Once I’m presentable, I go to meet with Leon. Martin insists on walking me there, muttering angrily about how Peter is “nowhere to be found” after “crossing lines he should never have crossed,” and then waits outside as I go in, a permanent scowl etched on his face.


    In the kitchen, I find Leon staring at a metal pot and some poorly chopped vegetable, clearly deep in thought. His house is a lot like the one I’ve been staying in—nice, probably, by medieval standards, but nothing compared to the castle. The walls are an unassuming whitish stone, all bricked together by what I assume is just mud, and the floors are covered in the same prickly rushes that haunt every room at my current place. The furniture is made up of simple wood and straw, and leaves much to be desired. But now I’m just being an ass to the middle ages.


    When Leon spots me, his eyes widen, and a relieved smile spreads across his face, his cheeks dimpling cutely. He puts the pot down with a clang and says, breathlessly, “Queen Eliana!” In three long strides, he reaches me and wraps me in his big arms. I practically disappear into the embrace, feeling lost in a sea of soft fabric and warm vanilla. I recover from my surprise quickly though and manage to hug him back before it’s over, though I expend most of my energy trying not to look as startled as I feel. When he pulls away, I see a mirror of my own surprise on his face along with a mix of sheepish embarrassment and guilt.


    “My apologies. I was so concerned—but I was unsure if you were well enough for visitors, if you would even want company. Seeing you now, I felt so overwhelmed with relief, I lost all sense of myself. Please forgive me.”


    “Oh, don’t worry about that,” I breathe, waving my hand dismissively. Every time I’m with Peter and Martin, I forget what it’s like to be in the same room as Leon. It’s like being in the same room as the sun—blinding, warm, impossible, and I get all sweaty. Then his words finally reach my brain. People have been talking about me getting burnt in the fire? I wonder if the rumors make me sound like a badass or like the Phantom of the Opera. I push the thought away and ask politely, “How are you? Were you harmed at all?”


    He shakes his head. “I am quite alright.” He holds out one arm, drawing back his sleeve, and I feel my stomach turn at the sight of the melted skin all up his forearm. “This was all I sustained.”


    “You should have told a healer,” I gasp. I automatically dig around in my skirts to grab Miri’s jar of salve from one of my deep pockets. Once I find it, I quickly uncork it and scoop out some of the thick, greasy serum, then begin rubbing it onto his skin. He blinks in surprise but doesn’t resist, letting me massage it in as I attempt to imitate what Miri did for me.


    “It does not hurt,” he says softly. “You should not waste it on me.”


    Maybe he’s right, but I can’t help myself. “It’s not a waste. This is what it’s for.”


    He watches me for a moment as I work, and we both fall silent. I can actually see the effect of the medicine for the first time, and it is bizarre to witness. It’s almost as if it is rebuilding the skin rapidly, and the burned part is just being exfoliated away. I have no problem figuring out when I’m done, as he’s essentially brand new by the end of it. The fresh layer of skin is still greasy and shining from the salve, but it’s also noticeably paler than the rest of him. He must spend a lot of time outside. I realize I’m still massaging his arm slightly, running my fingers up and down its length, and freeze as I realize how fucking weird that is.


    “What did you come here to talk to me about?” he asks, offering me an out. When I look up at him, he smiles softly. “You want to ask Viridia for support?”


    I cringe internally and then grimace externally because I can’t control my face. “I’m transparent. I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to. Really, I do.”


    “What is it that you need exactly?”


    I parrot what the advisors told me to say: “Lumber from the forests of Viridia and some additional military support along the Ward border to discourage expeditionary forces.”


    “But there is no war,” he says with a hint of a smile on his face. “So there should not be any expeditionary forces.”


    “That’s why . . . it’s to discourage them?” I stare up at him and admit quietly, “I don’t really know what I’m saying.”


    He laughs before he can stop himself, then bites his lip—probably to hold back another laugh before it turns into more. “I understand. Do not feel foolish. I have only just now realized I don’t know all of the ingredients to my favorite meal. I decided to attempt to make it, but I fear all I will be making is cabbage soup.”


    “Cabbage soup is pretty good,” I say unhelpfully.


    He chuckles, scratching his head. “Dire times, I suppose.”


    I walk over to what I guess is chopped cabbage, but mostly looks like a mess, and let out a small laugh. “You’re just like me. I can’t cook for shit either.”


    His eyebrows shoot up at my words, and I realize I’ve just been crass in front of him for maybe the first time.


    “Uh, I mean . . .”


    I trail off as he joins me at the counter, looking down at the cabbage. “You do not have to pretend to be more than you are. I find the person you are fascinating already.” He picks up a cabbage leaf and observes it.


    Will he find it fascinating that I banged Peter? God, why am I thinking about that right now? I wring my hands like a guilty Scooby Doo villain.


    “Are you talking to the cabbage?” I ask in an attempt to fill the silence.


    He quirks a smile at me. “Would you prefer if I was?” His eyes seem to sparkle as they shine down into mine.


    No. No! No stupid flirting. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Maybe I should be happy. Maybe I should be enjoying this cute little banter, this momentary reprieve from a long list of stressors that keeps getting longer. But I’m probably dead in real life. I just screwed Peter, and in some other way, kinda feel like I screwed Martin. Miri might be a spy. The whole castle got burnt down by a dragon—and who knows what that’s all about really, since it clearly has nothing to do with Ward. And Leon? I’m not even sure I get Leon, at least not really.


    He says he likes me. Why? He says he wants to court me? Why? Nothing in Alvione is that simple—which is a revelation I’m probably having way too late. But it strikes me as true, and I want more truth right now.


