Chapter Text
Their caravan is a half day’s ride to Sumeru City when Cyno hears the first treasonous words against his queen.
“Outlanders,” sneers an elderly villager. Stiffly, the man pushes his weight onto his gnarled stick as he leans forward. “Our prince deserves better than the likes of you.”
Queen Dehya glances at him, her eyes flashing in the moonlight. Cyno senses the reproach on her tongue, sharper than her guards’ swords grating against their golden sheathes.
Moss squelches as the old man struggles to find his footing in the shallow marsh.
Dehya sits elegantly in her saddle, as still as a shadow. She stares down her nose with cool distaste, as if the man were the carcass of some forest creature.
An infinite number of seconds seem to pass in silence. The man’s defiant scowl slowly wilts under the Queen’s attention. Even the ever present wind whistling through Sumeru’s trees dies down, almost as if it too were holding its breath.
The other villagers watch silently from their worn huts as one of their own invites their death. For what this man has done is certainly a death sentence.
In the Kingdom of the Sands, greater people have been doomed for less – and this man’s actions are severe. No one will intervene should the Queen of the Sands order a painful end. They should not, and could not act against a train of armed guards and the authority of a queen.
Finally, Dehya scoffs.
“The Ice Prince,” she says, pausing for effect. “Would be lucky to see me.”
The old man breathes through his teeth at the derogatory nickname.
She spurs the reins of her dark sumpter beast. The twinkling golden charms dotting her saddle chime as her mount marches onwards.
“Thieves,” the old man murmurs towards the Queen's back. “Take your horde of bandits and return to your land. You've no right to our prince.”
Queen Dehya doesn’t look back. Her tall silhouette rides into the horizon. The train moves on. The last guard hops off her sumpter beast with her sword unsheathed. When her feet splash into the tall, wet grass, the tip of her weapon is already leveled at the man's throat.
“Leave him.” Cyno spurs his mount forward. “The Queen gave no orders to act."
The guard – a loyal, young disciple – snaps up to him. Her sword shakes in her grip, before her hand falls to her side with a sigh. The village’s flickering pyres cast shadows over her scowl.
“Yes, General.”
Without a second glance at the villager, she climbs back onto her mount with practiced ease. Cyno gives her the barest of nods, go on, I’ll catch up, then turns his attention back to the old man.
The elder watches him with wide-eyes, taking in Cyno’s elaborate headdress, his uniform, his eyes, his hair. He feels a flash of pride; it seems his own reputation has crossed the Wall of Samiel.
The man stragglers back as Cyno charges the air with static – just enough to sense, to scare. A villager crouched by the water gasps loudly, then starts hyperventilating.
“Sir, he doesn’t know what he says. Please don’t– please show him mercy.”
The voice belongs to someone shuffling out of a shabby hut. The man is younger, his arm tied in a sling, and his chest poorly bandaged with colored scraps of fabric. A stitched scratch sits just above his quivering lip. His eyes beg.
“We’ve lost so much this week,” says the man.
Cyno looks behind him – takes in the holes punched into the hut he emerged from, the door hanging weakly off its hinge.
“I see that,” says Cyno.
“My father’s– he’s not– the raid changed hi–”
“I had no intention of harming your father,” says Cyno coolly. “This is a warning. He should have recognized who we were.”
“A bunch of liars and thieves,” chides the old man. “You’ll be back tonight to finish us off before your queen goes to court Prince Alhaitham.”
Cyno huffs in disbelief. He grips the reins of his mount, and charges the air until the leaves and tall grass quiver around them.
“You sound so sure. What proof do you have that we’re affiliated with the people that attacked you?” Cyno asks. “Aside from the way we look?”
The bandaged man has the decency to glance away, abashed at Cyno’s rhetorical question.
Cyno spurs his sumpter beast on, disgust curdling his gut.
“Bigot,” he levels at the old man. “You dishonor your prince.”
-–
Later that night, crowded between his people around a warm, roaring fire, Cyno wonders if there's much to honor in the Kingdom of Sumeru besides the beauty of its land.
