Unchosen Crown

BACKFIRE

The gentle sound of knocks echoed like a distant melody, pulling Oliver back to reality.

Slowly, the sunlight began to invade the room through the gap in the curtains, painting his face with warmth, and he felt his body's reluctance to leave the coziness of sleep.

The space beside him on the bed still held the warmth of a recently absent presence; Ian had left behind a residual heat that mimicked a ghost of comfort, a scent blending notes of wood from his cologne and the musky sweetness of his shampoo. It was as if he were still there, invisible, with the gentle perfume of the previous night filling Oliver's lungs in an attempt to awaken his senses.

Oliver stretched languidly over the sheets, a lazy extension that seemed to last ages, savoring a few more seconds of introspection.

Memories of the previous night floated in his mind, sweet and torturous, rekindling a warmth that rose from his fingertips to his core, making him shiver. However, the interruption came in the form of a voice — new and measured — piercing through the solidity of the wooden door.

"Your Royal Highness?" The hesitation in the voice was palpable, as if each word was carefully chosen to breach the barrier between them. Delaying his response, the silence had a price; the voice, once cautious, now carried a hint of firmness. "Prince Oliver?"

A flash of discontent crossed Oliver's face before the mirror, revealing a superficial disturbance that he quickly covered with a brush of forced courtesy.

"Enter!" he commanded, as the scene shifted from a private haven of rumpled sheets to a stage where ceremony and personal intricately intertwined. The door opened, releasing a silence full of expectations, revealing the servant — no more than a human sketch, his gaze averted with deference.

"Good morning, Your Highness," he greeted with the fragility of a challenger. However, subsequent words came bearing urgency masked as a warning. "The Queen requests your immediate presence for a meeting in the throne room. She and Mr. Harrison-Jones are waiting."

A theatrical anxiety creased Oliver's forehead as he prepared to descend to the stage of the day, a performance for which he did not feel entirely rehearsed. "Understood, tell her I will be there shortly," relying on his lineage's reserve to keep his voice steady, while a tide of thoughts washed over him.

The throne room was a monument to regimentation, austerity forged in stone and protocol. There was Ian, cloaked in an apparent statuary calm, blending his inner fire with the ice of obligation. Yet, his proximity was a double-edged sword — the sharp desire to embrace him, the iron pillar to maintain composure.

His deep brown eyes met Oliver's only briefly, blinking with silent discomfort.

"Oh, good morning, dear," said the Queen, and the world seemed to freeze in reverence.

Ian bowed, his posture rigid and formal contrasting sharply with the uncertainty in his gaze, which no one but Oliver could see. The others in the room were mere pale spectators, secondary characters who withdrew discreetly, accustomed to the royal drama.

Once alone, Queen Charlotte, with her characteristic subtlety, suggested that Ian sit down, while the weight of suspicions tied Oliver's tongue. His mind imagined scenarios of his fate unraveling into divergent paths. Did she suspect something? Would she separate them, adhering to some ancient clause, Ian confined to a distant island while Oliver was sent to some boarding school on another continent?

But then, the storm of possible torments calmed behind the serenity of her smile.

"Before we begin, I would like to express my satisfaction with Mr. Harrison-Jones's work on drafting the documents for the transition of power," she began, emanating authority in every word. "His advice to my grandson on the great importance of a future King marrying to continue the lineage was equally precise."