Chapter 10
WYLAN
Wylan liked Lord Dren… but over the weeks on Pine Island, he was beginning to fear that like wasn’t love.
At first, it was easy to confuse the two.
The slight guilt at “betraying” Feo faded as Wylan and Dren talked about their past relationships, spent nights intertwined by the fire, collaborated in public and kissed in private.
It swept Wylan into a giddiness he hadn’t felt in ages—hope of something fresh and new.
Hope of recapturing what he’d had, once.
But well before Feo and Kianthe arrived to help the town, that feeling began to dull.
The first moments came quietly. A mason approached Lord Dren and said, “My lord. There’s evidence of rocks shifting on the western side of the slope. Foundations may not be as solid there.”
A conundrum, one that would require restructuring the entire setup of the town square. Dren hesitated, brow knitting together as he glanced at Wylan. “What do you think? Should we rearrange the town square, or… or maybe the Arcandor can reinforce the ground when she arrives?”
Wylan held up his hands. “I’m the visiting lord. You’ll be making these decisions once I return to Tawney.”
Lord Dren frowned. “I’d love your opinion, Lord Wylan.”
For a moment, Wylan almost offered it.
But once upon a time, young Wylan had been sent to visit other lords and watch how they commanded their lands.
Once, only once, he’d visited a small town called Lopplan, west of the Capital, and told the much older, more experienced lord, “Your citizens keep saying they’re hungry.
What are you planning to do about that?”
The lord had glowered at the child before him.
Ralund, then Wylan’s travel companion, had profusely apologized, snatched Wylan away, and whispered in a dark corridor of cold stone, “My lord, questions like that could be perceived as an act of civil war. You do not govern lands that aren’t your own. ”
Wylan had apologized, and they left Lopplan in a hurry.
Upon returning to Tawney, Wylan’s father had already heard of his son’s overstep.
He loomed over Wylan and snapped, “I’ve had to make a formal apology to Queen Eren, and send a gift to smooth things with Lopplan’s lord.
We can’t afford to sacrifice more cattle to your rambling mouth. ”
Wylan had clamped his rambling mouth shut, then, and only reopened it once Queen Reyna started asking his opinion on various prospects.
But old habits died hard.
With Lord Dren and the mason both staring, Wylan’s opinions vanished. These weren’t his lands anymore. He didn’t govern Pine Island, and wouldn’t pretend otherwise. He shook his head and replied, “It’s your call, Lord Dren. Your town. Your command.”
Dren hesitated, then turned back to the mason. “We shouldn’t rely on the Arcandor at this stage. Let’s place the buildings on more stable ground.”
Wylan nodded approval. Lord Dren smiled back. But that night, when they were tangled together inside the dark recesses of their shared tent, keeping their voices low so they didn’t disturb the sleeping workers in the tents around them, Dren asked, “Was that the right call?”
There was an easy confidence in Feo that Dren simply lacked—and in moments like this, the difference was obvious. Where his relationship with Feo had felt like two friends challenging each other to be better, with Dren it was more of a teaching experience.
“It’s your town,” Wylan said, trying to overcome his exasperation at having to clarify it again. “I think you’re doing wonderfully. Trust yourself, okay?”
In Wylan’s mind, this was both encouragement…
and proper protocol in high Queendom society.
When Dren seemed disappointed with the lack of substance in Wylan’s response, Wylan wrote it off to the alternative: that Dren was very new to lordship, and didn’t realize that Wylan was actually being polite by leaving him to it.
Dren would figure it out.
That kind of exchange happened again and again.
They ran out of supplies for the dock—did they return to the mainland to retrieve more, or cut down trees locally?
A family who’d settled before Lord Dren arrived had a problem with the trees cleared for crops to be planted—where did private property end, and public property begin?
Each time, Wylan held up his hands and smiled encouragingly, and each time, Lord Dren learned how to reply.
The final time—a mild qualm about the dimensions of their proposed town hall—had two carpenters bearing down on Lord Dren.
“If we build to the original dimensions, we’ll use most of our lumber,” one snapped.
The other huffed. “If we don’t build it as planned, it will be too small to serve much of a purpose, won’t it? Look around! There’s plenty of lumber.”
“Do you know how long it took to harvest this much lumber—” the first began.
“Do it right, or not at all,” the second interrupted, pivoting to Dren and Wylan. “What do you think, my lords?”
