Chapter 56

The white stallion trotted at a measured pace.

For Lucien, the ride offered a leisurely excuse to breathe the crisp autumn air, but Kosha found the experience thoroughly unnerving. The mage had not sat astride a horse since he was six. Although the rigors of his early upbringing had permanently ingrained the proper posture into his muscles, the speed alone left him breathless and rigid.

Fortunately, the well-trained animal maintained an exceptionally steady gait, and Lucien possessed enough martial skill to remain firmly seated even at a full gallop without touching the reins. He guided the stallion with one hand while keeping his other arm securely wrapped around Kosha’s waist.

As they cleared the forest’s edge and emerged onto the vast Ostervelt plains, the tension in Kosha’s posture finally began to ease. Lucien noticed at once, feeling the mage’s prominent shoulder blades settle a fraction more comfortably against his chest. The trusting weight of the smaller man leaning into him drew a low, rumbling chuckle from the prince.

The sprawling plains lay awash in the amber and crimson brilliance of late autumn. Expansive fields of wheat, corn, and beans checkered the landscape, interspersed with the lush vineyards cultivated so heavily throughout central Izeland. They rode in near-perfect solitude, with only the distant silhouettes of field laborers blending into the picturesque scenery.

A light, brisk wind carried the season’s gentle chill, while wisps of cloud clung to the azure sky like pale strokes across a painter’s canvas. Lucien smirked, pleased with his timing. A torrential downpour would have ruined the excursion, but the prince had always possessed a peculiar streak of luck when it came to trivial matters.

With a gentle pull on the reins, Lucien coaxed the stallion into a walk.

Kosha twisted within his embrace and peered up at him, bewilderment plain on his face. The delicate curve of his pale cheek, the elegant slope of his nose, the soft fullness of his lips, and the sweeping arc of his eyelashes immediately captivated Lucien. The mage’s features outshone even the famed beauty of the Ostervelt horizon.

A sudden, playful urge to tease him took hold.

“Why are you so quiet?” Lucien asked, his low voice vibrating against Kosha’s back.

Kosha blinked in genuine confusion, entirely missing the playful intent behind the question. He had been a silent creature for as long as he could remember. His childhood nanny had often lamented that his excessively docile nature practically invited his siblings to push him around.

Lucien leaned closer. “What made you trust me enough to climb onto this horse? How did you know where I intended to take you?”

“Are we not going home?” Kosha murmured.

In truth, Lucien had practically hoisted him into the saddle by force, leaving the mage little opportunity to decide whether he wished to cooperate. Furthermore, if either of them had reason to fear being kidnapped, it should have been the prince. Kosha wielded arcane power and could vanish to any corner of the continent whenever he pleased.

A crooked smile touched Lucien’s lips. “Home? And where, exactly, is this home of yours?”

Kosha hesitated. His brow furrowed in genuine concentration before he answered, “The west wing of the Ostrabache inner castle.”

For a man who so frequently spouted cryptic nonsense, the direct and accurate response struck a deep chord of satisfaction within Lucien. The mage had finally begun to accept his new reality. Kosha belonged within the royal citadel now, regardless of whether the detoxification process succeeded.

The possessive certainty quieted Lucien’s restless mind.

“You understand perfectly.” Lucien adjusted his grip on the reins and guided the stallion onto a new path. “That is exactly right. We should return home. However, since we are already out for the day, and since it is so rare for me to clear my schedule, I thought I might show you something special first.”

In truth, retrieving the mage’s beloved geese had served as little more than a convenient excuse. Lucien had never expected the foul-tempered birds to remain near the abandoned property.

When they left the citadel, he had fully intended to survey Kosha’s former neighborhood, raze the wretched house to the ground while the mage mourned the loss of his flock, and then placate him with the promise of new pets during their leisurely ride. He had merely wanted an excuse to lift the man’s spirits.

Discovering the geese still loitering around the ramshackle hut had momentarily derailed his expectations, but Lucien refused to abandon the latter half of his plan.

This is actually better, he concluded with a dismissive mental shrug.

The birds essentially functioned as feathered hostages. How could the reclusive mage ever attempt to flee when he harbored such profound anxiety over those obnoxious creatures?

“Something special?” Kosha echoed, his gemlike eyes narrowing with open suspicion.

Lucien offered no explanation, responding only with a mysterious, self-assured grin.

The heartland of Izeland, which encompassed the capital, stretched across a vast plain punctuated by occasional rolling hills. Ostrabache had originally been erected as a military fortress against the slope of one such incline. Its ancient design followed conventional defensive architecture, using the soil excavated from the main moat to construct an elevated inner citadel at the rear for guards and sentries.

As the fortress expanded to accommodate its new status as the kingdom’s capital, however, the rear hill gradually lost its strategic significance. Although the summit still provided an unparalleled panoramic view of the sprawling city, it would serve a military purpose only if the kingdom had already fallen to enemy forces.

Consequently, the royal family claimed the restricted and otherwise idle land for private use.

Lush woodland blanketed the spacious summit, providing a sanctuary for roe deer and foxes. The royal family used the grounds exclusively for private hunting excursions, leaving the decaying inner citadel to serve as little more than temporary quarters for the groundskeeper.

Rather than steering toward Ostrabache’s main gates, Lucien diverted their course along the towering outer walls. Kosha turned his head in every direction, radiating the restless anxiety of a lost child wandering through an unfamiliar landscape. He had every right to question their destination, yet he stubbornly maintained his silence.

