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“I will hear your petition. Enter, Doman,” he replied. “The rest of you may go. You will be summoned once our business has concluded.” Hien heard, rather than saw, the attendants filing out of the room. He remained still, waiting until he heard the faint click of the doors being sealed, Magnai’s soft footsteps barely audible over the rapid thud of his heartbeat.

“Surely you tire of this charade. Must you insist on coming here?” Magnai asked, his voice closer than anticipated. His arms were crossed petulantly across his chest, gold eyes filled with poorly-concealed amusement. Hien rose from his knees, grimacing slightly. The hard floors were unkind to his joints. For each step he took to close the distance between them, Magnai stepped backward to widen the gap. They both knew the gesture was fruitless; there was no way that Magnai did not realize that the throne was fewer than three steps behind him. The smile on Hien’s face had become predatory, his gait feline and soundless. 

“You’ll find the shinobi surrounding the Kienkan more difficult to dismiss. Unless you enjoy being watched, ‘tis better that we avoid Doma altogether.”

“It would not be the first time, nor the last. Domans are not the only ones skilled in subterfuge. What makes you so certain that you’ve not been observed here?” His voice shook with barely-restrained excitement, eyes following Hien as he brushed past, seating himself delicately on the throne. Hien crossed his legs, one elbow resting on the armrest, chin propped lazily in his hand. 

His posture was brazenly cocky, the smirk on his face an invitation more than a challenge. The expression on his face ignited a strange heat within him; there was no way to misinterpret the crude, blatant curiosity in his eyes. 

Hien flicked his gaze at a spot directly in front of him, one fulm from the junction of his hips . It was impossible to know if he realized this; Magnai acquiesced all the same, heart hammering beneath his ribs. 

"I’m certain,” Hien answered, his voice pitched dangerously low, “because your attendants would not permit me to be alone with you if they knew what transpired here.”

Without warning, Hien yanked on the collar of his robe, stronger and swifter than he would have expected, bringing their faces mere ilms apart. Magnai could see the flecks of gold in Hien’s eyes, could feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. He tried to ignore the proximity of their bodies, knowing his hesitance was little more than a mummery. 

“Do not mock me, Hien.” The name sounded foreign and unfamiliar on his tongue, far too intimate.

Hien seemed to read his thoughts, eyes glancing languidly at his lips before returning to his gaze. He felt Hien’s palm against the back of his neck, fingers carding idly through his hair.

"I would not dream of it,” he whispered before bringing their lips together , chaste for only a moment before his own need seemed to consume him. Hien shifted his weight, uncrossing his legs and drawing Magnai between them, bodies flush against one another’s. Heat pooled in his stomach, a small whimper rumbling in the back of his throat as he chased after Hien’s mouth, the both of them reduced to communicating in little more than clumsy lips and heated breaths. He resisted the urge to bring their hips together, hoping that he wasn’t already hard. He could feel Hien smirk against his lips, teeth grazing his bottom lip with just enough force to send a jolt of pleasure down his spine. 

Hien clawed at his back, urging him closer, seemingly unbothered by how tightly he had been sandwiched between the throne and Magnai’s massive frame. Magnai pulled away from him, panting wildly. Hien looked as though he’d been doused in ice water.

“Let us switch. You may sit astride me,” he muttered, flush deepening. 

“Afraid that I’ll defile your throne further?” Hien teased, resting a leg on either side of Magnai’s waist, hands cupping his face with surprising tenderness. The Doman settled on top of him carefully, angling himself such that only their torsos touched. Magnai wasn’t sure whether this was an attempt at modesty or courtesy, finding that neither seemed unbelievable.

“You speak too much.”

“Pray forgive me,” Hien said, closing the gap between their mouths once more, their passion reigniting with little preamble.

Magnai tugged clumsily at the ribbons in Hien’s hair, letting it cascade down his shoulders. It was softer than he would have expected it to be, and he loved running his fingers through it, feeling Hien’s small shudder of delight as he gently caressed his scalp. He liked to think that he was the only one who could see the ruler of Doma like this, black hair wild and unkempt, legs wrapped wantonly around his waist. 

