king’s ginger steps to the bed.

Because he had called him his.

PERHAPS REARDONtruly believed in his devotion, but Jack knew, once the curse proved unbreakable, the prince would have to accept heading home empty-handed. And all the better, because knowing that—knowing true love wasn’t real (or at least, not real for him)—wouldn’t stop Jack from taking what he could.

Monsters could be gentle and giving too. Even demons garnered sympathy on occasion.

Reardon trembled and parted his moistened lips with a sigh, as if all the answers to the universe could be found in Jack’s touch. He simply knew no other, but Jack would make it sweet for him and sweet, in the end, for himself too.

“You lent me your mouth, little prince,” Jack said, laying Reardon down and straddling his thin hips, “now, let me give you mine.”

Descending swiftly, Jack claimed another kiss. He’d forgotten how nice the simple meeting of mouths could feel, tongues caressing with demanding twirls and flicks. Reardon had little practice but more than enough passion, pawing up at Jack with equally aggressive fingers twisting into his shirt.

Jack rarely bothered with any of his doublets and hadn’t again today, but Reardon wore the one he’d borrowed, with its deep purple hue. Jack loosened its ties, kissing Reardon long and slow as his hand strayed down the fabric to the start of the prince’s trousers. Those ties were more important.

Once undone, Jack slid deft fingers into the opening to stroke through Reardon’s fine auburn hair to the hot and hardening flesh beneath. Reardon’s whine at the touch made Jack want to devour him like the beast he was.

He pulled his lips from Reardon’s to do just that, shifting the lock of his thighs to slide down Reardon’s body and pull his trousers to his knees. He left Reardon trapped like that, disheveled but mostly still dressed, panting deeply above him and clawing at Jack’s shoulders as it must have dawned on him what Jack was about to do.

Reardon hadn’t been able to see Jack when he took him into his mouth, but Jack could see Reardon as he bent to return the favor—good-sized and blushing scarlet like his cheeks and still smelling of Jack’s bath oils.

He didn’t taste like lavender, though; he tasted of salt and heady skin, the floral scent mixing with musk as Jack swallowed deep and pushed his nose into those russet curls.

“Jack,” Reardon moaned without fanfare, so instantly that Jack wondered if he knew he’d done it.

Holding the prince by his hips, Jack sucked and swallowed, salivating easily and opening his throat. Too long it had been since he’d done this, but that didn’t diminish his skill.

He sucked until he thought Reardon might come in moments, and then slackened, pulling slowly off to lick delicately at Reardon’s head. Only when Reardon whimpered as if in pain did Jack lick boldly up his underside and return to suck him in again.

Reardon kept trying to pull his knees up, but Jack held them down. The prince squirmed, grasping at Jack’s collar and begging, “Please, I… I-I need….”

“Need…?”

“Something.”

“You wish to end things swiftly?”

“No, but….”

“Then be patient.” Jack licked languidly around Reardon’s cock, the prince’s desperate whimpers growing louder, until finally he dragged Reardon’s trousers down and off.

Now he let Reardon crook his knees, hooking them over his shoulders to dig his nose that much deeper into those curls, sucking almost vengefully and teasing a hand down the curve of Reardon’s ass to the crease between his cheeks.

“Yes.” Reardon’s hands slid from Jack’s shoulders up into his hair, curling into the long strands.

The contact was so… new for Jack, always having kept his hair short before the curse, that the sensation of someone running their fingers through it made him shudder and gasp and groan loudly when Reardon tugged.

“Please, I’m so close….” Reardon tugged again, unaware of the affect he was having, despite Jack’s groan.

Tension seized Jack like he’d just heard canon fire; the intimacy, the need he felt for it, superseded everything else, and the fear of that almost caused him to flee.

Instead, the choice he made was to conquer.

“Not yet,” Jack growled and roughly flipped Reardon over.

The prince shook as he got up onto his knees, willingly positioning himself and thrusting his hips back at Jack, presented lewdly and open while hanging heavy between his legs. Jack hadn’t yet teased his fingers into that tight ring of muscle, and his hunger for Reardon brought his lips back to him first with a wet lap of his tongue.

Reardon’s moan was encouragingly filthy.

Jack licked again, the tip of his tongue breaching the soft pucker. He spread Reardon’s cheeks and licked as deeply as he could, as far as his tongue would go and that Reardon would open. The prince was as tight as before, but Jack’s tongue between his cheeks relaxed him faster, and soon, Jack was plunging a finger inside with his licks.

