Author's Note: Fast update! As always I recommend getting comfortable before diving into this, because it's long. And a little different, so let me know if you like the action in this. Also let me know how you feel about the long chapters/if you think they need to be shorter. Thanks for the support as always.

With the Elite well under way, in some ways Oliver felt calmer. For the moment, the world was off his back about finding a wife. He also felt like he had more time to spend with each other girls since there were only nine of them left.

But in other ways, Oliver was more stressed. With a major factor of the Selection taken care of, it allowed him to take a step back and inspect the other ventures that he had going on. Xander Seymour had already spent nearly half of the money that Oliver had delivered with underwhelming results, construction on Pacifica was going much slower than he'd liked, though his mother luckily hadn't caught on yet, and he still had the Alaric Illéa problem to address.

As the first two problems were largely out of his control, Oliver decided to take the Alaric matter into his own hands. Anderson had procured a phone number as requested, but Oliver didn't like the idea of having a "hey, are you trying to steal my country?" conversation over the phone.

Which was why he was currently making his way to Kaitlyn's room.

He'd been busy with official business all day, so by the time he actually had a chance to set his plan into action, it was already ten o'clock at night. Luckily, one of Kaitlyn's maids answered after his first knock, and she appeared in the doorway a moment later. "Oliver," she smiled widely, "What's up?"

"Do you know how to drive a car?" Oliver blurted anxiously.

Kaitlyn's face was apprehensive. "Uh… yes," she responded carefully, "Why?"

"Great!" exhaled Oliver. A large part of his plan had been contingent on this factor. One day he'd learn to drive, he kept telling himself, but it seemed largely inconsequential until the rare moments that the skill would have been helpful. "Can you change and meet me in my room in ten minutes?"

Kaitlyn's eyebrows knit together. There were a million questions on her face, though the only thing she said was, "It's ten o'clock at night."

This seemed rather unimportant to Oliver, so he pressed forward. "Think 'secret mission'," he explained, "Stealth. James Bond. That sort of thing. My room's on the third floor." He left Kaitlyn, mouth ajar and perplexed, to race back to his room to prepare his own supplies.

"For the millionth time," Anderson declared as he helped Oliver fill a nondescript black duffle bag, "I think this is a horrible idea, Your Highness."

"Duly noted, An," Oliver responded, unbothered. "Now, what the hell is this?" He picked up a square, black device and pressed the button on the side. It crackled and snapped with electricity, causing Oliver to yelp before he dropped it.

Anderson rolled his eyes. "It's a taser," he explained, "Just in case."

"In case of what?!" demanded Oliver. He was going to pay a friendly visit, not into battle.

Anderson's face was grim as he placed a gun into the bag. "In case you don't want to use this."

Oliver frowned. "Stop it."

Anderson's brow furrowed. "Stop what?"

"Being so serious," Oliver shivered, "You're freaking me out. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"Famous last words." Oliver glared at Anderson, and he put his hands up in surrender before he zipped the black duffle bag and handed it to Oliver. "Everything you should need is in there."

A knock broke the tension between Oliver and his butler, and while Anderson got the door, Oliver slipped on a pair of boots and pulled his black sweatshirt on. A glint on his right hand caught his eye, and he studied the signet ring that he always wore on his right index finger. It wasn't the flashiest – just an emerald engraved with his royal seal – but it seemed a threat to the incognito presence he was trying to adopt. He slipped it off and dropped it onto his dresser before he turned to face Kaitlyn.

"Ready?" he asked excitedly. Despite the apprehension on her face, she was dressed perfectly in a pair of black leggings, black boots, a gray sweatshirt, and a black vest. Her hair was in a messy bun atop her head, and she nervously tugged on her sweatshirt strings.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Kaitlyn frowned as he led her down the hallway that opened into the servant's stairs in order to avoid raising any suspicion.

"Of course," Oliver insisted reassuringly, "We're just going on a small trip. We'll be back before anyone even notices that we're gone."

If Kaitlyn had any protests, she repressed them—at least until he pulled the cover off a black town car and held the keys out to her. She glanced around. "Where's Jonathan?"

Damn it. Oliver tried to casually respond, "He's sitting this one out."

Kaitlyn shook her head. "Nope."

Oliver deflated. "No?"

Her bun wiggled atop her head as she fervently expressed her disapproval. "Do you even know how dangerous that is?" she demanded. "Have you ever left the palace without a guard? What is even so important that you could possibly think this is a good idea?"

Oliver sighed and shut the car door. He'd hoped Kaitlyn, with her usual carefree attitude, wouldn't have fought him on the plan, but he figured it was probably a good sign that she had. A good queen would, he realized, as it would've been careless of her to jump into such a reckless plan without much information. "I need to speak with Alaric Illéa," he explained.

Kaitlyn didn't seem moved by this. "Can't you just call him?"

Oliver shook his head. "I've never trusted Marid, but recently, he's been putting a lot more things into motion, like Regan's marriage. And… the other day out in Angeles I saw a sort of campaign lauding Alaric as king," he admitted.

