Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 340: Carriage Hours

For the next few hours, Chris learned two things with absolute clarity.

One: Prince Eryx of Draxil had never experienced silence that wasn’t forced upon him.

Two: Chris’s patience had a measurable lifespan, and it was currently bleeding out on an upholstered bench somewhere between Belvare and Fitzgeralt territory.

Eryx treated the train like it was his personal playground and Chris like he was an interactive museum exhibit. The questions came in bursts, rapid, spoiled, shallow on purpose, and delivered with the bright confidence of someone who had never once been punished with boredom.

"Do you have a crown?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I’m not the king." 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

"But you’re married to him."

"That does not automatically give me a crown. Plus I’m not the queen yet."

"It should," Eryx declared, offended on Chris’s behalf like it was a human rights issue.

Chris stared at him, then stared at Dax.

Dax, naturally, had settled into his seat with the calm of a man who could fall asleep on a battlefield and wake up looking prettier for it. His folder was open. His posture was perfect. His expression suggested he’d never been inconvenienced by a child in his life, because he simply... didn’t allow reality to inconvenience him.

Chris watched him for a moment, simmering quietly, then turned back to Eryx.

"You’re not asking better questions," Chris said.

"I am asking many questions," Eryx corrected, as if Chris was being unreasonable.

"That is not a virtue," Chris replied.

Eryx leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Okay. Better one. How many rooms do you have?"

Chris blinked. "In my home?"

"Yes," Eryx said eagerly. "Like, the real number."

Chris’s mouth went tight. "I don’t know."

Eryx’s eyes widened in scandal. "How can you not know? It’s your house."

"It’s the king’s palace," Chris said. "It’s... big."

Eryx sat back, deeply unimpressed. "Draxil is bigger."

Chris stared, then gave the child assurance, as he was not in the mood to argue with a feral prince. "Of course it is."

Eryx nodded, satisfied. "And we have an indoor koi pond."

Chris made a slow, flat gesture. "Congratulations."

Eryx leaned in again, shameless. "Do you have koi?"

"No."

"Why not?" Eryx demanded, like Chris was personally depriving the world of aquatic luxury.

Chris inhaled, held it, then let it out carefully. "Because if someone gifts us another animal, I’m burning a treaty."

Eryx’s eyes lit with sudden delight. "Is that how politics works here?"

Chris’s smile turned sharp. "It can."

Eryx looked thrilled by the concept of diplomacy as arson.

Dax turned a page.

The train rolled on. The light outside shifted, afternoon moving toward evening in the slow, relentless way time did when you were trapped in a moving box with a child who had decided you were entertainment.

At some point, Eryx vanished from the compartment with the speed of a small predator, leaving behind only his guards’ resigned expressions and the echo of his footsteps down the corridor.

Chris sat back, suspicious.

"Where did your prince go?" Chris asked one of the guards.

The guard’s face remained neutral, but his eyes held the quiet despair of a man who had spent years chasing this boy through polished halls. "To acquire... refreshments."

Chris narrowed his eyes. "Acquire."

Dax didn’t look up. "He will return."

Chris stared at him. "You sound like you’ve seen this before."

Dax’s eyes flicked briefly in Chris’s direction. "I have met children."

Chris’s expression turned dead. "That is not helpful."

Eryx returned twenty minutes later like a conquering hero, followed by a poor staff member who looked like he’d been politely bullied into surrendering a kingdom.

In Eryx’s hands was a tray.

On the tray: a glass dish of ice cream, pale and perfect, with some expensive garnish and a tiny spoon that looked like it had been forged purely for dramatic effect.

Chris stared at it. Then stared at Eryx.

"You got ice cream," Chris said.

Eryx puffed up. "Yes."

"How," Chris asked slowly, "did you get ice cream on a secured Sahan diplomatic train?"

Eryx shrugged with casual arrogance. "I asked."

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose so hard he saw stars. "Of course you did."