He’d placed oils within easy reach, knowing what Reardon would ask for, but the prince’s hole was already so wet from just itself and Jack’s licking that nothing was needed. Jack stretched him open with a full driving finger beside his tongue and was soon ready to add another.

The resistance Jack had found before with two fingers twisting inside the prince was gone. He’d gotten this far then too, but only after careful scissoring and much more time. Managing this so quickly, Jack risked the tease of another finger around the rim.

“Y-y-yes….” Reardon’s hips rocked mindlessly back and forth, fucking himself on Jack’s fingers.

Jack had something better for him.

He still pressed the tip of that third finger in, only getting as far as the first knuckle and slowing his thrusts to start scissoring with all three.

Reardon cried out, but not as pained as before and fighting past the strain.

Jack hadn’t removed any of his clothes yet, and Reardon was only missing his bottoms. The neediness to rut as quickly as possible, clothes or other barriers be damned, brought Jack back to his younger days, when fucking someone in the stables was for convenience more than anything—it never mattered who—because now was better than taking the time to bring someone up to his rooms.

He had Reardon in his rooms—the Emerald Prince who begged and mewled and deserved all the time Jack could spare him.

“Shhh….” Jack pulled his hand away to shuck down his own trousers, shifting up close behind Reardon and forming against his back with a warm slide between his cheeks—not to press in yet, just to rest there in wait.

Reaching around Reardon to bring his hand between them, Jack fumbled to connect their cocks as much as possible in this position, pumping his hand messily over each of them, adding Reardon’s wetness from ready dribbles and Jack’s own spit to their leaking fluids.

“I-I… want….” Reardon murmured inaudibly.

“I know what you want. Shhh…,” Jack hushed again. “Relax, little prince, and I’ll give it to you.”

The stress on Reardon’s arms to hold him up gave way, and he fell forward, resting his head against the mattress, hips still rocking to slide their skin together, hot and wet but not with enough friction.

Jack ran his hand over every bit of them colliding together until Reardon was a ragged mess, limp and quaking, so ready for any promise of release that when Jack rolled up to coat himself more slickly and returned to Reardon’s stretched hole with easing pressure, Reardon swallowed him up like the hungry maw from his first song.

YES.

Reardon could handle it. He could take it. He—

He hissed. The base of the king was still so much. All that length and fullness inside him felt so good, but he knew it wasn’t everything from his own cringe and the king’s grunt of frustration.

“I-I’m… sorry.”

“No,” the king growled. “Your body is its own beast. Don’t force it.”

“I want—”

“I know. Relax, but if it’s not meant to be yet—”

“It will be,” Reardon insisted, pulling forward and back again to move the king inside him. That was its own magic, and Reardon loved it more than any display of power or alchemist’s concoction. “Please, Majesty. I will open for you.”

Another grunt resounded, desire dripping from the low utterance and making Reardon melt that much further. He was supposed to be melting the king, but melting together was just as good.

The slick slide of him was good too, the pull out and press back in of the king’s cock, making Reardon smother his moans into the sheets in ecstasy. The king got so close to sheathing all the way inside him but kept hitting resistance, causing Reardon to hiss or wince, and whenever that happened, he’d relent, pull back, and fuck Reardon more shallowly.

Reardon didn’t want shallow, so he focused on enjoying what he had—on the heat, the pressure, the rhythm starting to build, that little by little stretched him open more, brought the king in deeper, and gods above and below them, Reardon was determined to take him all.

And then a hard, slow thrust breached that stubborn resistance, and Reardon expected a ratchet of pain, only for the ache to give way to more pressure, and then just… fullness, such wonderful fullness, that skimmed some marvelous spot inside Reardon and made him scream.

The king pulled out, and Reardon slapped a hand back on his forearm, demanding, “No,” gripping his wrist tight and squeezing, “more.”

The next hard thrust brought the king in with a single stroke, Reardon’s mouth dropping open in a silent cry. Everything burned, filling him to the brim, but it was a beautiful burn, and he wanted to chase that heat to its embers.

“Yes….”

Again and again the king slammed into him, Reardon’s hand falling forward to clutch at the sheets for purchase. He turned his head, cheek to the mattress to let his silent cries out, and glanced back.

His eyes remained covered, so there was nothing to see, but he imagined the king’s eyes on him, watching the rapture on his face growing in crescendo.

