CHAPTER 567: THE PRINCE AND HIS DYSFUNCTION (1)

Some days after leaving Dunbridge, the world shrank to smoke, ale, and splinters.

The tavern didn’t have a name so much as a reputation. People called it the Crooked Beam, or the Place You Don’t Take Your Mother, or just that pit outside the customs post. It squatted at the edge of a rough border town where smugglers met patrol captains after hours, where caravans traded coin, contraband, and news, and where nobody asked for your family name if you tipped well enough.

The ceiling was low and stained from years of pipe smoke. Beams sagged just enough to make a tall man duck on instinct. Lanterns burned with greasy light, turning the haze into a dull amber fog. The floor stuck underfoot—layers of spilled ale, tracked mud, and whatever had died under the boards and been too troublesome to dig out. The bar counter bore scars like an old soldier: knife gouges, a burn mark shaped like a hand, one dent that looked suspiciously like someone’s skull had met it at speed.

The patrons matched the wood.

Card sharks hunched over sticky tables in the far corner, their hands too quick and their smiles too slow. A knife‑thrower practiced on a crude charcoal drawing of what might have been a tax collector or a former landlord, three blades trembling in the knot of the wood where the nose should be. At another table, a cloaked figure rolled dice that sometimes flashed with a faint, unnatural glow—little cheating cantrips flickering at the edge of sight.

The place hummed with a low growl of tension, the kind that said a fight hadn’t started yet but very much wanted to.

In the shadowed corner near the back wall, away from the door and with a clear view of every exit, Lyan sat with his cloak off and his sleeves rolled to the forearms. The rough bench creaked under him as he leaned back, mug resting loose in his hand. The ale line had barely moved. He could drink most men under the table if he wanted to, but tonight he didn’t.

Across from him slouched a man the tavern folk saw as just another drifter with coin and good boots. To Lyan, he would always be Erich—the fire‑mad merc who’d once set an entire siege tower alight from the inside because it was "the quickest way" to end a job. These days, though, Lyan called him by the name the world knew.

"Will," he said, voice smooth as he watched his companion top off his own mug from a third empty. "Of all the letters you could have sent me, I admit I didn’t expect the first urgent royal seal in months to be about your... equipment."

William, Crown Prince of the kingdom and currently a man with his cloak loosened and his shirt laced too low, let his forehead thunk against the table with a dull thud.

"Don’t say equipment," he mumbled into the sticky wood. "It makes it sound like a broken plough."

"It is," Lyan said mildly. "According to your very detailed description." He took a leisurely sip, letting the burn coat his throat. "If you’re going to write me about anything, I expected at least treason."

Will lifted his head just enough to glower. There was still fire in his eyes, but fatigue coiled underneath—fine lines at the corners, shadows from too many late councils and not enough sleep.

"I am not having a treason crisis," Will said. "I am having a pride crisis. There’s a difference."

"In your case?" Lyan tilted his hand. "Debatable."

Will groaned and waved his mug as if summoning more ale by raw willpower. The barmaid caught the signal and brought a fresh pitcher, giving Lyan a quick, curious glance. She’d taken one look at him when they came in and decided he was the dangerous one, which amused him. Will had the look of a pretty brigand tonight, shirt open at the throat, hair slightly mussed, a faint scent of smoke and ash clinging to him—the mark of a man whose magic lived under his skin even when he wasn’t using it.

He also had the air of someone one insult away from starting trouble on purpose.

Lyan had picked this place deliberately: a neutral pit full of people who solved feelings with their fists. No courtiers, no polished stone, no servants pretending not to hear. Just noise and bruises and anonymity.

"So," Lyan said, resting his elbow on the table. "Our valiant Crown Prince writes that his body has turned traitor at critical moments, blames a maid, and calls it an emergency of state. Should I start with the sympathetic nodding or the mockery?"

"Start with walking into that wall over there," Will grumbled. "Then maybe you’ll understand my pain."

Lyan’s mouth curved. "I have been punched in the head more times than you have signed tax decrees. I understand plenty."

