Chapter 11
Bellamy knows something is wrong the moment he sees Harwick waiting in the castle courtyard, arms crossed and wearing the expression that used to terrify him as a child when he'd been caught in some mischief.
The general's weathered face is set in grim lines, and his gray eyes track Bellamy's approach with uncomfortable intensity.
The ride back from the border had been peaceful, filled with the warm afterglow of another stolen day with Ivah and the bittersweet ache of separation. Now, seeing Harwick's stance and expression, that contentment evaporates like morning mist, replaced by the cold grip of dread.
Bellamy's mind races through possibilities as he guides Tempest toward the stables.
Has someone discovered his true destination?
Has word somehow reached the court about the Barbarian King's mysterious blonde lover?
Or is this about something else entirely—some political crisis that requires his immediate attention?
But the sick feeling in his stomach tells him it's the first option, and the way Harwick's eyes never leave his face confirms his worst fears.
"General," Bellamy says carefully, dismounting and handing Tempest's reins to a waiting groom. His voice sounds steadier than he feels, a prince's training taking over even as his heart hammers against his ribs. "Is there something urgent?"
"We need to talk." Harwick's voice is flat, final, carrying the weight of absolute authority that has commanded armies and broken enemy lines. "Now. Privately."
He's been so careful. Months of planning, of creating believable cover stories, of ensuring his absences could be explained by legitimate royal business. How could he have been discovered now, when everything between him and Ivah felt like it was building toward something momentous?
Harwick's study is exactly as Bellamy remembers from countless meetings over the years—a sparse chamber lined with maps and weapon displays that speaks of a life dedicated to military service.
Strategic texts fill the shelves, their leather bindings worn from frequent consultation.
Battle plans cover the desk, held down by paperweights that double as memorabilia from old campaigns.
This is where Harwick had taught him strategy as a boy, where they'd pored over maps and discussed the art of warfare and the burden of command. This is where Bellamy had first learned that duty sometimes demanded sacrificing what you wanted most for the greater good.
The irony isn't lost on him.
When the door closes behind them with a soft but decisive click, Harwick turns to face Bellamy with the particular stillness that precedes a storm. For a moment, neither of them speaks, and Bellamy can hear his own heartbeat in the silence.
"You were seen," Harwick says without preamble.
The words land like hammer blows, but Bellamy forces his expression to remain neutral. Years of court training serve him well now—he's learned to school his features even when his world is crumbling around him.
"Seen doing what?" he asks, proud that his voice doesn't betray the turmoil within.
"Crossing into Everitt territory. Three days ago, by Sergeant Morris on border patrol.
" Harwick's voice is carefully controlled, but Bellamy can hear the anger simmering beneath—not just anger, but hurt.
The pain of a man who's discovered that someone he loves has been lying to him.
"Care to explain what the heir to Mirn's throne was doing in enemy territory? Alone?"
Bellamy's mind races through possible explanations, discarding each one as quickly as it forms. Hunting expedition? Morris would know the prince's preferred hunting grounds. Trade negotiations? That would require an official escort. Reconnaissance? Far too dangerous to attempt alone.
For a moment, he considers denial—claiming Morris was mistaken, that he'd been somewhere else entirely.
But the steady weight of Harwick's gaze makes it clear that would be pointless.
The man has raised him since childhood, taught him everything from swordplay to statecraft.
He knows all of Bellamy's tells, can read his expressions like a favorite book.
"I've been working on building peace between our kingdoms," Bellamy says finally, lifting his chin with as much dignity as he can muster. The half-truth feels better than an outright lie, at least.
Harwick goes very still, his eyes widening in surprise.
Whatever answer he'd expected, it clearly wasn't that.
For a moment, confusion flickers across his weathered features—surprise that his protégé might be attempting diplomacy, perhaps even a flicker of pride that Bellamy would take such initiative.
"Peace?" he repeats slowly, as if testing the word on his tongue.
