The crowd roared and cheered as the King's warriors marched through the capital streets. Once again he had rousted the Vadnashi from their lands. Once again they were safe. Once again the kingdom celebrated.

The warriors wore their field armour, dented and scratched, but polished to shine in the sunlight. They walked proudly in their clan colors, tattered but vivid. The riot of color was almost as loud as the cheering.

In front of them rode the king on his dappled stallion, his armour not far diffrent from his but the crown cast on his helmet, and the gleaming white cape at his back.

Rumor claimed him handsome, with a strong jaw, intense eyes, and a body worthy of his warrior reputation. Qismet would not know, now or ever.

Mason's sons did not meet handsome kings. They took over from their parents or married someone who would. Qismet was lucky he even got to see the parade. Their latest reconstruction project was right along the route and all work stopped for the king's return parade.

"Qismet," the Forman called, pushing aside some of the gawking men as the color guard marched by.

Qismet yanked his eyes from the colorful dancers. "Please tell me it's not the phone," he pouted, cursing that he was running the office today. "The soldiers are just around the corner."

"No, no," he chuckled, pulling the boy aside. "We just finished one of the 5th floor rooms facing the road. It's a fantastic view. Want to come up?"

"Trick question," he laughed following him into the building.

The stairs weren't ready, so they took the scaffold ladders. They passed some of the crew cheering the finished floors, barely getting a nod in acknowledgment.

Qismet couldn't blame them. The Vandashi were growing bolder, attacking more frequently, and this last attack had burrowed deeper into the kingdom than ever before. Each battle brought the worry that the holy war would finally come to Cazda. But not this time.

They reached the 5th floor, walking the half crumbled stone hall as they went; those Bakki termites were no joke. The foreman opened the door and Qismet happily stepped inside. There were three large men waiting, with silver wolf pins on their lapels.

Qismet turned to run. The door clicked shut. The lock engaged. He was trapped.

"Hello, Qismet," a voice drawled from behind him.

Steeling his nerves, he turned. The three men had parted, revealing a fourth standing on the balcony. He was tall, lean, with a sharp face that was both handsome and terrifying. He was looking at Qismet. Waiting.

"Hello, Mr Bouldair," Qismet said quietly, trying not to shake.

"Come," Bouldair said, turning to the parade.

Qismet hesitated. He didn't want to be anywhere near that man. Anyone that carried the name Bouldair or wire the silver wolf pins. Such men had been causing trouble his entire life. But, the door was locked, there was no more running.

He took a breath and crossed the room. The burly guards let him pass, eyeing him with carefully neutral faces. His feet carried him onto the mostly repaired balcony. He stopped a feet from Bouldair, just out of arm's reach, and turned to the parade.

The foot soldiers were just passing by, in their simple armour and worn faces. Next would be the infantry. Last would be the knights, led by their king.

The defenders of the realm were so close, and yet Qismet would not be saved.

"You've been avoiding me, Quismet," Bouldair noted, turning from the parade. "I don't appreciate that."

"I'm sorry," Qismet replied. "I needed time to think."

"What is there to think about?" Bouldair asked coldly. "In accordance with the contract your grandmother signed-"

"I know," Qismet interpreted, sharp and broken. "I know. It's just…"

He had been hoping for a miracle. For his sister Karma to reappear. For Bouldair to change his mind. Maybe even a white knight coming to sweep him off his feet and carry him to a place Bouldair couldn't reach.

But those had been idle hope, impossible wishes. Fairy tales that people like Qismet didn't get to live. People like Qismet were never saved by handsome kings. Such things were beyond even their wildest dreams.

"I had dreams," Qismet said softly, words almost lost to the crowd. "Things I had wanted for my future. I needed time to let them go."

"Are you ready, then?" Bouldair asked, no sympathy in his tone. He didn't care one bit he was tearing Qismet's world apart.

"I will be," he answered, breathing deeply to hold back his tears. "By the time of….when the time comes."

"Good."

They watched the infantry pass in silence. Qismet was trying not to cry, not to fall apart, in front of Bouldair. The man would never tolerate such weakness. Qismet would have to be strong to survive what came next. There was no place for tears, hope, or fairy tales where he was headed. But in these last moments of freedom, before he started this path, he would have one last glimpse at that impossible dream.

