Chapter 20: A Prince in Peril

Inside the opulent carriage, Caspian leaned back against the plush velvet cushions, his silver hair gleaming in the soft glow of the carriage lanterns. The rhythmic sway of the carriage, the muffled thud of hooves against the snow-covered path, did little to ease the turmoil brewing within him. He absently fiddled with the pouch of dried strawberries clutched in his hand, their sweet, earthy scent a stark contrast to the chaos of his thoughts.

What had come over him back there? He, Prince Caspian Frostheart, acting like a lovesick schoolboy, pilfering snacks and engaging in childish banter with a strawberry merchant! The memory of his uncharacteristic behavior, his impulsive actions, sent a wave of heat creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks with an unfamiliar blush.

He'd always prided himself on his composure, his ability to remain detached, aloof, even in the face of adversity. Yet, Sonne seemed to chip away at his walls, revealing a vulnerability Caspian had long sought to suppress.

The incident with the snow troll replayed in his mind, each detail etched into his memory with startling clarity. He'd watched, heart pounding against his ribs, as the monstrous creature had veered off course, charging towards the unsuspecting spectators. His first thought, irrational and immediate, had been for Sonne's safety.

Elura, he reasoned, was more than capable of defending herself. She was a Frostheart, after all, her lineage imbued with the same ice magic that coursed through his veins. But Sonne…Sonne was different. He was an outsider, a civilian thrust into the dangerous world of royal hunts and magical beasts by Caspian's own invitation.

The thought of Sonne coming to harm, of being unable to protect him from the consequences of his own actions, had sent a chill through Caspian's core, a fear more profound than any he'd ever experienced on the battlefield.

So yes, perhaps his relief at seeing Sonne unharmed, his overwhelming gratitude for the strawberry merchant's continued existence, had clouded his judgment, had made him susceptible to Sonne's charisma. Perhaps that's what had led him to act like an impulsive idiot, bartering for snacks and exchanging handkerchiefs like tokens of affection.

"Enough," Caspian muttered under his breath, willing his racing thoughts to silence. He was tired, physically and emotionally drained from the day's events. He needed rest, needed to regain his composure before returning to the stifling formality of the palace. He would analyze this… this inexplicable attraction to Sonne Dial later, when he wasn't surrounded by the lingering scent of strawberries and the echoes of his own foolish actions.

Closing his eyes, Caspian leaned back against the carriage cushions, the pouch of dried strawberries clutched tightly in his hand. Sleep, however, proved elusive. Images of Sonne, his smile, the warmth in his eyes, danced behind Caspian's eyelids, a persistent reminder of the unsettling effect the strawberry merchant had on his usually well-ordered world.

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Days had passed since the hunting incident, yet the memory of Sonne lingered in Caspian's mind like a half-remembered dream. The dried strawberries, a tangible reminder of their unconventional encounter, sat untouched in a crystal dish on his desk, their sweet aroma a constant temptation. He'd found himself drawn to the pouch numerous times, only to pull back at the last moment, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the plastic as if seeking answers to questions he couldn't quite articulate.

His usual routine – the endless meetings, the diplomatic visits, the choreographed appearances – felt suffocating, each moment an eternity spent yearning for something he couldn't define, a sense of ease, of genuine connection, that had so effortlessly settled over him in Sonne's presence.

Then the unthinkable happened.

The boisterous energy of the capital market, usually a symphony of cheerful bartering and lively chatter, buzzed with an uneasy undercurrent of hushed whispers and nervous glances. Caspian, hidden beneath a heavy hooded cloak, his usual princely attire replaced by the simple garb of a commoner, navigated the crowded marketplace with practiced ease, his senses on high alert. He'd evaded his guards for now, slipping out of the palace grounds like a wraith at dawn, his heart heavy with a cocktail of emotions—confusion, anger, and a chilling fear that gnawed at his usually stoic composure. The accusation, whispered behind closed doors, echoed in his ears: Prince Caspian, responsible for his own brother’s sudden, mysterious illness.

It was preposterous, unthinkable! And yet, the evidence, circumstantial though it might be, painted a damning picture. A trace of rare, exotic herb, rumored to possess potent soporific properties, had been found amongst Caspian's belongings. The very same herb that healers suspected had plunged Leopold into a deep, unyielding slumber.