Hien had a wicked tongue, something as simple as a kiss making him feel as though he were weightless. A heady numbness had spread throughout his body, akin to inebriation but sweeter. He tried not to think about how many Doman concubines it had taken for him to become so skilled; it was impossible to concentrate on anything overlong when his partner seemed determined to taste and lick at every ilm of his mouth. For now, he would settle for feeling indebted to them.

Magnai tugged gently at Hien’s hair, head tilting back and exposing the unmarred expanse of his throat. Ignoring Hien’s yelp of surprise at the loss of contact, he trailed a tongue along his skin, tasting salt and something vaguely reminiscent of honey. 

“You planned this,” he said, face growing warm as he remembered where he had tasted this before. If he felt compelled to look, he knew he would find the source hidden in Hien’s robes, a small bottle of fragrant, delectable oil that would have immediately spoiled the game if the attendants had thought to look for it. “And do not pretend that you didn’t think I’d find out.”

Magnai nipped gently at his throat, Hien’s voice hoarse as he swore quietly under his breath. A thin trickle of sweat ran along his brow, both their bodies much too close despite the frigid air of the Steppe. He traced the firm contours and dips in Hien’s frame, learning the places where his flesh puckered in memory of an old injury: his wrists, his shoulders, the small of his back. It was difficult to find parts of him that hadn’t been been kissed by a stranger’s blade. It reminded him unequivocally that in spite of his pretty face and delicate features, the Prince — his Hien — was a warrior first. The wanton creature moaning and clutching at him was in such a state because he willed it so; he played the captive, but it was plain that he had wanted to be caught.

One hand still clenching his hair, Magnai’s other hand found a firm nub on Hien’s chest, its nature confirmed when Hien convulsed violently as his thumb rubbed against it. His breaths were wild, torn between the blinding pleasure of teeth biting into his neck and the embarrassing sensitivity of his chest. Magnai would tease him about it if he weren’t so captivated by Hien’s responsiveness, instead giving the nub a curious pinch as he lightly pulled his captive’s hair.

Hien cried out in pleasure, hips bucking furiously; Magnai felt lightheaded, blood surging south as a familiar hardness pressed insistently against his thigh. Before Hien had a chance to feel humiliated, he did so again, nibbling rather than biting at his neck so as to not overwhelm him. He alternated his focus, watching the subtle shift in the pitch of Hien’s cries, or how urgently he writhed against him. Though his chest was more sensitive, Hien seemed keener on being bitten, even as he uttered barely-intelligible protestations.

“Visible… counsel — below the coll— ”

“You should have thought of that before you threw yourself at me,” Magnai growled, sinking his teeth in further to emphasize the point. Hien moaned in response, robes tented and damp between his thighs. To see the silver-tongued Prince of Doma rutting in his lap like a common concubine left him breathless, hardly daring to believe his fortune.

“This look suits you,” he said softly. “The Prince of Doma, whimpering—” he stroked Hien roughly, letting the Prince rock in his grasp — “and debauched.”

And devastatingly beautiful.

He felt a small hand snake deftly towards his own groin, slipping past the ample layers of his coat and wrapping around his own desire with a dexterity that should have alarmed him. Magnai threw his head back, biting his lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape. 

"No, let me hear you,” Hien gasped, twisting his wrist around Magnai’s arousal in a way that had him seeing stars, thrusting impatiently into the prince’s palm. To his humiliation, Hien’s hand was slick with his excitement, gliding easily along his length. He had never had much willpower against Hien’s clever fingers, and today was no exception. He knew he should feel guilty for neglecting Hien, barely able to do more than weakly reciprocate, but all he could think about was the delicious friction with every snap of his hips. 

Neither of them had the capacity for speech, mouths and tongues mingling in vulgar imitation. There would be no disguising what was transpiring between them should someone be impudent enough to intrude, and Magnai found himself grateful that his attendants had the foresight to lock the door.

Sound, however, is another matter, he thought, finding it difficult to care, intoxicated by the sound of Hien’s low, keening pleas. Had he known him capable of such unseemly behavior, he might have approached him sooner. He had expected a disinterested, icy prince, utterly divorced from carnality. There was something primitive in the way he drew a sword, however, a delight with which he shifted into a fighting stance, captivating in its implied brutality. Though initially relegated to fighting the Miqo’te with the colorless eyes, he had found it impossible to tear his eyes away from the elegant savagery with which the Doman fought. 