"Yes. Diplomatic relations. Finding common ground." The words come easier now that he's committed to this version of the truth. "Someone needs to try, and traditional channels haven't been successful."
It's not entirely false—peace is something they've discussed, even if it's wrapped up in far more personal motivations.
And there have been moments, lying in Ivah's arms in the afterglow of passion, when they've spoken of a future where their kingdoms might coexist without the constant threat of war.
"Diplomatic relations," Harwick says carefully, and Bellamy can see him trying to reconcile this information with what he knows of recent events. "You've been conducting unauthorized negotiations with a hostile foreign power."
"I've been trying to prevent a war that would cost thousands of lives," Bellamy corrects, allowing some heat to creep into his voice. "I've been trying to find solutions that our councils seem incapable of imagining."
Harwick begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back in the military bearing that's become second nature to him.
Bellamy watches the familiar rhythm—three steps to the window, pivot, three steps back—and remembers being a child, standing at attention while Harwick explained the complexities of battlefield tactics with the same measured movements.
"Have you..." Harwick swallows hard, as if the words are difficult to form. "Have you seen the Barbarian King himself?"
"I have."
The admission hangs in the air between them like a sword waiting to fall. Harwick stops pacing, his face going pale beneath his weathered tan.
"What in the devil are you thinking?" The explosion comes suddenly, Harwick's careful composure finally cracking like a dam under pressure. "You could have been killed! Or worse! That man is a savage, a conqueror who's destroyed four kingdoms—"
"He would never hurt me," Bellamy interrupts, the words coming out with more certainty than he intends.
The statement seems to echo in the sudden silence that follows. Harwick stares at him in shock, his face cycling through disbelief and horror.
"And how, exactly, would you know that with such certainty?" Harwick's voice is dangerously quiet.
"He's had ample chance and has never acted on it," Bellamy says, lifting his chin defiantly. "If he wanted to harm me, he could have done so already."
"He could be biding his time," Harwick counters, his soldier's mind already working through tactical possibilities. "Earning your trust, making you feel safe, while he plans the perfect moment to strike. Or to use you."
Bellamy shakes his head firmly. "It's not like that."
Harwick goes very still, studying Bellamy's face with the intensity he usually reserves for battle maps and strategic planning. Something in Bellamy's expression, some telltale sign that years of training have taught him to recognize, makes his eyes narrow.
"What aren't you telling me?" he asks quietly.
Bellamy opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again, unable to form the words that would either damn him completely or provide the explanation Harwick is clearly seeking. The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken truths and terrible implications.
And then understanding dawns in Harwick's eyes, slow and horrifying, like watching a man realize he's been standing on a battlefield moments before the charge begins.
"Sweet gods," Harwick breathes, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "You've been warming the bed of the Barbarian King, haven't you? Trading your body for peace between our lands?"
The accusation crashes over Bellamy, leaving him gasping for air. Heat floods his face so quickly he feels dizzy, a combination of shame and fury warring in his chest.
"It's not like that!" he protests, his voice cracking with the force of his denial.
"Isn't it? A beautiful prince, alone and unprotected, meeting secretly with a barbarian king known for taking whatever he wants?
" Harwick's voice turns harsh with disgust, with the particular revulsion of a soldier who's seen too much of what war can do to the innocent.
"How else am I supposed to interpret this?
What other currency would you have to offer him? "
"You could try listening to me!" Bellamy's own anger finally breaks free, years of careful control shattered by the pain of being so fundamentally misunderstood by the man he's looked up to his entire life. "It's not what you think—"
"Then tell me what it is! Tell me why you're risking your life, your kingdom, your very soul for the sake of a man who would burn our lands to ash if it served his purposes!"
The words pour out of Harwick with the force of genuine fear—not just professional concern for the kingdom's security, but the terror of a father watching his son walk toward destruction.
Bellamy can see it in his eyes, the same look he'd worn when Bellamy had fallen from his horse as a child, when fever had nearly claimed him at fifteen, when the first assassination attempt had left him bloody and shaken at seventeen.