Ellios tried to lower his feet to the carpet floor.

  As soon as his soles touched the surface, he attempted to shift his weight to stand.

  Thud.

  His knees betrayed him. Both legs trembled violently, devoid of strength, as if his bones had been liquefied by the heat of the struggle earlier. He nearly fell flat on his face had his hand not quickly snatched the edge of the nightstand.

  "Damn it..." he hissed in pain.

  Ellios gritted his teeth, trying to straighten his back, but sharp pain shot from his waist down to his thighs.

  He, Young Master Randar, who usually walked light as cotton and graceful as a dancer, now looked pathetic.

  He had to crawl. His hand gripped the wall, then moved to hold the chair back, dragging his feet step by step with a limp.

  "Damn... damn..." he cursed repeatedly. "Like an old man with gout..."

  He glanced briefly at Louis still sleeping soundly. The urge to kick the Prince was immense, but he couldn't even lift his leg.

  With difficulty, Ellios reached for a loose silk pajama draped over the chair. He put it on with stiff movements, covering his skin full of purplish-red marks. The silk fabric felt cool and soft, offering a little comfort to his battered body.

  Ellios dragged his steps toward the balcony glass door.

  Creeeak.

  The door slid open.

  Whoosh.

  Bone-piercing autumn night wind instantly hit his face. Cold. Freezing. The wind slipped under his loose pajamas, making his skin prickle instantly.

  However, the cold air of Ironseat was completely unable to extinguish the fire burning his mind. News of the King’s death, the northern alliance, and the coming chaos kept boiling in his brain, making him dizzy.

  Ellios leaned heavily on the cold iron balcony railing. His trembling hand reached into his pajama pocket, pulling out a silver cigarette case and lighter.

  Click.

  A small flame lit, burning the tip of the cigarette.

  He inhaled deeply. Nicotine entered, calming his tense nerves, albeit only slightly.

  Wheewww...

  Ellios exhaled a long breath into the night air.

  Gray cigarette smoke glided out, immediately meeting the white vapor of his breath crystallizing due to the cold temperature. Both swirled, merged, and danced in the air for a moment before vanishing, swallowed by the darkness of the Ironseat night.

  "The King will die..." he whispered to the vanishing smoke. "And I am trapped in the middle of this storm with legs that can't even run."

  Ellios put out his cigarette butt, pressing it roughly onto the balcony railing until the ember died, leaving a dirty black ash stain.

  In his head, a new strategic map was being redrawn frantically.

  Keep this secret from Father first... he decided firmly.

  If he sent this news to Godric Randar now, the Old Fox would surely order a total retreat. His father would close Mount Rhagas, barricade himself, and wait for the storm to pass. That was a safe action, but cowardly.

  Ellios didn't want to hide. He wanted to hold control.

  His slanted eyes stared south, piercing the darkness of the night blanketing the expanse of rooftops in Ironseat.

  "I must go South..." he decided.

  One name appeared in his mind. The only person possessing striking power crazy enough to balance the madness of the Northern Alliance.

  Duke Renville.

  Ellios snorted softly, white steam escaping his nose.

  "Good heavens, that old man is insane too..." he cursed, recalling the reputation of the southern ruler.

  Duke Renville wasn't a noble who sat sweetly drinking tea. He was famously eccentric, crude, and possessed inverted logic. But precisely because of that, he was needed now.

  "At least I think he deserves to know about this condition..."

  Ellios’ logic ran fast. If the North was a sword ready to slash Carta’s neck, then the South was the shield on its back. Duke Renville was the "Back Gate Guardian" of Ironseat. He held the keys to logistical routes and emergency escape if the capital fell.

  If the King died and the North invaded, Renville had to prepare. He had to know the dogs in the north had slipped their leashes.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Yes... he must know. He must open his armory."

  Ellios turned from the balcony, dragging his trembling legs back into the warm room. His resolve was set, defeating the physical pain racking his lower body.

  He glanced at Louis. The Prince was still snoring, unaware his bedmate was planning another small betrayal.

  Ellios couldn't wait for tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning, Louis would wake up and demand "payment" again, or worse, Reine Blackmere might send her spies to ensure Ellios was still there.

  "I must leave immediately," he hissed.

  Holding back groans of pain every time his waist moved, Ellios took off his silk pajamas. He picked up his clothes scattered on the floor—shirt with missing buttons, wrinkled trousers.

  He dressed hurriedly, not caring about his messy appearance.

  He had to get out of this hotel, rent the fastest carriage—or steal one if necessary—and race horses madly toward the Southern territory before sunrise.

  Ellios Randar, the little fox with trembling legs, was now running carrying fire that could burn the entire country.

  Just as Ellios’ hand reached for his trousers, a heavy weight slammed into his back.

  "Shit..." he thought.

  A solid, warm, and very familiar arm wrapped tightly around his slender waist, halting his step, locking his body still trembling from residual exhaustion.

  Ellios looked down stiffly.

  His eyes widened in horror. In Louis’ hand hugging his stomach, was grasped the vellum paper roll discarded earlier. The roll whose contents Ellios had already changed, the roll supposed to be his ticket to chaos.

  "Going somewhere this early, Little Fox?"

  Louis’ voice sounded near his ear. The voice was raspy typical of just waking up, yet there was no tone of drowsiness there. Only sharp alertness.

  Ellios’ plan—change names, run south, incite Duke Renville—instantly fell apart like cards blown by the wind. His weak legs had no power to fight the strength of the Northern Prince’s arm.