"So you're going to get to the bottom of it," she concluded, "Find out if this is all Marid or if Alaric is gunning for your job."

Oliver was surprised by her perceptiveness and realized that her carefree attitude had maybe caused him to underestimate her. "Do we really have to go alone though?" frowned Kaitlyn. "If anything goes wrong, I get to explain to your mother—who scares the life out of me, by the way—why on earth I agreed to this."

"Uh… well… I kind of told Jonathan that I'd already told my mom about the Alaric thing," he explained, "And I haven't. Because if I did, she'd put the brakes on Tristan and Isolde. She's already worried about what they'll be a threat to my prospects as king."

Kaitlyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she held out her hand for the keys. "For the record," she declared as she slid into the driver's seat, "I think this is a terrible idea."

"Almost exactly what Anderson said," snorted Oliver as he hopped into the passenger seat. He realized this was his third time in the front seat of a car and had an inexplicable surge of excitement. "Road trip time," he grinned as he pulled a map out of the bag that Anderson had packed for him.

The palace was located in the middle of Angeles, and Alaric was at a monastery off the coast of Likely, one province north of them. The drive was about four hours, and Kaitlyn almost quit again when she heard this new piece of news, until he bribed her with coffee and a bag of Chex mix.

"What's the deal with you and the Illéas anyway?" Kaitlyn asked. She had one hand on the steering wheel and the other buried in the bag of Chex mix while her eyes focused on the road.

Oliver shrugged. "Honestly, it's never really been a thing until Marid," he admitted. "Spencer Illéa didn't want to be king, so he kind of just went into hiding and did his own thing. The crown passed to Damon Illéa and his son, Justin, and when Justin died, Porter Schreave took over."

"And they've never, uh, wanted the crown back?" Kaitlyn queried with a quick glance at Oliver.

"Not until recently," glared Oliver. "August Illéa swore to my grandfather that wasn't his goal even though he led the northern rebels."

"But Marid does," inferred Kaitlyn.

"And he'll use Alaric to get it if he has to," added Oliver.

She frowned. "Can't you just have him arrested? Conspiracy to commit treason or something?"

"It's complicated when it comes to Marid," countered Oliver. "People love him. Sometimes it feels like being king is a popularity contest. I can't do too many things that people don't like or I'll just have switched out one problem for another."

Kaitlyn smirked. "You mean things like flings with Italian models and stealing royal aircrafts to jet off to Europe?"

Oliver laughed at how ridiculous his past exploits sounded now. "Alright, Miss Perfect, you've had to have done something crazy. It's like a teenager thing."

Kaitlyn thought about it for a second before she shrugged. "Not really."

"At all?" demanded Oliver, "Haven't even snuck out of the house once?"

"Nope," Kaitlyn countered with a shake of her head. "I have two younger siblings, and my mom works more than full time. I've always been the responsible one."

"Wow, I'm seeing you in a whole new light, Davis," snorted Oliver. "So basically, this is the craziest thing you've ever done?"

With a groan, Kaitlyn countered, "Don't remind me. There's still time for me to turn this thing back to the palace."

Oliver gave her shoulders a squeeze. "Stop worrying," he ordered, "What could possibly go wrong?"

"Don't say that," she ordered, "Something always go wrong in movies when someone says that. You're gonna jinx us."

Although he could tell that she was genuinely worried, he couldn't hold back his laugh. "Superstitious, huh?" She didn't respond, but the white knuckled grip that she held on the steering wheel was enough confirmation, and Oliver felt a little bad for teasing her. "This isn't a movie, Kaitlyn," he pointed out, taking one of her hands off the steering wheel to entwine his fingers with hers.

"Isn't it?" she asked, sending him a rueful glance. "I'm on a secret mission with the crown prince. How is this real life?"

He laughed and kissed her hand. "I'm glad it's real life," he told her. "I'm lucky to have you as my partner in crime tonight."

"Let's just hope tonight is real light on the 'crime' aspect," Kaitlyn sighed, nervously chewing her bottom lip.

When they finally slowed at the dock, it was around two-thirty AM. Although Kaitlyn had started to look tired the last half hour of the trip, she was wide awake when she spotted the boat that Oliver had chartered. "Are you kidding me?" she demanded as she slammed the car door emphatically. She was a little scary when she was angry.

"What?" Oliver frowned. "I told you he lived off the coast of Likely!"

"We're leaving continental Illéa," she groaned, "Your mother is going to kill me if she finds out. I'm going to have to go on the lamb. I'm not made for life as a fugitive!"

Oliver laughed and lowered himself into the boat. He held his hand out to Kaitlyn, but she didn't move towards him, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. "I have more snacks in the bag," he declared in an attempt to sway her.

She didn't look moved. "Oliver, this is a terrible idea."

"You've been saying that all night," he laughed. "Kaitlyn, it'll really be fine. Everyone will be asleep, so we'll just slip in, find Alaric, ask him if he's plans to oust me, and then get our asses back to Angeles and publicly accuse the Illéas of treason if he does."