    My hands tense at my sides, and I take a deep breath. I focus in on the cabbage massacre before us and decide to be honest. “I find you confusing.” I immediately pause. Well, that’s not quite how I wanted to start that, but it’ll have to do. I keep my eyes fixed on the cabbage; I don’t want to see what his face looks like right now. Then I open my mouth to continue. “The thing is . . . I don’t understand why I would be interesting to you. You’re seemingly perfect, and I find it hard to believe you like me for who I am and that’s that. So, why? Why are you courting me?” I grab some cabbage leaves and start flattening them out to try to keep my hands busy while I wait for him to respond.


    He’s silent for a long time. Well, maybe not that long, but to me, it feels like centuries. Finally, he says in a flat voice, “It’s mutually beneficial, and you do not bore me.”


    Fuck. I look up at him at last, my eyebrows raised. I expect a stony expression, or a gleam of cleverness in his gaze, but I don’t get any of that. He just looks kind of sad. But I believe him—and that answer actually makes sense to me.


    Okay. I can work with that.


    I pick at the cabbage. “You said ‘it’s mutually beneficial’ first,” I tease.


    One corner of his lips turns up in a lopsided, weak smile. “It did not seem you would have believed me if I said it in the other order.”


    “So you’re more concerned with me believing you than being honest?”


    “Switching the order of my words would make them no less honest.”


    I study him, and he studies me right back. “You’re not just a pretty face, are you?”


    “Nor are you.” He turns his eyes back down to the cabbage and sighs. “Though it is true that I do not know what I’m doing here.”


    Forget the fucking soup.


    I scoop up the cabbage and turn to toss it into the pot. He watches my movements with an almost distant look in his eyes. “Just boil it,” I say. “Food is food. Sometimes it’s not that good.”


    He doesn’t move. “Do you find me a dishonest person?”


    It’s his turn not to make eye contact. I shake my head. “No. Though I think you might be a bit of a performer.” I turn to him, then reach up and touch his cheek with one hand, turning his face toward mine so he’s forced to look at me. We make eye contact, and I can see now the depth of emotion in his expression, a storm of conflicting feelings. I don’t remember Leon being this complicated in the books. “That doesn’t make you a bad person,” I say firmly. “I’m sure it has more to do with how you were raised than it does with who you are inside.”


    Hesitantly, he raises his hand to touch mine, holding it against his face. For a moment, I think I see a glimpse of teariness in his eyes, but then it’s gone. “Sometimes I don’t feel like a real person,” he says quietly. “I cannot remember what it feels like to simply live or to want something for my own. Maybe I never did.” He sighs. “If the crown is heavier than this, then I cannot possibly imagine its weight.”


    To an extent, I know what he means. Hell, I’d been a bit of a robot for quite a few years now. The last time I felt truly alive . . . was probably when I’d first read this book series. No worries about school, about a job, about money, bills, health insurance. Just me and my escapism. I felt alive.


    In Alvione, I feel alive.


    An invasive thought worms its way into my head: Maybe Peter’s right. But he can’t be—not really. This isn’t where I belong. It just isn’t.


    I shake the thoughts from my head as best I can. Because I can’t start spiraling now—it won’t help me at all. I have to keep moving forward and see how this all plays out. That’s my only option left. The crown is heavy, but it’s mine; this life is confusing, complicated, and stressful, but it’s mine.


    I take a deep breath and say, “You can always start now, by making some shitty soup with me.”


    Leon lets out a laugh. It’s raspy, a bit broken, but it feels real. “Alright.”


    “You have water?”


    He brings over a bucket, prefilled from god knows where. A well probably. As he fills the pot, I investigate the bed of wood and straw in the hearth.


    “And uh . . . do you know how to light this?”


    With a grin, he places the bucket aside, slings the pot onto the trammel, and bends down to grab a stone and some weird metal handle from the lower shelf. I watch as he strikes them together a few times until sparks form. Ah, flint and steel. Duh. Minecraft. “Should we not flavor the soup?” he asks once the fire starts to burn.


    I raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you have ‘flavors’?”


    “I do not know,” he says very seriously, his brow furrowed in concentration. “This is not my house.”


    I laugh at that, probably harder than I should, but it makes him laugh too, and for a moment, I don’t feel nervous around him. I just like him. I forget that I’m hanging out with my favorite character from my favorite book, and suddenly we’re just two people who don’t know what the fuck we’re doing.


    “Hey,” I say. Bright eyes meet mine. I reach out and take his hand, then ask earnestly, “When I go to Viridia Castle to speak with your parents about assistance for Alvione, will you come with me? I think having you by my side could help me better connect with them. And . . . frankly, I think it would also make me more comfortable.”


    To my relief, he smiles. I hope it''s a real one. “Of course,” he says. He motions to the soup, if you can even call it that, and a certain cheekiness turns his grin toothy. “I owe you one.”


    “All I did was put leaves in a pot.”


    But I know that’s not what he means.


    As his eyes meet mine, and his contagious smile has me smiling back, a reckless, freeing thought crosses my mind: Nothing matters, and I feel alive.


    Fuck it.


    I cup his face and pull him down toward me, down to my height, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss. He gasps at first—a quiet, shy little sound—but then, thankfully, kisses me back. I press my body to his and tentatively deepen the kiss, leaning in further, until his tongue is tangling with mine and his hands are finding their way to my waist. I run my own hands across his chest and can feel his stuttering heart pounding against his ribcage. “It’ll take a while for the water to boil,” I murmur against his lips. I step back so I can look at his face, and I can’t help but be amused by his wide-eyed expression.


    His mouth falls open and he whispers, “What did you have in mind?”


    I grin. Then I drag him with me to the first bedroom I can find, my mind buzzing with stupid, happy thoughts, as I completely forget Martin is waiting for me outside.