Apparently the feeling had been mutual, both men yearning to cross swords with the other ever since. An arrangement without words formed, Hien regularly travelling to the Steppe to train with him; to his chagrin, these visits were always unannounced, though somehow never mistimed. It ran counter to his expectations — surely he had plenty to occupy him in Doma, and plenty retainers besides to train with — but Hien seemed to genuinely look forward to their bouts, breaking into a feral grin the second their weapons clashed against one another’s. 

What had begun as idle sparring, well after the Oronir agreed to lend their aid, had reached its inevitable conclusion. During a particularly long bout, Hien had managed to disarm him, axe landing yalms away with a dull thud. Eyes alight with violent glee, he had pinned Magnai’s wrists to the ground, straddling him victoriously while they both still panted from sheer exhaustion. There was an odd excitement in the Doman’s eyes, however, his face unnaturally flushed as the weather remained too cold for either of them to have broken a sweat. As a man, he could draw his own conclusions about the source of Hien’s excitement; as little more than a stranger, he had no idea how to deal with it.

Hien had come to his senses quickly, summoning a yol and careening across the Steppe with a swiftness that would have been comical had his humiliation not been so obvious. It had taken weeks of carefully-worded letters to convince him that he was missed, and more still to goad him into drawing his blade once more. In spite of himself, he had grown fond of the rare glimpses of Hien’s violence these bouts granted him, he himself still more comfortable resolving matters with ferocity than flattery. He suspected Hien understood, and that deep down he reveled in the simplicity of blades whistling past one another, the carnality of bloodshed. Since their last bout, Magnai had been unable to stop dreaming about the vicelike grip around his wrists and feverish green eyes boring into his.

Then, Hien had been able to reign himself in. Now, he was as a man possessed, recklessly riding the current of wherever pleasure lead him so long as Magnai was there to anchor him. 

Hien’s breathing had taken on a familiar shift in pitch, and Magnai felt his stomach flip, knowing how close he was to coming undone. He increased his pace, watching Hien throw his head back with a voiceless cry in response, every muscle in his body seeming to strain against sweet impulse.

“No, not yet — please, let me—” he pleaded, choking out the words as though they were painful.

“Let you do what?” Magnai asked, slackening his grip. Rather than reply, Hien shifted minutely, delicately maneuvering limbs and cloth until he seemed satisfied, a suspicious gleam in his eye. Hien had parted Magnai’s robes, just enough that his erection jutted out obscenely among the furs and cloth, taut and glistening with his own want. He realized quickly that the warmth he felt against his arousal was not cloth, but skin.

“What did you— gods—! ” he groaned as Hien ground against his waist; he felt his cock dip in the cleft between Hien’s buttocks, the positioning too perfect to have been accidental. He grit his teeth, hands white-knuckled around Hien’s waist as he willed himself not to indulge. Hien, however, was not easily dissuaded, grinding against him once more and letting out a low hum of approval as he chased after the friction again and again. Magnai could feel Hien’s cock graze his stomach, quickly growing slick with evidence that Hien was far more affected than he let on. 

“I did not travel here for banal pleasantries,” he stammered, as though he were afraid speaking would send him over the edge. “Choose quickly, but I have no intention of being denied.”

“Choose—?”

“Do not play coy,” Hien snarled, thrusting his tongue into Magnai’s mouth as he ground against him more firmly, the bite disappearing from his voice as he nearly collapsed in Magnai’s arms with the pleasure of their implied union; for a blinding moment he could feel a small dip, his body edging dangerously close to intrusion. He tried to pretend that he didn’t notice Hien adjust himself in such a way that this possibility became more pronounced with every roll of his hips. Hien’s words, the searing heat of his body, caused Magnai’s thoughts to scatter like fireflies. Hien may have a gifted mouth, but the image of the Prince riding his cock was far more tempting.

“Do you need—”

“No. I left nothing to chance save your own preference,” Hien replied, already adjusting himself as one hand dug into a hidden pocket of his robes. Magnai had suspected correctly — Hien had planned this all along.

“You are too good to me. Your wife will be thankful for your prudence,” Magnai said, unable to stopper the sour taste in his mouth at the mention of a wife. Hien fixed him with a queer expression, eyes dark and unreadable. 

“I wonder.”

