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Anharion looked down at the ornate invitation he was expected to present for what felt like the thousandth time and let his lip curl. The embossed golden sun glimmered handsomely in the candlelight but only added to his disdain. He scowled at the curling calligraphy, where his name and title seemed to mock him.
It was excessive, to go to such lengths. Not only had the Sun King hosted games to celebrate his engagement to his future Queen, but now he called forth a masquerade, to boot. And to make matters worse, Anharion was named the Sun King's guest of honor, a boon for championing the games two days ago. But Anharion did not want that, and stated as much when he was first informed. He was the Sun General, a Servant of the Sun, not some gaudy trinket to be flaunted. But the Sun King was not to be argued with, and Anharion was left with no choice but to heed his command.
So here he stood, outside the grand entrance to the ballroom—aptly titled the Sun Room—wearing an array of light, shimmering gold he hoped was not too homely, but also did not cross the line into garish. The mask he wore helped, a slender thing that covered the top half of his face and was golden in color and adorned with delicate rubies. It was meant to be a paragon of the Sun, but Anharion failed to see it.
With a sharp, annoyed inhale, he stepped up to the valet manning the entrance and presented his invitation.
"Oh!" the valet exclaimed, looking him up and down. "My Lord, the Sun King has requested you see His Radiant Majesty and his royal Betrothed right away."
"Has he, now?" Anharion said drily, wary of the line behind him. "Very well."
The valet bowed him in, and Anharion passed through and into proper court for the nth time in recent memory. The Sun Room was all white pillars and gold embellishments, the ceiling a great glass dome that presently displayed the night sky splattered with stars. During the day, the dazzling sunlight blinded any who turned their face skyward.
Tables laden with food and drink lined the walls and brightly lit chandeliers hung from the ribs of the dome, illuminating the Sun Room in the stead of the absent Sun. The center of the hall seemed to cradle the entirety of the Sun Kingdom, though quite a few guests wore emblems of the Tower, Serpent, and Rose Kingdoms as well. A group of minstrels situated in the far corner, and people danced to their lively tune. The glass-paned doors were wide open to the balcony and a cloister beyond, and the familiar scent of orange blossoms wafted in.
For a moment, Anharion was stricken by the memory of Sarcean stretched out, languorous on a stone bench in the gardens, his midnight hair splayed around his head like a halo of shadow. The way Sarcean looked at him, with his hair snagged between those slender, pale fingers. His lazy smirk, the way his black eyes glittered in the sunlight. He was—
Anharion forced himself to bury the memory, and turned toward the shallow dais on the far side of the room, where the Sun King sat in his ornate throne with his future consort at his side.
Slowly, Anharion approached. He wove through the crowd, ducking between conversations and slipping past dancers. The air was heavier in the crowd, weighed down with perfume and alcohol and the sweltering heat of so many bodies packed into one chamber. Emerging on the other side was a breath of fresh air.
"Sun General," the Sun King greeted upon seeing him. It was customary for the King to speak first. "Honored Guest, I hope you fare well."
Anharion bowed low. "Your Radiant Majesty. My Lady."
The Sun King's Lady smiled warmly at him, her face illuminated by it. But she said nothing, and Anharion turned back to the Sun King. Neither of them wore masks.
"What do you think of the celebration?" the king asked.
"Exuberant, Your Radiant Majesty," replied Anharion. "It is, after all, a most joyous occasion."
The Lady played with the end of her plait, which was draped generously over her left shoulder. Her smile was gone and her gaze was fixed on some unknown point somewhere else in the Sun Room, but Anharion dared not turn to identify her interest.
"Too right you are," said the Sun King, though neither he nor the Lady looked the part. Diplomacy and political straits were an art Anharion was still mastering, though he was rather adept at it. "I called you up here for a reason, General."
"I would expect nothing less of His Radiant Majesty," Anharion said, dipping his head. "How can I be of service?"
"Affairs such as this—" He gestured to the Sun Room at large. "—tend to loosen tongues and whittle away at resolve. It would grieve me to see any of my Sun Guard waver."