"Why do I have the feeling that you just heavily simplified the plan?" sighed Kaitlyn. But nonetheless, she joined him in the boat.

The monastery was a little further away than Oliver had anticipated, and he was actually starting to worry that he'd gotten them lost before he saw the rocky island rise up from the middle of the ocean. It wasn't very large, but the castle-like structure that it housed was intimidating. To make matters worse, a heavy fog cloaked the island and made pulling the boat up to shore difficult.

"What now?" Kaitlyn asked as she stared up at the huge stone building.

Oliver dug through the bag that Anderson had packed. Aside from the snacks and map, all it held were emergency flares, a blanket, a flashlight, the taser, and the gun. Oliver handed Kaitlyn the taser. "For emergencies," he explained when her eyes bulged. He considered the gun for a moment but decided against it and hid the bag under the steering wheel of the boat. "Come on."

The island seemed bigger when they were exploring it versus seeing it from out at sea. A dense grove of trees separated the monastery from the boat dock. The thin beam of the flashlight didn't allow for the most comfortable exploration, but if either were scared by the occasional hoots or rustling noises, they decided not to talk about. It took about ten minutes for them to navigate through the forest to the front of the compound. "Are we just going to walk in?" Kaitlyn asked in a whisper.

"Why not?" shrugged Oliver. "It's a church, isn't it?" He walked up the steps and put a hand on the iron wrought handle of the front door. A nervous feeling tugged at his stomach, but he pushed it away and hauled the door open.

Immediate regret filled Oliver as a large, strident alarm began to blare. He turned a panicked gaze back to Kaitlyn, who looked just as frightened and unhelpfully suggested, "Shut the door!"

He did as she ordered, but the alarm didn't quiet. "Any more ideas?" he asked hopefully.

"Run," Kaitlyn determined. She took off down the stairs back towards the trees.

Oliver caught her wrist before she could disappear into the safety of the brush. "Where are you going?" he asked, "We still have to find a way in."

"With an alarm blaring?" she groaned.

"It's the best time," he insisted, "Everyone will be coming to this entrance. There's got to be another way in." He pulled her along, and Kaitlyn reluctantly followed. They ducked behind a large stone pillar and watched as the front door was swarmed with guards.

Oliver glanced around, taking stock of their setting. There was a much smaller, nondescript wooden door across the court yard behind the monastery, and from where they stood he couldn't see a lock on it. "This way," he decided, taking Kaitlyn's hand again.

They were about halfway across the courtyard when the ground in front of Oliver exploded. Kaitlyn pushed him to the ground, and they huddled behind a topiary shaped like Jesus Christ. "What was that?!" Oliver peaked out around Jesus's elbow.

Kaitlyn pulled him back. "It must've been the guards."

Oliver gaped at her. "They shot at us?!"

"I don't imagine they get too many visitors at three in the morning!" she argued.

There was a clamor of voices nearby, and a moment later, a bullet sliced through Jesus. "On the count of three, we run for that garden shed," Kaitlyn decided as she nodded at the small structure. It was further away from the door that Oliver had wanted to try, but he found he was open to suggestion when he was being shot at. He nodded his agreement, and Kaitlyn gave the count.

On three, they took off. They made it about halfway there before the guards took notice. He was thankful that they had terrible aim, as the pair were able to duck and zig zag their way to safety.

It was the first time that Oliver fully realized that it had been a terrible idea. He yanked Kaitlyn behind the edge of the building, his chest burning from exertion. He stared into the thicket of trees that laid ahead of them and considered their options for a moment before he pressed the keys to the boat into Kaitlyn's hand. "Get back to the boat," he ordered. "Now."

Her blue eyes flashed. "I'm not just leaving without you!" she countered.

"Listen," Oliver instructed as he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He hoped she'd believe that he had an actual plan and wasn't just making it up as he went along still. "My cell phone is in the glove compartment of the car. Call my mother or father. They'll sort this all out."

Kaitlyn looked like she was about to protest again, but there was the unmistakable beam of light from a flashlight and the sound of approaching footsteps. "Go," Oliver begged her. He pulled her in for a quick kiss. "I'll be okay."

Even as he said it, he didn't quite believe it.

She reluctantly slunk away into the shadows just before two pairs of rough hands grabbed Oliver. "Who do we have here?" one of the men sneered. He was huge, even bigger than Jonathan, dressed in all black and featured an intimidating scar that ran the length of the left side of his face. "A thief?"

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he countered, "And I highly suggest you let me go, gentlemen."

His partner, a man of similar size and build though with visibly less patience, demanded, "Yeah? And why would we do a dumb thing like that when it's so much easier to just toss you into a cell and let the bishop deal with you?"

"Because I'm Prince Oliver Schreave, you idiots," declared Oliver as he tried to wrench his arms free to no avail.

The man with the scar glanced at his companion. "You ever seen the prince, Ev?"

'Ev' shrugged. "In a newspaper once or twice."

"You got any I.D., Princey?" demanded Scarface.

Oliver glared. "I.D.? Are you serious?" They both stared blankly at him, which Oliver found infuriating. "I don't have I.D.! I'm the prince, you idiots!"

