Chapter 8
Bellamy tells himself he's conducting reconnaissance.
It's a thin lie, threadbare as old cloth, but he clings to it as he adjusts the rough brown cloak that conceals his royal colors.
The servant's clothes are not a good fit. They’re too loose in the shoulders and too short in the legs, but they serve their purpose.
From a distance, he looks like any other traveler: a minor merchant, perhaps, or a messenger carrying letters between distant relatives.
His horse is a different matter. Tempest is a destrier bred for war, her bloodlines as noble as his own, and no amount of mud rubbed into her coat can disguise her quality.
But Bellamy can't bring himself to take another mount, can't bear to leave behind the one familiar thing in this madness he's about to commit.
The border crossing is quieter than he expects.
A handful of Mirn guards man the checkpoint, checking papers and collecting tolls with the bored efficiency of men who see the same faces day after day.
They nod respectfully when they recognize him beneath his hood, but ask no questions about his destination.
"Safe travels, Your Highness," the captain murmurs as he waves them through.
If only he knew.
The road into Everitt is well-maintained despite the kingdom's fearsome reputation.
Trade must continue, after all, even between enemies.
Bellamy passes merchants heading toward Mirn with wagons full of furs and amber, farmers driving cattle to market, ordinary people living ordinary lives that have nothing to do with the political tensions that shape his world.
It's strangely comforting to see that normal life continues even here, in the realm of the Barbarian King. Whatever else Ivah might be, his people don't look oppressed or terrorized. They look... content. Prosperous, even.
The observation sits uneasily with everything Bellamy has been told about Everitt, about the barbaric kingdom ruled through fear and violence. Either the stories are wrong, or Ivah is a far more complex ruler than anyone realizes.
Or both.
The deeper he rides into enemy territory, the more Bellamy's rational mind screams at him to turn back.
This is madness, pure and simple. He has no plan, no excuse for being here, no explanation that will satisfy anyone—including himself—for why he's risking his life and his kingdom's security on what amounts to a fool's errand.
But his heart knows the truth even if his mind refuses to acknowledge it.
He can't stop thinking about Ivah.
Six days and nights of trying to forget those dark eyes, that knowing smile, the way it felt to be truly seen by someone who looked past titles and expectations to the man underneath.
Six days of telling himself it meant nothing, that it was just physical attraction mixed with adrenaline and proximity.
Six days of lying to himself until the need to see Ivah again became a physical ache in his chest.
But what if he's wrong? What if those moments in the dungeon were nothing more than a calculated manipulation?
Ivah had escaped, after all—broken free of his chains and vanished into the night like smoke.
What if every gentle word, every heated look, every promise of connection had been nothing but a masterful performance designed to make Bellamy drop his guard?
What if Ivah sees him as nothing more than a useful enemy—someone to be seduced and discarded when his purpose is served?
The thought makes his stomach clench with something that feels dangerously like heartbreak. But still he rides on, drawn by hope and desperation and the terrible certainty that he'll go mad if he doesn't at least try to find out the truth.
So here he is, riding toward the heart of enemy territory with no plan beyond the desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—what he felt in that dungeon cell was real.
The ambush comes just as the sun begins to set.
Bellamy should see it coming—he's been trained to watch for signs of hidden enemies, to read the landscape for potential threats. But his attention is focused inward, on the war between hope and fear raging in his chest, and by the time he notices the birds have gone silent, it's too late.
They emerge from the forest like shadows: six men in dark leather and mail, crossbows trained on his heart before he can even reach for his sword. Their movements are coordinated, professional—these aren't bandits looking for easy coin, but soldiers following orders.
"Prince of Mirn," the leader says, lowering his crossbow slightly but keeping it ready. "You're a long way from home."
Bellamy's hand stills on his sword hilt. There's no point in fighting—he's outnumbered and surrounded, and these men clearly know exactly who he is despite his disguise.
"How did you—?" he begins, then stops as the leader points to Tempest's saddle.
The royal embroidery. He'd remembered to change his clothes, to mud his horse's coat, to pull up his hood—but he'd forgotten about the golden threads worked into the leather, the subtle marks of royal craftsmanship that only someone with keen eyes would notice.
