The first thing Eliot felt was warmth.
The second thing was… discomfort.
Something was under his face. Something firm. Definitely not his silk pillow. He frowned sleepily, half-asleep and unwilling to open his eyes just yet. His hand lifted and lazily squeezed what he assumed was the edge of the pillow.
It didn't move like a pillow.
It was warm. Solid.
Muscle.
Eliot blinked.
Then blinked again.
His golden eyes opened halfway, squinting at the bright morning light that filtered through the curtains.
The realization hit him like a warhammer.
He was not on a pillow.
He was sprawled across Lucien's chest.
Lucien, who was very much awake.
Lucien, who was very much glaring at the ceiling in complete and absolute silence.
Eliot did not move.
Neither did Lucien.
It was a standoff of pride and unspoken horror.
"…I can explain," Eliot said finally, his voice muffled against Lucien's robe.
"Please don't," Lucien muttered without looking at him.
Eliot slowly raised his head and sat up, hair a complete mess, eyes bleary.
Lucien's robe was rumpled where Eliot had used it as a pillow. One of the pillows that had formed the "neutral zone" had been kicked to the floor sometime during the night.
"…I was tired," Eliot offered.
"You traveled. Fought bandits. Didn't sleep in the carriage. Then stayed up arguing."
"So I'm not at fault."
Lucien shot him a flat look. "You were on my chest."
"I have expensive tastes."
Lucien reached for his comb wordlessly.
They sat like that for a minute — Lucien fixing his hair in grim silence, Eliot yawning like a cat and hugging a pillow.
Then Eliot's eye caught something.
A small white envelope placed neatly on the edge of the nightstand.
He leaned over and grabbed it, tearing it open with one hand while sipping from the tea tray someone had pushed in at dawn.
"From Thorne," Eliot muttered. "He never lets me rest... Wait, what...?"
His brow furrowed as he read.
Then deepened.
Then widened.
Lucien turned. "What?"
"Rift. Again. Rift activity spiking near the border." Eliot's eyes darted over the page. "Southern scouts reported sightings of Class C demons—no, wait—Class B now, and the rift hasn't closed since midnight."
Lucien stood, fully alert. "Where?"
"Half a day's ride from here. Near the frozen gorge."
Lucien extended his hand calmly. "Let me see."
Eliot passed the letter over, muttering, "You never say please."
"You're lucky I say anything at all."
As Lucien scanned the letter, Eliot wrapped a robe tighter around himself and slumped into the chair.
Lucien murmured, "You have a good information network."
"I know," Eliot said smugly. "Even my spies have spies. There's nothing in the East I don't hear."
Lucien didn't answer. He walked to the wardrobe and began removing his robe, pulling out a black travel coat with steel lining and a long crimson scarf from a hidden drawer.
Eliot squinted. "What are you doing?"
Lucien glanced back calmly. "You said the rift is in the frozen gorge?"
"Yeah."
"I'm going."
Eliot nearly dropped his cup. "You're going?"
Lucien nodded once, then tightened the sword straps over his shoulder. "It's within Northern jurisdiction. My duty."
Eliot made a face. "So I'm not invited?"
"You're not required."
"Oh? Now that's offensive."
Lucien gave him a look that could ice the sun. "Stay here and rest. You look like a drowned cat."
"I do not!"
Lucien grabbed his gloves and headed to the door.
Eliot immediately got up.
And began putting on his boots.
Lucien turned slowly. "What are you doing?"
"Coming with you."
"You're not needed."
"I don't care."
Lucien paused.
Eliot tilted his head. "Don't look so surprised. We're married now, aren't we? Shouldn't I support my husband?"
Lucien looked physically pained. "Don't use that word."
"I can call you darling instead—"
"I will stab you."
"I'd like to see you try. The oath still works, remember?"
Lucien inhaled slowly. Then exhaled even slower.
"Fine," he gritted out. "You can come. Just stay out of my way."
Eliot grinned. "No promises."
It took an hour to gather their gear, prepare their mounts, and leave under the false claim of "post-wedding private travel."
Weyl and Thorne exchanged exhausted nods and followed from a distance, pretending this was normal.
It wasn't.
The frozen gorge was brutal this time of year.
Winds howled like ghosts. Ice crusted the edges of jagged cliffs. The rift shimmered in the sky like a wound in reality — glowing faint purple, pulsing with unnatural heat and stench.
Lucien dismounted first, drawing his sword without ceremony.
Eliot stepped down next, wand already in hand.
