Eventually, the distant, muffled sound of a bell ringing in the clock tower signaled the start of the day. Julian sighed, a small, reluctant sound.

"Lucius will be waking up soon," Julian reminded him, though he made no move to get up. "He’ll want his breakfast, and we all have to eat together. And then I have to prepare for his morning lesson."

"Let Lucius wait," Alaric grumbled, shifting his weight to pin Julian more firmly to the mattress. He began to trail slow, sleepy kisses down Julian’s neck, making the scholar shiver. "The Duke of the North declares this morning a holiday."

Julian laughed, a bright, genuine sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

"You can’t declare a holiday every time you don’t want to get out of bed, Lucien."

"Watch me," Alaric countered, finally capturing Julian’s lips in a kiss that tasted of sleep and a deep, unshakeable promise.

Kissing first thing in the morning was a bit... Well, he couldn’t stop the Duke, so he might as well get used to it.

But the peace of the morning was shattered a few moments later.

There was a sharp, frantic knocking at the heavy oak doors of the suite. It wasn’t the polite, measured tap of the butler or the soft scratch of a maid. It was the heavy, rhythmic thud of a soldier’s gauntlet.

"Your Grace!" Kaelen’s voice called through the wood, sounding strained and uncharacteristically urgent. "Forgive the intrusion, but a scout has just returned from the southern pass. We have company heading for the gates."

Alaric went still, his muscles corded and ready in an instant. The playful warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by the hard, flinty steel of a commander. He sat up, pulling the furs with him, his gaze fixing on the door.

"What company, Kaelen?" Alaric demanded, his voice dropping into that low, tectonic rumble. "The blizzard only stopped a few hours ago."

"That’s just it, sir," Kaelen replied. "They didn’t come through the pass. They were already waiting in the foothills. It’s a royal delegation, Your Grace. But they aren’t flying the banners of the Sun of the Empire."

Julian sat up as well, clutching the sheets to his chest. A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the winter air raced down his spine just from hearing the mention of ’Sun of the Empire’.

"Then whose banners are they?" Alaric asked, his hand already reaching for the sword that leaned against the nightstand.

He swore he would cut the horses down if the Emperor so much as dared cross into his land, and he would not care to be tried for treason.

"The Golden Sand-Dune, sir," Kaelen answered. "The Southern Sultanate. Prince Zane is at the gates, and he is demanding to see his ’favorite cousin’ and the ’Saint of the North’ immediately."

Julian froze. He looked at Alaric, seeing the immediate, dark flash of irritation and possessiveness cross the Duke’s face. The peace had lasted exactly one and a half months, and now, trouble had come.

Just like the book said, the Southern Sultanate did come to the North, but... what is this about the saint of the North?

It had not come to Julian’s notice, but the people of the capital, and all who had heard of the trail held by the Inquisitors from the Holy Empire, all referred to Julian with one title.

Saint.

The light that shone so brightly from the mirror of true purity was a light that not even the pope had manifested.

And so, Julian had been revered as a saint among saints. A true saint that, if he wished, could become the successor of the Pope in the Holy Empire if he wanted to.

To the world, Julian wasn’t just a tutor anymore; he was a holy anomaly.

But of course... Julian was very much unaware of all of this.

The room, which moments before had been a sanctuary of skin and soft whispers, was now charged with the sharp tension of a war room.

Alaric didn’t hesitate for long as he swung his legs out of bed, his thick, tanned muscles corded and tense as he reached for his trousers.

"The Sand-Dune," Alaric muttered, his voice a low, bitter rasp that seemed to vibrate in the cool morning air. "My uncle must be truly bored to send that peacock into a blizzard."

Julian pursed his lips, still clutching the heavy furs to his chest. The warmth of their shared night was still on his skin, making the sudden intrusion of international politics feel like a bucket of ice water.

He watched Alaric’s back—the tanned, scarred skin of a man who took after his Southern mother, yet who had spent part of his life trying to be the cold, unyielding shield of the North.

But wait... did he just call the Southern prince a peacock?

"Peacock?" Julian asked softly, trying his best not to laugh at the title.

"Zane," Alaric said, pulling a heavy black tunic over his head.

He turned back to Julian, his eyes flickering with a possessiveness that bordered on aggression. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

"My cousin. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word ’no,’ and he has the impulse control of a starved wolf. Stay behind me when we go down. He’s probably already heard too much about you, and that’s why he’s here to make a noise."

Julian nodded, his heart beginning to thud with a different kind of rhythm. He needed to be careful when facing this new character.

He did not have his system to gauge the affection level or what the prince of the south might currently be thinking about him.

This time, he has to rely on his eyes and instincts.

By the time they reached the grand entrance hall, the heavy oak doors had been thrown open. The freezing air rushed in, carrying the scent of exotic spices, sandalwood, and expensive oils that didn’t belong in the North.

Standing in the center of the hall was a man who looked like he had been dipped in liquid sunlight.

Prince Zane was dressed in layers of shimmering gold silk and white linen, draped over with a heavy traveling cloak of leopard fur that seemed entirely too thin for the weather. His hair was a dark, sun-bleached brown, and his skin was a deep, radiant bronze—a stark contrast to the pale, winter-worn faces of the Northern guards pointing their swords at his chest on Alaric’s orders.

"Why, isn’t this a warm welcome?" He mocked.

He didn’t look like a prince mourning for the Empire’s Empress. He looked like a man arriving at a festival.

Ah, Alaric was right to call him a peacock.