Fenway, standing at his elbow with a clipboard and the air of a long-suffering saint, eyed what was left. Petitions. Requests. Reports Damon had been “meaning to get to” for weeks. “If you had just done the work a little every day,” Fenway said mildly, “we could have left already.”
“Shut up, Fen.” Damon didn’t look up from the next page. “I am well aware of my own failings in my romantic ventures at the moment.”
“Those are your clerical failings,” Fenway said. “Different list.”
Damon scrawled his name, slammed the stamp down, and shoved the parchment onto a reject pile with a little more force than strictly necessary. Fenway watched him for another few pages, then asked, “Are you going to be yourself with her? Or ‘Prince Damon’?” That made Damon pause. He glanced over, one brow arched. “Damon first,” he said after a beat. “As always.” A flicker of something more honest crossed his face. “Maybe… me later.”
He bent back over the desk, skimming another file. Stamp. Accept. Next. “Fen, is everything packed already?”
“Everything is ready to go,” Fenway said. “Once you are done preparing your hands for cramps.”
“Bring some of those nice hand stones,” Damon muttered. “The ones from the southern baths. For my heroic suffering.” He rejected another petition with a flourish that was entirely uncalled for. A knock came at the door. Fenway went to open it. Darius stood there, helm under his arm, taking in the explosion of paper and open inkpots with resigned calm.
“Highness,” he said. “The escort is ready. Your carriage awaits.” Damon eyed the last thin stack of documents, jaw tightening. He laid them all out in a row and went through them at speed—eyes, signature, stamp, done. Darius looked to Fenway, who looked tired in the way only a man who had watched this happen before could manage.
“We’ll be done shortly, Dare,” Fenway said. Darius nodded once and turned away.
By the time the door shut again, Damon had signed the last line and slammed the last stamp. He pushed back from the desk with a groan, grabbed his jacket, and shrugged into it as he strode for the door. “Time for adventure, Fen.” He flashed a quick, bright grin over his shoulder. “I’m off to find myself a wife.” Fenway locked the study door behind them and jogged a few steps to catch up as they headed down the corridor.
“I would advise not calling her your future wife to her face,” Fenway said.
“I won’t,” Damon said. “I know how to talk to women, Fen.”
“Mm.”
They descended the palace steps to the front drive. The escort stretched out in disciplined lines: the carriage gleaming, horses already restless, Shadowguard in full kit.
Jayce was mounted and moving, checking in with Darius, with Zen, with Kurt. Zen spotted Damon and grinned. “He’s finally done with his work,” Zen said to no one in particular. “Let’s get going before he finds more.” Damon paused by the carriage door, took in the neat lines of his men, the weight of the moment, and then turned to the captain.
“Captain,” he said, offering Darius a crisp salute, “apologies for the delay.” Darius returned it, deadpan. “We will survive, Highness.”
Damon climbed into the carriage. Fenway swung up to the driver’s seat, gathered the reins, and lifted his hand to Jayce.
Jayce swept one last look over the escort, then raised his fist, circled it once, and pointed forward. The column began to move.
Ryder, Serenity, and Niveus stood on the palace steps, watching as the carriage and riders passed under the archway and out through the main gate.
Niveus checked his pocket watch, clicked it shut with a soft snap. “They will have to ride a little harder than originally planned,” he said.
Ryder’s gaze tracked the standard as it vanished around the curve of the drive. “They won’t push the carriage,” he said. “They may arrive later than we’d hoped, but Darius will keep them safe. We can be flexible.” His father patted his shoulder once, approval and worry all in the same brief touch, then turned back inside. Ezra fell into step beside the king, already murmuring about the next set of council sessions.
Serenity watched them go, then looked up at Ryder, her expression Serenity-soft, Lore-sharp somewhere behind her eyes. “Darius is a confident soldier,” she said quietly. “He’s done well getting everything in order while Jayce was gone.”
Ryder nodded. “Dato is very fond of Darius. High praise.” His mouth tipped faintly. “He does good work. A promotion will be in order, once this is done.”
She let herself smile, a small, appropriate thing, and turned her gaze back to the now-empty drive. “Are there any points on the route that concern you?” she asked, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her gown as she spoke. He offered his arm; she took it, and they turned back toward the doors together. Tamsin and Gibson fell in behind, silent shadows.
