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Simply because it was one kingdom once doesn’t mean that the peace-brokering between Akelios and Vere comes easy.
Damen is good at what he does, highly skilled at fostering hope and camaraderie and loyalty that knows no bounds. His kyros feel it, his soldiers feel it, his people feel it. It will be—already is—beneficial here, in this unprecedented space.
But Laurent knows with a surety unlike any other that their foundation requires iron, pounded deep into packed earth. Unwavering. Sturdy.
So he observes and he strategizes and he prepares.
He has his own plans, things he will not be swayed on. Treaties he writes and rewrites in his head before he falls asleep. Chess matches he plays without partners months before the games begin. Demands he’s prepared to make for the benefit of all involved—to the extent that everyone is sated and won’t complain or plot to kill them—but more specifically he, Damen, and their respective countries. Demands he couches in both neutral-faced diplomacy and the lilting, pseudo-flattery he’s well versed in.
But he’s tired. And Damen can see it.
It’s soothed by a thumb lightly brushed across his knuckles in the midst of a planning meeting, loosening the tightened strings of his body when his teeth are clenched so tight that his jaw aches.
A hand cupping the nape of his neck when he sits at his desk, writing until his hand cramps and the sun rises. His chair tugged out, Damen on his knees, face pressed to Laurent’s thighs. The promise of rest, pleasure, and proximity like an offering.
The entreating, sleepy mumble of “A few more minutes.” each morning when they wake up, tangled together, Damen’s stubble prickling against the dip between Laurent’s shoulder blades.
He’s tired, but that doesn’t matter.
Not here.