"The rift is unstable," Lucien said, voice all business. "If it gets worse, we'll need to collapse the surrounding terrain to contain it."
"Already on it," Eliot murmured. His golden eyes flicked over the rift, calculating.
Demons began to crawl out — slow, twitchy, malformed. Not the usual lesser kind. These were smarter. More vicious.
Lucien moved first.
His blade cut through the first demon with mechanical precision. Clean, cold, efficient.
Eliot followed behind, casting freezing spells to bind wings and legs, supporting without ever needing to be told.
Despite everything — the marriage, the fighting, the bickering — they worked well together.
Disturbingly well.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
They moved like partners who'd done this a thousand times.
At one point, Eliot ducked under a clawed tail — Lucien caught him mid-fall and shoved him aside just in time to block a fireball with his sword.
Eliot scrambled up, eyes wide. "That was close—"
Lucien didn't look. "Pay attention."
"I am!"
"Then stop falling."
"Stop pushing me!"
They argued while dodging acid spit and ice spikes. It was a kind of dance. A very angry, highly sarcastic dance with magic and blades.
At one point Eliot shouted, "That one's mine!"
Lucien replied, "Too slow," and cut it down first.
Eliot nearly screamed.
The rift began pulsing harder. A Class A signature spiked on Eliot's crystal.
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Rift commander."
"Of course," Eliot muttered. "Why not."
A massive, black-scaled demon emerged from the rift, wings like spears and a crown of horns on its head.
It roared, shaking the entire gorge.
Eliot muttered, "Do you want to go high or low?"
Lucien didn't answer.
He just ran forward.
Eliot cursed and followed.
What followed was chaos.
Magic burned. The ground split. Lucien's sword clanged against black iron skin, and Eliot's spells pierced the demon's wings, slowing it long enough for Lucien to drive his blade through its throat.
The rift shrieked.
And slowly collapsed, folding in on itself like crushed paper.
When the dust settled, Lucien stood panting, sword dripping acid.
Eliot leaned against a rock, hair wild, eyes wide.
Silence.
Then—
"…Not bad," Eliot muttered.
Lucien nodded. "You did well."
Eliot blinked. "What?"
Lucien turned. "I said you did well."
Eliot looked stunned for a full three seconds.
Then he grinned. "You're learning to be nice."
"Don't get used to it."
"No, no, I like this. Compliment me again."
Lucien walked away.
Eliot followed, laughing like an idiot.
*****
Eliot and Lucien sat side by side — not close, but not apart either — on the long ceremonial couch, cloaks heavy across their shoulders.
Neither of them spoke.
They were married.
They had survived.
And that was supposed to be the end of it.
Until the grand golden doors of the room creaked open again.
Everyone turned.
The emperor stood tall and cold, his robes gleaming. His expression unreadable as he stepped into the temple once more. In his shadow followed priests in white and gold, moving quietly, solemnly.
Between them—
A child.
Small.
Barefoot.
A boy, barely five years old. Pale hair curled softly around his ears, and his large violet eyes flicked from side to side with fear. His small hands were clenched at his sides. He flinched at every sound, every footstep.
"Saint Cassian," the head priest declared.
The boy froze.
The emperor didn't look at the child. He looked straight at Lucien.
Then at Eliot.
And said, without a single flicker of emotion: "This is your son."
Lucien blinked.
Eliot nearly choked on his breath.
The emperor continued, tone like carved ice. "From this day forth, the saint born under the stars of this empire shall be protected by the royal family. By the name of the Grand Duke and Crown. You are married. Therefore, he is yours."
The boy looked up at them in silent panic.
Lucien stared at his father. "...What?"
The emperor didn't repeat himself. Instead, he stepped aside. Behind him, the Duke of East — Eliot's father — emerged, face dark, tired, but strangely… resigned.
He nodded once.
A subtle, bitter nod.
And with one push, his hand pressed gently on the child's back, urging him forward.
The boy stumbled two steps closer to Eliot.
The room was silent.
The priests bowed deeply and turned.
And the emperor walked away without another word.
The child just stood there.
Shivering.
Lucien was the first to recover.
He looked at the boy, at the priests who left, and then at Eliot — who looked just as stunned as he was — and muttered, "…Huh."
Eliot whispered, "What just happened?"
No one answered.
The corridor outside the ceremonial hall was long and silent as they walked. Eliot trailed slightly behind Lucien, who carried the child with all the expertise of someone holding a very fragile fruit basket he didn't ask for.
