Chapter 7
Six days pass.
Bellamy counts them like a man counting coins, each one measured and weighed and found wanting. Six days since the dungeons rang with the clash of steel and the shouts of dying men. Six days since he woke to find his world turned inside out and his heart carved from his chest.
Six days, and he hasn't slept properly once.
He sits at the massive oak table in the council chamber, surrounded by maps and reports and the worried faces of his mother's advisors.
Lord Geoff is speaking—something about grain shipments and trade routes—but the words wash over Bellamy like water over stone.
His attention keeps drifting to the large map spread across the table's center, to the carefully drawn borders between kingdoms, to the thick black line that separates Mirn from Everitt.
Somewhere beyond that line, Ivah rides free.
The thought should bring relief. Should make him feel safer, more secure in his own kingdom. Instead, it sits in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold and impossible to ignore.
"Your Highness?"
Bellamy blinks, focusing on the expectant faces around him. Lord Geoff has stopped speaking and is waiting for some kind of response. Queen Amelli watches her son with barely concealed concern.
"I'm sorry," Bellamy says, straightening in his chair. "Could you repeat that?"
"The Northern Kingdom," Geoff says patiently. "King Kent has been moving troops toward our border. Our scouts report at least three thousand men camped at Ironhold Pass."
Bellamy forces himself to focus on the northern section of the map, where red pins mark enemy positions. It's a significant force—not enough to invade, but more than enough to cause serious problems if they decide to cross the border.
"What do they want?" he asks.
"Hard to say," General Harwick interjects. "Could be posturing, could be preparation for something more serious. Kent's been making noise about our trade agreements with the Eastern Duchies. Claims we're undercutting his merchants."
"Are we?"
"We're offering better prices for better goods," Lord Vance says with a slight smile. "If that's undercutting, then guilty as charged."
Queen Amelli leans forward. "The question is whether Kent is desperate enough to risk war over trade disputes."
"He might be," Harwick says grimly. "His kingdom's been struggling since the harvest failures two years back. His people are hungry, his treasury's empty, and hungry people make desperate kings."
Bellamy nods, trying to engage with the political realities being laid out before him. This is important. This affects his people, his kingdom, his future. He should be focused entirely on the threat from the North, on finding ways to defuse the situation before it escalates into open conflict.
Instead, his eyes keep drifting back to the eastern border, to the carefully marked boundary between his world and Ivah's.
"What about Everitt?" he asks suddenly. "Any word from the Barbarian King?"
The question draws sharp looks from around the table. It's been six days since the escape, and this is the first time Bellamy has asked directly about their former prisoner.
"Nothing," Harwick says, his gray eyes studying Bellamy's face. "They've gone completely quiet. No raids, no troop movements, no attempts to press their advantage. It's... unusual."
"Unusual how?"
"The Barbarian King isn't known for defensive strategies.
Usually, after a victory like breaking out of enemy captivity, he'd follow up with immediate action.
Strike while his enemies are reeling, capitalize on the psychological impact.
" Harwick shrugs. "Instead, they've pulled back across the border and gone silent. "
Lord Geoff nods agreement. "Our scouts report minimal activity along the eastern frontier. Almost like they're avoiding contact entirely."
Bellamy tries to process this information objectively, but his heart is doing complicated things in his chest. Ivah is alive and free—that much is clear. But why the silence? Why the withdrawal? Is he injured? Planning something? Or is there another reason entirely for his retreat?
"Perhaps the escape took more out of them than we thought," Queen Amelli suggests.
"Possible," Harwick agrees, though he sounds doubtful. "Or they're waiting for something. Planning something we can't see yet."
The discussion continues around him, but Bellamy's attention wanders again.
He finds himself staring at the eastern border, tracing the line with his eyes, wondering what lies beyond it.
Wondering if Ivah thinks of him at all, or if their night together was just another conquest to be forgotten as soon as it was claimed.
The thought makes his chest tight and his hands clench into fists beneath the table.
"—propose sending an envoy north," Lord Vance is saying when Bellamy tunes back in. "Open negotiations before things escalate further."
"And if Kent sees that as weakness?" Harwick challenges.
"Then we'll deal with that when it happens. But we have to try diplomacy first."
Queen Amelli looks to her son. "What do you think, Bellamy?"
