A Sudden Visit

​"I JUST WANT TO BE SINGLE!!!!"

​Cherion buried his face into the pillow and screamed. It was not a dignified sound. Muffled, strangled, halfway between despair and outrage, it reverberated against the feather stuffing like a beast clawing to be freed.

​When the scream ended, he turned his head to the side and banged it many times against the mattress beside the pillow. "Why me? Why can’t I just stay single? I won the lottery and thought my suffering ended. And now..." He groaned, dragging the pillow over his head like a shroud.

​His teeth sank into the pillow’s corner. He bit down hard, gnawing at the embroidered silk until his jaw ached, as though biting the damn thing could solve his problems. The pillow endured his frustration in silence, just like every other unlucky bystander in his cursed existence.

​Eventually, he spat it out with a sigh and rolled onto his back. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. The name still echoed inside his skull, refusing to fade.

​Zarius Valtrane.

​The cursed Alpha of the North. The king’s so-called "hero." The enemy who would eventually be cut down by Yerel’s hand at the novel’s end.

​Cherion pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes. As much as he tried to summon more about Zarius, the novel had been frustratingly stingy with details. He was Yerel’s archenemy, that much was carved in stone. They never got along, and their encounters were always filled with tension, but beyond that? Almost nothing. Just a vague sense of menace around his name and a fate tied to ruin.

​Cherion sat up abruptly. "Ah, shit." The word slipped out unvarnished, bare of politeness.

​When the king had first suggested the marriage, Cherion had nearly toppled from his chair. His tongue had snapped out a refusal before he could think. But Alderon’s steady eyes, warm yet heavy, had frozen him mid-breath. That wasn’t a gaze one argued with. And when the king insisted, when his voice had softened but sharpened all at once, Cherion realized with bone-deep certainty: refusal was not safe.

​The kindness of kings was a luxury that could turn brittle without warning. Cherion had no wish to test how far it bent. So he nodded, smiled, and agreed. Safety for now.

​Dragging himself to the desk, Cherion sank onto the chair, rubbing his temples. He opened the drawer, searching for distraction, and his fingers brushed an empty leather-bound book. Its pages, pale and untouched, stared back at him like an invitation.

​Without hesitation, he snatched up a quill and began to write. Page after page, his hand flew in uneven strokes as he spilled out every scrap of the novel he could recall. Dates, names, betrayals, deaths—whatever his memory offered, he trapped on the page. The ink smudged where his wrist brushed too fast, but he didn’t care.

​He knew it might be useless. The plot had already twisted off its rails. Yet, some stubborn part of him clung to the act. To write was to anchor himself. To make sense of chaos.

​The scratch of the quill filled the room until a commotion outside snapped him back to the present. Voices, muffled, sharp, getting closer.

​His pulse leapt. Quickly, Cherion shoved the book into the lowest drawer, tucking it beneath a pile of forgotten linens. The desk looked untouched by the time the door swung open.

​Philia stood framed in the doorway.

​Cherion’s first thought: he looked irritatingly immaculate. The sunlight haloed his golden hair, his robe trailing behind him with all the poise of someone born to be admired. His lips were curved in a smirk too polished to be anything but practiced.

​Philia leaned casually against the doorframe, his eyes gleaming with a quiet satisfaction. "You look fine, considering," he remarked, his voice smooth as silk.

​Cherion’s gaze flickered up to meet his, a cold shiver running down his spine. Oh, right. This person. The same one who had pushed him off a balcony, sending him plummeting into what should have been certain death. Yet here he stood, as if nothing had ever happened.

​Somehow, no one knows about it, Cherion thought bitterly, still unable to wrap his mind around how he’d survived or how he had ended up here at all.

​He forced a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Considering? Hmm, yeah. Considering I was almost killed by someone with a terrible aim, I’d say I’m doing pretty well."

​Philia’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the smug smirk faltering before quickly being masked by a veneer of calm. "I heard," Philia began, voice dripping with false casualness, "that you are to be married. To Zarius Valtrane, of all people. The cursed Alpha of the North."

​Cherion leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with exaggerated ease. "Ah, so you’ve heard. News does travel fast when people have nothing better to do than gossip." His eyes narrowed. "Jealous, Philia?"

​Philia’s smirk faltered. "Why would I be jealous? Of you, of all people?"

​"Because you barged into my room like a jealous lover. Careful, if your darling Yerel hears you, he might think you’re straying." Cherion tilted his head, voice smooth with mock sympathy. "Oh wait, that might actually make you interesting."

​A faint flush crept over Philia’s cheeks, his jaw tightening. "You—"

​The hallway echoed with another voice, sharper, impatient. "Philia, what are you doing?"

​Cherion groaned inwardly before even seeing him. And then, as if summoned by misfortune itself, Prince Yerel appeared.

​"Perfect," Cherion muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is my room a meeting hall now?"

​Yerel’s brows furrowed as his gaze swept between them. "What’s going on here?"

​Cherion gestured lazily toward Philia. "Nothing much. Your fiancé here thought it wise to pick a fight with me, your ex-fiancé. Perhaps he feels inferior. Understandable, really."

​Philia’s mouth dropped open, scandalized.

​Yerel stiffened, the tips of his ears red. "Stop with the jealousy already."

​Cherion gave a bark of laughter, dry as sand. "Jealousy? Of that?" He waved at Philia with disdain so casual it was almost insulting. "Please. Don’t flatter yourselves."

​"Oh my gosh," he muttered afterward, throwing his eyes heavenward as though asking for divine rescue.

​Yerel crossed his arms, voice cooling. "I heard about your marriage with Zarius."

​Cherion arched a brow. "And?"

​"I don’t care," Yerel said quickly—too quickly. "It’s just strange. You, marrying him. Everyone knows we’re enemies. Is this your way of trying to provoke me?"

​Cherion blinked at him, lips twitching. Then he laughed again, low and incredulous. "Unbelievable. You think the world revolves around you so much that even my marriage is about you?" He spread his hands. "Truly, Yerel, your self-importance is a marvel. Write it down, Philia, perhaps you’ll win a medal for enduring it."

​Philia bristled, snapping, "Watch your tongue!"

​"Oh, I’d rather watch you both choke on your own egos," Cherion drawled, rising from his chair at last. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Now, unless the two of you plan on redecorating my room as your personal salon, kindly leave."

​Philia looked ready to explode. Yerel’s jaw clenched, unreadable emotions flitting through his expression.

​And Cherion’s heart thudded with dread under his calm face. If Philia and Yerel already sniffed around him like dogs circling prey, what would happen when Zarius himself entered the story?

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