Vana sets the scroll down. “Is it already time to meet with Lady Kovar?”
“No, I asked Indra to reschedule that.”
Vana’s lips flatten into a thin, unhappy line. “Why?”
Daromir inhales. “Because we have something more important to figure out. Come here.”
Vana still looks unhappy, but he follows Daromir downstairs to the small dining room. It’s as close to neutral ground as possible in their Ostomar quarters. Daromir and Vana don’t often spend time here, preferring to eat at court or in the parlor. Everything Daromir needs today is at one end of the table. A pot of tea, a pitcher of ale, a mug, and a glass cup.
“This is a terrible tea spread,” Vana says, sitting at the end of the table.
“I’ll make crumpets next time.” Daromir pulls a chair closer to Vana’s right, where he sits between Vana and the window. Vana’s pulse jumps in his throat. Daromir tries to think about anything else. “You haven’t figured out how to fix the bond.”
“Not yet. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you will. You’re the intellectual.” Daromir pats his chest. “I’m just the muscle, so I need to figure out how we deal with the situation on the ground.”
“You’re notjustanything,” Vana protests. His eyes dart everywhere but Daromir’s face, and his voice is strangled. “I’m sorry. I know you must be tired of… restraint.”
The euphemism hangs painfully clear between them.
“Restraintisn’t a problem.” Daromir is proud of how steady his voice stays. He sounds like a professional bloodguard, not a pervert imagining his prince writhing in bed, tormented by Daromir’s phantom touch. Daromir can’t allow himself to imagine that, or he’ll betray their oath and friendship alike. “We need to test whether we share any other sensations now.” He gestures to the pot and pitcher. “Hot and cold. We’ll start with that.”
Vana sighs, slumping back in clear relief. “Right. Of course.”
“Trust me,” Daromir says softly. “I’m still taking care of you.”
Vana manages a grin. “I’ve never doubted that. How did you intend to start?”
“Carefully.” Daromir pours tea into the mug. Gold-green liquid splashes in clouds of steam, and even the pot’s handle is warm in his palm.
Pain is the only sensation bloodguards and wards are supposed to share. Heat and cold would only register through the bloodbond if they were intense enough to cause pain. Daromir would feel Vana burning his finger on a candle, but not wrapping himself in a warm robe. Vana would feel Daromir getting frostbite, but not the normal chill of his magic frosting on his fingertips. Daromir doesn’t feel the electricity of Vana’s power unless it overtakes him.
Daromir holds his palm above the mug and asks, “Can you feel this?”
Vana rests his own right hand on the table, palm up, fingers gently curled. His eyes lower in concentration, and in the room’s intimate light, he looks like a portrait. Nearby yet remote. Soft yet untouchable.
“No,” Vana says.
Daromir presses the back of his hand to the mug. It’s too warm, and it only starts to hurt after the first few seconds.
“Stop that,” Vana says.
Daromir removes his hand. The burn isn’t severe enough to leave a mark, but he still soothes it with a flicker of Azri magic. Just to make sure it doesn’t hurt Vana for a second longer than necessary.
“I couldn’t feel the heat then either.” Vana looks interested now, drawn out of his shell by the academic question. “Not until it hurt, like usual.”
“Ice next, then.” Daromir touches the glass of ale. Frost forms on the surface, coating the glass in a white film. The ale itself is too alcoholic to freeze solid, but the temperature drops and drops. Daromir waits a moment. Shakes out his hand until the magic no longer sits at the surface of his skin, then traces a line through the ice on the glass.
“Anything?”
Vana shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Interesting.” Daromir next sticks his forefinger in the icy glass, submerging to the knuckle. “Tell me when you feel it.”
A second, then another. Vana says, “Now,” just when the cold starts to ache.
“Interesting,” Daromir repeats. He removes his finger and licks the liquid from it, curling his tongue around his finger.
