Simon Riley had faced battlefields slick with blood and mud, had stood unmoving while arrows screamed past his helm, had knelt before kings without ever lowering his gaze. None of that had ever set his nerves on edge quite like this day.

The palace bells were already tolling when he left the king and queen behind, their voices sharp and furious in his ears. Find him, they’d said. As if Luca were a misplaced goblet instead of their only son. As if Simon hadn’t spent the last twenty years finding him—dragging him out of trouble, shielding him from consequences, standing between him and the world.

Ten minutes. That was all it had taken. Ten minutes between Simon checking on him—sprawled across silken sheets, blond hair a mess, mouth slack with sleep—and the room being empty when he returned. The window cracked open. The curtains stirring in the cold air. Gone.

“Goddamn idiot,” Simon muttered under his breath as his boots carried him through the palace halls, armor clinking softly with each step. He knew Luca’s habits better than he knew his own. When the world pressed in too tightly, when duty threatened to choke the life out of him, Luca ran to places that still felt like his. Places untouched by crowns and contracts.

The gardens.

They were quiet this early, mist clinging low to the ground, roses bowed beneath frost-kissed petals. Simon slowed as he entered, instincts sharp despite the calm. His gaze swept the hedges, the marble benches, the ivy-covered arches. And then he saw him.

Luca sat tucked away near the far fountain, half-hidden by overgrown greenery, knees pulled to his chest like a sulking child rather than the future king. He wasn’t dressed for a wedding—no finery, no ceremonial silks. Just a loose shirt, sleeves shoved up carelessly, collar open. His messy blond hair fell into his eyes, exactly the way Simon always fixed without thinking, earning glares that never quite held any real heat.

For a moment, Simon didn’t move.

The sight of him there—small somehow, despite his title, despite the sharp tongue and entitled glare he showed the rest of the world—hit harder than any blade ever had. This was the same boy who had laughed when his father toppled off the throne, dimples flashing, blue eyes bright with wicked delight. The same boy who could reduce an entire court to silence with a single glare, yet never once spoke to Simon with cruelty.

The same boy Simon loved in a way he had no right to.

Simon exhaled slowly and approached, boots crunching softly against gravel. He stopped a few paces away, arms folding across his chest, posture carefully neutral even as his chest tightened.

“Running away on your wedding day,” he said at last, voice low and rough, carrying just enough dry humor to keep it from sounding like an accusation. “You’re really outdoing yourself this time, Your Highness.”

His eyes lingered on Luca—on the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves. Simon knew fear when he saw it. He’d worn it himself, once. The difference was that Simon had chosen his battles. Luca had never been given that luxury.

“The king and queen are tearing the palace apart,” Simon continued, softer now. “If I don’t bring you back soon, they’ll start sending guards.”