But what choice did I have? If I didn’t destroy the wall my own kingdom would be at the mercy of an Empress who wanted to starve us all to death.
I was just about to dim my lamp when a crash, followed by a thump, sounded outside the entrance to my tent.
I froze, my breath in my throat as I waited to hear if there was further noise.
But nothing came. My footsteps were soundless as I walked across to the tent flap and lifted it carefully, peeking outside.
Silvery hair and a bloodied shirt was slumped against my tent.
Kiyan.
Pain lanced across his face as he leaned against the outer entrance to my tent. He held a hand to his chest, and blood seeped from between his fingers. A strangled cry caught in my throat as I lunged toward him.
“What happened?”
I grabbed him as he fell against me, his eyes fluttering and refocusing. He was huge, and I buckled under his weight, but managed to drag him inside my room and shut the entrance behind me. I laid him on my bed as gently as I could, but he still fell with a heavy thud.
“Kiyan? Talk to me.” I shook his shoulders.
His eyes drifted open, glazed with pain. His mouth was smeared with blood, and his lips curled into a warped grimace.
“Sorry, I couldn’t make it back to my tent.” He glanced up at me, sweat dripping from his forehead.
He looked worse than when he was purging the poison from Queen Azari’s temple.
“Who did this to you?” I swept the hair out of his eyes and forced him to keep them on me.
As if I had to ask.
“Reza. He’s not happy we lost the crown.” He gave a hoarse laugh that ended in a grimace of pain. “That’s an understatement.”
I exhaled heavily. “He tortured you again.”
Kiyan huffed out a laugh. “No different than what I’ve done to countless prisoners in his name. Even Talal tonight.”
I frowned at his mention of the prisoner he’d tortured this evening. He knew his name.
It sounded like he knew himpersonally.
“That still doesn’t mean you deserve this.”
“Doesn’t it?” He looked up, the pain in his eyes much more than physical. “What else does it mean, if not that?”
I ignored the question and ran my hands over his shoulders and then down the sides of his body assessing the damage. He smiled. “That feels nice.”
“Shut up. I’m checking for wounds.”
“You might want to go a little lower,” he said, having the gall to give another laugh.
“Ew. I said shut up—oh.”
He took my hands and placed it on the wound at his stomach.
“Salt blade. And I’m fairly sure he carved a cursed mark.” He gave another grunt of pain.
“What is that? A cursed mark?”
“Physical manifestation of a curse, a way to poison with magic.”
