The late afternoon light poured through the tall windows of the royal study, painting gold along the marble floor and across Prince Alaric's desk. Scrolls and sealed reports were scattered in orderly chaos — maps marked with red ink, letters from governors, and a half-empty cup of tea long gone cold.
He didn't look up when the door opened. "If it's another report from the border, tell them I'll—"
A familiar voice interrupted him. "Still drowning in papers, your highness?"
Alaric paused, then looked up. Lucien Asterfell, Duke of the North, stood in the doorway — pale-haired, broad-shouldered, a relaxed smirk curving his lips. The heavy fur cloak draped over him smelled faintly of frost and pine.
"Lucien," Alaric said, leaning back in his chair. "I thought you were still up north ."
"Ah, the warmth of the capital called me here," Lucien replied easily, striding in. "That, and His Majesty requested a report about the northern borders. Seems even the King misses me."
Alaric arched a brow. "You always did have a talent for flattering old men."
Lucien chuckled and dropped into the chair opposite him. "And you always had a talent for making enemies. You've conquered two territories, reorganized the military, and half the council fears you'll take the throne before your father even abdicates."
Alaric's gaze hardened slightly. "Rumors. The throne isn't mine to take."
"Maybe not," Lucien said, swirling the wine Alaric poured him. "But it's already bending toward you."
They sat in companionable silence for a while — two predators at rest, neither entirely trusting the other, yet bound by blood and mutual respect.
Lucien's tone turned casual. "I also heard something… curious."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "What now?"
"That you've been looking for a healer," Lucien said, studying his cousin carefully. "One who supposedly cured your pheromones years ago."
Alaric's hand stilled around his cup. "You've been well informed."
"It's hard not to hear about the prince who sends out royal scouts every few months under the guise of 'medical research.'" Lucien leaned forward. "You've never been the type to chase ghosts. What makes this herbalist so important?"
A faint shadow crossed Alaric's expression — a flicker of something between longing and frustration. "He's the reason I can still stand among others without losing control. The only person who ever managed to quiet what I am."
Lucien hummed thoughtfully. "And yet, you lost him."
"Not lost," Alaric said flatly. "He disappeared."
Lucien watched him for a long moment, then set down his glass. "If you're still searching, perhaps you're looking in the wrong places. Rumor has it that certain black market branches deal with restricted ingredients — , things only skilled herbalists handle."
Alaric frowned slightly. "You think he's working through the black markets?"
"Maybe," Lucien said, rising smoothly. "And if he is, he won't be in the capital. But their branches… they keep records."
Alaric's golden eyes gleamed. "Lead the way."
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That evening, cloaked in plain garments, the two men slipped through the side streets of the capital. The black market lay hidden beneath an abandoned winehouse — guarded by silent men with black armbands. Inside, smoke from burning herbs curled thick in the air. Traders whispered, coins clinked, and goods forbidden by the Crown lay neatly arranged in shadowed stalls.
Lucien moved with ease, exchanging quiet greetings with the merchants. Alaric followed, gaze sharp as a blade. Every potions, products, medicine, every vial, every whisper was a potential clue.
For hours, they searched through crates and scrolls of trade routes,shops, cross-referencing ingredients and coded ledgers. But each lead turned cold.
Until one old merchant, shoulders hunched and eyes flicking to the shadows, produced a plain crate — rough wood, no mark upon it — and set it on the stall with a careful hand. The black market here never trusted badges; everything valuable came wrapped in plainness and silence, traded in the dark alleys and tunnels where no faces were remembered.
Lucien lifted the lid. Inside lay a dozen small glass vials filled with pale liquid. A hooded buyer uncapped one and sniffed, face tightening as the scent touched him.
His grip tightened around the bottle. "Where did this come from?" he asked, voice low.
The merchant bowed, voice trembling with practiced discretion."From a small village, sir — somewhere in the south. A healer there sends a few things from time to time."
Lucien's gaze flicked to Alaric. He read the prince's expression the way others read banners: the mask of composure, the quickening of something sharp and dangerous beneath. No one here knew them; their cloaks and muted voices bought them anonymity. Names were luxuries they could not speak aloud.
"Rion," Alaric repeated, rolling the sound under his breath. "An odd name to cling to a trail."
Lucien smirked at the corner of his mouth and leaned closer, whispering, "Your highness — shall I come with you?"
Alaric closed the vial He let out a breath that tasted like old vows. "You needn't. This is my pursuit." He glanced at their aide in the dim light and issued the command without flourish — sharp, decisive, and cold. "Ready the horses. I go alone. If this proves a dead end, I will see their branch razed."
Lucien's laugh was soft and unbelieving. "Always subtle, aren't you?"
"I have waited four years," Alaric said, slipping the vial into his coat with steady hands. "If this leads to him… I will not let him vanish a second time."
They moved from the hidden stall into the narrowing alley; the market's true heart lay below — beneath stone steps that smelled of damp and smoke, where merchants traded in whispers and no one asked a name. The last light of dusk slashed between eaves: gold against shadow.
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