CHAPTER 569: THE PRINCE AND HIS DYSFUNCTION (2)

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

Lyan took a slow sip. "I am many things. ’Legend’ is your word, not mine."

"Oh, please." Will rolled his eyes. "You vanish for years, reappear as Lord Miracle–Mercenary, topple Hektor, save Grafen, build a model farm, and collect more terrifyingly competent women than most men see in a lifetime. There are ballads."

"There are exaggerated stories," Lyan corrected.

"Stories," Will said flatly, "in which, according to three separate taverns and one disturbingly detailed mural in the lower city, Our Lord Evocatore successfully entertained ten women in one night and then went to war at dawn."

Lyan set his mug down very carefully.

"I am going to find that mural," he said, "and correct their counting."

"That is not the point," Will hissed. "Do you know what happens when that story reaches a prince’s drinking companions? They look at me and say, ’So, Your Highness, think you can match your lord?’"

Lyan blinked. "And you... said no?"

Will stared at him as if he’d suggested kissing a swamp troll.

"I am the Crown Prince," he said. "I can’t say no to that."

"You can," Lyan said mildly. "You simply chose not to."

Will slammed his mug down again. "I decided," he said, with the dignity of a man recounting his own doom, "that I would demonstrate the superiority of royal blood over mere mercenary legend."

"Ah," Lyan said softly. "Here we are."

The night of the disaster, as Will told it, sounded almost impressive—right up until it wasn’t.

"I planned it like a campaign," he said, shoulders hunching as he spoke. "Rations, timing, rotations. I even did stretches."

"Stretches," Lyan repeated.

"I’m not an animal," Will snapped. "And before you ask, yes, they all agreed. Enthusiastically. I’m not a monster."

He described the scene with increasingly wild gestures—how he’d chosen a private wing, how he’d checked the candles, how he’d even turned away two extra volunteers because he didn’t want to overreach.

"I set it at ten," he said firmly. "Just enough to beat your damned song. First wave, second wave, final glory charge. We even had snacks."

"You had snacks," Lyan said.

"What, you think you were the only one who thought of fruit and water?" Will demanded. "I’m not taking on a feat like that with a dry throat."

Lyan put his face in his hand.

"At first," Will went on, oblivious now, "it was fine. Better than fine. It was glorious. The bards would have wept. Girl one, two, three—easy. Four, five—bit more effort, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Confidence: sky high. I was making jokes by six."

"Of course you were," Lyan murmured.

"Seven," Will said, eyes going distant, "was when the cracks started. My legs felt... interesting. In a bad way. There was a brief moment where I thought, ’Maybe this is enough. Maybe you should stop, Will, while you’re ahead.’"

"And then?"

"And then," Will said bitterly, "I remembered the mural. And the drinking hall. And the way they looked at me when they told that story. So I pressed on."

He mimed trudging through waist‑deep mud.

"By nine," he said, "my soul had left my body. I was operating on pure pride, spite, and whatever those snacks were doing. I had seen the face of death, and it was mine in the mirror."

"You could have stopped," Lyan said.

"I couldn’t," Will said. "Not with ten waiting. Ten was the victory. Ten was the legend. Ten was the number that would shut them all up."

He fell silent for a moment, staring into his mug.

"And then," he said quietly, "came the last girl."

Lyan waited.

"My mind," Will said, tapping his temple, "said, ’Onwards, champion.’ My heart said, ’We can do this.’ My body said, ’Absolutely not.’"

He snapped his fingers.

"Nothing," he said. "Like a bridge after the river has moved out. It just wasn’t there. I tried. I rallied. I gave speeches. I talked to it like a soldier. No response."

Lyan pressed his lips together hard enough that his jaw ached.

"The last girl," Will went on, voice hollow, "looked at me. Looked down. Looked back at me. And then she said..."

He swallowed.

"...weak."

The word dropped between them like a stone.