Anharion frowned, wishing he would speak plainly. "I shall monitor them closely, Your Radiant Majesty. I—"
The Sun King waved him quiet, and Anharion closed his mouth with indignation.
"The King's Shadow is expected to be here," said the Sun King, watching Anharion with a carefully crafted and even expression. "I extended the invitation, and he claimed he would come."
Sarcean. "Your Radiant Majesty?"
The words came out more sharply than Anharion intended, but there was little he could do to take it back now. The Sun King's Lady eyed him curiously, but the king himself took no notice of Anharion's tone. He knew what the king was inferring, but wanted the confession he harbored no entitlement to.
"Remember your vows." He offered no more explanation, and why would he? Anharion was merely a pawn in his game, and as such, he was owed nothing.
Anharion felt the heat of his embarrassment, but prayed to the Sun and all the gods it did not color his face in his anger. The mask would only help so much. He bowed stiffly. "I have never forgotten them."
"Good," the Sun King replied with a curt nod. "Begone with you. Eat, drink, enjoy yourself. I give you leave to dance with whomever you wish, so long as you remain in control of yourself. This celebration is yours as much as it is ours."
He took his Lady's hand as he spoke, and she gave Anharion a blinding smile. Despite the way she seemed dimmed beside the Sun King, she was beautiful. Still, her beauty was not enough to quell the flare of irritation in Anharion's chest. For the briefest of moments, he imagined calling forth his magic and throttling the Sun King in front of everyone for daring to insinuate that he and Sarcean—
Abruptly, Anharion bowed once more, then turned away and descended the dais.
Before he could truly disappear into the throngs of people, he heard someone call his title and felt a hand close around his upper arm. His mood only soured further as he turned to see a young Sun Guard he held some dislike for. Even in his masquerade array, with a white mask like that damned unicorn he was so enthralled with taming, identifying him was a facile effort.
"Unhand me, Viasander," Anharion said coolly.
"Apologies, General," Visander hastily replied, releasing him. "I hoped to get your attention to speak with you before I lost you. I intended no disrespect."
He bowed.
This piqued Anharion's curiosity, despite himself. "Oh?"
Visander cast a nervous glance around and beckoned Anharion closer to one of the many tables laden with wine and fruits.
"This is likely a very juvenile matter to bring to your attention," he began, fidgeting with a tassel on his robes.
"Speak your piece," said Anharion, annoyed. He had no doubts that anything Visander wanted to speak to him about was indeed juvenile. Overeager and abysmally cheerful, Visander was one of Anharion's most ingratiating underlings.
"I heard rumor that you and Sarcean are close," Visander blurted, his cheeks pink beneath his mask. He looked surprised at his own candor.
Anharion stiffened. Again, outrage and shame curled in his core at the second insinuation in mere minutes of something between himself and the King's Shadow. "Whatever rumors you are hearing, put them out of your mind at once, Visander. I will not forsake my vows for anyone, especially not the Lord of Shadows."
Visander held up his hands in defense. "No, you mistake me, General. I only mean to ask because I—" He gnawed on his lower lip and Anharion's patience was wearing thin. "I believe he sort of... flirted with me the other day, and I thought perhaps you would know if I should... return fire."
Anharion froze, staring at Visander. "Return fire," he said blankly.
"Yes," Visander said, now more closely resembling a tomato under his foolish unicorn mask than a Sun Guard. "He is rather handsome and I am not upheld to any oaths yet, and I thought—"
He cut himself off, and something ugly began to take shape within Anharion.
"You mistake me for someone who wastes time with such trifling matters," he said coldly, and Visander blanched. "This is entirely inappropriate to discuss with anyone, especially a superior. I will let it slide under these specific circumstances, but do not presume me to be a friend for your gossip and your flirting. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, General," said Visander, looking mortified. "I apologize, I—"
"There you are, Sun General." Sarcean's voice—somehow rich and cool at once and with the power to send a ripple of something along Anharion's spine—was low in his ear, breath ghosting through his hair and along his skin. "Why does it appear that you abuse poor Visander, here?"