The king had to see it, had to be watching, like he always watched, because his thrusts grew more frantic, sliding in so effortlessly now, like he was made to fit between Reardon’s cheeks and drive him to madness in his bedchamber.

That woodsy floral scent filled the room with sweat and musk and them. Reardon couldn’t even push back to meet the king’s slams anymore, so immobilized by how good it felt, a fluttering, tickling sensation growing in the pit of his stomach with that same incredible heat. He knew what it meant to pleasure himself, but it had never felt like this, and each slam built the sensation higher.

And that spot, that wonderful spot inside him, touched only ever by having the king rock with abandon, made him moan and cry and plead to finally reach the end of this incredible driving force.

Reardon’s own pleasure would have been enough, but it was a haggard moan from the king, scarred hands smoothing up Reardon’s back beneath his shirt and half-untied doublet, like some deep need to connect and feel him, that tumbled Reardon off the precipice.

He sank, almost falling into the spot of wetness he’d streaked across the bed, but held himself up by sheer will, back arched and thighs spread to anchor against the king’s final pumps—and oh, he wanted him to stay inside forever.

“Stay…,” he croaked, no breath left for anything more, but it was enough that the king didn’t pull out when he hit his peak.

Another grunt came, a sharp clutch at Reardon’s skin, and then a glorious warmth filled him. The king sank as Reardon had, held up just enough to not smother Reardon to the bed, both shaking and panting and sheened in sweat.

Reardon ached, more exhausted than the first time, likely not helped by his drunken slumber last night, but it had been worth every pained progress toward bliss.

“What a mess… you’ve made of my sheets,” the king huffed, lifting Reardon’s shirt to press a tender kiss to the skin between his shoulder blades.

“You’ll have to clean me up again.”

“Indeed.” The king rumbled a throaty laugh.

After a few more captured breaths, he pulled up and dragged Reardon with him. Reardon would have needed the helping hand being led to the bath even if he hadn’t been blindfolded. The ache was pleasant but definitely threw off his balance.

Once more, he found himself soaking in sweet-smelling water with the Ice King, human and comforting, at his back. A warm cloth was dragged over his body, between his legs, his cheeks, almost enough to twitch him to life again, but the touch was fleeting, and soon they were lying together with the king’s arms loosely holding Reardon to him.

“Even after that… you still do not believe you are my love?” Reardon asked, resting his head on the king’s shoulder.

Silence answered for a good many moments before he said, “You will find someone more worthy someday.”

Reardon thought of Raphael, who was very handsome and disarming. He thought of Lombard too, but that was a child’s dream. Neither of them made Reardon hesitate to say, “There is no one of more worth to me than you, Majesty.”

“And what if you only think that because you already believe I’m your love without actually feeling it?”

“I’m not so easily swayed, even by Barclay’s visions. I believe some things are fated, but that doesn’t take away our ability to choose. If I didn’t want you to be my love, you simply wouldn’t be.” Reardon knew that wasn’t the same as saying he loved the king now, but he believed he was on that path.

“Then perhaps it is only because I am the first touch you have ever known.”

“That too discounts what I liked about you long before I knew your touch. You have all the qualities I am usually drawn to.”

“Being stubborn, vicious, and either monstrous or scarred?”

“I’d say… resilient, passionate, maybe a little tragic, yes, but also kind. I don’t know the man you were, but I know the man you are. And I don’t care about scars.” Reardon turned, moving between the king’s legs to face him in the large bath.

Reaching out with both hands, he found firm shoulders first, and then moved up the king’s neck to the curves of his face. He could feel scars there too, but it didn’t matter.

Crawling more securely into the king’s lap, Reardon held his face in his palms to guide him to his lips. Kisses were written about by bards as much as lovemaking or romance. Reardon thought he could have kissed the king, mouth open or closed, well into the night and written sonnets in his head.

“Majesty—”

“Go back to your room.” The king stopped him from asking the same old question to finally see him. “Sleep, little prince. You’ll grow tired of me soon enough.”

“I could—”

“It’s best if you don’t stay.”

The small win was in how much more gently the king pulled Reardon from the bath, dried him, and helped him dress, before leading him to the door.

Reardon stepped outside when it was opened for him but reached back to halt its closing and said, “Good night, Majesty. But I promise you, someday soon, you will let me sleep in that bed again.”