"Has anyone seen Prince Yerel? I miss him so much."
The words tumbled out of Cherion’s mouth, or rather, the mouth he was currently occupying, like his brain hit "send" before proofreading. "Is Prince Yerel back yet? Can I go find him? Seriously, it’s been a full twenty-four hours since I laid eyes on him. A whole day! How am I supposed to function?"
Okay, wow. That was a lot of Yerel-venting for a sixty-second window. Chill out, kid.
He tried to rub his temples, but his limbs wouldn’t budge. His fingers remained stiffly at his sides, or occasionally fidgeted with the lace at his cuffs. The realization hit him with the weight of a soggy woolen blanket.
Oh, shit. Here we go again.
This wasn’t the cozy, fur-lined reality of the North. Gone was the scent of cedar and the faint, grounding aroma of Zarius’s leather gloves. Just a heartbeat ago, he’d been running through his checklist. The subjugation was over, a brutal shift at the office, if that office was a frozen cliffside, and he’d been properly compensated
A bath so hot it felt like a spiritual exorcism? Check.
A dinner heavy enough to knock out a horse? Check.
The "Executive Treatnt" of being carried bridal-style to his room by the Duke himself? A very big, very blush-inducing check.
He’d been lying on his bed, staring at the canopy, genuinely mourning the lack of a smartphone. But the "Passenger Protocol", his very official na for this nonsense, didn’t care about his desperate need to doomscroll.Instead of a screen, he got a front-row seat to the horror show of the original Cherion’s existence.
The original Cherion’s energy was pure chaos, like a trapped insect repeatedly body-slamming a window and learning absolutely nothing. It was obsessive. It was, frankly, exhausting to inhabit. He was "inside" the mory now, riding the original Cherion’s body like a passenger on a runaway train with no brakes and a very loud horn.
Fine, he grumbled. Not like the universe would listen, complaining to it felt about as effective as a civilian trying to get the governnt to care.
Based on the trashy novel he’d been sucked into, he didn’t need a map to know where they were going. The destination was always Yerel. It was always the Crown Prince for Cherion. Currently, the original Cherion was doing a frantic lap in front of the royal study, hounding anyone with a pulse.
"Karson, you must tell . He’s in there, isn’t he? Why won’t the guards let pass?"
Ah, Karson. Modern Cherion took a mont to appreciate the view. The Crown Prince’s aide was, admittedly, a bit of a snack. Green hair that looked like moss in a sunlit forest and sharp black eyes that seed to see through every bit of bullshit Cherion threw at him. He looked like the definition of "reliable." In the book, he was the one person, aside from the "Saintly Philia," of course, whom Yerel trusted implicitly.
"Lord Cherion, please. I’m asking you to be patient. For once. Do not cause a scene in front of His Highness’s doors. He is attending to important matters, and he will return once his business is concluded."
The original Cherion crossed his arms, his lip curling in a pout that felt painfully immature to the man watching from behind his eyes. "It’s already noon!"
Modern Cherion winced as Karson let out a long, weary sigh. It was the kind of sigh that suggested he hadn’t slept since the previous century. I feel you, Kars. Truly. I’d want to throw myself off a balcony too.
They began to walk away, Karson likely trying to lure the "bratty noble" away from the door before Yerel lost his temper. The hallway was way too bright, way too gold-plated. Everything looked expensive, and like it would break if you breathed too hard.
Then, it happened.
Coming down the opposite corridor was Yerel. He wasn’t alone. Walking half a step behind him, draped in an aura of insufferable purity, was Philia.
The original Cherion didn’t hesitate. He practically bolted forward, a happy, desperate little skip in his step. "Your Highness! You’re finally back!" He reached out, his hands fluttering like moths toward Yerel’s sleeve, aiming for a clingy hug.
Yerel moved. It wasn’t even a dramatic dodge, just a smooth sidestep that left Cherion hugging absolutely nothing. The rejection was sharp, but the original Cherion didn’t seem to care. Cherion could feel his own lips lifting into a hopeful, tragic little smile.
Yerel didn’t even look at him. He just humd a vague acknowledgnt, turning his attention to his aide. "Karson. Is my father still in his study?"
"Yes, Your Highness. He expects you."
"Good. I need to speak with him imdiately." Yerel moved right past him without slowing, his whole vibe screaming "not worth my ti."
It was then that the original Cherion noticed the "plus one." He stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the soft-featured youth standing by the Prince. "And who... who is this?"
Modern Cherion felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Northern cold. Oh, look. It’s the first eting. This person was the indirect cause of your head and body eventually parting ways, Cherion.
Philia took a step forward. He didn’t just bow, he perford a graceful, humble tilt of the body that scread "protagonist in training."
"I am Philia Viremont, my Lord," he said, his voice like honey poured over gravel. "It is a profound honor to finally et the one His Highness speaks of. I hope we can be... friends."
The original Cherion let out a sharp, derisive "Hmph." He didn’t do "friends." He did "obsessive rivalry." "And what are you doing here with His Highness? This is a restricted area of the palace."
Yerel’s voice cut through the air like a blade. "What we do is not your concern, Cherion. Co, Philia. We are late."
The original Cherion made one last, desperate grab for Yerel’s hand, his fingers brushing against the fine silk of the Prince’s tunic. Yerel stopped, looked down at the hand as if it were a particularly persistent insect, and gently but firmly detached it.
"I have to et the King," Yerel said, his tone final. He turned and walked away, his cape swirling behind him.
Philia lingered for just a second.
He didn’t follow Yerel imdiately. Instead, he turned back toward Cherion. The protagonist of the novel, the hero who was supposed to be the embodint of kindness, leaned in just a fraction.
"I have a feeling I shall need a lot of help from you from now on, Lord Cherion," Philia whispered.
And then, he smiled.
It wasn’t the protagonist’s smile. It wasn’t friendly, or reassuring, or even polite. It just felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite explain. The corners of his mouth pulled back just a bit too far, and the light in his eyes didn’t match the curve of his lips.
Modern Cherion stiffened. Yeah, no. That was terrifying. Please tell you caught that too.
The original Cherion just stood there, frozen, watching Philia trail after the Prince like a very well-trained puppy. That smile, though, lingered in his head like a bad vibe he couldn’t shake.
It was creepy. Way too intentional. And yeah, nothing like the gentle, kind-hearted Philia the books had sold him.
Shit. I got scamd. The book lied about the hero.
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