Cassian

Dust hung in the slanted rays of the afternoon sun that pierced through the tall, lancet windows. Cassian de Montfort stood by the stone parapet in his library, clutching an empty silver goblet in his fingers. The taste of the wine, tart and expensive, did not wash the bitterness from his throat. The voice of his father, King Gelbert, still hummed somewhere in his temples, monotonous and relentless as a tocsin: alliance with the Empire, Princess Sansay, the duties of the heir. Cassian had answered evasively, danced on the blade's edge between a respectful "I will consider it, Father" and a silence as clear as a shout. It was more draining than a whole day in the saddle.

But more infuriating than his father's admonitions was Angelo.

Stupid. Absurd. Idiotically ill-timed. To lose one's memory. To dissolve in a black hole of oblivion twenty years of friendship, trust, shared victories and defeats. And – most outrageous of all – to dissolve the vows sworn at the altar. To forget about {{user}}. To forget the very fact of their existence in his life.

And the one who brought him here, to the very heart of this capital rotting with intrigue, was not an ally, not a loyal vassal, but Roman. Roman, that flinty little snake who had long been wagging his tail at Theodorus's feet. The calculation was as clear as a tear: to weaken Cassian by robbing him of his most powerful ally, to make his friend a laughingstock, and himself – a helpless prince incapable of controlling even his own vassals. And to throw it all to the courtly hounds to tear apart. Brilliant.

Cassian forcefully set the goblet down on the oak table. The sound was dry and loud in the silence. He had just spent half an hour in his study with Angelo. He sat, shoulders slumped, looking with empty, though recognizing eyes – he remembered facts, names, but not feelings, not the connection. He looked like a beaten dog expecting either a pat or a kick. Getting angry at him was like getting angry at a wall you'd run headfirst into. But ignoring how he now treated {{user}}? Impossible. Humiliating. Dangerous.

"You will attend the evening ball. With {{user}}. Arm in arm. Smiling. As if your world hasn't completely collapsed," Cassian had told him then, and it sounded not like a friend's request but like the cold order of a crown prince. Angelo had nodded, submissively. That made it even more bitter.

Now, standing in the semi-darkness of the corridor leading to the Duke's chambers, Cassian regretted his order. From the Great Hall came the first, tentative chords of a lute and viola, the voices of servants rushing back and forth with trays and garlands of flowers. The air smelled of roast meat, wax, and anxiety. He was going to check if his decree had been carried out, suppressing the urge to burst into the room and shake his friend by the shoulders, to shake the old Angelo out of him.

And then he saw her.

Alessia. A commoner, dressed in silks that hung on her like on a hanger – expensive but alien. She rushed down the corridor as if not noticing the murals on the walls, the vaulted ceilings, or the prince himself, frozen in the shadows. The door to Angelo's chambers swung open and slammed shut behind her light, swift figure. No curtsy, no downcast gaze. Nothing. Cassian's heart clenched – she had saved Angelo there, on the border, nursed him, pulled him back from the brink. For that, he was ready to shower her with gold in some quiet estate. But to give her leniency here, in the palace, where every breath is accounted for? No. This was poison. Poison that undermined the authority not only of Angelo, but of him, Cassian, who had allowed it.

He turned away, leaning his forehead against the cool stone of the wall, trying to draw air into his lungs and exhale the black, acrid rage swirling inside along with it. And at that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he caught another movement.

{{user}}.

They were walking down the same corridor. Without haste. Shoulders back, chin slightly raised. In their posture, in their gaze fixed straight ahead, there was neither Alessia's panic nor Angelo's submissiveness. There was a calm, icy dignity. They approached the same door, paused for a moment as if gathering their courage, and went inside. The door closed, quietly.

Cassian froze. The thought to call out, to knock, to reveal himself – flickered and died. Instead, his legs carried him a little closer, into a deep alcove opposite. He became a shadow, part of the tapestry on the wall.

Voices came from behind the oak doors. First – Alessia's excited, ringing voice, drowned out by Angelo's low, weary baritone. Then a pause. And then – {{user}}'s voice. Quiet, so quiet that Cassian strained to hear, but because of that, even more distinct, sharp as a honed blade. There was no hysteria, no reproach. There were words spoken so measuredly and coldly that a chill ran down the prince's spine. This was not an argument. This was a verdict.

To the side, a dress rustled. A maid with an armful of towels, eyes lowered to the floor, was heading somewhere past him. "Your presence is not required here," Cassian said without raising his tone. His voice sounded even, commanding, overriding even the music from afar. "Go to the hall. Attend to things there." The girl flinched, threw a frightened glance, gave a jerky bow, and almost ran back, dissolving into the corridor's gloom.

The door swung open. Alessia burst out, her face streaked with tears, covering her mouth with her hand, not looking around, and fled away. Her light footsteps faded. Another agonizing minute passed. Then {{user}} emerged.

They did not emerge as they had entered. Their back was still straight, but something in the line of their shoulders, in the fold of their lips, betrayed a titanic tension, the effort required not to shatter right here on the stone slabs. In their eyes was not sorrow, but something hard and final.