"The candles dimmed," Will said, eyes wide with the memory. "I heard the word echo off the walls. My ancestors turned in their graves. The bed creaked in judgment. I’m pretty sure the moon went behind a cloud just so it wouldn’t have to watch."

Lyan lost the battle.

A laugh burst out of him, sharp and helpless. He tried to smother it behind his hand, but it escaped anyway, shaking his shoulders. A few nearby patrons glanced over again, saw nothing except two men and too much ale, and turned away.

"Don’t you dare," Will hissed, color flooding his face. "Don’t you dare laugh. This is serious trauma."

"You," Lyan managed, wiping at the corner of his eye, "broke yourself trying to beat a tavern song version of me."

"I was defending the honor of the crown!"

"You made a magical trauma out of one word from a tired maid."

"You weren’t there!" Will said, slamming his palms on the table. "The room judged me, Lyan. Do you understand? The room. The curtains rustled in disappointment. The headboard creaked ’pathetic.’ I haven’t been able to look at that mattress the same way since."

Lyan’s laughter subsided slowly, leaving a warmth around his ribs.

"And ever since," he said more gently, "when you try again...?"

Will deflated, shoulders curling.

"Every time," he said. "I get as far as... you know. And then I hear it. ’Weak.’ Like it’s carved in the air. And then my body remembers that night. And everything shuts down."

Lyan leaned back, studying him. On the surface it was ridiculous—prince undone by pride and one careless word. Underneath, though, it was the same Will he’d known in campfires and foxholes: the boy who would rather fight three men than admit he couldn’t lift a crate alone.

He’s still that idiot, Lyan thought. Same pride. Same need to prove himself. Just more gold and fancier pillows now.

"Will," he said aloud, voice even, "you weren’t cursed. You weren’t undone by onions, or mattresses, or the noble council. You panicked about not being enough when people were watching you as ’the prince.’"

Will stared at him, mouth opening to argue, then shutting again. His fingers tightened around his mug.

"...Yes," he admitted finally. "Fine. Yes. That’s the real reason."

He exhaled, long and shaky, as if saying it out loud took something out of him.

"And it doesn’t help," he added bitterly, "that the entire damned kingdom seems to be waiting to see if I’ll be a good ruler or a decorative disaster. One word from a maid and suddenly my own body has opinions about my fitness to wear the crown."

He drank, then stared into the dregs of his ale.

"I can swing a sword," he said softly. "I can command a battlefield. I can look a demon in the face and not flinch. But one small failure where no one is supposed to judge me, and now... everything feels like that. Like it’s all going to collapse the moment someone says ’weak.’"

Lyan said nothing for a moment. The noise of the tavern surged and receded around them like a tide. Somewhere, a card game exploded into curses. The knife‑thrower collected his blades. Dice clattered.

"This isn’t just about beds," Lyan said at last. "It’s about the throne."

Will’s laugh was quick and humorless. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe it’s all the same thing. Maybe the gods decided a prince who can’t take a joke from a maid doesn’t deserve a functioning—"

"Careful," Lyan said dryly. "If you blaspheme about that in here, someone will sell it to a bard."

Will snorted and rubbed a hand over his face.

"So what now, Lord Evocatore?" he asked, peering at Lyan over his fingers. "You going to prescribe breathing exercises? Herbal tea? A polite conversation with my inner child?"

Lyan let his gaze trail around the tavern. Scarred faces, hooded eyes, hands with more scars than fingers. Men and women who lived by steel and speed and bad decisions.

"I think," he said slowly, "I’ve just realized why you picked this particular pit."

Will blinked.

"You came to a bandit bar," Lyan continued, "full of people who solve feelings by putting each other through furniture. To vent, huh?"

Will’s mouth twitched.

"...Maybe," he said.

"Right," Will said a heartbeat later, leaning back until his chair balanced on two legs. His eyes had that dangerous gleam Lyan knew too well from their mercenary days—the one that meant he was about to do something cathartic and stupid.

"You’re right," he said. "I came to vent. And if I draw a sword, it stops being fun for them."

Lyan eyed him. "Define fun."