“The change to the route with the ravine is my biggest concern,” Ryder admitted as they climbed. “But the forest road is too much of an invitation for bandits, with the raiding we’ve seen this season. The ravine is narrower, easier to defend if anyone is foolish enough to try something.” His jaw worked once. “They’ll be fine. Five Shadowguard going out, seven coming back.”
She watched her footing on the steps, lifting her skirts just enough to clear the stone. “I look forward to seeing them home safe,” she said. “And to meeting the blacksmith and the healer you’ve been recruiting.”
He glanced down at her, warmth softening his features. Ryder leaned in and brushed a kiss against her cheek. “You’ll love them,” he said. “I promise.”
She let her face do what Serenity’s would: ease, warm, curve into a fond, hopeful smile.
I will love them, Ryder, she thought, a quiet, private pulse under the borrowed expression. For all the reasons you don’t want me to.
And then she walked up into the palace at his side, already weighing the new pieces moving toward them on the board.
First, he lounged along the bench, one arm draped along the back, then immediately decided he looked like a bored cat. He sat up, crossed one leg over the other, then uncrossed it and let both feet plant neatly on the floor. He glanced toward the window and nudged a lock of hair into a more deliberate fall over his forehead.
Better. He looked back to the empty bench across from him. Then to the empty space at his side.
The driver’s window slid open with a small clack. Damon jumped. Fenway’s head appeared in the frame. “…Are you trying to plan out how to sit in there,” he asked, “already?”
Damon scowled at the slit in the wall. “I am pre-planning how to court a beautiful, terrifyingly practical woman I am meeting in a handful of days,” he said with dignity. “It takes time and practice.”
He could hear the disappointed exhale.
“Damon.”
“Yes, Fen?”
“Why don’t you write a ballad or something,” Fenway said. “I know you packed paper.”
Damon looked at the small bag on the seat beside him, where he’d tucked the leather case for correspondence. His fingers hovered over it, then flipped it open. Kairi’s letter lay on top, folded along careful lines, neat red thread still tied.
To His Highness Prince Damon Lyon…
He’d read it enough times to know the shape of it by heart. The way she thanked him for writing directly. The way she teased him about his reputation outrunning him and asked for smaller halls when the palace grew too loud. A quiet courtyard with “no business but sunlight.” Three better routes that avoided parades.
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I’m not opposed to a parade; I’m opposed to being in one.
He smiled, despite himself.
“I will make the most pleasing ballad for her,” he said.
“Good,” Fenway replied. “I’ll edit it so she doesn’t run back to Tearia on sight.”
The driver’s window slid shut again.
“Right,” Damon told the empty carriage. “Ballad.”
The next couple of hours, the inside of the carriage became a graveyard of beginnings. Half-lines, rhymes that did not deserve the name, metaphors that would absolutely never see daylight. Every time they stopped to water the horses, Damon quietly fed another crumpled page into a convenient cooking fire.
Jayce had already ridden up once to the carriage window, telling him they’d be pushing past the usual first stop to make up lost time. Damon had nodded like a responsible prince and gone back to mauling the Naberian language into something that might, if squinted at kindly, resemble poetry.
Finally, as the light thinned toward evening and the carriage wheels hummed a steadier rhythm over the road, he stared down at one more battered sheet.
This one… wasn’t terrible.
He read it under his breath, testing the cadence:
The rise of the phoenix did intrigue,
It brought back light to a heart grown fatigued.
I hope your flames will burn as bright
As the kind words that you did write.
He tapped the page a couple of times with the end of his charcoal, considering.
“…It’s charming,” he decided aloud. “In a tragic, earnest sort of way.”
Which, if he was honest, was exactly how he felt.
Damon tucked his poem away, then, almost carefully, slid Kairi’s letter back into its case. He hesitated before closing it, fingertips resting on her signature.
Respectfully (and a little playfully),
— Kairi of Tearia
(A neat red-thread tie; no crest.)
P.S. Will you show me the door that doesn’t stick for you. And maybe your secret hideaways throughout the palace.
