“Seven air mages, three light,” Indra says. “I’ll see if any of them want overtime.”
“Perfect.” Daromir rubs the back of his neck—and again yanks his hand away in confused guilt. “Don’t the two of you work overtime, though. We need you sharp.”
Zuzana twists one of her braids, frowning. “Speaking of… I know you’re taking care of His Highness. But he’s seemed tired the past week. Out of sorts.” She ignores Indra’s jabbing elbow. “Not our place to worry, but we’re shit at remembering our place. So, let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
Daromir’s first instinct is to bristle. Vana’s vulnerability is nobody’s business but his. