"For fuck's sake," Oliver grumbled under his breath.

In all his days as a knight, he had never seen Centaura's market square this busy. Merchants from villages across the kingdom crowded into stalls and hawked their goods, which ran the gamut from flowers and honeyed pastries to swords, daggers and longbows. Great banners of blue and gold - the kingdom colors - whipped freely in the wind. This year's Festival of the Crown looked to be the Centaura's most successful yet. It was certainly shaping up to be the noisiest. It seemed everyone on the island had descended on the market to make a quick handful of skellons for tonight's celebrations.

Oliver hated commotion. This was going to be a long day.

He strode through the crowd, keeping his metal hand on the blade sheathed low on his hip. He kept his good hand freely swinging at his side. As a knight on day patrol, men tended to give him a wide berth, while women found excuses to flirt with him. Today was no different. A girl selling ale tried to catch his eye, as did another with a basket of garlands.

"For your girlfriend," the woman with the garlands implored as she pressed a colorful crown to him. At his metal arm, her eyes flared with curiosity. Oliver tugged down the red cloak at his shoulders until it was covered. He didn't like it when people stared, and people always stared.

"No," Oliver said plainly. When the woman protested, he repeated himself. "No."

"But it's such a beautiful garland."

"Do I look like I am concerned with beauty?"

"Please, sir. This is the least I can do for the bravest man in the Centauran battalion."

A crown of flowers wasn't terribly inconspicuous when paired with the boiled black leather and dull grey chainmail of his armor. The salesgirl offered a pithy smile as he reluctantly took it from her. After a beat, a chorus of happy voices drew his attention away. At the far end of the market, an audience of pre-study aged children sat enraptured before a stall piled with books. Oliver approached them, glaring.

"Hey. You little wraiths keep quiet or I'll have you scrubbing King Niklas' latrines for the rest of the year."

A girl who couldn't have been older than six shot him a nasty look. She pressed a tiny finger against her pursed lips. Shhhh.

Before Oliver could ask what the hell he was being shushed for, a young man exploded up from behind the stall, a storybook in one hand and his other curled like a monster's claw. The children gasped in fear and wonder.

"And then!" He cried, reading from the illustrated pages of the book, "The wyvern's tail lashed at the prince, it's poisonous barb stopped only by his trusty shield!"

The children gasped. Clearly, the storyteller was in the middle of reading some silly yarn and Oliver had momentarily interrupted everyone's enjoyment. The knight stood to the side and watched, silent but skeptical.

"Not today, said the prince! With no sword in hand, all he had to rely upon were his wits." The storybook became the young man's shield, held in place as if guarding him from a beast's wrath. The girl who shushed Oliver pulled on her hair, in agony of the suspense.

"As the prince ran to find cover, the wyvern roared a stream of fire!"

The young man mimicked a wyvern's monstrous, fire-throated roar. The kids leaned away, giggling and screaming in delight. It was easy to see why they were so enchanted. Their storyteller was highly skilled, with expressive voice work and warm, engaging eye contact that ensured every child felt involved in the action. Despite Oliver's well-deserved reputation as surly (or a shit-heel curmudgeon, if you asked his best friend, King Niklas), he found himself quietly charmed by the young man's showmanship.

As the storyteller paused to turn the page, a boy with messy hair and a smear of candied lemon on his mouth noticed Oliver watching them. The knight glowered at the boy.

"It's the wyvern!" the hellion shrieked, which got the whole smattering of them going. Children were taught early on to respect the authority of the battalion, though young minds tended to confuse respect with fear. So, the kids scattered, shrieking and laughing as they dashed away.

"Remember to tell your parents about the library!" the young man called. "We're open until sundown every..." He trailed off, knowing that none had listened. "Oh, damn it all."

Soon, the only one left standing before the stall of books was Oliver. The young man observed him silently.

"My apologies," Oliver said neutrally, "I didn't mean to frighten away your audience."

"Well, it looks like you're my audience now. I don't suppose you'd be interested in hearing the rest of the story?" His accent was hard to place, sophisticated and foreign.

"Do I look like a child to you, boy? Or a simpleton?"

The young man blinked at him. His gaze was curious and intelligent, yet strangely shy. Oliver found that odd – anyone with his looks had no reason to be bashful.

His features were boyish but striking, with sharp eyes the color of glistening emeralds. His black hair fell in waves over his forehead and curled slightly at his neck. Unlike most men of Centaura, he did not have facial hair, and his fair skin was even and healthy. Slender as a blade, too. Were it not for his commoner's clothes, he could have been mistaken for a prince – or at least an aristocrat's handsome son.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

It wasn't until the young man awkwardly cleared his throat that Oliver realized neither of them had been speaking for several moments.

"Were you seriously going to make all those kids clean latrines?"

"No. Though the one with candy on his mouth had me considering it."

The younger man laughed. "I'm Rowan."

The knight lifted his chin in acknowledgement. "Oliver Belgrave, lieutenant knight. I serve under King Niklas Destrian. Don't think I've seen you make such a loud ruckus around these parts before."

"I'm from the All Continent, sir. I arrived this past fortnight. I have my journeyman's permit if you wish to see it."

"Not necessary. But you are young to be travelling alone, no?"

"Well, I've just turned 25."

That surprised Oliver. He looked younger. "What brought you to Centaura?"

"I'm apprenticing at the library. I'm still getting a feel for your kingdom's customs and events. When I heard of the Festival of the Crown, I volunteered to advertise the library's services. I'm afraid Miss Wickwellem and I don't see many patrons most days."

Oliver couldn't recall ever visiting the library in all his patrols through the city. He wasn't even sure where it was.

"You've traveled all the way from the All Continent to be a librarian?"