"Alright, alright, calm down," ordered Scarface. "Got any proof?"

Oliver glared at him. "Uh, maybe my face?!"

Ev perked up from his right side. "Oh! What about a signet ring? Royals are always wearing those."

For a moment, Oliver's irritation waned. "The first good idea either of you have had," Oliver declared as he wrenched his right hand away from Ev. He held it out proudly. "See?"

Scarface's brow furrowed. "Your ring go invisible, did it?"

Oliver blanched as he remembered slipping off his ring earlier. The irony that the reasoning had been someone recognizing him was not lost on him, and he wanted to go back a few hours and strangle past Oliver. "Look," he tried, "If you just let me get in contact with the palace, we can easily get this situation taken care off."

Scarface nodded. "Of course. The prince ought to the queen on speed dial, right? Here, I'll let you reach into your pocket and call her." He generously released his grip on Oliver's left hand, although Ev kept his right firmly in his grasp.

"Uh…"

Scarface nodded. "Let me guess: no phone either?"

"I left it… somewhere," explained Oliver weakly.

Scarface sighed and grabbed Oliver's arm again. He and Ev started to drag Oliver towards the building. "Wait!" countered Oliver, digging his feet into the ground futilely. "Just let me talk to whoever's in charge and—"

"Sorry, Your Majesty," declined Ev mockingly, "We don't exactly have to go by your laws here, do we? So we'll do what we see fit with ya."

"I always liked that idea of cutting off a thief's hand," beamed Scarface, "Teach you to try stealing from a place of God, you worthless—"

But before Oliver could even panic too much because they'd threatened to cut off his hand, two very confusing things happened. First, Ev began to convulse as two electrical charges stuck into his chest; after the fact, Oliver realized they were from the taser that Anderson had packed. He went rigid and released Oliver in the process. The second strange thing was that a dark figure dropped on Scarface from above, scaring him so badly that he tried to escape the grip of his aerial attacker and promptly ran directly into the wall of the monastery and knocked himself unconscious.

Kaitlyn groaned as she shoved Scarface off from where he'd fallen on her. Oliver's eyes bulged as he glanced from the roof of the shed that Kaitlyn had launched from. It took him a minute to even remember that he could move, and he was at Kaitlyn's side a second later. "That was awesome!" he declared. "Kaitlyn, you're such a badass."

She tried to laugh, but the sound died as she cringed. "Oh, god," she moaned as she pulled her leg from beneath Scarface. Oliver blanched when he noticed that her foot was pointed in a direction that seemed sorely at odds with the rest of her leg.

"Alright, calm down," he ordered, both to her and himself as he turned her face away from her foot and forced her to focus her gaze on him. "Can you move it?"

Kaitlyn tried to steady her breathing and nodded. "Look who's the nurse now," she laughed for a moment. She took a deep breath and tried to move her foot, but the attempt quickly ended as she cried out in pain. To Oliver's surprise, she reached down and began feeling the joint, her face contorted with pain. "I think it's dislocated."

"It's fine," he assured her, even though it certainly was not fine, and he was freaking out a little on the inside. "Did you make it back to the car to call for help?"

She shook her head, and he wasn't surprised because of how little time she'd been gone. "Boat… no gas," Kaitlyn explained between deep gasps of pain.

Of course. This was starting to seem like a worse idea by the minute. A part of him was concerned about what his mother was going to do to him when she inevitably found out, but he was more focused on Kaitlyn. He'd gotten her hurt—physically hurt. She was gasping through the pain right now because of him. "I'm so sorry," Oliver frowned. He felt absolutely useless.

"I need you to do something for me," she requested as she leaned back on her elbows and took a deep breath.

"Anything," Oliver offered instantly.

"I need you to hold my foot," Kaitlyn explained. She swallowed deeply and blinked a few tears out of her eyes. "I'm going to set the bone back in place."

His stomach instantly rebelled. He'd seen such things happen in movies, but he'd always been a bit squeamish and the practice seemed a little violent. But if Kaitlyn was brave enough to do it herself so they could figure out what to do next, Oliver figured he could ignore his misgivings. "Alright," he agreed, "Just show me what to do."

The movies didn't do it justice. Instead of one brief, blinding moment of pain, Kaitlyn manipulated her ankle for what felt like an eternity while Oliver helplessly steadied her foot. The entire area of her ankle was swollen and beginning to bruise, and she cried through the entire process. Eventually, he felt the bones click back into their proper positions, and Kaitlyn collapsed into Oliver's lap, exhausted.

"I'm sorry," Oliver repeated as he comfortingly tugged his fingers through her hair. "You were right: this was a terrible idea. I should've listened to you."

Kaitlyn didn't give him an "I told you so" or gloat in any way. Instead, Oliver felt her stiffen in his arms. "Oliver?" She glanced around. "Where did those guards go?"

Oliver's fear spiked once more as he looked around as well. The previously unconscious guards had disappeared, the realization of which caused a chill to shoot down Oliver's back. "We should leave," he decided, "Can you walk?"