Hien coated his fingers generously with oil before bringing them back to Magnai’s length, the bitterness in his expression dissipating as his quick fingers and agile wrists soon had the other man panting and thrusting into his hand unabashedly. He reapplied the oil, his free hand disappearing under his robes; Magnai knew it had found its target when Hien flinched momentarily, turning his head as though to conceal his discomfort. He held Hien’s chin firmly, turning his head such that he could see Hien’s face, the latter struggling against it.

“What are you—”

“Do not hide your face. If I am to be witness to your pleasure, it is only fair I acknowledge how this pains you,” he said gently. “Do not think that I am unaware, nor that I am unwilling to share the burden.” 

He stroked Hien slowly, relishing the way his eyes fluttered closed, lips parting in a silent sigh. The trembling body above his seemed to melt into the touch, even as Hien continued his ministrations. Their bodies had become a tangled mess of limbs and pleasure, grasping at one another for stability, anchoring themselves even while they both chased after the other’s heat. He could felt Hien’s arm shifting as one of his hands probed uncertainly, seeking a single thread of pleasure. Magnai clutched at him desperately, willing himself to think of anything other than how sinfully good this friction felt, grateful that the other hadn’t worn small clothes. It was more than a little embarrassing to be leaking and thrusting against him as though he were an animal, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Hien’s face was a mixture of apparent desire punctuated by a furrowed brow; he could not help but feel guilty, feeling as though he were ascending towards a forbidden peak while the Doman remained tethered by necessity.

“Do not worry overmuch about me; I am far from displeased,” Hien said in a low purr, his lips close enough that Magnai could feel his hot breath and lips against his ear.

Indeed, the pitch of his sighs had shifted, his breathy, short moans becoming lush like the soft chords of a morin khuur. Before he could stop himself, he brought his hand towards Hien’s, fingers circling tentatively around the sensitive muscle where the other’s fingers disappeared. 

“May I?” 

Hien withdrew his fingers, retrieving the bottle and lazily tilting it towards the other man’s fingers, seemingly unbothered by the excess dripping uselessly to the floor. If there were any doubt left, they dissipated as green eyes veritably burning with want locked onto his, brimming with anticipation.

Magnai obliged, carefully, using one finger first so as to not overwhelm.

“Gods, it’s hot,” he blurted out, causing Hien to let out a short bark of laughter. It was utterly bizarre to feel his body shake with laughter from such an intimate vantage point, driving home the point that he was inside him. He pressed further in, stroking curiously at the warmth that seemed to draw him in, almost entreatingly. Hien canted his hips impatiently, rocking and gyrating his hips while seeming increasingly dissatisfied until he finally leaned forward, the digit withdrawn. He held up three fingers, still provocatively slick as his mouth twisted into a lewd sneer.

“If you mean to devour me, Little Sun, you’ll have to do better than that,” he growled. Magnai was dumbfounded, reeling from both the diminutive insult and blatant nature of his demand. Hien, meanwhile, sat up on his knees, repouring the oil over Magnai’s length. The oil was lukewarm, but it made every faint puff of the frigid Steppe’s breeze that much more pronounced against his heated flesh. He hissed under his breath, sucking in air through his teeth. 

“I think you’ll find me plenty warm,” he said, bringing his ass tantalizingly close to Magnai’s cock; he felt the familiar small dip, hotter and wetter than it had been. Magnai looked at him questioningly, straining against every impulse that screamed at him to grab Hien’s hips and ravage this devil wearing his face. He instead angled himself carefully, unable to hold back a strangled gasp as the other man’s body welcomed him.

Hien lowered himself, agonizingly slow, forcing Magnai to feel every ilm of the fiery heat that connected them. Far from the resistance he’d expected, the trembling figure hovering above him seemed to be begging for it, the impossible tightness of Hien’s body drawing him deeper rather than pushing him away. Hien’s hands dug into his shoulders, mouth hungrily seeking out the other’s as though intending to devour him entirely. It was cool enough to see one’s breath, and yet he found himself slick with perspiration, swallowed by warmth where he felt it most keenly.

It was too much, far too much, and still he pressed onward until finally he could offer no more, their hips flush with one another’s. He stilled for a moment, breathing wildly as he fought against need. Hien’s breaths were rapid but quiet, though the slight frown on his face betrayed no signs of discomfort. 