The mage undoubtedly remained calm because of his arrogant arcane certainty that he could teleport back to his chambers whenever he pleased. Even so, his mute compliance unsettled the prince.

A gnawing paranoia told Lucien that if a complete stranger offered Kosha a single sweet, coaxing word, the naive man might drift away with them without a moment’s hesitation.

Heavily armed royal guards patrolled the principal road ascending the hill, but Lucien possessed an intimate understanding of the terrain from countless childhood hunting expeditions. He guided the stallion along a secluded, babbling stream, then abruptly urged the animal into a sprint.

The powerful white steed vaulted across a treacherous ravine.

Kosha jolted violently in the saddle, but Lucien’s thick, muscular arm clamped around his shoulders like an iron band, holding him securely in place.

“This route is far less heavily guarded,” Lucien murmured, his warm breath fanning across Kosha’s ear. “It would be terribly awkward for both of us if the king’s men caught us sneaking around.”

Although Kosha failed to grasp the political implications of their stealthy detour, he forced his racing heart to settle and offered a stiff nod of agreement.

The majestic animal navigated the steep, pathless incline with brutal efficiency. Dense thickets and ancient tree trunks swallowed their surroundings, completely stripping Kosha of his spatial awareness.

Then the claustrophobic shadows shattered.

They breached the final tree line, and blinding golden sunlight flooded Kosha’s vision. While the mage squinted against the sudden glare, Lucien dismounted with practiced grace, reached up, and effortlessly hauled the bewildered scholar down by the waist.

“Come here.” Lucien beckoned him forward.

They had reached the summit.

An ancient, weathered citadel stood resolute against the brilliant skyline, its stone walls seeming to bleed into the horizon. Lucien guided his companion toward the precipice, stopping mere inches from a sheer and deadly drop where a single careless step would guarantee a fatal plunge.

The entire world unfolded beneath them in one breathtaking tapestry.

The majestic western wing of the royal citadel, its concentric defensive walls, and the sprawling Ostervelt plains bled together beneath a seemingly infinite horizon. The late-afternoon sun hovered dangerously close to the edge of the earth, casting a celestial glare so fierce that Kosha was forced to avert his eyes.

He turned his head in search of refuge from the light, only for his gaze to collide with the prince.

Lucien stood silhouetted against the sky, radiating a powerful warmth that rivaled the sun itself.

“The clear weather has given us a perfect vantage point.” With a proud smile, Lucien swept one arm across the vast expanse. “Everything below us belongs to Ostervelt. Follow the land farther into the distance, and you can see the ragged edge of the Mardothe Mountain Range. Cross those peaks, and you will find yourself in Carlot.”

A crisp breeze ruffled the prince’s dark hair. Utterly mesmerized, Kosha could only trace the geographical boundaries with a silent, reverent stare.

The clean wind filled Kosha’s lungs, granting him a profound and intoxicating sense of absolute freedom. From this height, the sprawling capital resembled a child’s miniature wooden toy. Every traumatic memory and grueling hardship he had endured throughout his short, miserable life suddenly dissolved into insignificance.

“Careful.”

Lucien’s hand shot out and closed around Kosha’s forearm. “Do not step too close to the edge.”

Lost in the spectacle, the mage had unconsciously drifted toward the precipice. Pulling his attention away from the dizzying drop, Kosha locked eyes with the man anchoring him to safety. He studied the sharp angles of Lucien’s face and the dark, unfathomable depths of his irises.

A violent pounding erupted against Kosha’s ribs, yet its rapid rhythm carried none of his usual paralyzing anxiety. The sensation was thrilling, overwhelmingly warm, and entirely foreign, but he refused to retreat from it.

“Breathtaking, is it not?” Lucien murmured, his baritone dropping into a conspiratorial register. “I have always favored this summit. The air possesses a pristine clarity, a welcome reprieve from the suffocating political stench trapped within the castle walls.”

Kosha parted his lips to respond, but the words withered in his throat.

An ephemeral moment of profound, cosmic clarity washed over him, as though the fundamental secrets of the universe had briefly opened themselves to his understanding. Yet the fragile human tongue possessed no vocabulary capable of articulating such divine truths.

Defeated by mortal language, Kosha simply raised his hand.

His pale, slender fingertips trembled in the chill. At once, the surrounding breeze surged in intensity and swirled around his wrist as though the wind itself possessed a conscious, affectionate will.

Nature always offered an eager and hospitable embrace to a true mage.

In that suspended instant, Kosha felt the pulse of the entire world.

His awareness expanded to encompass the hidden currents of subterranean rivers, the ancient names engraved within the bedrock, the directional flow of the autumn gales, the dormant centuries imprisoned inside the citadel’s stones, and the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of the royal prince standing mere inches away.

“Your Highness,” Kosha gasped, his voice fracturing beneath the overwhelming weight of sensation.

Driven by an inexplicable compulsion, his trembling legs folded into a deep, formal bow of absolute reverence.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Kosha’s eyes burned with unshed moisture. “Thank you for retrieving the geese and for treating me with such care. I cannot properly express my gratitude.”

Panic constricted his throat. Where could he possibly begin? How could he explain that his gratitude extended infinitely beyond the rescue of a few foul-tempered birds?

“Thank you for the fine clothing,” Kosha continued, his voice rising with desperate urgency. “For the rare books, and for bringing me here to see this magnificent view.”

He silently pleaded for the prince to read between the lines and understand that these material gifts represented a salvation Kosha had never dared to imagine.