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Warning
Pelleas was not surprised when the door creaked open to reveal Sothe.
Micaiah was sick, practically chained in bed by the watchful eye of the rest of the Dawn Brigade; Pelleas himself felt uncomfortable in their company, as though he were intruding. The Dawn Brigade operated much like a family, and if anything, he was merely a hastily adopted sibling, one that need not have been brought home in the first place. It was perhaps an hour ago that Pelleas managed to escape the haunting look that he knew Sothe had been holding in, but here they were, back to face, and the tension in the air was thick with Pelleas's terror.
"Pelleas," Sothe spoke to the man's back from the door. Izuka might've said that this was no way to speak to a king. But Izuka was gone; he had left Pelleas with a half-fulfilled dream, an uncertain mother, and a trapped heroine who at one point had fought for something she actually believed in.
"I apologize for all the grief I have caused you," Pelleas said quietly, his voice shaky. He was shaking, too, evidence that earlier he'd been weeping. "All of you."
Sothe said nothing. There was silence, save for the steady rhythm of something dripping from the desk where it'd been spilled.
Some time passed before Sothe sighed and admitted casually: "I never liked you, Pelleas."
It wasn't something Pelleas didn't already know. It had been obvious from their first meeting that Sothe hated Pelleas – a hatred that stemmed from Izuka more-so than the young king himself. Anyone could see that it irked Sothe the way that Izuka dared to look at Micaiah as a prize, and how they all knew inside a truth that no one dared say: Pelleas was not fit to be a king. He was far too hesitant. But Micaiah supported Pelleas anyway, like a blind fool that everyone knew she wasn't. Sothe so obviously blamed all of Micaiah's suffering on Pelleas that if one didn't notice they'd have to be dead.
Before Pelleas could respond, Sothe added: "But what you did today? For once"—Sothe took a few steps closer and placed a hand on the shivering king's shoulder in an attempt to calm him (Pelleas's muscles tensed)—"it seemed like you knew what you were doing."
If it had been Micaiah standing behind him when Pelleas looked over his shoulder, he might have received a reassuring smile. Sothe awarded him a less friendly, more serious, inquiry. Stony-faced indeed.
Pelleas relaxed his muscles, though Sothe's hand remained on his shoulder. His right hand gripped something tightly against his thigh. A slight shine might've been caught by Sothe when the candlelight struck iron, but Sothe did not react. Instead, he let go of the king's shoulder and brought his arm back loosely to his side.
Pelleas's vague thoughts brought him back to earlier that day.
If… If Micaiah had allowed it, Pelleas would be dead and Daein free from the Blood Pact's curse. If only he wasn't so stupid this problem wouldn't have risen in the first place. He was sure that if say, Sothe, was left in charge of the contract nothing wrong would've happened. (It escaped Pelleas's mind that Sothe was, in fact, rather selfish; it was unlikely that Sothe would sacrifice himself for anyone other than a select people of value if they were in swapped positions.)
But Pelleas had been willing to sacrifice himself for his people. To potentially raise the possibility of safety for his people, Pelleas had been willing to risk everything and anything.
He had decided. He had to save his people through any possible method. Even if Micaiah disapproved.
Silence reigned between the two young men for what felt like hours, but was in reality only a few minutes.
Finally, Pelleas started, "So—"
"Pelleas." Sothe's voice was dangerously soft, but held amazing strength when he cut the other man off.
"I—Sothe?"
"I was actually… sent to you," Sothe clarified emotionlessly, "Micaiah wanted me to give you something." Pelleas was growing paranoid—how closely, exactly, was Sothe watching his right hand? Sothe took Pelleas by the left hand, turned him so that they were facing each other, dangerously close.
"G-Give me something?" Pelleas squawked. Flushing, he asked, "What is it?"
Sothe did not say anything. He let go of Pelleas's left hand, went to hold the right, kissed the top of it. Pelleas tried to say something, but before he could do so, the small iron dagger slid down his sleeve into Sothe's palm, leaving rough scratches on the king's arm. Pelleas was shocked and very still, but Sothe's face still held no specific emotion.
Then Sothe shouldered Pelleas, turned on his heel and went for the exit, not stopping until he reached the doorway.
"A warning," Sothe finally answered.
The dagger flew past Pelleas's head with fierce speed, cutting a few strands of stray hair in the process.
"'Don't you dare leave your people behind.'"