The knights appeared. A riot of color, shining armour, and cheering. The people celebrated their greatest warriors, and the man who led them.

He was broad of shoulder and dark of skin. He glowed in the golden sunlight, his crown a halo atop his head. He smiled at the crowd, turning to each side in time. Even from the 5th floor, Qismet could see how handsome he was.

The king tilted his head up and spotted Qismet. He gasped, feeling the king's eyes catch on his own. They were hypnotic. Qismet never wanted to look away.

The king drew closer, in front the rowdy contractors below. His eyes never left Qismet. Qismet leaned forward, not wanting to lose sight of him.

Crack

The stone crumbled under Qismet's fingers. He pitched forward. Bouldair cried out. The ground loomed closer. Someone screamed.

He was falling.

~~~~

Parades were a necessary evil, in King Gareth’s opinion. He knew they boosted moral, inspired the people, and helped remind his men what they were fighting for. But, frankly, Garith would much rather return to his bed and get some proper sleep. Or other activities suited for his private chambers.

Of course, that required company. Which required socializing. Which is the last thing he wanted to do.

He needed to get married.

Someone to warm his bed and ease his pain. Someone to listen to his worries and ease his fears. Someone to fill in the silence and ease his loneliness. Someone to call his own.

Love would be nice. But kings only found love in fairy tales. He'd be lucky to find a spouse he could call a friend, but that would be enough. Just someone he could trust to help carry his burdens. But people like that didn't fall from the sky, no matter what that old witch said.

A scream tore the air. Gareth saw something in the corner of his eye. He turned. Something was falling. He reached out.

A warm body filled his arms. He pulled the person to his chest. They twisted. Their eyes met the king's.

The bluest eyes Gareth had ever seen in all his years and travels. It was like someone had plucked pieces of a clear summer sky and placed them in the delicate face before him. They were so pretty, separated by a cute little nose that led to plush, rosey lips that begged to be turned red with passionate kisses. A wild mess of autumn colored hair curled around the startled eyes, shoulder length and pulled back.

The scent of gardenias and parchment. It reminded him of nights spent reading in the palace gardens. It was warm and calming, filling him with peace. It was balm to his wiry soul. Heaven.

The horse jostled and arms flew up to wrap around Gareth's neck. He cursed the armour between them as those blue eyes looked around. Wild astonishment filled them as they returned to Gareth.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his voice lowering without consent.

"You," the angel gasped, voice tight and masculine, but sweet. "You're the king."

Gareth smiled. "Yes I am," he chuckled. "Are you hurt?"

"No," the boy said, tensing. "I'm so sorry you're highness. It was an accident, I swear. The banister gave way and-"

"Shh, shh," gareth soothed, petting his side. "Calm down, little Omega. You're safe."

The boy sagged in his arms. He glanced up and flinched, tucking himself against the king. Gareth looked up to see 3 thugs glaring down at them, glints of silver on their lapels. He didn't need to see the shape of those pins to know they weren't the sort of people a vulnerable omega should be around. Gareth pulled the poor thing closer.

"They can't touch you," he promised. "I won't let them."

The boy's lovely eyes grew wide, wonder blossoming on his features.

"Thank you," he breathed, hiding his face from the king; a shy little thing.

"What's your name?" Gareth asked, maneuvering the boy to sit.

"Qismet Dupree," he said.

The king smiled, delighted and unsurprised. "Well, Qismet," he purred, earning a sweet blush. "If you're going to ride with me you'll have to sit properly."

Qismet smiled and allowed Gareth to move to sit in front of him. He wrapped an armoured arm around Qismet's slender waist to pull him close. The boy's breath hitched, then he melted, one arm resting on the king's.

"Be sure to smile and wave, Qismet," Gareth whispered in his ear, waving at the clearly curious crowd. "Lest the people think you're a war prize."

"I don't think that would be so bad," Qismet replied, waving shyly. "Being your prize."

"Careful, little omega" gareth rumbled. "If you keep this up I might not be able to let you go."

Qismet didn't reply, but Gareth could see the tips of his ears turn red. Good. Cause it was already much, much too late.