It turned out that she could, as long as she didn't put any weight at all on her injured foot. Oliver slipped an arm around her waist to help her, but it wasn't going to make getting off the island—which he still wasn't sure how to accomplish—any quicker. He helped her to her feet, but before they could make any progress, Oliver turned around to a group of three people. The banged up guards had returned, this time with a tired looking old man dressed in pajamas and a robe and guns that they both trained on Oliver. "He claimed to be a Schreave," Scarface explained bitterly as he glowered at Oliver.

The old man rolled his eyes. "That's because he is, you idiots," he announced calmly. "The crown prince, isn't that right, Oliver?"

He nodded briefly and shifted so that he was a little more directly in front of Kaitlyn. While the old man couldn't have been as strong as his henchmen, Oliver had a feeling that he had more authority. The man turned his gray eyes on each of the guards in turn, and slowly, the guns were lowered to their sides. Oliver exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in.

"I'm sorry for any trouble, Your Highness," the old man began. Oliver was a little concerned by the fact that although the man addressed him properly and knew who he was, he didn't bow or show any of the usual standard acts of respect. It was almost like he believed he wasn't Oliver's subject.

"Uh… no trouble," Oliver tried, keeping his voice casual. "We just…" He glanced at Kaitlyn helplessly, unsure of how to explain what they'd been doing.

"You see, we don't get many visitors," the man continued, "Particularly in the middle of the night."

It made Oliver uncomfortable that he didn't ask why Oliver was there or make any offer to help them when Kaitlyn was clearly hurt. "I needed to see someone," Oliver offered vaguely. "It's important."

The man studied Oliver for a long second. "Do you know who I am, Your Highness?" he finally asked.

It seemed like an unimportant matter, but Oliver tried not to look annoyed as he responded, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid not."

"I am Bishop Moolsey," he explained, "The highest authority here at our monastery. "

"Pleasure to meet you," Oliver replied, "But about the person—"

The Bishop's eyes were hard as he cut Oliver off, a strange occurrence that Oliver found he did not enjoy. "I know who you are here to see, and not only is Alaric Illéa my student, but he is under the protection of the Church. Surely your mother would have told you the limits of your authority."

Of everything that had happened that night, the Bishop's reminder hit Oliver the hardest, and he swallowed deeply. The Church had sovereign immunity. They operated under their own laws and authorities, which meant that they weren't subject to the power of Illéan monarchs. At the monastery, complete Church property, Oliver was as powerless as any regular person. Eadlyn had told him all of this, and it was likely why she hadn't pursued an investigation of Alaric's intentions herself yet. It was dangerous to tangle with an organization as powerful as the Church.

He tried to keep his voice strong and steady. "Sir, I completely understand all of that, but I'm not here to hurt Alaric. I just wanted to talk to him—"

The Bishop cut him off again, and Oliver's temper flared. "Is that why you've come in the middle of the night and attacked two of our guards already?"

He clenched his jaw. "In my defense, they were going to cut my hand off—"

Moolsey sighed dramatically. "The Church has always been respectful of the Schreave's rule, and still, you insist on imposing upon our authority."

"I wasn't imposing—"

"Do you want to know something, Mr. Woodwork-Schreave?" the Bishop asked, his eyes sparkling delightedly at the growl of frustration that Oliver released.

"Not particularly, since we're being so honest with each other," Oliver muttered in return.

"The Schreave rule has not been kind to the Church," Moolsey announced, "Oh, back in the days of Clarkson, things were wonderful. We were Ones, practically royalty. But as your grandfather and mother turned the castes to ashes, now we have to rely on our immunity and whatever power the Vatican grants us."

Oliver was sorely tempted to declare 'not his problem', but the tight grip of Kaitlyn's hands on his arm reminded him that now was not the time for sarcasm. "Listen, Bishop, I'm sure that my mother would be more than happy to discuss your standing, provided I was able to speak with her about it," he offered.

It was a complete lie. Eadlyn ardently supported a separation of church and state, which he hoped the Bishop didn't know. But the man's icy sneer suggested otherwise. "Yes, I'm sure that she would be quite amenable to discussion," he agreed, "Particularly while we have leverage. Grab him."

And once again, Oliver was hauled into Ev's grip. He was a little rougher, obviously not pleased with having been tased. Scarface had a similar grip on Kaitlyn, and she whimpered as he forced her to hobble along on her injured foot. "Show our guests to the… waiting room."

Oliver was only briefly surprised when 'waiting room' turned out to be synonymous with 'dungeon.' He was unceremoniously dumped on the floor by Ev but stood to catch Kaitlyn when Scarface shoved her into their cell. Tears stained Kaitlyn's cheeks. "Is your foot okay?" Oliver asked concernedly.

Instead of answering, she tore her hands through her hair effectively ruining the bun that it had previously been in. As the messy waves tumbled around her shoulders, she moved away from him and towards the door of their cell.

Oliver sighed. "Look, I'm completely understand if you hate me, but I promise I'll get us out of this, Kaitlyn," he swore. "We're not going down here on this stupid island."

