Mikhailis jerked awake to the echo of knuckles on carved oak. For a heartbeat he didn't know where—or who—he was. Sweat-damp curls drooped over his eyes, blurring violet silk, crimson leather, and the dented silver goblet that had never made it back to the table. His fist closed around sothing soft and crumpled; he lifted it, blinking. Stocking. A very small, very lacy stocking. Not mine.
Mikhailis jerked awake to the echo of knuckles on carved oak. For a heartbeat he didn't know where—or who—he was. Sweat-damp curls drooped over his eyes, blurring violet silk, crimson leather, and the dented silver goblet that had never made it back to the table. His fist closed around sothing soft and crumpled; he lifted it, blinking. Stocking. A very small, very lacy stocking. Not mine.
The bed reeked of lavender oil, honey-wine, crushed petals, and a muskier note that set his cheeks ablaze as mory slamd ho. Cerys's growl, Serelith's laugh, his own na chanted until it wasn't a na at all but a spell that undid him…
Knock. Harder this ti. Wood vibrated like a drum.
"Your Highness? The afternoon procession begins in fifteen minutes!"
Voice—female, harried. Probably one of Lira's junior maids. Afternoon? His spine snapped straight. He squinted at the tall window; curtains glowed molten gold. Cerys, still half-asleep, rolled from the mattress in a single soldier-sharp motion, yanked the drapes wide. Sunlight exploded through the room, searing away any hope it was still morning.
"It's already afternoon!" she barked, voice breaking on the last word. Her long red hair—sohow freed from its usual ponytail—flared like a battle banner in the light.
Sheets flew. Serelith popped up at the foot of the bed, sleeve inside-out, one sock on, violet hair tangled into a crown of chaos. "I told you," she said, stabbing a finger at no one, "we should've stopped after the fourth ti—" she hopped, chasing a fleeing boot, "or fifth? I lost count after you started chanting my na like a hymn."
Cerys's face went scarlet. "You drugged ! It's your fault I slept half the morning away!"
A scoff. "Sleep draught. A hint of valerian. You looked adorable snoring into the pillow."
"Focus!" Mikhailis hissed, grabbing trousers off a chair. He jamd both legs into one pant-leg, staggered, nearly flattened the night-stand. Queen's going to mount my head on the gate for this. He fought free, found the correct holes, yanked the linen up over bruises that hadn't been there yesterday.
Another knock—sharp enough to rattle hinges. "Your Highness?"
Serelith's robe snagged on the bed-post. She swore in liquid Elvish, kicked until seams threatened to rip, then hurled the stubborn garnt toward the wardrobe. Cerys, halfway into her breastplate, fumbled with buckles while dragging a comb through snarled crimson strands. She hit a knot, swore like a soldier. The comb snapped; she threw the halves aside and used her fingers.
"We're dead," Mikhailis muttered, wrestling with buttons that suddenly seed designed for toddlers. "Rotten, worm-eaten, decapitated dead."
He lunged for the latch—two strides—and slamd into a wall of feminine resistance. Serelith grabbed one elbow, Cerys the other, yanking him back like he was a naughty boy about to dash into traffic.
"What are you doing?" Serelith's hiss could etch-scorch steel. Wild strands of purple frad eyes bright with panic. "You look like you crawled out of a hay cart!"
"And you sll like…" Cerys sniffed, turned beet red. "Like last night."
He dared a whiff, grimaced. Sweet gods, I do. Wine, sweat, and sothing unmistakably intimate clung to his skin.
"Valid point," he conceded, "but if we don't open that door soon—"
"We'll make ti." Serelith snapped her fingers. A cedar comb materialized, humming with fresh mana. She planted herself behind him, raking through damp curls with ruthless efficiency. "Hold still, Your Highness."
Cerys tugged the skillet-sized wrinkles from his tunic, slapped dust off his breeches, jerked his collar straight so hard he coughed. Her fingers moved like a drill sergeant's—sharp, exact.
The knock returned, more insistent. Boards trembled.
"Almost ready!" Serelith trilled, voice syrupy. She leaned and hissed, "That buys ninety seconds—if she thinks you're, I don't know, adjusting your crown."
"I don't own a crown," Mikhailis muttered. Serelith yanked a curl; he yelped.
She smirked. "Consider this redial grooming class. Tuition paid in kisses."
He seized the cue, twisted, stole a quick kiss. Her violet eyes went wide. She teetered, nearly dropped the comb. A shocked giggle escaped before she bit it down, cheeks flushing orchid-pink.
