A wiry man in a stained apron turned from a towering spice rack crammed with jars of powders, pastes, and seeds. Herbs dangled from the ceiling, their leaves wilting in the oppressive humidity.
“Your Majesty!” The cook bowed, his bald head gleaming with perspiration. When he straightened, his eyes widened, landing on me. “And Your Highness!”
Kallias chuckled, a sound low and rich. “The usual.”
“Of course!” the man chirped, darting around the cramped kitchen. His movements were quick but practiced, and I couldn’t suppress a laugh as he rummaged through a cabinet, producing two simple gold mugs—ones I’d grown accustomed to.
Kallias gestured toward him. “Nienna, meet Igor, the man responsible for our cider.”
“It’s delicious. Thank you.”
Igor’s face lit up, and he bowed again. “It is myhonor!” With a flourish, he ladled deep amber liquid into the mugs, his focus absolute. He handed them to Kallias, who offered one to me.
I wrapped both hands around the metal, the warmth seeping into my chilled fingers. The steam carried a medley of spices—cinnamon, clove, and the faintest hint of apple. I brought it closer, inhaling deeply, the fragrant vapors curling through my chest like a slow, gentle fire.
Or maybe the heat came from Kallias, standing so near and thoughtful enough to bring me here.
“Thank you, Igor.” He nodded toward the cook and backed out of the room.
I followed, the cup clutched close, more for the butterflies it shielded than the warmth it offered.
As we moved farther from the kitchen, the corridors emptied, the clatter of staff fading behind us. Recognition stirred as I realized the path led to the balcony.
“I almost feel bad Greaves doesn’t get any,” I murmured as the spiral staircase came into view.
Without hesitation, he held out his mug to the man, who accepted it with a raised brow, swirling the liquid before taking a cautious sip. He grunted, pursed his lips, and took another, slower this time.
“I hope you burn yourself,” Kallias muttered, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. Greaves’ only response was the faintest lift beneath his tidy, trimmed beard, the tiniest hint of a smile.
His bodyguard was calm, reserved, but Kallias burned in contrast. His heat wasn’t confined to his temper or demeanor—it radiated through him, through every glance and movement. Though he wore a reserved mask, cool and deliberate, I could feel the wildfire just beneath, waiting to ignite.
“Why the frogs?” I asked as we stepped onto the winding staircase.
Kallias glanced at the carved tadpoles underfoot, his brows knitting together. “Deep in the Untamed Valley—some call it the Valley Beneath—there are sprawling bogs to the northwest. Miserable terrain. My mother hated the place and refused to visit. She said it stank, suffocated with heat, and demanded gills just to breathe. My father, though, saw beauty in all of Radaan. He commissioned a craftsman to capture the life thriving there.”
My gaze followed the intricate details: lily pads resting on the steps, delicate flowers sprouting along the rails. “And did she change her mind after seeing this?”
“She did,” Kallias said, tapping the carved shape of a flying insect on the support beam. His lip curled. “She insisted these be added—bugs the size of your palm that swarm and leave you scratching for days.”
I recoiled with a cringe. That would ruin the charm.
His faint smile flickered and then faded as we reached the landing. His expression turned solemn as he opened the balcony door and stepped aside. With a bow, he gestured for me to pass. Warmth crept into my cheeks, my stomach twisting as I did so.
“Wait here.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught Greaves throwing Kallias a sharp glare, but the king didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he shut the door in his face. When he turned to me, his expression shifted, the subtle hardness of the king’s mask slipping.
The balcony was his refuge, where the pressure of his status lightened just enough to let me glimpse the man beneath. Here, he could be Kallias, not only the ruler of Radaan. Beyond this space, he could never separate himself from the mantle of kingship.
The cider tempted me, and I nursed the spiced drink as I wandered toward the stone balustrade, gazing out at the expanse. The sun had long since melted against the earth, streaking the horizon with the fading purples and deep indigos of dusk. Daylight hours were shortening. I'd heard of ‘snow’—frozen flakes that fell from the sky in the depth of winter—and wondered if I’d ever witness such a thing.
Kallias leaned against the wall beside me, releasing a quiet sigh. The sound stirred something in me, my pulse quickening. I kept my focus on the distant fields, where a farmer, no more than a speck, led a horse along a narrow road.
“Nienna–”
“I don’t usually see farmers out this late,” I interrupted, unwilling to broach any topic he addressed with that grave tone.
“The second alfalfa harvest is underway,” he said. “Farmers work long hours this time of year. That horse is limping, though. That’s why he’s running late.”