She ignored him.

He frowned. "I have an idea," he offered, trying to pique her interest even though he was completely out of ideas, even the terrible ones.

Still nothing.

"Okay, would you at least look at me?" Oliver demanded, crossing his arms. "I'm sorry. I know I fucked up. I shouldn't have dragged you into this crazy…"

He trailed off as the door to their cell swung open. Kaitlyn turned around holding up a pair of bobby pins. "Come on," she beckoned, "Let's find Alaric and get off this rock."

"How did you do that?" he whispered as he followed her to the steps of the dungeon.

She smiled a little embarrassedly. "I guess there is something a little crazy that I did when I was younger," she admitted.

"Freed yourself from lock up?"

She snorted. "No. I used to pick the lock on bird cages at the pet store."

It seemed like an odd thing to use such a useful talent for. "Why…?"

She shrugged. "Birds don't belong in cages." It seemed reasonable to Oliver.

They eventually made their way to a stairwell that had a small plaque that read "dormitories" and an arrow pointing upwards. "So two options," Oliver mused as they climbed the stairs, "We can either look for an office or records to find his room. Or we can just wing it and hope we find the right one."

Kaitlyn paused at the door closest to them. "Or we can look at the name plates," she suggested, tapping one that said "Gorman, Benjamin."

"Right," agreed Oliver, "That was option three." She rolled her eyes affectionately, and the two began scanning the doors on either sides of them. "Found it," Oliver called over his shoulder about halfway down the hallway. Kaitlyn utilized her bobby pins once more to pick the lock, and Oliver slowly peaked his head inside.

The first thing that he noticed about the room was how plain it was. There was a nondescript dresser, a desk, and a bed—that was all. The clock on the wall told Oliver that it was three forty-five, so he wasn't surprised that Alaric was asleep. His relaxed face held the same innocence that sleep gave to everyone, regardless of their true characteristics.

"Are you just going to… wake him up?" Kaitlyn whispered to Oliver.

He nodded. "You should probably lock the door again, just in case."

Oliver had never been good at waking people up. It wasn't often that he had the opportunity to, due to his tendency to sleep in much later than everyone else. He cautiously approached Alaric's bed and decided to start soft. He tapped his chest. Alaric didn't move.

"We don't have time for this," Oliver mumbled to himself. He grabbed Alaric's arm with both hands and shook him.

Alaric's eyes burst open, and he exclaimed in surprise at seeing two figures in his bedroom. He pulled himself as far away from Oliver as he could. Oliver reached for the lamp on his desk and flicked it on. "Calm down!" he ordered in a stage whisper, "It's just me."

Since it had, admittedly, been a few years since he'd seen Marid's son, he wasn't surprised when Alaric's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Oliver…?" He nodded in confirmation. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to talk to you," Oliver explained.

Alaric's eyes jumped to the clock. "At four in the morning?" His gaze landed on Kaitlyn. "Is-is that a girl?" He rubbed his eyes, as though nothing about the situation made sense, and he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't dreaming.

"No, it's a fairy," snapped Oliver. He rolled his eyes when Alaric didn't seem to catch his sarcasm. "Kaitlyn, Alaric. Alaric, Kaitlyn. Look, it's been a rough night." He told Alaric about their impromptu trip to Likely—leaving out the fact that no one at the palace knew he was gone, just in case—and how they were technically supposed to be in the dungeon.

Alaric didn't look any less confused when Oliver finished, but he pulled himself out of bed. He was taller than Oliver last remembered, and even Oliver could tell that he was a good looking guy. He'd never met Marid's wife—she'd died before Oliver had been born—but he heard that both Illéa siblings resembled her more than their father. As he watched Alaric approach Kaitlyn, he noted that the young man didn't remind him of his father at all. His hair was darker, his face softer and kinder, his movements less abrupt and more tentative.

Kaitlyn took a nervous step away from him as he approached her. Alaric paused. "You're hurt," he observed, even though Oliver hadn't mentioned that part (he thought it best to exclude handicaps from potential enemies). "I have a first aid kit. I can help you."

The room was silent as Kaitlyn sat in the chair at the desk while Alaric splinted her foot. "You're very brave for setting it yourself," he remarked, "And lucky. You should've gone straight to a doctor."

"I'm a nurse," Kaitlyn countered dismissively, "And it was a little hard while we were being chased by bishops with a grudge."

Alaric frowned. "We're not all like Moolsey," he emphasized.

They lapsed back into silence until Alaric finished. He gave Kaitlyn a pill to help with the pain and stood to face Oliver. "What are you doing here, Ol?" he finally asked.

Similar to Oliver's complicated past with Regan, things were not black and white with Alaric Illéa. He wasn't the bad guy to Oliver's good guy. They'd been playmates as children, friends even. But he was Marid's heir, his oldest child, and Eadlyn had always taught Oliver to be wary of him, a lesson that he recalled now.