Wylan raised his hands, as was custom—but Lord Dren didn’t even look at him this time. He squared his shoulders and confidently told the carpenters, “We build it right the first time. Let’s cut down more trees. I’ll help with the labor.”
“I thought you were an accountant,” the dissenting carpenter said dubiously.
Dren rolled up his sleeves. “Well, now, I’m a lord. But… yes. You might have to show me how to use a saw.” With barely a wave at Wylan, Dren led the men into the forest.
It was good. A smart solution, and a clear demonstration that Dren would be a hands-on leader, even if he wasn’t excellent at labor outside of his abacus and scrolls. Wylan should have been proud—but he found himself standing in the empty clearing, feeling mildly put-out instead.
In a flash, Wylan found himself alone.
Again.
He kept busy around the town square, and evening fell before Dren returned. When Dren finally lifted the flap to their tent, Wylan was laying on a bedroll, and couldn’t keep the accusation from his voice. “You were gone a while. I thought we’d eat dinner together.”
“Harvesting lumber is awful work, and takes an age. Give me numbers and shipment registries any day.” Dren stripped his shirt, then seemed to notice Wylan’s expression. He paused, frowning. “Are you upset? Did I do something wrong?”
That lack of confidence needled at Wylan yet again.
But more, Wylan considered his question. Had Dren done something wrong? Wylan couldn’t pinpoint anything except the niggling feeling of being ignored. “No, you didn’t. I think I just felt… abandoned. Which I recognize is ridiculous.”
Dren snorted. “You were welcome to come cut trees with us.”
It slammed into Wylan instantly.
You’re welcome to create curriculum in my place, Feo had said stiffly, after stomping into the cottage late one night and learning Wylan had eaten alone.
The implication had been clear: I have responsibilities, and they take priority over you.
Over us.
Wylan tensed. “I wanted dinner with you. That’s all.”
“You told me to handle my town’s problems,” Dren said, defensiveness creeping into his tone. “I thought I was doing the right thing. We didn’t talk about dinner.”
“You left awfully fast. And I thought you’d be back—”
Dren stopped him, his expression analytical. “Hold on. Is this something Feo would do, back when you two dated? You can tell me I’m wrong. It just… it seems like you’re a bit combative tonight.”
Wylan stopped short, cheeks burning. He sat up on the bedroll, pressing his lips together. Humiliation overrode the irritation, making him slump. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Dren sat beside him. With his shirt off, it was easy to see he’d wiped down after all the manual labor—his skin was smooth, and he smelled vaguely of soap. Dren fished for a sleeping shirt, thick and woolen for the cold nights here. “Want to talk about it?”
Wylan stared at his hands. “I will, if you’d like.”
Dren sighed. “If it helps, I only recognized it because it’s happened to me. I dated a man who constantly made me feel like a failure. Even years after we separated, that feeling can still make me furious. Old wounds, I guess.”
Sounded all too familiar. Wylan let his mind sink back into life with Feo, and all of the tiny moments that tore them apart.
It felt cathartic, to finally speak some of that aloud: “Feo got busy with the alchemy school. Before that, they were busy with being a Sheparan councilmember. I tried to be encouraging, but over time… it started to feel like I was never a priority. I think that’s how I felt today.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”
Wylan sighed. “You’re right. Old wounds.”
“Mhmm,” Dren agreed. He opened his mouth to say something else… but clearly changed his mind. Instead, he leaned against Wylan’s chest and sighed when Wylan’s arms wrapped around him. Together, they sat in quiet contemplation, mulling over old relationships.
* * *
A week later, Kianthe and Feo arrived, and rattled Wylan further.
Wylan knew these weeks with Dren were a precious thing, a relationship carefully cordoned off from his jobs and responsibilities in Tawney, from the folks who’d ask prying questions if they knew. He knew things would be different when the bubble popped.
But knowing didn’t prepare him for the crestfallen look on Feo’s face when they arrived. It didn’t prepare him for Feo ignoring him all day, working themselves raw while simultaneously telling Wylan they didn’t need his help.
It didn’t prepare him for that night around the bonfire, when Feo begged him to leave them alone.
Feo had never asked for space before—they’d simply taken it through omission. Feo was perfectly content if Wylan was present or not, and over time, that became the problem.
And then, Feo showed emotion in the opposite direction.
Leave me be. I’m happy for you. I’m happy for Dren.
Leave me.
And an unspoken addon: please, please, please.