Hien’s body tightened around his, hips shifting irregularly as he sighed. He wanted to move, to feel that delicious friction; he knew from countless prior rendezvous that the urgent canting of his waist meant Hien craved the same. He could not shake the image of clenched teeth and quivering knees, however, and found himself increasingly unnerved.

"Hien, are you—”

He felt a hand cover his mouth, Hien’s eyes locked on his. At some point the Prince had retreated, and in its place was a wild creature seemingly intent on destroying him, black hair and green eyes more reminiscent of a ravenous panther than a self-effacing Doman who fretted over inflection. Without breaking eye contact, Hien slowly rose up, every ilm of withdrawal winding Magnai up with a sense of inevitability like a bow’s string being drawn. He turned his face, suddenly self-conscious, and found that Hien’s fingers dug into his cheek, rendering his attempt at concealment futile. He had been withdrawn almost entirely from the other man, bodies connected just barely, but that acute point of contact was enough to torture, his breaths coming out as agonized pleas. He felt as though he were drowning. All the while, Hien’s eyes never strayed from his.

“You said you wanted to bear witness to my pleasure, did you not? Observe — is there anything about my demeanor that suggests I am displeased?”

“No, but —“

“Then be at ease. I’ve longed for this; pray, allow us to enjoy it,” he pleaded, the fingers on his cheek caressing gently, sending a tendril of affection down his spine, warmth blooming in his chest like the soft burn of mead. “Trust that I will tell you if aught is amiss.”

With a small nod, Magnai brought his lips to Hien’s neck as he closed the gap between their bodies. He shuddered at the delighted moan that greeted him, filthier and sweeter than his dreams had painted them. He withdrew, driving himself into Hien once more, using the strong hips in his grasp as leverage. The hands around his shoulders clenched tighter, Hien writhing on his lap, against his stomach — anywhere their bodies could touch. His skin was hot and saline against his tongue, blooming red as his teeth sought to mark it as his own. He worried that he would draw blood if he bit any harder. 

Knowing him, he might actually like it.

Hien looked at him questioningly — apparently he had done a poor job of stifling a chuckle. He looked dizzy, face flushed and euphoric and now painted with a strange kind of confusion. 

“I feared that I might break the skin of your pretty little neck.”

At this he paused, pressing his teeth more firmly into the skin until it gave under the bite, rewarding Hien with a particularly focused thrust when he crooned in delight, even as blood began to peek from the wound. Magnai couldn’t help but lap greedily at it, vision becoming blurry and unsaturated as he drowned in the sensation. Inside him, on top of him, trickling in his mouth — he couldn’t escape Hien’s warmth, suffocating if not for the sheer pleasure of it. All the while, Hien rode him fiercely, hips pistoning as though intending to devour him. 

Magnai wrapped one of his hands around Hien’s cock, stroking it carefully such that their pleasure was mirrored, hand dragging down his length as he drove further into the Doman, upwards in the brief moments their bodies drew apart. All the while, he continued nibbling at Hien’s neck, fingers curling in his hair as he pulled gently to expose more of his throat. Hien let out a low, breathy moan with each thrust, desperation edging into his voice. 

“Gods, yes, yes, yes,” he murmured incoherently, almost chanting. “More… more…”

“So greedy,” Magnai replied, all the while obliging his request. He adjusted the angle, searching until Hien cried out in surprise. He grit his teeth as he willed himself not to succumb, Hien’s body seizing him around him so fiercely that it all but stole his breath. He resumed his thrusts, focusing his efforts on that one point as Hien veritably dissolved in his arms, crying out without a shred of restraint. There was no way the attendants — hell, half the damn Steppe — could not hear him.

“Magnai,” Hien gasped. Hearing his name said in such a desperate, erotic tone sent a pulse of electricity directly to his cock, almost causing him to lose his control right then and there.

“Should I stop?” he asked, even as he fucked Hien mercilessly, finding that sweet spot over and over. Hien’s knuckles were white, clenched in the layered furs of his coat; the contrast of earthy browns, flushed face, and his pale, scarred fingers was entrancing.

Hien seemed incapable of speech, mouth hanging open as he could do little more than pant and whimper; he felt it would be cruel to point out the thin line of saliva that had escaped from his lips. His voice had taken on that rich timbre that signaled how precariously he hung onto his sanity; it would take very little to send him over the edge.

