Barrett pressed his cold nose to the back of Logan's palm, drawing him out of a Hobbleby account and reminding him he still sat in a frozen garden on a cold stone bench. Sticking his thumb in the book's spine and closing the pages, Logan stroked his dog's head and watched the snow fall. The pavilion sheltered him somewhat, if not completely from the wind and cold, then at least from the damp snow—and palace.

His father had gotten his way, a hanging had been organized, and to his knowledge was busy being executed—literally. Men were dying as a palace prepared for an evening of celebration and abundance. Tears fell as roses were preened and crystal polished. What world saw it fit to place such opposing emotions in such proximity? Hobbleby was correct in one of his opinions, life in the palace was insulated, safe, and calm. A cave to hide in while a storm raged; Logan was not sure he wished to continue hiding, but less sure if he wished to show his face. What good could he do with facts and history if he wasn't able to voice any of it? He was a prince. He had a duty to King and kingdom, to the people of Lethilian and the allies that helped prevent war, but none to himself, and so he'd attend his father's Moon Ball smiling—a gesture of peace some scholars claimed.

The palace air had been laden with flustered maids and butlers readying the banquet hall, lobby, gardens, and ballroom. The smell of the kitchens working overtime on decadent platters and dishes that would satisfy even the most particular of palette could be smelt if one were to walk down certain halls or past specific doors.

Logan had run from it all, finding solace and peace in a small courtyard garden on the south side of the palace grounds. A part of him wondered what was happening beyond the palace grounds, what was being said? What was being done? Hate brews hate, vengeance invites vengeance—justice forgotten.

As if to answer his question, a large figure strode out of the grounds, fur coat billowing in his wake. The hood fell away, resting against the broad, warrior shoulders. Lord Dorian looked angered. Without knowing of Logan's presence, the ambassador marched towards the pavilion, his eyes trained on the dirt path. It was only when Barrett growled that the man look up and came to an abrupt halt.

"Prince Logan" —he bowed— "I did not see you there. Please forgive me if I have disturbed you."

Logan waved away the apology. "It is not necessary. My own thoughts disturbed me long before you arrived. Please" —he indicated to the seat opposite his own— "join me. I assume you have returned from the...unfortunate display in the city?"

Dorian's dark eyes seemed to flash. "Indeed." His lips pursed together suggesting an end to the conversation, but the Cylindalean continued. "It may not be my place to say...no...it's not my place to say, but I cannot help but feel your father has struck a hornets nest. Death is not done with Lethilian."

Logan set Hobbleby's journal aside and leaned onto his knees. "You speak my own thoughts, Lord Dorian."

"Please, call me Dorian."

Logan smiled. "Either way my father rules as he deems fit, and I should trust in his decisions, for who am I to question his authority? He has ruled for over two decades, fought in two major wars and been victorious." Logan snorted. "He deserves far more respect from his son who barely knows a shiv from a dagger."

"It is true, your father is a great warrior. My people speak of his victories with great envy and respect." Dorian stroked the cuff of his furred coat, smiling to himself. "But a warrior sees power through the reflection of his sword, his strength reaches as far as his blade and his strength is founded in the men he leads to battle. But what does a warrior do when his weapon has no more use?"

Logan frowned, stroking large circles along Barrett's neck. "I imagine a warrior is always a warrior, and so new purpose has to be found. It is something I often think upon."

"What is, Highness?"

"What purpose does a warrior have in peace? What dangers lurk within a man without a cause?"

Dorian seemed confused by the question. "A strange thought to chase, Highness."

Logan shrugged. "Yet one often presented to me within the texts I peruse."

"Your Highness-"

"Please, there is no need for titles when it is just the two of us. I sometimes feel they are a hindrance to conversation. Not much is said when you have to sandwich a conversation with pleasantries."

Dorian's grin was toothy. "I could not agree more. Although one has to tread carefully with monarchs—omit a title and an offence might be taken."