Visander's eyes widened at the arrival of their topic of discussion, as if he heard. Anharion wondered if Sarcean was given a similar warning, because the way he addressed Anharion sounded as though he was looking for him. Sarcean's games of cat and mouse with the Sun King were something Anharion refused to take part in. It would one day inevitably erupt in Sarcean's face, or worse—the king's.
"Sarcean," Anharion replied, turning to look up at him. His breath caught in his throat. Even with his face half-obscured by a mask of glossy obsidian feathers meant to emulate the appearance of a raven, Sarcean was beautiful. He wore a black cloak that held close to his narrow shoulders but billowed out at his legs, and his hair was as silken as ever, a curtain of night falling around his shoulders. Anharion forced himself to recover. "I heard you would be in attendance this night. To answer your question, Visander has become too comfortable in his station and was being untoward."
"Not untoward," said Sarcean, touching his delicate fingers to his chest in mock offense. "Would you mind elaborating, General?"
"I would mind," said Anharion. "You may ask him yourself, if it intrigues you so much."
Sarcean waited, though he did not tear his gaze away from Anharion, who turned back to Visander with a brow lifted. Visander flustered, his face still red, and he said, "I was uncouth and asked the Sun General for advice on a personal matter. It was untoward of me, and will not happen again."
With that, Visander bowed to both of them before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Anharion alone with Sarcean.
"Was it about my flirt?" Sarcean asked.
Anharion snapped around to look at him, incredulous. His head was cocked, those glittering dark eyes behind his raven mask wide and innocent—if such a word could ever be applied to Sarcean. Anharion's eyes narrowed. "Are you bedeviling my subordinates, Sarcean?"
"Why, Sun General, I would never." Sarcean's voice was a silky drawl. He reached out and coiled one of Anharion's curls around a finger. "Tell me, was the Sun King aware that his Champion would outshine us all when His Radiant Majesty gifted him a mask to impersonate the Sun? Surely, that must be a slight against his Betrothed."
Anharion's face heated and he scowled at Sarcean. "Your flirting will not ensnare me as it has Visander."
"Ah, so he was seeking your counsel regarding me," said Sarcean, his smile small, though somehow reminiscent of a grinning fox. "My deepest apologies for putting you in such an uncomfortable position. Though, one cannot help but wonder why he thought you to be the most knowledgeable person to seek out on this matter." He shifted his finger, brushing the knuckle along Anharion's cheek, just beneath his mask. "You blush."
Indeed, his face was still flushed beneath Sarcean's touch. Anharion could practically feel the eyes of the Sun King on them as he met Sarcean's gaze, which was ignited with curiosity and something—more.
Remember your vows.
"It is the wine," said Anharion, taking the smallest step backward, a calculated move to put distance between them. Sarcean let his hand fall.
"You've not had any."
"And how might you know this, Darkbinder?"
"You wound me," said Sarcean, looking anything but. "You imply I get my information through trickery, when my most valued informant is merely personal observation."
"How boldly you confess to watching me," Anharion replied.
"No more than you watch me." Sarcean lifted his chin, a challenge in his dark gaze.
Despite Sarcean's attempts to rile his ire, Anharion could feel his earlier sour mood abating. Something that Sarcean alone seemed to have a knack for achieving, whether he knew it or not. How quickly the rest of the celebration melted into nothingness around them—noise and color that Anharion could not spare eyes nor ears for. All of his senses were fixated on one point, one person.
One pillar of shadow among a forest of gold and ivory.
"Perhaps I do need wine to tolerate you," said Anharion, feeling the smile form, though he kept it subdued. "Gods know it to be the most steadfast way."
"Careful now," Sarcean chided, his head tilting again and the curtain of his hair rippling with the movement. For a moment, Anharion wondered how he was real. "Wine is also the most steadfast way to find yourself in... unexpected situations."
"Now I must beseech you to delineate." Anharion watched curiously as Sarcean seemed to summon a valet from nowhere, and he gracefully plucked two crystal glasses of wine from the tray and offered one up. Anharion accepted it cautiously. It was cool and sweet, and he thought he might've imagined the underlying taste of orange blossoms.
