Chapter 8 Leo
LEO
Dawn breaks over the palace in a wash of gold and pink, illuminating the ancient stones of the tribal sanctuary where we’ve gathered for the second day of ceremonies.
Yesterday’s initial fulquernah mapped the major sacred sites; today we’ll identify the more remote locations, those hidden among mountain ranges and dense forests that have remained protected largely through isolation.
I stand at the edge of the circle, hands clasped behind my back as I watch the tribal elders prepare the ceremonial space.
My mind is divided—part focused on the task before us, part replaying my conversation with the Prime Minister yesterday, and an increasingly insistent part aware of Rangi’s presence across the gathering.
“Puhkarik rumanja,” Elder Kiri announces, calling for the mapping of the hidden places to begin.
The elders move to the centre of the circle, where a large cloth map has been laid out—the same one we marked yesterday, now awaiting the addition of these more isolated sites.
My pulse quickens with anticipation. These locations have been guarded by oral tradition alone for generations; today marks the first time they’ll be formally recorded for protection.
As the ceremony progresses, I find my gaze continually drawn to Rangi.
He stands with his tribal delegation, his bearing proud yet relaxed, the sunlight catching on the warrior markings that adorn his exposed arms. When our eyes meet briefly across the circle, the Prime Minister’s warning echoes in my mind, “It’s just not possible. .. the mining leases alone...”
I force my attention back to the ceremony as Elder Kiri gestures for me to step forward. “The royal line has been keeper of the mountain pathways since the first Rumingha,” she says, handing me a container of ochre paint. “It is your voice that must speak for these places.”
Taking a deep breath, I kneel beside the map, dipping my fingers into the rust-coloured pigment.
“In the name of my ancestors, I mark the Tumara Kingsarah—the Royal Path.” My voice carries across the silent gathering as I trace a sinuous line that winds through the mountains.
“This route is known only to those of royal blood, passed from monarch to heirs since the first Rumingha.”
The paint feels cool against my fingertips as I continue marking locations only my family has knowledge of, the hidden grove where royal children once underwent their coming-of-age ceremonies, the secluded spring where monarchs sought visions before major decisions, the ancient stone circle where royal marriages were consummated before the modern era.
My gaze meets Kit’s across the circle as I mark the map, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she places a hand on her belly, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. I give her an ew look.
Too much information, sis.
“And here,” I say, my finger hovering over a particular valley nestled between twin peaks, “lies Kaha Minargh—the Valley of Whispers, where the voices of our royal ancestors still speak to those with ears to hear.”
I don’t elaborate. Some stories are meant for certain ears, and this is one. Only those children of the direct ruler are allowed to know more. Not even the children I or Charlotte might have are allowed to know about it. Only Kit’s heirs.
Such it was. Such it will be.
A murmur passes through the tribal delegations. This site is particularly significant—and, I know from geological surveys, sits directly above one of the richest mineral deposits in the country.
The Prime Minister’s face flashes in my mind again, “The compensation claims would be astronomical.”
I hesitate for just a moment before firmly marking the location. Whatever political battles lie ahead, I will not compromise.
As I finish, Kit rises from her seat, her pregnancy making her movements slightly awkward as she approaches the map. “The Royal Path is incomplete without the Queen’s knowledge,” she says, taking the ochre from my hands.
The gathering falls silent as Kit kneels beside me, her formal dress pooling around her as she marks additional locations.
“Here,” she says, her voice clear and strong, “is where the first Queen of our line received her vision of unification. And here”—her finger traces a meandering line along the western coast—“is the path she walked to bring peace between warring tribes.”
She marks several more locations, some I recognize from our childhood lessons, others that must have been shared with her by our father after she was named heir. When she reaches a particular mountain lake, she pauses, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she marks it with special care.
“This place belongs to the Queens alone,” she says, holding close her secrets.
As we both step back, I catch Rangi watching us. The weight of his gaze feels almost physical, a steady, unyielding pressure that only stirs the confusion already churning inside me.