"Not with this monarch. This monarch feels as much the offence as a missing title."

"You should not consider yourself such. Your father must be proud of-"

"Of the tally of my conquered books? Or the conquering of the multiple libraries the palace has to offer? No, if he is proud it is because I have managed to maintain possession of all my limbs and wit. Anything further than that would be a lie."

Dorian's silent frown was telling enough that Logan had said too much.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to speak so plainly."

"There is nothing to forgive, but if I could speak plainly?"

Logan nodded.

"If not advice, then perhaps you would like counsel and guidance. Your father is a warrior, like myself, but unlike myself, he lacks the passion for intellect and culture. It is not a lack of pride he has with you, but a lack of similarities."

Logan swallowed hard. "Those are wonderful words you hold to Dorian, and if I were any other son, and my father any other father, perhaps there would be truth to them." He could say no more. He was forbidden to. There was far more than just disappointment when his father looked at him.

Blame.

Hate? Did it extend so far?

"I sense a reluctance to continue this strand of thought," Dorian said with a smile.

"Forgive..." Logan trailed off at a wave.

"Have you had a chance to show your betrothed the city yet?"

"Possible betrothed, and no."

"Have you spoken to her at all?"

Logan scratched at the back of his neck. "Well...yes."

"Have you plans to dance with her this evening?"

"Plans? I would assume such matters evolve out of chance and opportunity, no?"

"If one did not care about an outcome, one would hope fate has a plan that suited one's preferences, but if it is a specific outcome you are aiming for, then a plan will be needed. If you wish to woo her, you ought to think of ways to do so."

"Wooing is not a skill I am well-acquainted with."

Dorian grinned. "It is a far simpler skill, and one I would gladly share with you, if you would let me."

For the first time in a long time, Logan felt like he had an ally close at hand. Strange that it came in the form of a dignitary his father clearly despised. Lord Dorian Qu'rup was still awaiting his private audience with Lethilian's King. Logan wondered whether it was a deliberate decision by his father, and if so, why? What fault did his father know that justified such mistrust?

"I would be glad to hear your advice, the Gods know I am no expert."

An hour and a half later, Logan was walking back to the palace with a cold arse but a warm smile. Dorian strode next to him, still explaining in horrific detail his failed attempts to flirt and woo. He described it as a dance and a hunt. There were beats to hit, signs to look for, a rhythm to his prey—a word from Dorian's lips. Logan listened with rapt attention, finding humour among the suggestions and advice. He laughed at particularly absurd parts, speaking his doubts and finding himself reassured of the truth.

Dorian, who most certainly could be considered far from what was deemed normal by Lethilian standards, was a man easy to like. There was a youthful innocence to his smile, yet under the smile and lacing its edges was experience and scars. He had lived, it was clear in the stories he told and the glances he threw. Not for the first time did Logan wonder what it was about the man that his father found so offensive.

"Apparently fate deems it a good opportunity for you to try your new skills." Dorian slowed his pace, pulling Logan to a stop by his elbow. Glancing up, Logan searched for what it was Dorian was referring to and found "who."

Gemima seemed to march with as much purpose as a solider off to war. Her coat, of the deepest blue and gold, flapped behind her like a ship's flag in a sea breeze. She strode through the garden unaware of the two sets of eyes that followed her.

"I dare not call my new knowledge a skill just yet," Logan scoffed.

"It is but theory, true, but the only way to evolve from the theoretical to the practical is to place trust in the former and do."

Logan furrowed his brow. "She seems upset. Perhaps now is not the time to flex my chivalry."

"I said nothing about chivalry. Charm on the other hand can come in many forms. One being sympathy and concern."

Logan made a sound that was neither agreement nor disagreement. "I still think it better to leave her be."

"Prince Logan, have we not established that your need for solitude does not extend to every soul within this palace? Why, the very thing she may be yearning for is a shoulder to share her burdens upon or a mind to discuss her woes with."