He pulled the pamphlet that he'd gotten in town during his date with Gabi from his pocket and held it out to Alaric, who tentatively accepted it. As he read it over, his kind face settled into a frown that made him resemble Marid more strongly. "I see." His fist closed around the paper, creasing it. "You think I'm behind this?"

"I think it's my duty as the crown prince to make sure you're not," challenged Oliver.

Alaric sighed wearily. "Will you even believe me if I tell you I'm not?"

It was a valid question that Oliver wasn't necessarily sure of the answer to. Alaric saw the doubt in his former friend's face. "Oliver," he frowned, "I've wanted to study theology since I was ten years old. You know this. This reeks of Marid. My father would turn my dead body into a marionette and prance me through every province in Illéa if it meant that he'd get to play king."

"When's the last time that you talked to Marid?" Oliver questioned.

Alaric shrugged. "I don't," he answered, "Living here at the monastery means that I'm free from your control, but it also keeps me out of his."

There was a tense silence between the two men. "Oliver," added Alaric, "Look, I've kept up with your Selection. I support you as our next king. Aside from this," he gestured to Oliver and Kaitlyn and then around his room, "which is a little crazy, I think you've been doing a lot of great things lately. You're not the same kid that had a crush on my sister and liked pranking anyone that took their eyes off of you for two seconds."

"You're Marid's last shot," Oliver pointed out, "to carry on the Illéa name, to bring it back to power. You'd pass all of that up?"

"Yes," Alaric shrugged simply. "I swear it. That's partially why I want to be a priest—no children, no more Illéas. Celibacy puts somewhat of a wrench in my father's epic plans for world domination."

Oliver mulled over all of this. "My mother trusted an Illéa once, and it almost cost her reign," Oliver pointed out.

"Give me a chance to prove my fealty to you," pleaded Alaric. "I'm not Marid, just like you're not Clarkson."

He had a point. Oliver supposed he knew what it was like to have disappointing family members whose dark shadows it seemed impossible to escape. He thought about his great-grandfather every time he made a mistake, every time his temper got the best of him and was sure that others did as well. Alaric probably knew what that was like better than anyone else.

He glanced at Kaitlyn and her newly bandaged foot and then back to Alaric. "I'll let you prove it," he agreed, "Help us get back to Likely."

Alaric nodded his agreement. "I-I'd like something from you as well," he admitted, "Just a small bit of good faith for helping technical prisoners escape. And because you broke into my bedroom and scared the heck out of me."

He almost rolled his eyes at Alaric's use of the word 'heck' seriously, but he composed himself. "Alright," nodded Oliver, "What is it?"

Alaric looked apprehensive before he raised his chin and declared, "I want immunity if I were to ever leave the monastery."

Oliver's eyebrows furrowed. "Are you crazy? Out there you're an Illéan citizen, just like everyone else."

"Hear me out," requested Alaric, "Just from recourse from anything that my father or sister do."

Oliver frowned. "I wouldn't hold you responsible for their actions anyway. You don't need immunity."

"Not everyone would agree with you," mumbled Alaric, "Still. Say it. Lady Kaitlyn can be our witness."

"Fine," shrugged Oliver, somewhat annoyed by the silly request. "I won't hold you responsible for the actions of your crazy ass family if you ever leave the Church's protection. Good enough?"

Alaric nodded. He turned to Kaitlyn and asked, "Can you walk? I can carry you, if you'd like."

Oliver frowned deeply. "I'll carry her," he declared pointedly.

Alaric took a step back and held up his hands. "Just trying to be helpful."

"Be a helpful guide," ordered Oliver. He scooped Kaitlyn into his arms. "Where to?"

"Tunnels," explained Alaric, "They lead right under the monastery to the dock. Not too many people know about them so they're unguarded."

"Of course there are tunnels," muttered Oliver, a little annoyed that there was such a simple way to get to Alaric all along.

The downfall of the tunnels was that it took much longer to get back to the dock, probably about a half hour in total. Towards the end Oliver was regretting his insistence upon carrying Kaitlyn, although when Alaric offered again he quickly declined. "You can use this boat," Alaric offered when Oliver explained that theirs had run out of gas, and he pointed to a dinky looking speedboat that had certainly seen better days. "We just use it for emergencies, but it's reliable."

Oliver nodded stiffly and settled Kaitlyn in the tiny watercraft before he turned to Alaric. "Thank you," he finally announced stiffly.

Alaric's face was creased in a frown. "There's something else," he admitted. He looked nervous, which in turn made Oliver uneasy.

"What is it?" the prince asked carefully.

"It's about Regan."

Oliver froze. "What about her?"

Alaric's blue eyes met Oliver's. "She's pregnant."

It felt like a physical blow. Oliver didn't care because of the fact that it showed just how much Regan had moved on, but he was concerned. Just as it would strengthen Tristan's claim if he and Isolde were to have a child before he did, Regan and Nikolai's offspring gave them a leg up on his older brother, who had been married for five years and had yet to produce an heir. "Do you know if it's a boy or girl?" Oliver asked slowly.

He wondered if God heard more clearly on clerical grounds. In the few moments of silence that passed, Oliver prayed ardently for a girl anyway. Girls in Russia had little power and were therefore less of a threat.

