Chapter 132: The Value of Options
He heard the clear implication in the elven prince’s words, and Riley fought the sudden urge to blurt out that to him it sounded less like a clever plan to cure homesickness and more like the fast lane to an early grave.
But he was trying to be professional. Welcoming. Amicable.
So instead he tilted his head just slightly, adding a trace of curiosity to his expression, as if he were the picture of open-minded wonder and hopefulness.
And to be fair, a part of it was genuine. He really felt hopeful about this lead. It really felt like things were moving, however slowly. Like a snail pushing a wagon uphill, but moving nonetheless.
"Then, Your Highness," Riley asked carefully, "is there any chance you’d tell him?"
Rowan’s smile curved faintly, and he leaned closer, lowering his voice as if this was some intimate confession.
"Well, I’m not sure myself. It is one thing to hold a personal opinion, but quite another to consider what is best for Silvara and the elves, considering my position."
Riley noted the way Rowan’s eyes softened, the way he looked half wistful and half boyishly embarrassed, as if sharing some secret weighed on him more than it should.
"As you know," the prince continued smoothly, "we’re counting a great deal on the dragon lord’s help in this matter. And while the idea of succeeding soon is appealing, nothing is guaranteed. For one, I am not sure it would even work."
Riley nodded slowly, though in his head he was thinking, so basically he’s hoping someone else would tell the great lizard?
Rowan’s tone dipped even lower, as if they were conspirators, his shoulder brushing closer as he added, "So you could just imagine the backlash if I suggested something he severely disliked. Instead of slow and steady progress, we would gain nothing but his ire."
The smile he gave then was gentle, practiced, but there was something disarming about how easily it landed. Riley blinked, trying not to be thrown by how princely and un-princely the elf looked all at once.
"Therefore, Aide Hale," Rowan said, his voice soft but steady, "if you were in my place, would you actually tell the dragon lord about such an uncertain possibility?"
Honestly, the answer varied wildly depending on which version of himself he imagined.
Past Riley would never have dared. He would have swallowed his words whole and kept quiet, terrified of being noticed, terrified of being erased just for speaking up when he could see the current methods were working.
It wasn’t like he never spoke, but he believed in speaking only when it was necessary, and not forcing himself to fix what was already whole.
But present Riley? Present Riley had been through enough disasters to last a lifetime or two. His mouth had already caused far worse problems—life-threatening ones, in fact—and yet he was still alive. Somehow. So yes, if it came to it, he reckoned he would say it. He might even demand compensation while he was at it.
The problem was that it required saying something he actually believed in. And right now, the biggest variable in the room wasn’t Kael, wasn’t the investigation, but all the elves they’d encountered in Silvara.
Then again, wasn’t the whole point of him staying behind and sitting there to gather information anyway?
So Riley leaned forward, forcing his tone into something thoughtful and diplomatic. "Well, Your Highness, in my case, I believe in the value of options. And telling him would be a different matter from forcing him, right? Wouldn’t I stand to lose more if the suggestion turned out to be correct and he never got to hear it because I decided for him instead?"
The words hung in the air, and Riley realized—surprisingly—that it was his genuine opinion.
For him, it was simple.
Everyone deserved to know their options. It wasn’t as if Kael—or anyone else, for that matter—would have to choose his suggestion. It was called a choice for a reason, after all. And really, what was the harm in knowing a choice existed, unless someone happened to be a chronically indecisive being who panicked at the sight of a menu?
But surprisingly, when Riley glanced over at Rowan, he caught a flicker of something genuine.
For just a moment, the prince’s polished mask slipped, and there was an expression that looked like real surprise, not the carefully crafted neighborly charm he had been playing at.
This time, he looked... intrigued?
Then, as if it had never happened, Rowan dipped his head slightly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "I apologize for drifting momentarily. It was just that I thought I figured out a bit about why the dragon lord finds you interesting."
Riley nearly choked. Interesting?
He wanted to quip that it was probably because good punching bags were hard to find these days, and that Kael had no appreciation for people storming his office demanding he tone down his jerk levels so it would have been difficult to pick any one from any of the powerful races. But the words stayed where they belonged—inside his head.
Instead, his mouth betrayed him with a baffled, "Huh? Interested?"
Rowan let out a soft laugh, boyish enough to look embarrassed, though Riley doubted it was entirely unplanned.
"Ah, yes, forgive me. I am probably overstepping. I only meant that you seemed rather free-spirited. And for beings who have lived for so long and have always been used to rigid traditions, such an outlook is... unique. Perhaps that is why humans have long been known for their creativity."
Riley blinked, caught between awe and suspicion. That was... surprisingly insightful. And disturbingly accurate.
He had noticed it too—that the ancients clung so tightly to their traditions that they often missed simpler solutions. It was as if they wanted to keep doing things the way the dead had, even if the dead had failed miserably at survival. And it would not have been so bad if the dead had not been known as immortals themselves. Because if their methods worked, then shouldn’t they have stayed alive to this day?
But really, who was he, a mere mortal, to voice such thoughts? If the immortals wanted to recycle bad ideas forever, that was their prerogative.
So instead, he asked the one question he was fairly sure Rowan had been angling for all along.
"Then, Your Highness," Riley began carefully, "this might be above my pay grade and way above my stature, but if you feel it’s impossible for you to relay it, do you think it might be something an aide could suggest? After all, that is partly my job, isn’t it?"
But from a far-off treetop stood a man with flowing golden locks, and at that moment, he was thinking very clearly that he had not agreed to that kind of work.
Where in any agreement was it written that he’d allow vermin to perch above his aide like some oversized songbird? How did that twig interpret the instructions to mean he should sit and lean close to that white noodle, whose only mode of communication seemed to be smiling with too many teeth?
It was ridiculous. Entirely unnecessary.
If there were secrets to be shared, methods to be discussed, strategies to be exchanged, why in the world did it need to happen in a garden? Did the scent of flowers suddenly make people wiser? Did fountains and trimmed hedges increase efficiency? No. Absolutely not.
He should really tell that twig how to accomplish his tasks properly.
The man clicked his tongue against his teeth.
Tsk.