Careless. Impossibly, stupidly careless.
Or maybe, a treacherous voice whispers in the back of his mind, maybe he'd wanted to be caught.
"Hands where we can see them," the leader orders. "Nice and slow."
Bellamy raises his hands, letting them see he's not reaching for a weapon. "I'm traveling under diplomatic immunity—"
The leader's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Diplomatic immunity? You're traveling under nothing but that cloak, and poorly at that." He gestures to his men. "Take him."
They're not gentle about it. Hands seize him roughly, yanking him from Tempest's back with enough force to send him stumbling. When he tries to steady himself, someone shoves him hard between the shoulder blades, sending him to his knees in the dirt.
"Easy now, prince," one of the soldiers sneers. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt before His Majesty sees you."
They bind his hands with rough rope that bites into his wrists, jerking his arms behind him with unnecessary force. When he winces at the pain, another soldier cuffs him across the cheek—not hard enough to do serious damage, but enough to leave his face stinging and his pride bruised.
"That's for the trouble you caused at Silverbrook," the man growls.
Bellamy keeps his mouth shut, knowing any protest will only earn him more rough treatment. These men have clearly been in battles against Mirn forces, have lost friends and comrades to his kingdom's blades. A little rough handling is probably the least he can expect.
The ride to wherever they're taking him passes in a blur of gathering darkness and mounting dread. His shoulders ache from the awkward position of his bound arms, and his cheek throbs where he's been struck, but the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the terror building in his chest.
What if this is exactly what Ivah intended?
What if those nights in the dungeon were part of some elaborate plan to lure Bellamy into enemy territory?
He could be riding toward his execution, toward a fate that will plunge both kingdoms into chaos, all because he was fool enough to believe that the Barbarian King might actually care about him.
The fortress they bring him to is nothing like what he expects.
Where Bellamy had imagined barbaric architecture—rough stone and crude construction suitable for raiders and conquerors—he finds something closer to a palace.
The walls are high and well-built, but they're decorated with intricate carvings that speak of artistic traditions going back centuries.
Torches burn in elaborate sconces, their light revealing tapestries and metalwork of remarkable quality.
This is not the crude stronghold of a savage king. This is the seat of an ancient civilization, one that has simply chosen warfare as its means of expansion.
The throne room is equally impressive. Soaring ceilings supported by graceful columns, walls lined with books and scrolls, weapons displayed not as trophies but as works of art. And at the center of it all, lounging in a chair that manages to be both elegant and imposing, sits Ivah.
He looks magnificent. Gone are the rough prisoner's clothes and heavy chains, replaced by a tunic of deep blue wool that brings out the darkness of his eyes and leather pants that emphasize the powerful lines of his body.
A circlet of dark metal rests on his brow—not a crown exactly, but a clear symbol of authority.
When the guards march Bellamy forward and force him to his knees, Ivah doesn't even look up from the parchment he's reading. He takes his time finishing whatever business occupies him, signing something with a flourish before finally deigning to acknowledge his captive.
Bellamy's heart hammers against his ribs as the silence stretches. This is it, isn’t it? This is the moment of truth. Will Ivah acknowledge their connection, or will he treat Bellamy as nothing more than an enemy prisoner?
"Well, well," he says, his voice carrying dangerous amusement that makes Bellamy's blood run cold. "Look what the cats dragged in."
The tone is exactly what Bellamy fears—mocking, dismissive, utterly without warmth. He forces himself to keep his chin up despite his bound hands and kneeling position, though his heart is sinking like a stone.
"Your Majesty," he says, putting just enough irony into the title to hide his growing desperation.
"Oh, we're being formal now?" Ivah leans back in his throne, studying Bellamy with casual interest. "How delightfully proper of you, Prince of Mirn. Though I have to say, your disguise could use some work."
A few of the guards chuckle at that, the sound echoing in the vast hall. Bellamy feels heat rise in his cheeks, but underneath the embarrassment is a growing certainty that he's made a terrible mistake.