“Use your words. Beg for it.”

“I—wha—”

“Perhaps I was not clear. I want to hear you beg for my cock,” he whispered, slowing his pace, forcing Hien to feel each ilm as it entered and withdrew; he had to be careful, as he was not far behind, his body able to focus on little more than the locus of his pleasure.

Hien gulped, seeming to weigh his own pride against the painful need that surged through him, eyes were wild and glazed with lust. He was quiet for a moment before his gaze refocused, unwavering.

“A prince does not beg,” he said softly, lips curling in a grin that bordered on arrogance. “He demands.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“Fuck me,” he said, and to Magnai’s shock the words were not in the Doman vernacular, but Oroniri. The words sounded strange and vulgar on his tongue, and yet the way he enunciated them left little room to wonder if he understood their meaning. For the life of him he could not figure out where he’d learned them, and he couldn’t care less because the only thing in the world that mattered right now was fucking the prince senseless and shattering his composure.

He drove into Hien anew, hips snapping up to meet the other’s. Both of them had devolved into wild breaths and groans, rutting against one another with a ferocity that could not be sustained much longer. He felt his stomach lurch, lust threatening to boil over at any moment. Hien’s cock was leaking and dangerously flushed in his grasp, and he could tell from the frantic tautness of his muscles that he was nearing his limits, as well.

“Who knew,” he gasped, struggling to breathe, much less speak, “that the Prince of Doma was such a capricious whore?”

Hien responded with a sharp cry of mingled delirium and desire , his entire body going rigid as his climax finally hit him, viscous warmth coating Magnai’s stomach. The other man’s entire body become impossibly tight, and without warning his entire body stiffened, vision going white as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him.

The two of them were silent for an indeterminate amount of time, Hien’s body boneless and limp against him, his own body deliciously numb and loose, as though he had being wrung out thoroughly. The evidence of their coupling had become sticky, and each breeze seemed more cruel and cold where their bodies had connected. Still, he could not bring himself to separate, the prince’s warmth intoxicating and strangely comforting. 

Hien smelled unmistakably like sex, bodies splattered and dripping with one another’s seed, sweat, and the lingering sweetness of oil. Yet beneath the veneer of carnality, he remained unchanged; though impossible to describe — indeed, he half-wondered if he imagined it — he knew the Doman’s natural fragrance as keenly as he did the scars crisscrossing his body. Unthinkingly, he buried his nose in Hien’s hair, feeling a strange lightness in his chest at he lost himself in the familiar scent, kneading small circles in his scalp. 

“We should consider tidying up before the attendants begin to worry,” he said, shifting gently and wincing for a moment at the strange sensation of finally separating from him, still sensitive despite having calmed considerably. He wondered idly if it would be vulgar to mention how much he’d missed the warmth, ultimately deciding against it. Hien stretched his limbs gracefully while Magnai settled for retrieving a basin from the other side of the room, tendrils of steam rising gently from its surface from having been heated over a low flame. He tested the water and cloths inside, finding them warm but not scalding. He removed his robes and beckoned Hien to do the same, wringing out a cloth; Hien scowled, his expression almost childish in the indignation writ across his features.

“I can do it myself.” 

“Of course you can, but indulge me,” he replied, softening his tone lest the prince find it mocking rather than entreating. Hien, eyeing him with more than a little suspicion, settled into a low squat. Magnai took this as acquiescence, and ran the cloth gently over his skin, paying particular attention to those regions he knew had been sullied with oil or lust. Despite the rush of pleasure he felt at seeing the bruised bites on the prince’s neck, he avoided them as much as prudence allowed. Hien’s eyes fluttered closed, pride seemingly abandoned to gratitude for a warm bath amidst the frigid temperatures. 

“I can scarce recall when we last had time for this,” Hien said after some time, his voice a contented purr. He looked back with a pleased, if worn, expression; Magnai wondered how he had failed to miss his wan complexion or dark circles under his eyes, how thin his smile seemed to be. He suspected that most of Hien’s exhaustion couldn’t be blamed on intimacy.