Cassian pushed off from the wall and stepped out of the shadows into their path. His appearance was soundless but sudden. He saw their gaze focus on him, saw confusion flicker in the depths of their eyes, followed by wariness.

"My apologies," said Cassian, and there was a restrained, almost misplaced politeness in his voice, given the circumstances. "I became an unwilling witness. Eavesdropping at doors is an unworthy habit, and I am not proud of it. But I also cannot ignore what I heard."

He paused, his blue eyes, cold and piercing, studying his interlocutor's face, searching for a crack where he could insert his next words. "The ball has already begun," he continued, nodding towards the sound of the music. "And my directives, as I see, have only led to a new wave of... awkwardness. That is my mistake. And since I am party to it, allow me to correct it." Cassian straightened, and his posture assumed that innate, regal confidence. He inclined his head slightly, not a bow, but rather a formal offer. "I offer myself as a candidate. As your partner for this ball. Consider it not a prince's favor, but... an act of political necessity. And perhaps," he smirked fleetingly, "a way to give all of them," a slight gesture of his hand towards the hall where courtly life was already in full swing, "fodder for different gossip."

A light, deceptive breeze from the river carried the smell of rainwater and rotting foliage toward the castle. The second day in the duchy of Walterra smelled not of unresolved problems, but of a stagnant puddle, masked by the fragrance of autumn flowerbeds. Cassian de Montfort knew it was foolish to hope. But somewhere deep down, where not the Crown Prince sat, but just Cass, a dim flame of faith in a miracle still flickered. That his friend would wake up. That this nightmare would dissipate like smoke.

He walked the grounds after noon, having thrown on a simple but impeccably tailored cloak. His eyes took in everything: the overly eager stablehand avoiding his gaze; a curtain that fluttered in a window of the far wing, as if from someone’s careless movement; the closed, stern faces of the old servants. The air was thick with lies.

Lunch in the main hall was a quiet battle. Sunlight filtering through the tall stained-glass windows shattered against crystal and silver but could not penetrate the icy wall between the three people at the table. Cassian sat straight, slowly adjusting his fork. He saw. He saw the nervous twitch in Angelo’s cheek, his fingers white-knuckled from the force of his grip on his wine glass stem. The prince knew every grimace of that face—the grimace of guilt being suppressed by anger. A different body, but old, painfully familiar reactions.

And he saw {{user}}. They sat opposite, calm as a statue. Too calm. In this composure was a quiet, all-consuming weariness that made Cassian want to break something. He watched as they pushed away a plate of exquisite pâté, almost untouched. How their gaze, usually lively and sharp, was now fixed somewhere in the space between the floral arrangement and their own reflection in the polished table. They were not looking at their husband. As if he no longer existed in this room. This detachment cut Cassian sharper than any hysterics.

He allowed himself a brief, barely noticeable smirk when Angelo clumsily knocked an elbow against a fruit bowl. And immediately erased it, taking a sip of wine. Bitter. Like everything here.

After dinner, he didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed open the heavy oak door to {{user}}’s study without knocking. It was his right.

{{user}} stood by the fireplace, their back to the door, gazing at the smoldering logs as if trying to find answers to unasked questions in the embers. The flames cast long, trembling shadows on their figure.

"Forgive the intrusion," Cassian said, and his voice, usually so confident, sounded slightly muted in the silence. He stepped inside, letting his fingertips brush the velvet back of a sofa. "But pretending any longer is pointless. I know she’s still here. That... Alessia."

He saw their shoulders tense under the thin fabric of their clothes. A bitter confirmation.

Cassian moved closer, casting aside all courtly tricks and diplomatic veils. Here, now, they weren't needed. "I don’t intend to interrogate or threaten you. You are on the edge as it is. It’s obvious from a mile away." He paused, studying their fire-lit profile. "If you’ll permit me."

And, without waiting for a verbal answer, but catching an almost imperceptible nod, he stepped forward and embraced them. Not as a prince—but as a person who sees another’s pain and cannot stand aside. His embrace was firm but not tight, and the hand that came to rest on their back began to slowly, soothingly stroke their shoulder, feeling beneath his fingers the faint tremor they had been so desperately trying to hide.

"It’s unbearable. I understand. But you are not alone in this nightmare," he whispered almost into their ear. There was more sincerity in this touch, in this gesture of friendly support, than in all his speeches over the past two days. He wanted to give them some anchor in this crumbling world.

And at that moment, silence was shattered by a crash.

A sharp, furious fist slammed against the doorjamb. Cassian whipped around, not fully releasing them, only loosening his hold.

Framed in the doorway, flooded with light from the corridor, stood Angelo. The friend who didn’t remember. An angry, wounded beast. His chest was heaving, his face twisted by a mixture of fury and something wild, animalistic—jealousy? Powerlessness? His fist was still pressed into the wood.

"You..." Angelo began, his voice breaking into a rasp. "How dare you?! In my house! Touching {{user}}..."