Eryx held the tray out. "It’s for you."

Chris blinked. "It’s... for me."

Eryx nodded enthusiastically. "You’re tired. You should have something nice."

Chris’s irritation stalled, confused for a moment by the unexpected softness. Then Eryx added, with the exact tone of a spoiled twelve-year-old bargaining for a toy, "But I want to sit with you. The king is boring."

Chris stared.

Then, without a word, he took the ice cream out of the prince’s hands and set it on the table beside him like a toll payment.

"You may sit," Chris said, "if you understand that this ice cream is now mine."

Eryx’s eyes widened. "You stole it."

Chris smiled sweetly. "I taxed it."

Eryx looked like he’d just discovered his favorite kind of government. "That’s amazing."

Chris took a spoonful with controlled calm. It tasted obscene, creamy, cold, and probably imported from a country that charged tariffs on joy.

Eryx watched him eat like Chris was performing a sacred ritual.

"Is it good?" Eryx whispered.

Chris swallowed. "It is very good."

Eryx grinned. "See. I’m helpful."

"You are bribing me," Chris corrected.

Eryx shrugged, unconcerned. "Still helpful."

Chris ate three more spoonfuls in grim silence, because if he admitted out loud that it was comforting, the universe would take it away out of spite.

The evening deepened into night.

The train became quieter, not because Eryx ran out of energy, but because even he eventually reached the limit of how many questions he could ask before his brain turned to static. He slumped against his seat, still talking, but softer now, words trailing into idle commentary about the window lights, the shape of stations, whether Fitzgeralt territory had castles, whether Lucas would like him, and whether Trevor would let him see the baby.

Chris answered minimally, saving his breath.

At some point, Eryx fell asleep mid-sentence, mouth slightly open, hair falling into his eyes, one hand still loosely curled like he was holding onto the idea of being difficult even in dreams.

His guards exhaled like men being granted parole.

Chris stared at the sleeping prince for a long moment, then at Dax, who, infuriatingly, looked as if he’d been sleeping eight hours a night since birth.

"You," Chris said quietly.

Dax glanced up. "Yes."

"I hate you," Chris whispered.

Dax’s mouth curved faintly. "No, you don’t."

Chris’s eyes narrowed. "I do right now."

Dax reached out and touched the inside of Chris’s wrist once, an intimate pressure that didn’t perform for anyone. "Sleep."

Chris scoffed, but his body betrayed him. The adrenaline had burned out hours ago. The irritation had become a dull ache. The train’s rhythm was a lullaby designed by engineers who understood exhaustion.

He slept in fragments.

He dreamed of marble floors stained red.

He woke to Eryx whispering, "Do you think the baby has purple eyes?" and had to actively stop himself from throwing a pillow.

Night passed anyway.

And morning came with a slow, pale light creeping through the tinted windows.

The train reduced speed. The hum changed. The world outside shifted into the clean geometry of Fitzgerald-controlled infrastructure - fences, watch posts, and private rail lines that looked like they’d been drawn with a ruler.

Chris rose, heavy and stiff, and changed into fresh clothes without bothering to make them perfect. He didn’t smooth his shirt properly. He didn’t fix his hair beyond "not embarrassing." He simply existed.

Beside him, Dax looked rested.

Again.

His suit sat on him like it had been tailored this morning. His hair was perfect in that unfair way. His eyes were clear. He didn’t look like he’d spent the last day dealing with assassination attempts, diplomacy, and a hyperactive child who had acquired ice cream through pure audacity.

Chris stared at him with exhausted resentment.

Dax met his gaze for one second, then looked away like that was not his problem.

The train finally stopped.

The doors opened.

Cold morning air swept in, clean and sharp.

On the platform, a security convoy waited in perfect formation - Fitzgerald vehicles, dark and polished, engines humming low. Guards stood like statues. The entire scene looked like money deciding it was going to be safe today.

Chris stepped down first, because he was not waiting another second.