Meddie collapsed in bed and curled up into a ball, seizing up on his side as he gasped for air. He miraculously made it to his dorm room, but he was not doing good. He was not doing good at all. Tears stung at his eyes, and he coughed into his handkerchief, because he didn’t want to force his attendant to wash his bedsheets. Blood soaked into the cloth, and he curled up even more, trying and failing to focus.

He was hurting everywhere, and he was not doing well. It would die down after two hours. He knew it would die down. Goddammit, why were people like this? He gasped for air, the pain coursing through his body, and shuddered painfully. Really, he should be thanking Justin. He had a damned good excuse to avoid the party now. If only they allowed him to practice his witchcraft. He would have been fucking fine if he had his wards on him. They had essentially taken him out at the knees, and he was shit out of luck.

Pain coursed through his body, and he clutched at the blanket, crumpling it in his fist, and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Justin probably wouldn’t even be expelled for that stunt. Annoying. It was fucking annoying.

He was struggling to breathe through the pain. He felt like he was going to hyperventilate at any moment, and he wondered how he was going to manage in the cafeteria. It would be criminally easy to poison him. Anyone could be an enemy. The hard feelings from the war hadn’t faded away, and all he could hear in his head was freak of nature.

Ada and Gladys were seizing up, too, and he wished he could relieve their pain.

There was a knock on his door, and he didn’t respond. Hopefully, they would go away. The knock sounded again, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight, biting down on his hand and drawing blood.

The door opened, and he looked up. In strode Michael, two healers flanking him, and Meddie felt the blood drain out of his face.

“Wait---” he said, but a spell lashed out, pinning him to the bed. The two healers paused, looking uncertain, and Michael stared down at him imperiously.

“Heal him,” he ordered, and the two healers scurried forward as Meddie thrashed, panic clawing in his lungs, because they were going to poison him and he didn’t have his potions---

Warmth washed over him, hot and sweet, as holy magic circles appeared in the air. The pain faded away into a dull throb, and then disappeared entirely, and the female healer paused, staring down at him.

“Refusing healing has never helped anyone,” she said severely, and Meddie gave her a filthy look, too tired and upset to censor himself right now.

“It only lasts two hours,” he snapped, and she drew herself up to her full height.

“And the internal bleeding? You’re in the swordsmanship course. You can’t afford to be doing that,” she said, and he inhaled sharply.

“I can handle a sword with a little bleeding---”

“Do not argue with the healers,” Michael snapped. “You realize us not treating you could risk war?”

Meddie thought to mock him for thinking his father would go to war over something as petty as this, but he kept his mouth shut. His father would never even consider going to war over him. He wasn’t that sort of father.

“If you’re truly concerned about war, you should keep control over your students,” Meddie snapped, because he was tired, and he was scared. “I want these healers out of my room. Now.”

He could feel his skin start to crawl. Objectively, he knew he was being ridiculous. Of course they wouldn’t poison him. Holy magic didn’t even work that way, but he needed to… He needed to calm down. They were only doing their jobs. Even so, pinning him to the bed? And why was he still pinned?

“And release me,” he added, his mood only continuing to sour, and Michael blinked, as though he hadn’t realized Meddie was still lashed down. The chains snaked away, and Meddie went limp on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. They really just… forced healing on him. He would have been fine. He would have been completely fine. He was a demon, not blessed with holy magic, and he healed within a matter of days. He would have been fine to attend class tomorrow. This was ridiculous.

“Get out,” Meddie said quietly, and the healers exchanged glances.

“Have you had a full examination yet?” Michael asked, and Meddie shot him a nasty look.

“Out,” he hissed, because he was not about to submit himself to more holy magic and more invasions.

“You need an examination. Invictus can have side effects---”

“And I’ve been healed,” Meddie snapped, and sat up. Ada and Gladys were more alert now, coiling around his throat in anxiety, and he took a deep breath in. “Get out of my room. Now.”

“Fine. If you’re fine, then, then you can attend the banquet tonight,” Michael said, and Meddie laughed in his face.

“No,” he said, flat, and Michael’s brows furrowed.

“You need to attend,” he insisted, and Meddie glared at him.

“No. I really don’t,” he said, and Michael took half a step forward.

“You know, in all of the stories about you, no one mentioned you were this unpleasant to be around,” he said, and Meddie rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’m not normally confronted with blatant racism, attacked twice in a place that’s meant to be safe, tied to my bed, and forced to submit to healing spells against my will,” he snipped, and Michael paused, as if he hadn’t considered things from Meddie’s position. “I’m normally much more pleasant, but it’s been a long day. Please excuse me. I will not be attending the banquet.”

Michael pursed his lips, and Meddie got up and straightened out his cuffs in a businesslike manner.

“Now. All of you. Out,” he said, and Michael seemed to realize this wasn’t a fight he was going to win. Without a word, the student body president turned and made his way out, but the female healer lingered.

“Please come to the infirmary soon for an examination,” she said, perfectly polite and stern, and Meddie rubbed his eyes.

“I will not, but thank you,” he said, and gestured for the door. “Please leave.”

She pursed her lips, and then she left, pulling the door shut behind her. Meddie kicked off his shoes and collapsed on his bed. He’d never been healed before, so he assumed it was going to drain him excessively. He should take a nap. It was still mid morning, and he already knew his way around the academy, so he could go to sleep now.

Annoyance rose and crested in a wave, and he curled up on the bed, his head practically stuffed into the pillow, and closed his eyes.

Why couldn’t people just leave him alone?

….