He pivoted, brushed fingers across Cerys's hot cheek. She tried to glare, failed, and t his lips. A soft sound escaped her—half-growl, half-sigh—before she recovered, shoving him back with a scolding hand to the chest.
"Hair first, flirting later," she rasped, though her eyes glowed molten amber.
Serelith ramd the last boot onto his foot, barked, "Stand straight." She flicked a small glamor, and a breeze of flower-scented magic whisked away the worst of last night's aroma.
They stepped back. Tunic mostly smooth, belt only slightly crooked, boots—one still unlaced but hidden beneath trouser cuffs—hair passable. Not perfect, but fifteen-minute presentable.
Serelith strode to the door, hand poised on the latch.
"Wait!" Mikhailis whispered. Panic punched through his chest. "If anyone sees us leave together—unrumpled but from the sa room—they'll know exactly what we were doing."
Serelith froze mid-reach, mouth forming an O of understanding. The air tightened like pulled bow-string.
"Plan?" Cerys whispered, tightening a gauntlet.
Mikhailis's pulse hamred, then an idea flared bright as forge-spark. "Yes. Follow my lead."
He dragged a heavy chair—really a miniature throne with lion-paw legs—into the centre of the wrecked chamber. It screeched over mosaic tiles, shedding a trail of rose petals that had stuck to the seat soti around round three. A clutch of hair-pins rattled off the cushion as he dropped a leather-bound to thick enough to stun an ox onto his lap. Tax Ledgers of Pre-Conflux Eras. Sixteen hundred pages of dust and misery. Perfect camouflage.
Mikhailis flopped down, slapped the book open upside-down, and hunched behind it like a scholar possessed. A thin cloud puffed from the yellowed pages; he coughed, eyes watering, and blinked at lines of cramped, faded numbers that made even him dizzy.
No one will ever believe the prince-consort spends mornings tangled with two breathtaking won and afternoons pretending to adore ledgers.
"Serelith, lecture mode," he murmured.
She caught the cue before the final syllable left his lips. Chaos peeled off her like a discarded cloak; back straightened, shoulders squared. A flick of slender fingers birthed a floating slate the size of a door. Glimr-white chalk stread across it in rapid loops, sketching columns of glowing runes and absurdly precise diagrams of 'mana differentials in agrarian taxation'. Her hair, still half wild, flowed down her spine like midnight silk, but her face beca the very portrait of a strict headmistress—chin high, violet eyes icy with academic authority.
Cerys pivoted into place beside her, posture perfect despite the breast-plate still missing its left pauldron. She unrolled a blank scroll, quill poised as if ready to inscribe the secrets of the universe, though the feather trembled with how hard she gripped it. A tiny sar of dried honey at the corner of her mouth betrayed the breakfast she'd never eaten.
Knock-knock-knock—impatient. "Your Highness? We must hurry."
Mikhailis allowed one leisurely page turn, made a thoughtful "hm," then pitched his voice into lazy boredom. "Enter."
The door eased open. A maid—maybe sixteen, cheeks pink with nerves—stepped inside balancing a silver tray loaded with fresh towels. She froze mid-curtsy. Before her stood:
• A prince buried nose-deep in accounting tos, pen tapping against his temple in scholar's rhythm.
• The court magician scrawling equations in the air that humd like bees.
• A terrifying Duke-rank knight jotting frantic notes, hair now ruthlessly bound back in a tight braid.
To the maid it must have looked like a council of war over… taxes.
"Your Highness, the procession—" she began.
Mikhailis didn't glance up. He lifted one hand, dismissive and regal. "Yes, quite. Inform Lord Chamberlain I shall attend shortly. Lunch will be taken here."
His tone suggested the matter of barley tariffs on border provinces was vastly more important than whatever ceremonial nonsense waited outside. The maid's eyes flicked to Serelith; the mage gave an imperious nod and tapped a rune that burst with scholarly authority. Cerys scribbled a nonsense figure—37 %—followed by a fierce underline that made the parchnt quiver.
The poor girl blinked twice, bobbed an uncertain bow, nearly dropped the towels, recovered, and scurried out. Door shut with the softest click.
Air rushed from three chests like bellows. Mikhailis let the to sag onto his knees; dust motes floated through sunbeams like tiny golden spirits.
"We pulled it off," Serelith breathed, letting the chalk vanish in a sparkle of motes. A grin broke through her stern mask, dazzling and relieved.
Cerys slumped against the wall, scroll sliding from her fingers. "I've faced siege engines with less fear."
Mikhailis scrubbed both hands over his face, then laughed—quiet, disbelieving. If Father could see now: accounting savant in the morning, shaless rake by night.
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