Caspian knew, with unwavering certainty, that he was being framed. But by whom? And for what purpose? Was it a jealous rival for the throne, eager to eliminate both heirs in one fell swoop? Or perhaps a more insidious plot, orchestrated from the shadows, meant to sow discord within the Frostheart dynasty?

He couldn't trust anyone, not even his own family, not while the cloud of suspicion hung over him. His father, King Frederic, though his heart heavy with worry for his eldest son, had been forced to confine Caspian to his chambers, to await questioning by the royal council.

Caspian, however, refused to be treated like a criminal, a danger to his own flesh and blood. He would clear his name, uncover the truth behind Leopold's illness, but he couldn't do it while confined within the gilded cage of the palace.

He needed answers, needed to unravel the threads of this conspiracy, but where to start? He was adrift in a sea of unknowns, the weight of his brother's fate pressing down on him like a physical burden. His feet, as if guided by some unseen force, carried him through the winding streets of the capital, his mind racing, his heart a drumbeat against his ribs.

The familiar sights and sounds of the marketplace, usually a comfort, did little to ease his growing unease. He caught snippets of conversations, hushed whispers that followed in his wake, each word a barb to his already raw nerves.

"Did you hear? Prince Caspian…"

"Leopold, struck down in his prime…"

"In coma, they say…"

"A brother's betrayal…"

Caspian quickened his pace, he needed to get away from the whispers that seemed to follow his every move.

His escape, however, led him to a different kind of torment. He found himself standing at the familiar sight of The Berry Basket, Sonne’s stall, a painful reminder of simpler times.

It wasn't Sunday, of course, and the stall was shuttered. Even Rick, Sonne’s lanky assistant, was nowhere in sight. The emptiness of the stall, the silence that hung heavy in the air, mirrored the hollowness that had settled in Caspian's chest.

He longed for Sonne's comforable presence, his ability to find humor even in the most mundane of situations. A wave of exhaustion, both physical and emotional, washed over him. He'd been so focused on his escape, on clearing his name, that he hadn't allowed himself a moment to simply… breathe.

He leaned against the rough stone wall of the adjacent building, the weight of his situation pressing down on him. What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go? He was alone, adrift in a sea of uncertainty, his only solace the faint scent of strawberries clinging to the empty stall, a bittersweet reminder of the one person who might, just might, offer him a moment of respite in this chaotic storm.

A flicker of movement across the street caught Caspian's eye, and a surge of hope, unexpected and almost desperate, coursed through him. It was Rick, Sonne's lanky assistant, his arms laden with empty crates, heading towards a nondescript carriage parked a short distance away. The Berry Basket, it seemed, had closed early today.

Caspian hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. He could approach Rick, inquire about Sonne's whereabouts, but what if Sonne wanted nothing to do with him, a prince now shrouded in suspicion and scandal? The thought of rejection, especially from someone he'd grown to… care for, stung more than he cared to admit.

Still, what did he have to lose? He was already a fugitive in his own city, his reputation hanging by a thread.

With a deep breath, Caspian crossed the street, his stride purposeful despite the turmoil raging within him. He approached Rick casually, his hand casually tucked beneath his cloak.

"Good day," Caspian greeted, his voice carefully neutral, "Seems business is slow today."

Rick, startled by the unexpected greeting, fumbled with a crate, his eyes widening as he recognized the cloaked figure. A flicker of understanding, a shared history of secrecy regarding their mutual acquaintance, passed between them. Rick, with a casual glance over his shoulder, gestured towards the carriage.

"Come," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Caspian, his heart pounding with a mixture of apprehension and a strange sense of relief, followed Rick towards the waiting carriage. They rode in tense silence, the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestones the only sound in the enclosed space. The carriage eventually rumbled to a stop near the outskirts of the capital, far from the prying eyes of courtiers and gossiping nobles.

Rick dismounted first, his movements swift and practiced as he scanned their surroundings, ensuring their privacy. He then gestured for Caspian to follow, leading him down a narrow, cobblestone alley towards a modest, two-story building tucked away from the bustling streets. It was a nondescript place, easily overlooked amidst the jumble of shops and residences that lined the alleyway.

With a final, cautious glance around, Rick raised his hand and knocked thrice on the door, a specific rhythm that hinted at a prearranged signal.

The door opened, revealing Sonne. He was dressed in casual attire—a simple white shirt that clung to his lean torso, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with a light sheen of sweat, and his usual gray pants and dark boots. His dark hair was tousled, as if he'd just woken from a nap, his hand lazily scratching his belly.