Greaves entered without a sound, his movements precise as he draped the gold mantel across my shoulders. He steadied the weight while I secured the upper clasps. The metal pressed down with the familiar heaviness of duty—a reminder that Radaan’s kings wore no crowns. The throne wasn’t a trophy to display; it was a yoke of labor, a mantle of honor forged in sweat and sacrifice.
My gaze drifted past him to the stone depiction of Elohios above the altar. The god’s sword rose high, his unyielding stare carved to pierce the soul. Those eyes seemed to strip away my defenses, laying bare the fractures I worked so hard to conceal.
Greaves finished the last clasp with practiced efficiency, then stepped back. His expression remained composed, but the faint crease between his brows betrayed his unease.
“We need to spar.” The words came out rough, edged with desperation I failed to suppress.
He inclined his head, understanding etched into the lines of his face, but he said nothing. He knew as well as I did that prayer alone couldn’t quiet today’s storm.
Sweat clung to my skin and soaked my tunic as I entered my chambers before dinner. There was nothing as irritating as placing a clean overcoat over a soiled tunic. Yet, appearances mattered. Even with my hair plastered to my forehead and exhaustion weighing down every step, I had to present myself as a king whose life appeared ordered, even when it was anything but.
Sparring offered the briefest reprieve. The rhythm of battle—the snap of a parry, the satisfying clash of metal—quieted my thoughts in a way nothing else could. Years of combat ingrained the movements into muscle memory, freeing me to focus on the fight. Greaves’ sudden feints and unpredictable strikes forced precision, leaving no room for distraction. Still, a welt burned across my forearm, a reminder of the moment my attention faltered. Nienna’s image had slipped into my mind unbidden, and Greaves made me pay for it.
“Your right parry is slow,” he said, his tone laced with amusement as he helped me remove my mantel.
I shot him a sharp glare over my shoulder, then walked toward the bedchamber. “You favor your left knee. You getting old, or clumsy?”
“At least I know my age,” he retorted with a low chuckle, settling the mantle onto its display stand.
I peeled off my overcoat with a grimace at the sweat stains marring the fabric. “Maybe I should find a younger guard.”
“Younger guards don’t hit as hard,” he scoffed, stripping his weapons with meticulous care. “They’d be too green, too nervous to land a proper blow.”
“Respectful.”
“Terrified,” he corrected, a smirk tugging at his lips as he removed a set of throwing knives from his boot.
“As they should be. I’m the king.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “scared they’ll break the frail old man.”
I hurled my damp tunic at him. He ducked, moving with a swiftness that belied his age.
A year older than I, he bore the scars of a life spent in service. His dark hair held fewer streaks of silver than mine, and he carried himself with a vigor I envied. Despite the battles he endured—many of them at my side—his movements remained fluid, almost youthful.
“Why harp on my age today?” I asked, watching him unfasten the buckles that strapped thin daggers to his shins. “Not long ago, you were assuring me I had time to see Radaan settled before Tallon takes the throne.”
His hands paused mid-motion, and he met my gaze, his expression sobering. “I think the way you look at a certain girl warrants a reminder.”
Tension stiffened my spine. My jaw clenched, and I turned away, wrestling with the stubborn clasp of my belt as I strode toward the bathing chamber. The buckle resisted until I yanked it free with a curse.
Unlike the rest of the palace, my bathing chamber bore the marks of my paranoia. Nobles and dignitaries preferred grand tubs for soaking, but I couldn’t forget the lesson of a knife slicing through the river’s current toward my heart—pinned beneath the surface. That memory drove me to commission an engineer to design the room.
Water fell from hidden spouts, cascading in a controlled rush through tiny holes that slowed the flow, creating a private waterfall. It pooled before draining, leaving no stagnant depths.
Sunlight spilled across the space, illuminating walls paneled in rich oak and adorned with thriving vines that stretched toward the glass wall overlooking Radaan. The view never failed to calm me. No one could see in from below, but standing under the rush of steaming water, staring out at the fields, eased my torment.
The soothing cascade above muffled the world outside. My gaze lingered on the glass, tracing the outlines of the distant horizon. Radaan stretched vast and golden before me, yet it seemed as though the magnitude of it rested solely on my shoulders.
Greaves leaned against the doorframe, bare-chested, his arms folded and his lips drawn tight. He didn’t speak. Instead, he picked up my discarded trousers, tossed them into a washbasin, and moved toward the wide window. His eyes scanned the view as though the answer to my troubles might be written in the horizon.
“I haven’t seen you lose control like that since Eldeiade,” he said.
I shut my eyes and reached for the soap. Peace wouldn’t come easily tonight. “I didn’t lose control.”
“You drew blood.”
“He needed to learn his place.”