"You say that like it's so hard to believe. As if I've told you I've come to Centaura to be a housecat." Without skipping a beat, Rowan gestured to the stack of books on the counter. "Would you like to borrow something? We have tales of adventure, texts of science and philosophy, theses on any subject you can imagine…"

"No."

Rowan mimicked Oliver's expression. "No, he says so seriously. So commandingly. Do all knights speak this tersely or is it only you?"

Oliver raised a brow skyward. Good looking lad, yes, but he had a bit of a mouth on him.

"I hate to insist, sir, but it would be a great benefit to the library if a knight was seen enjoying one of our books. We are a painfully underutilized service. I would like to see that changed."

He said it with a gentle smile that could have stopped a rampaging bear in its tracks. Warmth bloomed beneath Oliver's armor. "But to take a book without paying for it? What kind of business operates this way?"

"That's the point, sir. A library is not a business. It's a cultural and intellectual resource." Again, that smile. Innocent and mischievous in equal measure. Without waiting for a response, Rowan chose a book with red and gold binding and handed it to Oliver.

"Here, read this one. Mercenary of the Underworld. It's about an epic crusade waged on a fascinating land full of monsters. The hero is a mute soldier on a quest for vengeance. Something tells me you won't be able to put it down."

Oliver grasped for something to say but found no words. Rowan was half his size and not even remotely threatening. A sack of horse feed was larger than him - and likely heavier. Why was conversation suddenly so difficult?

The difference in their height was considerable, so Rowan had to crane his neck up in order to meet Oliver's eyes. "If you're still uncomfortable with taking a book, you can give me something to keep while you read it. A temporary trade."

Oliver glanced at the red and gold book. "This is really that important to you?"

"This is really that important." Again, Rowan mimicked his sullen voice. "The only other way I can think of trumpeting the library is to storm the King's podium and shout to the entire city. But I'm not much of a public speaker."

"That, and you'd be arrested."

"Unless I outrun anyone trying to arrest me."

"You wouldn't want to run."

"Why not?"

"Because then I'd have to chase you."

The younger man stilled, lips opening slightly, as if a new sort of awareness had been sparked inside him. His eyes darted away, eager to be hidden. Oliver rather liked that this sudden bashfulness softened Rowan's acerbic edges.

In the stall next to theirs, a merchant threw a celebratory handful of blue and gold lilies into the crowd. Oliver remembered the garland hidden in his cloak and, with some amount of courage, extended it to the younger man. "Here. To keep you from running."

Rowan accepted it with a surprised nod. "Don't think I've ever been given flowers before. Shall this be our trade then? A book for a crown of lilacs and roses?"

"If you deem it fair."

"Ah, such a gentleman, putting the decision in my hands. Very well. When you're finished with Mercenary of the Underworld, return it to the library. It's twenty blocks west of King Niklas' castle, right beside the Grateful Nomad."

"Odd. A library next to a tavern."

"Yes, I don't think Miss Wickwellem read the property deed too closely when she signed it. Alas. You'll read Mercenary and enjoy it."

"If I have the time," Oliver said noncommittally.

"You wouldn't make a librarian's apprentice beg, would you?"

"I'll carry your book around, but I can't guarantee anything more than a hasty glance."

Rowan touched Oliver's right hand. The real hand. The gentle warmth of the younger man's skin made lightning surge through his body. Rowan's voice lowered. "Promise me you'll read."

Oliver could only stare, forbidden thoughts and sensations rendering him speechless. Rowan's hands were smooth and unblemished, while his own were rough with sword blisters. It felt so effortless, this contact, but he couldn't allow it. No. This was too dangerous. He took a large step backward.

"Oh, I..." Rowan sputtered. "I'm sorry."

"I will return this to your library. Later. Good day."

"Alright. Good day, then." Rowan was clearly taken aback by his reaction. Disappointment burned quietly on his face.

Oliver flared with shame as he walked away. Truth be told, he had not felt the intimate touch of another man in a long time. The sensation had been so distant it registered as new and strange.

Before the market crowd could fill in the distance between them, Oliver chanced a brief look over his shoulder. Rowan was watching him leave. His bright smile was gone, replaced with a muted, curious expression. Dare it be said, he almost looked fascinated with the knight.

Dare it be said, Oliver might have been fascinated in return.

----------------------------------------

As the afternoon sun slipped low on the horizon and cast the island in soft hues of gold and pink, Oliver returned to the royal castle fortressed in the center of town. He was eager to end his shift, to get away from the Festival and the people and their noise. Thank the Goddesses I'm not on duty tonight, he thought as he crossed the foyer toward the stairs. He was barely halfway up to his chambers, wondering if there was any hot water left to fill his bath basin, when two breathless and panicked squires bumbled into his path.

"Sir! Sir! Oh, praise Eulkyrin. We've been looking all over, sir!"

Oliver steeled himself. Squires were usually dead afraid of speaking to him. Something must have been wrong. "Is there a reason why you two piles of wyvern dung are standing between me and a quiet, relaxing bath?"

"It's the King. We can't find him anywhere."

"And his speech begins half passed sundown!"

"And a group of strangers is asking after him. They call themselves the... what was it?"

"The Red Eclipse?"

"They said they were a peace group-"

"I think they looked like mages-"

"Shh! Don't say such a horrible thing!"

A low grumble escaped Oliver's mouth. Unfortunately, Niklas disappearing right before a big event was a common occurrence.

"Have you tried his chambers? The thronehall? The courtyard? The pantries?"

The squires nodded after each item, trembling. There was one other place he suspected Niklas could be found – and it required a reserve of patience that only Oliver seemed to possess. A tired, heavy sigh escaped his mouth.

"Tell the Red Eclipse to wait, whoever they are. I'll fetch the damned King."