“I don’t recall the sun setting quite so early. I also distinctly remember having to clean someone’s indiscretion from my summer robes last time,” he said with a thoughtful smirk, grateful to see a bit of color return to Hien’s features. The prince’s smile grew thinner, eyes clouding over thoughtfully.

“And yet here we are, but two moons from Heavensturn,” Hien said, words trailing as though uncertain where they lead. He grimaced as the cloth seemed to find a knot in his muscles; Magnai abandoned the cloth, working his fingers to try and loosen the knot cautiously. 

“Did you know that there are mornings where I only know the day because my retainers are tasked with telling me?”

“You can hardly be faulted for losing track of time,” Magnai replied, relieved to feel the tension slowly leaving Hien’s shoulders. 

“’Twould not be so much of a problem if I were the only one that suffered for it. But the people of Doma have given so much for their freedom. I knew it would be no easy task to get this nation, broken as it was, back on its feet. I knew this. I accepted this. I spent years dreaming of the day where we could worry about such things,” he said quietly, as though hoping his words could be swallowed up by the howling winds of the Steppe. 

“Yet you feel guilty for being weary of such burdens,” Magnai said, hands massaging gently. Hien did not reply, focused on some indeterminate point outside the window, the orange hue of the sunset casting his eyes in a strange, golden light. 

“Can one really complain of a burden they chose to bear? Do I even have the right to such self-pity?”

“It is only self-pity if you allow it to consume and poison you,” Magnai answered. “It is only human to feel the weight of one’s responsibilities, and more still to feel encumbered by them. You have countless people pinning their hopes, their dreams, their futures on your back. But answer me this, Prince of Doma: do you resent them?”

Hien’s eyes were fierce, head swiveling back in clear offense. 

“Of course I don—”

“Then you’ve nothing to worry about. You are but one person; you cannot possibly hope to shoulder the weight of a kingdom. Not by yourself.”

The prince sighed. Magnai’s chest heaved at how defeated he sounded, the sound raw as though he rarely allowed himself to express his thoughts in such a way. 

“Even the khagan needs a respite,” he said. “They have grappled with primals and bear the weight of lands we’ve scarcely imagined on their shoulders. Perhaps no other person in this world bears a heavier burden. Would you like to know what we last discussed?"

Hien gazed at him expectantly, clearly uncertain as to whether the question was intended to be rhetorical. Stifling a groan, Magnai continued.

"Smithing. The khagan was glowing, if you’ll forgive the pun, when they described making a lamp modeled after some creature called a ‘moggle.’”

“Moogle,” Hien corrected with a wry grin, already familiar with the work-averse beasts the Warrior of Light had shown him paintings of.

“Regardless, do you not find it strange how someone with so many burdens is able to find time to hobbies such as weaving or breeding racing birds? ‘Tis because they know, perhaps better than most, the importance of relying on one’s allies, of setting side time for idleness. You’ll drive yourself mad if you think on nothing but your duty to Doma. 

“You have devoted allies who would surely love nothing more than help ease your burdens. I can assure you that no one would think less of you for tending to your mental health with just as much fervor as your physical health,” he said, running a dry cloth over Hien’s flushed, softened skin, caressing the toned muscles of his forearm for emphasis.

“The people respect you. The khagan respects you. I respect you. But it is for naught if you fail to respect yourself. ‘Tis not a sign of weakness to rest.”

“Thank you for your counsel,” Hien said quietly. “Pray, forgive my indulgent musings.”

“Think nothing of it. Though do be fair-warned that if you continue to insist on being so cruel to yourself, you’ll leave me with few options.”

Hien raised his eyebrows, mischief lurking in the small curve of his lips.

“Oh? A thorough tongue-lashing?”

“’Twould not be my tongue that would be taxed." 

The peal of laughter that bubbled out of Hien was musical, sweeter than spring honey. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the prince look so genuinely happy and relaxed, almost childlike. It was easy to forget the chasm that separated them when he looked like this, stripped of his robes and the regal up-do that marked him as royalty. There were countless, easier ways to define their relationship, or why he and the prince desperately sought one another’s refuge. Moments like this made the tangled webs that connected them — connected all of Hydaelyn’s people — glimmer like gossamer rather than fetters. 

Sometimes it’s better not to know,  he thought, no longer certain to what he was referring.

Hien’s delight was like mead, and he couldn’t help but drink it in.