Chapter 10 #2
Something shifted deep in Wylan’s soul. Seeing the tears brimming in Feo’s eyes, seeing how they miserably stared at their pathetic piece of bread, picking past the ripped, buttered pieces.
They’d told Wylan they weren’t right for each other.
They told Wylan to move on—but as Wylan had suspected, that wasn’t actually what Feo wanted.
Shaken, Wylan fled to the newly constructed town hall.
It was just a shell of a building, walls of heavy logs and fabric-covered openings where glass would be set, soon.
There were a dozen cots set up for the workers, and a dormant hearth against one wall.
Wylan headed instead for the back room, intended for cooking preparation or private meetings.
He and Dren had claimed it for themselves days earlier, at least until more buildings were erected.
Wylan closed himself in the room, running his hands through his hair as his mind shattered. And of course, that’s when Dren stepped inside.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m… guessing it didn’t go well? The talk with Feo?”
Wylan didn’t want Dren here—which was telling, since they were supposed to be a couple. He drew a shuddering breath. “Feo isn’t okay with it. With us.”
Dren considered that. “I can hardly say I’m surprised. But you’re missing the point here.”
There was a table against the far wall, a flat, unsanded board of pine secured with metal brackets. Wylan leaned his back against it, relishing in how the board dug into his skin, relishing in how the mild pain anchored him to here and now.
Because otherwise, his mind was with Feo, sitting alone, picking at bread. Gods, how many meals had Wylan picked at bread, alone?
And now he’d sentenced Feo to the same fucking fate.
He realized Dren was still waiting for a reply and shook his head. “What’s the point, then? What am I missing?” His words were raspy, rough with emotion.
Dren crossed his arms, but his expression was contemplative. “You said Feo isn’t okay with us. But how do you feel about it?” There was no judgment in his tone—only curiosity, just like the night he suggested Wylan try something new.
Somehow, this felt full circle.
Wylan stared at the man before him, the one who cozied up to an abacus and tried his damnest to procure lumber, even though he had no knowledge of using a two-person saw, or muscles to back it up.
The man who’d joined Wylan with nervous energy, but slowly emerged into the kind, capable lord Queen Reyna had always expected.
He was an incredible person.
But he wasn’t Feo.
“I’m not happy,” Wylan whispered.
It was the same thing he’d told Feo, all those years ago. The irony didn’t escape him.
To Dren’s credit, he didn’t seem surprised. He didn’t even seem sad. He just smiled softly and took a step closer to Wylan, near enough that they were almost touching. “Were you happy before Feo showed up?”
Wylan thought about it. The nights they laid together. The days they toiled, laughing as a town grew around them. And all the smaller moments where Lord Dren took command and helped his own citizens shape their new home.
His question wasn’t as simple, but Wylan still realized the answer: there was a difference between companionship and love.
Dren was a good friend. But he wasn’t Wylan’s favorite person.
They didn’t have an extended history; they had an experiment.
That was how every great relationship started, to be fair—but it was also the reason Wylan found it easier to imagine old romances over new ones.
Given enough time, Dren and Wylan could create a true history.
They could make those rose-colored memories.
But that would be years away.
Right now, Feo was unhappy, and Wylan ached to fix it.
“I enjoyed your company. But… I don’t think it will ever be enough, and I’m sorry for that,” Wylan said quietly.
Dren reached out a hand. Wylan took it, and they both stared at their intertwined fingers.
Dren squeezed comfortingly, then pressed a light kiss to Wylan’s cheek.
“I’m very glad we got to enjoy the time we had.
” He chuckled, searching Wylan’s eyes. “If it helps, I figured our chances were low. I also figured the Alchemicor must be someone very special to hold you this long.”
A few weeks ago, Wylan would have argued that. Feo had moved on, and Wylan was convinced he’d done the same.
But nothing was simple in love.
“I’m also glad.” Wylan hesitated. “You’re going to be an incredible lord. And you’ll always have a friend in me, Dren.”
“I know.” Dren stepped back. “Since we’re friends, can I tell you another hard truth?”
“Always,” Wylan replied.
The last time, Dren had professed attraction, and Wylan followed with a kiss. This time, Lord Dren chuckled and said, “You have to stop self-sabotaging if you want this next try with Feo to work.”
Wylan stiffened, more confused than offended. “What?”
Dren spoke slowly, as if parsing through exactly how to say this. “Feo clearly wasn’t a perfect partner; no one should ever feel like they’ve been abandoned in a relationship. But… you led me into that same trap without realizing it.”
Wylan hated how defensiveness flared up. He wrestled it down, then asked, “H-how did I make you feel abandoned?” He’d been present every single step, hadn’t he?
“It was subtle.” Dren wrang his hands together, returning to that nervous energy.
“I just… I asked your opinion over and over, and you continually sidestepped. Which was very nice, because it let me figure things out! But it also made me wonder how often Feo asked for your advice, and how often you actually answered them.”
It felt like an arrow to the heart. Wylan gripped the table behind him, eyes widening. “Well—” he fumbled for a coherent reply, “I’m not going to tell another lord how to govern—”
“Another lord, certainly.” Dren held up his hands. “But I wasn’t just ‘another lord’. I was your partner, however briefly, and I wanted your help.” Dren’s eyes went downcast. “It was just as isolating for me on the receiving end.”
Just as isolating.
Wylan stared at Dren, and reality shifted yet again.
Feo, a newly appointed councilmember, staggering into Wylan’s study laden with scrolls, saying, “Excellent—you can help me. Bobbie wants three bridges over the narrow parts of the Nacean, to better connect the towns. The logistics are a nightmare. How would you—” They’d stopped talking when Wylan held up a hand and replied, “I don’t think that’s my place, Feo.
I’m a Queendom lord, not a diarn or councilmember. ”
Feo, the new Alchemicor, the Alchemist of Eras, standing inside a newly constructed courtyard, fumbling with the architectural plans of the Academy’s main building.
“I worry it’s too tall. Do you think it’s too tall?
I want to ensure accessibility, but perhaps I can design a lift powered by alchemy…
What would you do here?” Only to have Wylan reply, “Anything you do will be great,” because nothing relating to alchemy felt like Wylan’s place.
And in the end, Feo, the headmaster of the Academy for Alchemical Arts, barely glancing up when Wylan entered a room.
“I’m designing a new pathway for alchemists.
Not just ones who lose touch with elemental magic—but folks who feel connected to magic without that.
I’ll have to figure out how to spread word that elemental magic isn’t a prerequisite…
” And this time, they didn’t ask Wylan for advice on how to explore that.
Wylan vividly remembered Feo’s face. No rosy memories—stark moments where Feo’s brow furrowed, where they frowned at their scrolls, where they quietly rolled up the architectural drawing and turned from Wylan.
And over time… that became standard.
“Oh, fuck,” Wylan said.
Lord Dren forced a smile. “There we go.”