  Louis pulled Ellios’ body back, pressing Ellios’ back against his naked, hot broad chest. He began to tease, lips brushing the back of Ellios’ neck, giving small bites that gave Ellios goosebumps.

  However, the whisper that came next froze Ellios’ blood.

  "Never underestimate Northern people, Ellios..." Louis whispered, tone low but bone-piercing.

  "I know you are a cunning fox. I know your hands itch wanting to change a name or two on this paper..."

  Ellios’ heart stopped beating for a moment. He was caught.

  Louis chuckled softly, the vibration of his laughter traveling to Ellios’ back.

  "I told you about the Northern plan deliberately..." Louis continued, lips now touching Ellios’ earlobe. "Not because I am stupid, Ellios..."

  The grip on Ellios’ waist tightened, painful.

  "...But because House Randar must be dragged into this strong Northern current, sooner or later. Your father, Godric, has played safe on his mountain too long. It is time he is forced down into the river of blood with us."

  Ellios’ eyes narrowed sharply. He felt betrayed by his own perception. He thought he was exploiting Louis’ "empty muscles," turns out he was being forcibly dragged into the coup vortex as a pawn.

  Damn dog... Ellios cursed internally, rage exploding in his chest. He trapped me. He trapped the entire House Randar.

  Ellios opened his mouth, about to curse or scream denial.

  However, he was too late.

  Louis spun Ellios’ body roughly to face him.

  The Northern Prince’s handsome face approached fast, and his lips instantly snatched Ellios’ lips aggressively. It wasn't a kiss of love, it was a silencing kiss. A kiss stating ownership and total dominance over Ellios’ strategy.

  Ellios’ shocked fingers went limp.

  The still-lit cigarette between his fingers slipped.

  Hiss...

  The cigarette fell onto the thick carpet, its ember glowing red in the darkness of the floor, just like Ellios’ hope to run South now slowly burning out under the Prince’s power.

  The room was no longer merely a resting place, but a suffocating battlefield.

  The air inside was thick, hot, and smelled of sweat and desire forced out to the point of exhaustion. Ellios felt his lungs being squeezed. He wanted to scream, wanted to curse, but his voice was gone, buried under Louis’ physical dominance.

  "Don't go anywhere..." Louis growled in his ear, voice full of arrogant victory. "...Until this master allows you to leave, Naughty Fox."

  That sentence lit the final fuse inside Ellios.

  Master? Who do you think you are?

  Amidst the crush of the muscular body locking his movements, something inside Ellios’ eyes changed. His slanted eyes usually languidly seductive, now sharpened like the tip of a dagger. The glint of a cornered fox appeared.

  If Louis wanted war, Ellios would give him the apocalypse.

  Instead of surrendering or merely enduring like a victim, Ellios did the unexpected. He gathered his last remaining strength—strength of desperation—and he moved.

  He was no longer passive. He retaliated. His hips moved against the rhythm, aggressive, demanding, and wild. His hands no longer pushed, but gripped Louis’ shoulders, pulling the Northern Prince deeper into the abyss he dug himself.

  Louis jerked violently.

  Ellios could feel the Prince’s muscles tense in shock. Louis didn't expect his "plaything" to bite back with ferocity like this.

  It was an effective suicide strategy. Ellios burned Louis’ energy by forcing him to reach his endurance limit faster. He let Louis drown in logic-killing euphoria, letting the Prince think he had conquered Ellios completely, while Ellios was luring him toward total exhaustion.

  "Ah..."

  Louis’ voice grew heavy, then cracked. And finally, the Prince’s consciousness was hit by a wave of satisfaction washing everything away.

  Who knows how much time passed. The wall clock seemed dead.

  Silence finally returned to rule room 402.

  On the bed messy like a shipwreck, Louis Ferdinand slept soundly. This time his sleep was dead, snoring heavy and deep. The Northern Prince had been drained dry, paralyzed by his own satisfaction.

  Beside him, Ellios opened his eyes.

  His vision was blurry. His body felt battered and bruised, as if every bone in his body had been pulled out and put back randomly. His skin stung, thigh muscles trembling uncontrollably.

  However, his brain lit up bright.

  "Now," he thought.

  With agonizing slow movements, Ellios shifted Louis’ body pinning his legs. He held his breath, fearing any small movement would wake the monster.

  Success.

  Ellios got off the bed. His feet landed on the carpet floor, and he almost fell flat because his knees refused to support his weight.

  "Damn..." he hissed soundlessly, tears of pain pooling in the corners of his eyes.

  He crawled, picking up his clothes scattered on the floor. Shirt, trousers, shoes. He didn't put them on there. He hugged the bundle of clothes to his chest.

  He saw the vellum paper roll on the table. With trembling hands, he snatched it.

  Ellios walked limping toward the door, holding onto the wall, dragging legs that felt like lead. Every step was suffering, but every step also distanced him from this "prison."

  He opened the room door as quietly as possible.

  Click.

  He was out. The hotel corridor was quiet and cold.

  Ellios didn't look back. He walked down the long hall half-naked, hugging stolen clothes and documents, while his mind raved full of curses.

  Damn Northern dog... Brainless wild boar...

  You think you can bind me? You think Randar will be your slave?

  Just wait, Louis...

  Ellios pressed the elevator button roughly.

  Enjoy your sleep while you can. Because when you wake up later, I will have already burned the road to the South. And I ensure, Ellios Randar will be your biggest nightmare.