Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

The first island had been chosen because it was exactly the sort of place people expected Arion and Dean to visit during a winter holiday.

The resort occupied a crescent of pale stone above a dark blue sea, its terraces cut into the hillside and protected from the wind by tall glass screens. White villas descended toward the marina in neat levels, surrounded by cypress trees and winter gardens that remained green despite the season.

By the time their car stopped beneath the main entrance, photographers were already waiting behind the security line.

Dean stepped out first.

He had changed from the heavier clothes he wore in Palatine into black trousers, a cream cashmere sweater, and a long camel coat left open at the front. The collar was high enough to conceal most of Arion’s work from that morning, though one mark remained visible close to his jaw.

Dean had stopped caring.

Arion emerged behind him in dark trousers and a charcoal coat over a black knit shirt. He placed one hand against Dean’s lower back almost immediately, guiding him away from the vehicle as cameras began flashing.

The photographs practically composed themselves.

The imperial couple was arriving together.

Arion carrying no visible documents for once.

Dean turning toward him when Arion said something too quiet for anyone else to hear.

A hand at Dean’s waist.

Dean smiling once as Boreas was helped down from the larger security vehicle and promptly attempted to inspect a decorative planter.

Nothing staged enough to look staged.

Hunter Stewart remained several paces behind them in a dark civilian coat rather than his formal security uniform, one hand near the communication device concealed beneath the fabric. He had been Dean’s chief of security long enough to understand that visibility was useful when they wanted it and dangerous when they did not.

Today, they wanted it.

Dean paused at the top of the resort steps and looked briefly toward the sea.

By evening, the images had already begun circulating.

Dean knew because Hunter placed a tablet on the low table in their private villa shortly after dinner.

The villa overlooked the water from a rocky promontory, its interior all pale limestone, warm wood, and enormous windows darkened by the night outside. A narrow fire burned behind glass along one wall. Boreas had claimed the rug in front of it and was asleep with his head resting on one of Dean’s discarded shoes.

Dean sat cross-legged on the sofa in loose black trousers and a thin ivory sweater, his hair still slightly damp from his shower.

Arion occupied the chair beside him.

Hunter stood at the opposite end of the table.

On the tablet were the evening headlines.

Dean read the first few.

A winter holiday after months of imperial obligations.

A romantic island tour.

Speculation that Arion and Dean were extending their usual trip beyond Palatine and Saha.

One article had devoted several paragraphs to the mark visible beneath Dean’s jaw.

Dean scrolled past it immediately.

”The cover is working,” Hunter said.

”It should,” Arion replied. ”Most of it is true.”

They were on holiday.

They were visiting several islands.

They intended to reach Saha eventually.

Only the purpose of one particular stop had been omitted.

Dean pushed the news tablet aside and reached for the second one.

Snake Island filled the screen.

For perhaps the tenth time since leaving Alamina, the three of them studied the same terrain.

The island was narrow through the north and widened sharply toward the southern interior. The main port sat on the northeastern coast, connected to the only substantial town by a paved road that continued west before splitting around the mountain range.

The suspected residence lay beyond that split.

Hunter enlarged the western section.

”The official ecological route takes visitors here.”

A line appeared across the map, following the lower ridge toward a protected observation area.

Dean leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

”And the residence?”

”Four kilometers beyond the permitted route by road. Less than three across the ridge.”

Arion’s gaze remained on the elevation markings.

”Too exposed.”

Hunter nodded.

Crossing directly would require leaving the marked trail, entering broken limestone terrain and moving through one of the areas with the highest recorded snake concentrations during mating season.

It was not an acceptable shortcut.

The proper road was better, but it passed a local security checkpoint before continuing toward the isolated properties in the western highlands.

”We cannot accidentally take the wrong road for four kilometers,” Dean said.

”No,” Hunter agreed.

Dean enlarged the satellite image.

The residence itself remained frustratingly ordinary from above.

A long stone structure built partly against the mountain, slate roof, enclosed courtyard, two auxiliary buildings, and enough surrounding trees to obscure most ground-level activity. The nearest neighboring property was almost three kilometers away.

No obvious prison walls.

No guard towers.

No visible reason for anyone to suspect an exiled prince lived there.

”That bothers me,” Dean said.

Arion glanced at him. ”What?”

”It is too comfortable.”

Hunter looked at the image again.

Dean continued, ”If Ashar wanted Amaru punished, why put him in a private residence with medical deliveries and permanent security instead of an actual detention facility?”

”Neutrality rules,” Arion said. ”The island may not have accepted imprisonment without local legal oversight.”

”Or Amaru was not being held the way we assumed.”

That possibility had appeared more than once.

Perhaps the exile agreement restricted him from leaving Snake Island but allowed him to live normally within it.

Perhaps the security protected him instead of containing him.

Or perhaps whoever occupied that house was not Amaru at all.

Hunter switched to another file.

”We have confirmation that the medical vehicle still visits twice monthly. Same residence. Deliveries are collected inside the courtyard, so we have no recent image of the patient.”

”Staff?”

”Six people regularly enter. Two domestic employees, two security personnel, a physician, and one groundskeeper. All island citizens.”

”No Draxilians?”

”None we can identify.”

Arion leaned back slightly, fingers resting against his mouth as he studied the report.

”That makes eight years of isolation harder to assess.”

Dean understood.

If Amaru had spent eight years surrounded by Draxilian guards, they could reasonably assume continued coercion.

Local staff changed the picture.

He might have been living there under negotiated protection.

He might even have control over the residence.

”Which means we do not approach him like a prisoner,” Dean said.

”We do not approach him at all until we know who controls access,” Arion replied.

Hunter changed the display again.

Their official Snake Island itinerary appeared beside the map.

Arrival at eleven.

Lunch with the island administrator.

Protected-reserve visit in the afternoon.

Private evening.

Departure scheduled for the following morning.

Twenty-three hours.

Dean stared at the timeline.

”That is not much.”

”It is enough if the administrator cooperates,” Hunter said.

”And if he does not?”

Hunter looked toward Arion.

Arion’s attention remained on the western residence.

”Then we learn why.”

Outside, waves struck the rocks below the villa in slow, heavy intervals.

Dean glanced toward the discarded news tablet.

By morning there would be more photographs of them walking along the marina, dining near the water, perhaps buying something unnecessary from the resort shops.

People would see exactly what they were supposed to see.

Two married royals wasting part of their winter holiday on expensive islands.

Meanwhile, their security chief was memorizing access roads to the home of a prince who officially no longer existed.

Dean looked down at the map again.

Snake Island was two stops away.

This time, when Hunter enlarged the western highlands, none of them needed the labels anymore.

They already knew the route by heart.