Our encounter yesterday left me unbalanced, teetering on the edge of something unknown. I can’t make sense of my thoughts which are a tangled mess of doubt and yearning, curiosity and fear. Everything feels like shifting ground. His eyes ask questions I’m not ready to answer.
Or, more precisely, I don’t know how to answer.
But it’s more than even just that. I’m struggling under the weight of who I am, the title I carry has become like armour that’s grown too heavy to bear.
As the Prince, my life is nothing but spectacle.
Every action and reaction dissected, judged, and manipulated until I can barely recognize what’s real.
And Rangi? He feels real. But if I reach for him, if I cross that line, I’ll drag him into the fire with me. Into the unending scrutiny, the constant demand to be something palatable and perfect.
Wanting him is easy, and if I were a lesser man I’d give in to these feelings swirling in my chest. Protecting him is the right thing to do. But when he looks at me like that—I feel something crack in my chest.
And the truth is, I want to reach for him anyway. Consequences be damned.
The ceremony continues, representatives from other tribes adding their own marks to the map. By midday, the cloth is covered in a network of symbols and lines—a record of our people’s heritage, now documented for protection.
Or so we hope.
I glance around the circle, noting the Prime Minister’s absence. In her place are her deputy and other members from the other parties, all silently observing.
This cannot fail. I won’t let this be for nothing.
“Today marks a historic day,” Elder Kiri announces as the final markings are completed. “Our people are united in our fight to protect our heritage.” She gestures at the map. “And now our kahlini are known to all who would stand with us.”
The gathering breaks into smaller groups for the meal that follows. I fulfill my duties, moving among the delegates, discussing births and deaths, weather and politics. I flow between conversation topics with practiced ease—after all, this is what I’ve been trained for since birth.
But beneath it all, there’s a constant awareness of Rangi—of where he is, what he’s doing.
My body hums with restless energy, my skin still tingling from the ghost of his touch.
I can feel Rangi’s presence like gravity—undeniable, anchoring, impossible to ignore.
My gaze finds him without effort, zeroing in through the crowd as if my bones know where he is even before my eyes do.
He’s speaking with an elder near the ceremonial map, his expression calm, focused. Unbothered. And yet… when he shifts slightly, our eyes meet across the space.
I look away too quickly.
Coward.
“You look troubled, brother.” Charlotte appears at my side, a plate of food in her hand.
Troubled? Gods, I feel like I’m unravelling thread by thread. Holding it together with the sheer force of royal performance.
“Just contemplating the work ahead.” I accept the offered meal. “Thanks.”
“I saw you hadn’t eaten. Too busy talking.” Her shrewd gaze misses nothing. “Are you sure you’re only thinking of work? Nothing personal weighing on your mind?”
I give her a warning look. “Not here, Charlotte.”
“Of course not,” she agrees, though her eyes dance with poorly suppressed mischief. “But I can’t help but notice the captain has been watching you when he thinks no one is looking. And I could have sworn I saw you doing the same.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” She tilts her head slightly toward Rangi. I follow her gaze to find him watching me with eyes dark and serious. Our gazes meet, holding as a million words pass silently between us.
If only…
I break eye contact turning back to Charlotte only to find that she’s drifted away. Apparently, my sister is determined to play matchmaker.
The remainder of the afternoon passes in a blur of diplomatic meetings and ceremonial obligations.
By the time the gathering begins to disperse, tension has settled between my shoulders—both from the weight of the political challenges ahead and from the anticipation of what might await at the meditation arch.
Victoria catches me as I’m preparing to leave. “Your Highness, the cultural heritage committee has requested a preliminary meeting tomorrow morning. They’d like to discuss the legislative wording for the sacred sites protection bill.”
I nod, grateful for her efficiency while simultaneously calculating how to arrange my schedule. “Thank you, Victoria. Please confirm for nine o’clock.”
“Also,” she adds, her expression carefully neutral, “the Queen mentioned you might be taking some personal time this evening. I’ve adjusted your security detail accordingly.”
I stare at her, momentarily speechless. Has the entire palace conspired to manage my personal life?
“Don’t look so alarmed,” she says, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a hint of amusement. “You’re not the first royal I’ve done this for.”