He shut the case gently. “Right,” he told the empty carriage. “Ballad. Doors. Secret hideaways. No pressure.”
Later, when they made camp, a few more failed verses found the fire.
He sat with the other men as they ate around the fire. Zen and Kurt were trading predictions about how the next leg of their journey would go through the ravine, each making it sound more dramatic than the last. Fen and Darius were just… eating. Steady, practical, watching the fire and listening without needing to contribute.
Jayce had a plate within arm’s reach, but he wasn’t touching it yet. He was standing just outside the ring of firelight, reading by it instead, some crinkled report catching the glow every time the flames shifted.
Damon lasted about six minutes and rose, dusted crumbs from his hands, and wandered over. He stopped beside Jayce with the air of a man who absolutely was not hovering for reassurance.
“Is all well, Vale?” he asked. Jayce’s eyes flicked over the edge of the page to scan the camp, the carriage, the horses, the shadows beyond. He nodded once. “All quiet,” he said. “For now.”
“Mm.” Damon rocked on his heels, hands folded behind his back. There was a pause long enough that Jayce’s mouth twitched.
“Fen said you were writing poetry for her,” Jayce added, eyes dropping back to the report. Damon glanced quickly toward the carriage and then back, as if the letter might somehow be overhearing him. “Trying,” he admitted. “It may be a crime against the written word, but I tried.” He tipped his chin toward the fire where Dato wasn’t. “I doubt Dato would write her poetry.”
That finally earned him Jayce’s full attention. The captain looked up, one brow lifting. “No,” he said, and there was a thread of humor in it. “I don’t think he could manage poetry.” Damon put a hand to his heart in mock offense. “So I am braver than my little brother in at least one arena. Good to know.”
“Oh, he’s brave,” Jayce said mildly. “Just not in rhyme.” Damon snorted, then hesitated. “You’ve read all their letters,” he said. “Hers. His. Do you think it’s ridiculous? Me riding out here like some lovesick ballad, rehearsing bench positions and metaphors about birds on fire?”
Jayce folded the report and tucked it under his arm, considering him more seriously now. Around the fire, Zen’s story about some past ravine patrol had turned into an argument with Kurt over whose horse was smarter; their laughter gave Damon and Jayce a little cover.
“I think,” Jayce said slowly, “she’ll meet you as you are, not as the ballad. If you write, write so she can hear you, not some version of you you think sounds princely.”
“Jayce Vale, secret romantic,” Damon murmured. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably,” Jayce said dryly. “But not about that.”
Damon followed his gaze briefly toward the dark line of the hills. Tomorrow’s road. Tomorrow’s ravine. He cleared his throat. “Do you think he’s made a fool of himself yet?” he asked, lighter again. “Dato. Out there. Trying to be just another guard in front of a girl who doesn’t know his name.”
Jayce’s mouth tugged at the corner. “If he hasn’t yet, he will,” he said. “He trips over himself more with a mask on than off.”
Damon huffed a laugh. “Some comfort. If she has any fondness for idiots, I stand a chance.” He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers as if remembering the earlier cramp of signing his name one too many times. “You really don’t think he’d write her a poem?”
Jayce tilted his head, thinking it through. “If he did,” he said at last, “it wouldn’t be about phoenixes or flames. It’d be about… how many steps it is from her door to the market. How the rain sounds on her roof. How many times she laughs when she thinks no one hears.”
Damon blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“I’ve known your brother a long time,” Jayce said. “He counts things when he can’t say them.”
Damon absorbed that in silence for a moment, watching the shadows of the men against the fire, the way Zen talked with his hands, the way Darius sat just off-center so he could see both the road and the flames at once.
“You don’t approve,” Damon said quietly. “Of this whole… future wife plan.” Jayce’s jaw worked. “I don’t disapprove,” he said. “I just think she’s walking into enough complications without you deciding the ending before you’ve even met the beginning.”
Damon blew out a breath, cheeks puffing. “I have met part of the beginning,” he protested. “Letters count.”
“They do,” Jayce allowed. “But letters are like… training on flat ground. Real life is the stairs.” Damon grimaced. “Must you use Dato metaphors right now?”