Sarcean gazed at him from behind his glass, a smirk playing about his lips. "I am almost certain that the king saw fit to remind you of your vows, as he was kind enough to remind me. Unless, of course, I as the less staunch between us received special treatment as a preemptive attempt to put an end to my wicked ways."
Anharion wanted to hate him and his smug attitude, but it was impossible. He was charmed, too charmed.
"And what, exactly, do my vows have to do with wine?" His heart hammered against the cage of his ribs. Truly, the Sun King was being presumptuous. It was one thing to remind Anharion of his own vows, but Sarcean?
"You tell me," said Sarcean. "You are his Champion, I am merely his drudger to operate from the shadows while he claims himself the victor. It requires no stretch of the imagination to know which of us he keeps more informed. You ought to know his concerns more intimately."
"Speak plainly, Sarcean."
"Very well." Sarcean leaned in close, and his breath was warm on Anharion's cheek. It smelled of the wine and something a little spicier. "Your beloved king is worried I might seduce you into my bedchambers. We all know how inebriation loosens lips and spreads legs, even in the most proper of courts. Be mindful of how much you drink, General, lest he suspects your chastity to be at risk."
Anharion's breath stuttered and he meant to question Sarcean further on his motives for advising him. But what came out instead was: "And would you? Given the opportunity? Would you disregard my vows and seduce me into your bedchambers?"
"Oh, no." Sarcean's smile turned molten. "I would do much, much worse."
Anharion stared at him for a moment too long, feeling the flush creep up his neck again. Then, he frowned.
"You jest," he said, using his wine as a reason to look away.
Sarcean dipped his head. "If that is what you wish."
That is not what I wish. The words were at the tip of Anharion's tongue, but he held them back, surprised at his own forthrightness. And for a moment, he let himself wonder.
What would happen, should he confess his desire for Sarcean?
Nothing good. His vows prohibited it. Prohibited any form of contact that was anything more than friendly in nature. It was the king's insistence, that his top soldiers stay true to the Light. And Sarcean was damn near darkness incarnate. The King's Shadow.
Sarcean was temptation.
"Forgive me, my friend," Sarcean said. "I overstepped."
"No—" Anharion faltered. No? Yes, Sarcean did overstep. Why was Anharion denying it? "Perhaps for the sake of the king, avoid jesting in that manner in the future."
"Yes," said Sarcean, hiding behind his glass again. "For the sake of the king."
There was a pause, and awkward discontent filled the space between them. Then, Sarcean cocked his head.
"Will you dance with me, General?"
The question was posed so softly that Anharion nearly missed it, and for a moment, he wondered if he imagined it. But Sarcean's gaze was focused so intently on him that he knew it not to be so. He was waiting for an answer.
"I beg your pardon?" Anharion took another step back, instinctive. "I believe that constitutes as—"
Improper. But did it? The Sun King gave him leave to dance, so long as he left it at that. But Anharion suspected his permission extended to every person in the Sun Room, save for the man he currently spoke to. The only man he had interest in speaking to.
Despite keeping Sarcean in his employ, the Sun King was wary of him for reasons Anharion had yet to parse. The rumors of him being a viper, a danger were exactly that— rumors. Anharion was not so foolish as to call Sarcean harmless, but he doubted Sarcean harbored the ill intent toward the Sun Kingdom the whispers about him claimed.
A seducer, on the other hand... This, Anharion believed fully. And yet, the way Sarcean was looking at him now did not make him feel like he was merely a conquest. Sarcean looked at Anharion in a manner that made him feel Sarcean was truly seeing him.
And that, perhaps, is where the danger awaited him.
Defiance slipped through his veins, smoldering. He'd told himself after their encounter in the gardens that he would refrain from proximity with Sarcean again. How easily he succumbed to his own whims.
He lifted his chin and something like approval glimmered in those black eyes behind the raven mask and Anharion ignited.
He finished off his wine.
"Very well," he said, and Sarcean tucked his hand beneath Anharion's and lifted them to elbow height.