The ruined village lies leagues behind them, an inconsequential dot compared to the twinkling grandeur of Sumeru City. The hill they’re camped on provides a good view of the capital, the grand lake surrounding it, and the majestic tree propping the city up. He can’t help but glance over in wonder every few minutes. Nothing so excessive, so alive, could ever grow in the Sands' drought-blighted lands.
Even this far, Cyno feels it; the tree constantly pulses with dendro energy, grating against his electro aura like a rough tongue against his skin.
“General.” Kandake’s voice draws him out of his thoughts. She holds out a blue bottle of moonshine, the open lip facing him.
“No, thank you.” Cyno sits back on his palms, settling comfortably as his people pass the bottle amongst themselves.
He watches as Queen Dehya and her entourage get deep into their cups on this last night on the road. The emptied blue bottle is pushed into the dirt, then joined by another, and a third. Their party reflects on the journey, the sights they’ve seen, the people they’ve run into. Eventually talk turns to the Kingdom of Sumeru as a whole.
By then, the alcohol has kicked in and their words have grown a bite.
“The only Kingdom in Teyvat that goes back on its word,” chimes one guard.
“The land has so much wealth and it covets it all,” snarls another.
“It’s a cursed country with a cursed Prince,” someone mutters. These words are spoken in a whisper, with nervous glances thrown towards their Queen. It could be an offense; on paper, the cursed Prince is a potential groom, after all.
Queen Dehya’s grin catches the firelight. She throws her head back and takes another sip of moonshine. “We’ll get to see for ourselves if the curse is true. I’m excited.” Her eyes narrow, sharpening, “Anyone heard of a good story?”
The group takes a collective breath. Like a river breaking through its dam, everyone surges forward to share the rumors they’ve heard. Together, they piece a narrative together.
Sumeru’s Prince is supposedly cursed to fall in love with the first person to make him laugh.
It’s a stupid spell, a child’s spell plucked from the storybook, and a simple one to break in theory – but the man’s nature makes curing it impossible.
It’s said that Prince Alhaitham hardly smiles. He isn’t moved by plays or tales. He didn’t even bat an eye when the woman originally promised to him – Sumeru’s most beautiful, talented dancer – had dallied with another man behind his back. If the whispers are to be believed, the man is a close friend and advisor.
The Prince spends his days tucked in Sumeru City’s grand libraries, uncaring of anything outside the capital and his precious books.
“And this man thinks he’s worthy to join the royal house of the Sands,” Dehya points out with a flash of amusement. “What’ll the desert do with another depressed scholar?”
The group laughs and shares a few more jokes at the Prince’s expense. Eventually, the Queen stands, stretching her arms above her head, and points to a cliff overlooking the city.
“Walk with me,” she tells Cyno.
Cyno eagerly falls into step with her, and they both pause at the edge of the ridge. Yazdaha Pool mirrors the twinkling lights of the city and Cyno feels a surge of envy at the breadth of the lake laying so casually amongst the Sumerians. Such a small piece of it would cure all the problems of the Sands.
Above it all, Sumeru City shines like a jewel set in a tangle of verdant green leaves. At its heart sits an apathetic monarch, surrounded by a council of Sages that are hungry for the hand of the Sands’ queen.
Cyno can’t help but feel like they’re walking into the den of a beast.
Dehya crosses her arms, setting off a ripple of robes and a clash of steel as her armor clinks against her swords.
“Ready to dance, General?” Dehya asks him. “I’ll get our deal and we’ll be out of here in a week.”
Without the Ice Prince , goes unsaid.
Cyno grins. If anyone could walk into this mess and come out with a win, it would be his queen.
“I know, my lord. I expect nothing less from this trip.”
She grins back and turns her attention to the city before them. Her expression cools, as it does when she’s sizing up a nest of Consecrated Beasts. Her golden armor glints in the moonlight. Pyro essence radiates off her skin, warming the air. Dehya is a spark of comfort in this damp, unusual land – and Cyno feels a sudden surge of love for his queen.
Sumeru’s Kingdom and its cursed prince don’t deserve her. Not that Cyno would never say such a thing out loud on this side of the Wall of Samiel. That too, would be treasonous, would be shameful, and he’d sooner jump off this ledge than let his queen down.
Dehya shuts her eyes and takes a breath. “One more time. Let’s review our demands for tomorrow.”