Will took a long pull from his mug, then slammed it down and dragged his hands through his hair until it stood on end.

"Why did I let you drag me here?" he muttered.

"Because you didn’t want to drink in a palace full of people who bow," Lyan replied calmly. "And because if you had tried to talk about this within fifty paces of your mother’s favorite corridor, the tapestry would have reported it to her."

Will blinked, considered that, and shuddered. "Fair."

The noise of the tavern washed around them—dice clattering, low laughter, the occasional crack of a tankard on wood. Here, in the dim corner, it felt almost like the old days. Just two mercenaries between contracts, bad ale, worse furniture, and the familiar, stupid problems of men who survived wars only to trip over their own hearts.

Lyan studied Will over the rim of his mug. The man looked ridiculous and dangerous in equal measure. Defensive, half joking, but with a genuine hurt curled under his ribs. This wasn’t just about whether he could please a lover. It was about whether he was still the man he believed himself to be.

"Fine," Will said suddenly, sitting up straighter. "You want to hear it? I’ll start from the beginning."

"I was there for the beginning," Lyan said. "I’m less clear on the middle where your letter starts using the phrase ’catastrophic failure’."

Will pointed at him. "You shut up and let me control the narrative."

Lyan spread his free hand. "By all means, Your Highness. Narrate."

Will’s first defense was not subtle.

"It’s the kingdom’s stress," he said firmly. "Do you have any idea how many reports cross my desk in a week? Bandits, tariffs, grain prices, somebody’s cow getting possessed by minor spirits—"

"You slept less on campaign," Lyan pointed out, "and still found time to sneak into half the village beds."

"That was different," Will snapped. "On campaign, if I died, it was fast. Now it’s a slow, bureaucratic bleeding. I can’t even sign my own name without three witnesses."

"Ah," Lyan murmured. "So it is the quills. They are too sharp, and your manhood has taken offense."

Will glared at him, then reached for the pitcher and refilled his mug with exaggerated care.

"It’s not just stress," he said. "There’s the reports, and the petitions, and the nobles breathing down my neck, and I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in months, and—diet. Definitely diet. Palace food is terrible for virility."

"You insisted on new cooks," Lyan reminded him. "Three of them. One specializes in spiced stews that could probably fuel a siege tower."

"Spice isn’t everything!" Will said, horrified. "You know what they put in half of those sauces? Onions. Onions, Lyan. Do I look like a man whose heroic endeavors should be dependent on boiled onion?"

Lyan pinched the bridge of his nose. "You resisted fear curses that made grown veterans wet themselves. I doubt a piece of root vegetable unmade you."

Will inhaled, puffed himself up, and tried again.

"Fine. Fine. Then it’s clearly a hex." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I’m thinking a jealous noblewoman. Or three. Definitely a curse. I mean, look at me." He gestured at himself with his mug, sloshing ale onto his sleeve. "There is no way the gods would design something this handsome and then just... flip a switch. It has to be magic."

"If it were magic," Lyan said, "you would have brought me a lock of hair, a cursed talisman, or a suspicious pastry to examine. You brought me paper, ink, and a very long list of adjectives about your disappointment."

Will went red. "You read that?"

"I tried not to," Lyan said. "But you used the phrase ’heroic instrument’ twice. I was trapped."

Will groaned and thunked his forehead against the table again. A couple of nearby patrons glanced over at the sound, saw two men who looked like trouble, and wisely looked away.

"All right," Will muttered into the wood. "Maybe it’s not a curse. Maybe it’s work. Or mattresses. Those mattresses are terrible. Too soft. They swallow you. No man can perform under those conditions."

"You bought the mattresses," Lyan reminded him.

"On bad advice!" Will said, sitting up so abruptly his chair squeaked. "The merchant said they were cloud‑soft. Clouds should be ashamed. I sink three inches. It’s like trying to make war in a marsh."

Lyan’s lips twitched. "You seem very invested in blaming everything except yourself."

Will opened his mouth, shut it again, then jabbed a finger at Lyan.

"You don’t understand," he said. "Do you have any idea what it’s like at court now that you’re a legend?"