It was a simple touch, one that seemed almost absent on Sarcean's end, but for Anharion, it stopped his world. No one ever touched him so casually before. Not since he'd taken his vows and became the Sun King's General. And even before then, the king revered him so highly that contact with anyone else in any manner that was not through sparring was sparse.
Sarcean guided him into the throngs of dancers—placing their empty glasses on a nearby table as they went—and positioned him for the proper choreography. At this, Anharion registered with some surprise that Sarcean seemed to know exactly what to do, and Anharion would have never assumed he trifled with something as frivolous as dancing. And yet, he placed a cool hand on Anharion's waist—the part exposed by the silks of his array and scorched like fire at the contact—and took the lead as though ballroom dancing was something he'd been bred into doing.
"You look taken aback," Sarcean murmured as they fell into step along with the other dancers. "Did you truly think I would ask if there was even the slightest chance I might embarrass myself?"
Sarcean's movements were graceful, adding to Anharion's surprise at his skill. "No, I just would have assumed something as trivial as dancing to be beneath you. With all your focus being on your magic and your... duty to the king."
"I am of proper court," Sarcean replied, and even with the mask concealing the upper half of his face, Anharion could see a brow had lifted.
"Of course, you are," agreed Anharion. He would not say he felt foolish, but he certainly felt scrutinized. There was always something so electrifying whenever he met with Sarcean outside of military arrangements, and he thought his lack of armor might have something to do with it. He felt vulnerable, exposed, and Sarcean's hand on his bare waist was nothing short of distracting.
Distracting was an understatement, if Anharion was honest with himself.
"The king is watching," Sarcean murmured suddenly. He turned them in place, his steps matching Anharion's perfectly, so that his back was to the Sun King and Anharion could see them if he wanted.
But Anharion did not want to spare the king a glance.
"I thought he might," he said. "He is not fond of our friendship."
"I would not expect it of him," Sarcean mused with a small smile playing about his lips. "The last thing he would want is his two most powerful generals fraternizing."
"We are not fraternizing, we're dancing."
Sarcean's smile grew coy. "Even so."
Anharion was taken back to the last time he saw that smile; in the gardens, basked in sunlight. Sarcean's fingers toying with his hair, the perfume of the orange blossoms intoxicating his senses, that same coquettish smile.
If I were king, would you be my queen?
Anharion could not dare to think there might be something more to Sarcean's flirts. For a number of reasons, but mostly because he must be reading too much into it. Sarcean was a seducer, this was known. Even Visander had become a target of Sarcean's whim.
But when it had been the three of them, Sarcean did not even look at Visander.
"You appear troubled," Sarcean said midway through a turn. Gods, he was graceful. "What weighs on your mind, General?"
His proximity was suffocating, but Anharion wanted more of it. Wanted more of the heat of Sarcean's palm on his skin. Wanted more of—
"Perhaps too many things," Anharion said, falling into the smooth silk of the genuine concern in Sarcean's voice with ease. "None worth voicing aloud tonight, however. Though I am grateful for your solicitude. Sarcean."
The name fell from his tongue without his consent, almost an afterthought, and it tasted like dusky twilight and the lengthening shadows of a summer evening. It was by no means the first time he'd referred to Sarcean by name since they found each other, but something about uttering it aloud now while Sarcean touched him like this that felt forbidden.
When Sarcean did not reply, Anharion allowed himself to be guided around the dance floor. Their footfalls matched each other without flaw or fumble, and Sarcean's cloak billowed about them, seeming to shield Anharion from the rest of the partygoers. Sarcean himself was a wall of shadow and warmth despite his facade of cool disinterest he committed himself to. The facade that always melted whenever he and Anharion were alone together.
And Sarcean was watching him with such shadowy intensity that Anharion felt a surge of... something. They'd stopped dancing and the rest of the dancers whirled around them, seemingly oblivious to the way the Sun General and Dark General were standing, frozen, in the middle of the dance floor. At one point, a man with purple scales embedded in his skin, large, twisting horns, and thick tail brushed against Sarcean, but Sarcean paid him no mind. The most he did was step closer to Anharion. And Anharion did not step back.