"A boy," Alaric answered. His jaw was set tensely, and he avoided Oliver's eyes this time as he added, "They're naming him Gregor Illéa Dragomirov."

While a million thoughts were running through Oliver's head, all he could ask was, "How do you know all of this?"

"Just because I don't talk to my father doesn't mean I haven't tried to keep in touch with Regan," he retorted, "I'd hoped that she'd be better than all of this… That she'd just try to be happy."

"So did I," admitted Oliver. Turns out they'd both been disappointed. The slight silver lining was that if Alaric's sharing of the news didn't establish his loyalty to Oliver over his family, little else would. "Thanks for telling me."

"Thank you," responded Alaric, "for believing me. Good luck, Oliver."

"I'm sure we'll meet again," sighed Oliver, "But you too, Alaric." The two men shook hands, and then Oliver made his way to the boat.

There was silence as they sped towards the Likely coastline, and the further they got from the monastery, the more Oliver expected a sense of relief to fill him. But none came. Beside him, Kaitlyn's face became stonier as time passed, and the few times he tried to engage her in conversation, she blatantly ignored him.

She denied his offer of help when they reached the dock, instead choosing to hobble to the car on her own. "Kaitlyn, let me drive," he requested, even though she didn't need her left foot in order to do so.

"Just get in the car, Oliver," she replied wearily as she leaned against the driver side door.

"Kaitlyn—"

Contrary to any behavior that he'd ever seen from her before, she pounded her first on the top of the car, her eyes blazing. "Get. In. The. Car."

But Oliver had never been very good at listening, so he crossed to Kaitlyn's side of the car. "I'm sorry," he told her again, for what had to be the millionth time that night. "It was a terrible idea, and I shouldn't have asked you to come, and—"

He was cut off when she burst into tears. Whether they were tears of pain or frustration or relief he wasn't sure, but it didn't make much of a different. He pulled her into his arms, relieved when she didn't push him away. "Don't ever ask me to do something like this again," she stammered through her tears.

"Kaitlyn," he began comfortingly as he rubbed her back, "We're alright. We're back, and we're both fine."

She shook her head, as though unconvinced. Her eyes were red when she looked up at him. "Do you even know how awful it felt to leave you there and know that something terrible could've happened to you?"

"Nothing did, though," he tried.

It fell on deaf ears. "Never again, Oliver," she repeated, "Don't ever ask me to do something like that ever again. I can't. If something would've happened to you, I never would've forgiven myself, because I love you."

Her words spread over Oliver like ice, and although she continued to rant, he was fixated on the three tiny words. Eventually, the realization of what she'd said must've hit Kaitlyn as well because she froze too and slapped a hand over her mouth. "It's late," she pointed out, "I'm probably delirious. I think Alaric gave me a Vicodin, and I have no drug tolerance, and—"

With a hand on either side of her face, he crushed her lips to his. She loved him. He had just put her through actual hell, and it hadn't changed her opinion of him. He'd made stupid, rash decisions. But she'd risen to the occasion, and silly, carefree Kaitlyn had been focused, resourceful Kaitlyn. And she loved him.

He kissed her softly, because if he'd gone with all consuming passion, they both admittedly probably would've passed out. In contrast to the cold, early morning air in Likely, her mouth was warm, and her body was soft and comforting against his. They slowly parted, and Oliver kissed her forehead. "Let me drive," he requested softly.

"You don't know how," Kaitlyn argued breathlessly.

"You can teach me," he declared, "I trust you."

It was true. He trusted her implicitly, even with his life he would argue. And she must've felt the same, because she agreed.

It was the longest four hours back to Angeles, and Oliver swerved, sped, and generally was a vehicular menace but they made it back in one piece. It was almost eight when they snuck into the palace, and Oliver took Kaitlyn directly to the palace doctor. He explained that they'd been out for an early morning walk when she'd tripped; if the doctor doubted the story from their tired, bloodshot eyes and tousled appearances, he didn't voice his opinion. Kaitlyn had a slight fracture that she'd have to wear a walking boot on for four weeks, but all in all, she should heal well, the doctor declared.

They skipped breakfast, and Oliver sent for Mae to take care of Kaitlyn for the morning. When they briefed her, her eyes flashed dangerously in Oliver's direction, as though she couldn't believe that he'd put her friend in such danger. Oliver took that as his cue to leave and snuck back to his own room.

Anderson was nervously pacing when he arrived, and his butler proclaimed that he'd never been so happy to see the prince. Oliver had smiled weakly and requested a shower and a mimosa, but by the time his butler returned, he'd passed out face first on his bed.

But the biggest miracle of the entire day was that Eadlyn never found out. He supposed it would've been dangerous for Moolsey to tell her because of his treatment of the prince. When Oliver awoke after a solid twelve hours of sleep, he felt oddly proud of himself. It might not have been his most responsible decision, but he'd taken action, and they'd escaped with only minor injuries. He could officially close the book on the big Alaric situation—one problem crossed off of an ever growing list.