Chapter 56 Go to sleep
The tent is quiet in the way only war camps ever are, too quiet, stitched together by distant movement and held breaths.
Canvas walls ripple faintly with the night wind.
Oil lamps throw warm gold across my maps, turning inked borders into rivers of shadow.
My legs ache where I kneel, but I don't move.
These lines matter. These routes decide who lives long enough to regret it.
I'm tracing a familiar mountain pass when the tent flap snaps open hard enough to rattle the poles.
"LUCIAN."
Dante storms in like a blade drawn too fast.
He's holding a cat.
Not cradling. Not carrying.
Holding.
By the scruff of its neck.
The cat is large, white, and profoundly unimpressed—its tail flicking in slow, offended arcs. Dante doesn't soften his grip. He crosses the tent in three long strides and tosses it onto the rug.
The cat skids, claws briefly catching the woven fibers, then rights itself with regal irritation. It sits. Licks one paw. And fixes Dante with a stare that promises murder in several creative forms.
"Stop trying to sleep with my soldiers," Dante snarls.
The cat yawns.
Wide. Deliberate. Insulting.
Then, like a trick of heat shimmer, its shape melts.
Fur ripples into skin. Spine lengthens. Limbs stretch. In the space of a breath, Lucian is sprawled on the rug, naked as sin, propped on one elbow like he's posing for a painting that would absolutely get burned by a priest.
"I wasn't trying to sleep with him," Lucian says lazily. "I was giving emotional support. "
Dante freezes.
"While naked."
Lucian blinks. "Yes, skin contact works well for babies, so i wanted to see if it works for soldiers too."
Dante pinches the bridge of his nose so hard I half expect blood. "If I find you in another soldier's tent," he growls, "I will personally send you home."
Lucian groans and flops onto his back, staring up at the tent ceiling like the stars have personally betrayed him. "You can't send me back. You need me."
"We are not relying on magic," Dante snaps. "And you are not a sword-wielding mage."
Lucian sits up, offended, snaps his fingers, and clothes bloom into place: dark trousers, a loose shirt, and boots. He rises and dusts imaginary dirt from his sleeves.
"I offer more than magic."
Dante arches a brow. "Oh, really, please enlighten me."
"Insight. Strategy. Emotional intelligence." Lucian steps closer, grin sharp and unapologetic. "Sex appeal."
He leans in, far too close, eyes glittering like he's daring Dante to stab him, his lips inches away from Dante's ears
"—and before you say anything—"
My knife whistles through the air.
It slams into Lucian's open palm with a solid thunk.
The tent goes very still.
Lucian blinks. Looks down at the blade buried clean through skin.
Then he grins.
"My bad," he says cheerfully. "No need to be so territorial."
He pulls the knife free. No blood. Not even a mark.
I don't bother looking up from my maps. "You're standing too close."
Lucian laughs and takes a step back, hands raised in mock surrender. Dante's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"Your only expertise," Dante says flatly, "is getting attacked and flirting with emotionally unavailable men."
Lucian's smile widens. "I have a type."
"I don't think Alexander is going to fall for your charm and call off his crusade," i say
Lucian scoffs, pacing the tent, boots soft against the rugs. "Please. If I can make a god fall in love with me, anything is possible."
Dante rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't stick. "He didn't fall in love with you. He treated you like a pet."
Lucian stops.
Just for a moment.
Then he shrugs, light as smoke. "People love their pets," he says softly. "Some of them die for them."
The lamps flicker. Outside, a horse stamps. Metal clinks. The camp breathes.
Dante exhales sharply, irritation coiling back into control. "Well," he says, voice cold, "can you ask your master to stop rewinding time for Alexander? I'm tired of being a pawn in this divine love game."
Lucian's head snaps up.
His eyes are sharp now. Ancient. Dangerous.
"He's not my master."
Lucian's voice snaps, sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of the camp.
I see the change immediately.
The lazy sprawl in his posture tightens. The humor drains from his eyes, leaving something older and darker behind something forged long before this war, before us—the air around him prickles, magic stirring like a restless animal beneath his skin.
"No one controls me," Lucian says, turning fully toward Dante now. "Not you. Not some selfish god sulking on a throne. Not fate. Not time. I am free to do whatever the hell I please."
The fire crackles between them, sparks lifting into the night as if drawn to the tension.
Dante doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.
"Then act like it," he says coolly. "Because right now you sound like someone still arguing with his chains."
Lucian laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Careful, King. You don't get to lecture me about freedom when you rule with a blade in one hand and a leash around your neck."
Dante steps forward, his shadow stretching long across the tent floor. "I rule because the world requires it. You provoke because you enjoy watching things burn."
"Someone has to," Lucian fires back. "You certainly don't."
"Enough."
They stop instantly and turn to me, like children caught mid-fight.
I'm standing near the table, maps spread beneath my hands, exhaustion sitting heavy in my bones. My temples throb. My patience is gone.
"I am tired," I say flatly. "Physically, mentally, spiritually exhausted. And if either of you keeps circling each other like feral animals, I will personally make this everyone's problem."
Lucian opens his mouth.
"Lucian," I interrupt, pointing directly at him, "you are not sleeping with the soldiers until we get home."
His face freezes mid-smirk, mid-defiance.
"What?" he says, genuinely offended. "That's not fair. How am i supposed to relieve my stress?"
Dante lets out a quiet, smug breath through his nose.
"And you," I add, turning on Dante, "do not ever call Lucian someone's pet again. Not jokingly. Not angrily. Not once."
Lucian's lips curl into a grin at that. Dante's jaw tightens.
"He's infuriating," Dante mutters.
"I can hear you," Lucian says sweetly.
"And now," I continue, pinching the bridge of my nose, "you are both going to sleep because you are giving me a headache that will absolutely turn into murder if this continues."
They start talking at the same time.
"I said," I snap, voice cracking through the tent like thunder, "go to sleep."
Silence.
Even the fire seems to be quiet.
Lucian exhales dramatically, dragging a hand down his face like a man burdened by the world's cruelty. "Fine. I'm leaving. Gods forbid I defend my autonomy or my sex life."
He turns toward the tent flap.
"Make sure you sleep in your tent," I call after him.
He pauses, glancing back with a wicked grin. "I have absolutely no idea where that is."
I narrow my eyes. "Do not test me. I will find a way to hurt you."
Lucian laughs, genuinely delighted. "Threats from a queen. I knew I liked you."
He slips out of the tent, still chuckling, his footsteps fading into the dark.
Dante steps closer. He cups my face without a word, his thumbs brushing my cheeks as if checking that I'm still here.
Then he kisses me.
Slow at first. Deep. Intentional.
The world narrows to warmth and breath and familiarity. I lean into him instinctively, fingers curling into his tunic, the lingering edge of anger dissolving into heat. His hand slides to my waist, steady, reassuring, as if anchoring me to this moment.
Then—
"Hypothetically," Lucian's voice drifts in from outside, far too close, far too amused, "could I join?"
I groan.
Dante stiffens instantly.
I pull back just enough to glare toward the tent entrance, and there he is. Lucian, leaning casually against the tent pole, arms crossed, grinning like chaos incarnate.
Without hesitation, I grab the nearest knife and throw it.
Lucian dodges smoothly, laughing as the blade sinks into the dirt.
"I'll take that as a no," he says cheerfully. "Good night, your majesties."
He disappears into the darkness before either of us can respond.
Dante exhales slowly, pressing his forehead to mine. "I am going to kill him one day."
I close my eyes, smiling despite myself. "You'll have to get in line."