“Yes,” Jayce said. “Apparently I must.” For a moment, the prince let the jest fall away. “If she doesn’t like me,” he said, very honestly, “I’ll step back. I’ll behave. I’ll let her choose where her heart goes.” Jayce watched him a beat, something easing minutely in his shoulders. “Good,” he said. “Because if you didn’t say that, I’d have to throw you in the ravine myself, and Darius would make me file a report about it.”
From the fire, Zen’s voice carried over. “Captain! Tell the prince he’s not allowed to die dramatically before we get to the good scenery!”
“Noted,” Jayce called back, without taking his eyes off Damon. Damon’s grin slipped back into place, lopsided but real. “See?” he said. “Already beloved by your men. How can she resist.”
“Easily,” Jayce said, picking his report back up. “Try not to give her reason to.” Damon made a face and backed away a step. “Fine. I’ll go… practice being myself,” he said. “And possibly…” His gaze slid toward the carriage. “…revise a ballad.”
“Leave the phoenix in,” Jayce said, turning back to the firelight. “She’ll like that part.” Damon blinked. “You haven’t read it.” Jayce didn’t look up. “It’s you,” he said. “Of course there’s a phoenix. Maybe something about your heart, her eyes, her hair and how soft her skin is or how radiant she seems."
Damon laughed. "Those are some good ideas. I'll have to add them." Jayce tilted his head his way. "Glad to be of service highness."
That was when he noticed Zen and steered his way. He wandered over to the edge of the camp where Zen’s horse was tethered for the night. The guard was checking a strap; he glanced up when he sensed someone looming.
“Zen,” Damon said. “Save me from my own brilliance.”
Zen’s expression went wary at once. “Highness.”
Damon produced his folded page with a flourish. “Honest opinion: does this make me sound like a lovesick idiot or a tasteful lovesick idiot?”
Zen sighed faintly. “Those sound the same.”
Damon ignored that. He cleared his throat and read, low enough that only Zen and, regrettably, Fenway could hear.
The rise of the Phoenix did intrigue,
It did bring something to this heart so fatigued,
hope your flames will be as bright
as your kind words you did write
Silence followed. Somewhere, a log shifted in the fire with a soft pop.
“Well?” Damon demanded.
Zen considered. “I’m not a man of poetry,” he said. “It… sounds fine.”
“Fine,” Damon repeated, devastated. “You would read that and not immediately fall into my arms.”
“I’m supposed to catch arrows, not princes,” Zen said. “If she likes birds and metaphors, you might be on to something.”
Damon stuffed the poem back into his pocket with wounded dignity. “What do you think of her?” he asked, unable to help himself. “Our secret princess.”
Zen’s grip tightened on the strap he was checking. “Think?” he echoed. “I think both you and Dato are very… invested in someone none of us have met.”
“That is not an answer.”
“That is exactly an answer,” Zen said. “Just not the one you want.” He exhaled slowly. “All I really know is what Captain Vale briefed us on. She’s a healer. Practical. Stubborn. Grew up half wild in what’s left of Tearia. She’s coming to a capital she’s never seen. And she has an older brother who is, as far as I can tell, the embodiment of ‘step one pace closer to my sister and die.’”
“Prince Rush,” Damon murmured. “Yes, I am unfortunately aware he exists.”
Zen finally looked him in the eye. “If I were you, Highness,” he said, very calm, “I’d worry less about whether your ballad rhymes and more about whether Prince Rush decides you’re worth the air it takes to talk to you.”
“Essentially the king of Tearia,” Damon said wryly. “Noted.”
Zen gave a small nod that managed to be both respectful and deeply done with this conversation. “If you win him,” he added, “you’ll probably be fine.”
“And if I don’t?”
Zen picked up his saddle blanket. “Then I suggest you ride very, very politely.”
He moved off toward the picket line. Damon watched him go, then looked down at his pocket where Kairi’s letter sat beside his poem.
Win her brother.
Right. No pressure at all.
Damon stood there for a heartbeat, caught between embarrassment and a strange, reluctant warmth, then shook his head and headed back toward the carriage, cloak whispering in the dust. Jayce watched him go in the reflection on the metal rim of the pot, then shifted his attention back to the dark beyond the fire.
For now, the camp was quiet. The men laughed. The stars came out, one by one.