Meduso was nowhere to be seen at the banquet, and Tristan wasn’t bothered by it, per se, but he was… vaguely disturbed. He knew it would take time to get to know Meduso. It would take time to break down his walls. But he didn’t anticipate the other prince being so… cruel.

Of course, it made sense. There had been thirteen attempts on his life by his own brothers, and his childhood had to be hellish. But, it still stung.

I don’t need your protection.

The words were still ringing around Tristan’s head, and honestly, how could Meduso be so foolish? Didn’t he realize his position here? Likely not, he thought in annoyance as he stabbed his steak and put a bite of it into his mouth. He was in need of protection, because he had nothing. He had no political power, here or in the Demonias Empire. He had no backing, no protection, no support. He needed a powerful person to be at his back.

He wasn’t politically minded. That much was clear. He was brilliant in battle, but in the world of cutthroat politics, he was rather dull. He didn’t seem to understand how precarious his position was as an exiled prince, with no backing and no help. He was slapping Tristan’s hand away like a scared, wild animal, and Tristan needed to make it clear he needed him.

He thought that situation with Justin Emory would do as much, which was why he didn’t intervene right up until the point Justin started casting spells, but he had underestimated how stubborn Meduso was.

Which was ridiculous. He had faced him in battle, in one on one combat, while Meduso was quite literally dying from trangor. He knew how stubborn he was. He knew very, very intimately.

There was a certain degree of intimacy there that Meduso was refusing to acknowledge. And it was grating at Tristan. He knew Meduso’s eyes when he didn’t want to die. He knew his eyes, and Meduso was acting as if it meant nothing. Meduso was… frustrating, Tristan thought. He was extremely frustrating.

With a sigh, he put another bite of meat in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and lifted the champagne glass listlessly, taking a sip of it. It washed down his throat, and Isilda next to him cleared her throat.

“What happened?” she asked, and Tristan glanced at her, still kind of annoyed with her for that scene she had made at the ball. He knew she had a thing for demons, but…

“Nothing,” he replied, because he didn’t want to talk about this with her.

“You went after him, and you came back looking like you’d been the one hit with invictus,” she said, and Tristan pursed his lips.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, and Isilda sighed.

“Are you still mad at me?” she asked teasingly.

“No,” he said, clipped and short, and she laughed.

“What? He’s pretty,” she said slyly, and Tristan ignored her. He got his dance, and he probably had made it a hell of a lot more intimate than she had. Even so…

“That’s no excuse,” Tristan said, and Isilda tilted her head.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset about it,” she said airily, and he pursed his lips even tighter. “He’s just a demon. There’s no need for us to fight over him. We can share.”

“I’m not fighting over him,” Tristan said, but something about that statement rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn’t… just a demon. He was a brilliant military commander, stubborn, hardened, and hellbent on survival. There was something intoxicating about him.

“Then, there should be no reason for you to be acting like this,” Isilda said smoothly and put a bite of steak in her mouth.

Tristan didn’t want to pull seniority on her, but at the same time…

“Bold of you to demand we share,” he said mildly. “You’re entirely too comfortable. Isilda.”

Isilda blinked at him, and Tristan came to his feet.

“I believe I’ve lost my appetite,” he said and tossed his napkin on the table. “I’ll retire for the night.”

He knew Isilda wouldn’t be able to get close. Not with that attitude. Even so, he was still extremely annoyed. Meduso was…

He turned and walked off, and everyone watched him go. He felt anger burn in his gut, twisted and ugly, and he swallowed down his emotion. It wouldn’t do to get upset over a potential mistress. That was uncouth, and frankly demeaning to himself. Even so, he didn’t understand why everyone seemed to have a complete lack of respect for Meduso. He had behaved honorably in the war, and had proven himself time and time again, surviving through hardship after hardship and miraculously coming out on top every time.

Everyone said he was a bad omen, but Tristan didn’t believe that. He had nearly won the war for the Demonias Empire, and would have won the war had his brothers cooperated with him. That was no small feat. How much more would he have to do to be considered on an equal level with his peers?

It was the lack of respect from Isilda that grated him. He knew the two of them were comfortable with each other, but he was the Crown Prince, and had made his interest in Meduso clear. And, yet, here she was, pursuing him. That was improper. It was highly improper, and honestly, with friends like her, who needed enemies? He was quietly upset, and he didn’t want to---

He didn’t want to share, he thought grimly. He did not want to share. The thought of Isilda touching him, making Meduso squirm, sliding her hand down his body, made Tristan feel sick. If only he had remained a princess. Then, it would be clear that he was off limits, and the future Empress of this great Empire.

The thought made him pause.

Did he… want Meduso in that way?

He paused in the doorway, and then he realized this was going to be his life now. Whatever future Empress was chosen would pale in comparison to that lonely prince. He would probably not even want to make an heir. It was his duty, but he had a feeling he would resent the Crown Princess for not being Meduso.

The strength of his feelings for someone he had only met once scared him. All throughout the war, he had thought of him, ruminated on him, laid awake at night, dreaming of white scales and black blood. He had imagined him curled up in his arms, his hands on his body, making him whimper for him, pressing him down into the bed and making him weep through the overstimulation. Meduso had claimed him and didn’t even know it.

It was…

It was terrifying, he thought.

It was genuinely terrifying.

And Meduso wanted nothing to do with him. That hurt the worst. The fact that he didn’t want him, while Tristan yearned. Tristan was yearning, and he didn’t know what to do with these feelings except make it so Meduso would accept no one but him.

He would have to.

If he didn’t, he didn’t know what he’d do.