Cassian didn't speak.
Didn't cry.
Just sat quietly in Lucien's arms, hands clutching the front of the robe. Eliot glanced over and caught the faint shimmer of light at the child's wrist.
A divine blessing mark.
Real.
Undeniably real.
"…So that's why," Eliot muttered.
Lucien didn't look at him. "Why what?"
"My sister and your brother were matched. But now it makes sense. They weren't just marrying off 'useless' children. They needed a cover. A shield."
Lucien nodded, slow and stiff. "If anything happens to this child…"
"The blame falls on us."
"And if he thrives…"
"The empire takes credit for raising a Saint."
They stopped walking.
Both of them sighed in perfect sync.
Cassian looked between them, still too scared to speak.
Eliot whispered, "They used us."
Lucien glanced down at the child in his arms. "We're expendable. Perfect scapegoats."
Eliot looked away, bitter. "All they needed was a name. Royal and noble. A marriage to justify claiming him from the Holy Empire."
Lucien nodded. "And now he's ours."
The word felt wrong in his mouth.
They returned to their quarters.
The servants bowed and vanished as instructed. The room was too big. The chandelier above cast too much light. The fire crackled in the hearth like it was trying to comfort someone.
The three of them stood in the middle of the room.
Awkward.
Silent.
Cassian looked around with wide eyes. His lip trembled slightly.
Eliot gently knelt down, his voice soft, the way he used when calming a scared animal. "Cassian, right?"
The boy nodded. Just once.
Eliot smiled. "Are you hungry?"
Another nod.
Lucien walked to the side and rang the bell. A few moments later, a meal was prepared. Light and warm. He didn't say a word, just pointed to the table.
Cassian glanced between them, still unsure.
Lucien sighed. "Eat."
The boy startled but obeyed, climbing awkwardly into the seat.
Eliot stared at the scene.
Then sat beside him. "Hey, do you like sweets?"
Cassian paused. "I… like honey bread…"
Lucien raised a brow.
Eliot smirked. "Noted."
Silence.
Only the sound of chewing.
Then Lucien muttered, "I don't know how to raise a child."
Eliot snorted. "You don't say."
"I barely sleep."
"I research and assassinate people."
Lucien said flatly, "You flirt with danger."
"You flirt with swords."
"We're not qualified."
"Understatement."
Cassian glanced at them. Eliot smiled awkwardly. "Don't worry. We're not arguing."
Lucien muttered, "Not yet."
Eliot stood and paced. "This is impossible. We can't raise a Saint. He's five! He'll ask questions. Need bedtime stories. School. Emotional support!"
Lucien groaned. "I can't even make my own bed."
Eliot rubbed his face. "I don't even fold my socks."
Lucien looked at Cassian, then Eliot. "We need help."
Eliot snapped his fingers. "Nannies."
Lucien blinked. "What?"
Eliot repeated, "We hire nannies."
Lucien stared at him.
Then nodded.
"Smartest thing you've said all week."
"Excuse me?"
Cassian giggled softly at their bickering.
They both looked at him.
Eliot smiled. "You okay, Cassian?"
The boy hesitated. Then nodded. "You two… talk funny."
Lucien raised a brow. "Funny how?"
Cassian giggled again. "Like cats."
Eliot tilted his head. "Which one of us is the cat?"
Cassian smiled, shy but wide. "You. He's a dog."
Lucien looked offended. "What kind of dog?"
Cassian thought hard. "Big. Grumpy. Growls a lot."
Eliot burst out laughing.
Lucien muttered, "This child is cursed."
Eliot ruffled Cassian's hair gently. "He's not cursed. He's yours."
Lucien stiffened. "Don't say that."
Eliot shrugged. "You're holding him."
Lucien grunted and looked away.
Eliot leaned back, eyes thoughtful.
"…It won't be easy," he murmured. "But maybe we can manage."
Lucien sighed. "With help."
"We'll have to change a few things."
"Like what?"
"No more trying to kill each other."
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Hard bargain."
Eliot smirked. "Think of the child."
Cassian yawned.
Lucien carried him carefully to the side bed, tucked him in with awkward but determined motions.
Cassian whispered, "Will you stay?"
Eliot answered softly, "We're not going anywhere."
Lucien turned out the light.
The child slept.
And for a moment — just a moment — the sovereigns stood still in the quiet.
Not enemies.
Not allies.
Just two men who'd survived war, betrayal, family, marriage.