"I don't—"

"Go now, or risk me beckoning her myself." With that he gently pushed Logan forward, urging him on with his hands when Logan glanced over his shoulder.

Sighing, Logan trotted after Gemima, who had made tremendous progress despite the heavy skirt she clutched and the impractical shoes that women's fashion deemed necessary. Barrett loped in front of him, thinking the new pace the start of a game. He barked, catching Gemima's attention. She stopped, dropped her skirt, and blinked in Logan's direction. Immediately Logan slowed his pace, knowing full well the absurd sight he must make. Princes did not run after maidens. Especially flushed from the cold and with a bounding hound leading him.

"Prince Logan?" She tilted her head in the birdlike manner, which seemed to be her habit.

Logan nodded, gathering his breath. "Forgive me, Milady, but I saw you...walking...at quite a pace and—" he swallowed, gathering a possible goal for this current conversation— "thought you looked troubled."

"Troubled?" Gemima looked away for a moment before returning her dark gaze. "I have just returned from town."

Logan felt his chest tighten and nodded accordingly. He should have warned her about the hangings, should have steered her clear. "It was a decision I..."

"It was a decision made and acted upon, but not a decision to burden you. Not unless you were the one to make it?"

Logan's fist tightened. "Not entirely." Not the most charming of answers. "I mean, I was not the one to suggest it, but I knew of it."

Gemima clutched at the lapels of her coat. "You knew of it and did what exactly?"

He delayed it. Gave the people a night of celebration before they mourned over dead men that were not the men they should be fearing. No. Those men, those murderers were still out there and likely ready to spill more blood in retaliation. "I did what I could."

Gemima's chest swelled before she exhaled. "Your Highness, sometimes |I worry you think your voice a whisper against a hurricane, when in fact it holds power if you would just use it."

A smile tugged at Logan's lips but he suppressed it, made easy by the shame dousing his courage.

"I mean no offence."

"I take none from your words." Liar. "I only wish I had done more."

There must have been charm in those words for she smiled and closed the distance between them a little more. "I think you are already." She pointed to the book he clutched in one hand. "You seek cures for a plague that runs deep within the city streets, and what's more, it gives you pleasure."

"It is merely a hobby."

"Merely a hobby?" she scoffed. "Men have sought out far fouler activities to pass their time. Give yourself credit, my Prince. I worry just because nobody here acknowledges the importance of the history books that surround us, that your own worth suffers."

Logan smiled. "You think me a weak man of little self-worth and purpose."

"No," she said adamantly. "I did not mean to speak such falsities."

"Please" —Logan raised a finger— "I have given you little else to go by, but the stuttering scholar who prefers the company of an old hound and dusty pages to that of noblemen and women that live and breathe air rather than text."

Gemima opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. A part of Logan felt bad for speaking so boldly, especially when his initial aim was to comfort her and charm her. He wondered if Dorian still stood and watched, cringing as Logan sunk her ship—and his own.

"I shall see you tonight, yes?"

Gemima inhaled and nodded. "You shall. I look forward to the festivities."

"As do I," Logan said, stepping past her. It was the breath she took in but did not let out that made him turn again. "I would like you to know that your words are appreciated, despite my lack of social grace in accepting them."

"Your Highness, you do not lack grace. Not at all. Grace holds you strong, but it also holds you silent." She curtsied. "My wish for you is to rid yourself of the fear you hold onto."

"Fear of what?"

"Only you know what fear, but it is suffocating you. I do not need to know you better to see it." She took two strides towards him and to his surprise, took his hand in her own. She curled his fingers into a fist and made him squeeze it. "See. Every man can make a fist, but it is the truly strong that know what to do with it."

He stared at her long fingers resting against his knuckles. Slowly she retracted, backed away, and turned, continuing her journey. Logan stood in silence, gazing after her, fist still clenched against his chest.