"Have you met the king's intended?" he asked, casting around to find something to fill the stifling silence, to avert Sarcean's attention before he drowned in it. "You said you spoke to him. Surely, you saw her, too."
Sarcean cocked his head. "I must admit, my friend, I spared no eyes for her."
"How?" Anharion asked, aghast. "She is a great beauty. Was the king's presence truly to demanding?"
"My attention was elsewhere," said Sarcean softly, almost inaudible over the music. "I met with the king only moments after you, but I only had eyes for—" He cut off abruptly with a frown. "Join me for some fresh air?"
Anharion nodded, mystified, and they left the dance floor. The crowd seemed to part around Sarcean as he guided Anharion through, some of them looking on in awe, but most staring at Sarcean with fear. For this, Anharion wondered just how wild the rumors were spun. Sarcean was no doubt an intimidating presence, but the terror Anharion felt in Sarcean's regard had nothing to do with his power, and even less to do with his reputation.
The Sun Room opened on the eastern side of a large cloister whose pillars were lined with the same orange trees that were so common around the Sun Palace. The gardens were on the opposite side of the western wall, and Sarcean headed in that direction, where less people were crowded as they were near the grand doors to the Sun Room. The hedges were trimmed neatly, and several took the shape of dragons, unicorns, phoenixes, and even Rassalon's Lion. The greenery blooms were shut tightly for the evening, but their fragrances still lingered, creating a pleasant, dizzying atmosphere.
"The gardens?" Anharion asked.
"I am weary of people," Sarcean said. "The gardens will be more secluded."
Anharion blinked. "Do I not count as people?"
Sarcean turned his head toward him, his raven mask adding to the unreadable nature of his expression. But his dark eyes were as keen as ever. "I would not ever tire of my queen."
"Ah, that dream of yours again."
"Still a pleasant one." Sarcean's fingers slipped between Anharion's, and Anharion did not pull away. It was the heady feeling of the masquerade, the influence of the wine, the perfume of the orange trees and the closes hedge blossoms. Plenty of factors that played into his poor decision making.
And he should be wiser, but there was something simmering just beneath his skin that made him want this. He could call it defiance and claim it was merely an insistence to ignore the orders of the Sun King for just one night, but he would be doing himself—and Sarcean—a disservice. No, it was a feeling he refused to name, an undeniable urge to stay near Sarcean, to indulge in the minute contact between them and pretend, if only for a moment, that he might be allowed to have this.
Could it be happiness? He did not know, was not sure if he cared.
In the gardens, there was no one. Magelights were lit, casting the area in a soft, amber glow, but it was empty save for the two of them. Most attendees of a fête thrown by the Sun King remained close at hand, where the alcohol and food were and where they might catch some glimpse of the king's devices as entertainment. Things Anharion—and likely Sarcean, as well—had witnessed enough times to have no care for them.
The sounds of the masquerade, the laughter, the music, the floating conversations, could still be heard in the gardens, but Anharion still felt magnificently alone with Sarcean. It was exhilarating in manners he could not even begin to parse.
"How were your games, anyway?" Sarcean asked conversationally, drawing Anharion's attention back to him.
Anharion paused, more stung than he had any right to be. "Were you not there? I remember you declined the king's invitation, but I assumed..."
He assumed what? That Sarcean cared enough to stand around and watch as Anharion defeated his opponents by both blade and magic alike? It was likely Sarcean had more important things to attend to, such as the king's duplicitous bidding.
"Of course I was there," Sarcean said, frowning. The affront to his tone surprised Anharion. "I did not think it necessary of me to elaborate that me seeing what happened is entirely different than how you might have felt during, General. Your battles were no easy feat, purposed for entertainment or not. The king clearly selected his very best to fight against you, and you defeated all of them, and with not so much as a scratch on you. That alone is impressive."
Anharion paused, surveying Sarcean. It was disconcerting that he paid enough attention to note that Anharion left the games entirely unharmed. No one else had noticed. No one else had cared.
"We have sparred many times, Sarcean," he said. "You know as well as any other how quick I am."