All eyes turn to him, waiting for the wisdom of their future king. Bellamy looks down at the map again, at the red pins marking enemy positions, at the trade routes and strategic passes that could determine the fate of thousands.
"Send the envoy," he says finally. "But quietly. No formal embassy, no fanfare. Someone who can gauge Kent's intentions without appearing to capitulate."
It's a reasonable response, a princely response. The nods around the table tell him he's chosen correctly.
"I'll handle the arrangements," Lord Vance says.
"Good." Queen Amelli gathers her papers. "Harwick, I want increased patrols along the northern border. Not provocative, but visible. Show them we're aware and prepared."
"Already done, Your Majesty."
"Excellent. I think that covers everything for today."
The council members begin to file out, but Queen Amelli catches Bellamy's arm as he rises.
"Stay a moment."
When they're alone, she moves to the window that overlooks the castle courtyard. Below, guards drill in neat formations, their movements precise and coordinated.
"What's troubling you?" she asks without turning around.
Bellamy lets out a short laugh, though there's no humor in it. "Where should I start?"
Queen Amelli rolls her eyes and turns to face him. "It's obvious something has been weighing heavily on you, and it's been since the battle with Everitt." Her green eyes are sharp with maternal concern. "Are you worried about what Harwick said? About a possible assassination attempt?"
Bellamy considers the question seriously. "If Ivah had wanted me dead, Mother, he had ample opportunity. During the battle, when I was alone and vulnerable..." He trails off, not wanting to think too deeply about why Ivah had spared him that day.
"Then what?" She studies his face with the intensity that made her such an effective ruler. "What did you learn from the Barbarian King while you spoke with him in the dungeons?"
Bellamy hesitates, choosing his words carefully. The truth sits heavy on his tongue—conversations about poetry and philosophy, confessions whispered in lamplight, the gentle way Ivah had touched his hair. But he can't say any of that.
"We spoke of rule," he says finally. "Of peace, and how best to provide for our kingdoms. Of what it means to lead people who depend on you."
Queen Amelli's eyebrows rise. "That sounds surprisingly civilized for a savage like Ivah."
"There was a lot about him that surprised me," Bellamy admits, the words carrying more weight than his mother could possibly understand.
She moves closer, her expression growing more concerned. "Are you scared to face him again when the time comes?"
Bellamy shakes his head. "I think we have more to worry about on our Northern front. King Kent and his forces pose a more immediate threat than whatever Ivah might be planning."
"That's true," Queen Amelli agrees, though her eyes never leave his face. "The Northern kingdoms have been growing bolder. Still..." She reaches out to touch his arm. "If you need to talk you know I'm here."
I kissed our greatest enemy, Bellamy thinks. I let him touch me, claim me, and I would do it again if given the chance. But he can't say that. Can't burden his mother with the knowledge of what her son has become.
"I promise, I'm fine," he says instead, forcing a smile that feels like broken glass on his lips.
Queen Amelli doesn't look entirely convinced, but she doesn't press.
After she leaves, Bellamy remains at the window, staring out at nothing.
The afternoon sun slants across the courtyard, casting long shadows that remind him of other shadows, other light, the golden glow of lamplight on skin and the darkness of eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul.
He tells himself to focus on the Northern threat, on King Kent and his hungry soldiers and the very real danger they represent. He tells himself to forget the Barbarian King of Everitt and whatever madness had possessed them both in a dungeon cell six nights ago.
He tells himself a lot of things.
But as evening falls and he finds himself in his study, supposedly reviewing intelligence reports about northern troop movements, his attention keeps drifting to the map on his wall. To the thick black line that separates his world from Ivah's, and the impossible longing to cross it.
The reports lie forgotten on his desk as he traces the border with his finger, following the familiar curves and angles, wondering what lies beyond. Wondering if somewhere in the darkness of Everitt, a Barbarian King stares at maps and thinks of golden princes and nights that changed everything.
The thought is foolish, romantic, dangerous.
It's also the only thing keeping him sane.
Outside his window, night deepens and stars wheel overhead, indifferent to the struggles of kingdoms and the hearts of princes who dream of things they cannot have. But inside his study, Bellamy stares at a map and makes a decision he doesn't quite admit to himself.
Not yet.
But soon.