"A fine Champion of the Sun, indeed," Sarcean murmured.
Anharion flushed. "The Sun King seems to believe just as well."
"Though," Sarcean said slowly, considering him with something like fascination, "I cannot help but wonder if it is fair."
"If what is fair?"
Quick as lightning, Sarcean drew a black dagger and sliced it across Anharion's throat. Not deep enough to kill, just enough to draw blood that spilled down his neck. Anharion froze as the sting of the wound pulsed between them—and then faded instantly. Sarcean sheathed his dagger beneath his cloak and lifted his thumb to trace it along the cut that was no longer there. It came away red with Anharion's blood.
"That," said Sarcean. "How can you possibly be bested in a tournament or a battle if you cannot be wounded?"
I can be, Anharion almost said, but he bit the quip back. He averted his gaze, and Sarcean sucked in a sharp breath.
"The king has no knowledge of this." It was not a question. Sarcean's chin jerked upright suddenly as Anharion seized him by the throat—though not with his physical hand. The phantom hand squeezed just enough for Sarcean to feel the pressure, but he only smirked wider. "Have I found a tender subject, Å̵͇̦̩̏̌̃͝n̷͍̄h̵̬͈͎̳̥̀͒̐̍a̴͖͚̅̍̐̃ŗ̴̳̙̳͛͛̎͜͝ǐ̵̖͊͋̚ǫ̸̭͎͓̫̎͛͜n̵̛̗̬̲̜̈̍̽̾̚?"
The name was a clap of thunder in Anharion's ears and he willed the magic to clench tighter. A splotch of color appeared in Sarcean's cheeks, but he otherwise appeared unfazed.
"Referring to me by name is forbidden," he said coldly.
"Ah, I'd forgotten the king lay claim to that part of you, as well," Sarcean replied. "Is there any part of you he's left unsullied?"
"Sarcean," Anharion said warningly. He gripped his own throat instinctively, though he knew there was no longer a wound. The magic released, and Sarcean's chin dropped abruptly. But he appeared relatively unruffled as he waited for Anharion to continue. "You truly have never noticed before the games?"
"Of course I did," Sarcean said. "How could I not notice that every mark I left on you never scarred? That they seemed to disappear without any tending to? Yes, General, I do watch you. How could I not? You are the most fascinating creature to walk these Four Kingdoms."
He did not wait for Anharion to reply. He reached out with a pale hand and plucked at the golden ribbons that tied Anharion's mask in place. The mask fell away from his face, suspended in the air by the ribbon Sarcean still held. Anharion had forgotten he still wore the damned thing, and he stared up at Sarcean with confusion. But Sarcean only removed his own feathered mask, tossing it aside blindly without tearing his gaze away from Anharion's.
"You intrigue me," he murmured. The Sun mask hit the flagstones beneath their feet with a metallic clatter and Sarcean took a step forward.
"Sarcean?"
"The king is right to worry."
Anharion waited for him to elaborate, but Sarcean said nothing more. Instead, he leaned down and pressed his lips—which were cool and softer than Anharion expected them to be—to Anharion's. It was brief, it was gentle, it was so forbidden.
But it was everything.
And it was too much. Anharion took a lurching step backward, away from the very thing he craved so badly, the maddening dream that haunted his every night. The one thing he wanted to himself that were held just out of reach by his vows. His vows, now shattered.
Something flickered in Sarcean's dark eyes as he watched Anharion. Something like triumph.
"You—" Anharion attempted, but he was choked, as if one of his own phantom hands was around his throat and tightening.
The victory in Sarcean's eyes sputtered and died and was replaced with remorse. "Apologies, my friend. I should not have—"
"No, you should not have," said Anharion coldly.
He turned and walked away, each step more difficult to take than the last as he hurried back toward the Sun Room. Away from soft kisses and his own traitorous desires, away from scandal. Away from Sarcean, who stood silent and unmoving as he watched Anharion go.
Come morning, the only indication that anything had taken place in the gardens were two discarded and forgotten masks, one depicting a raven, and one depicting the Sun.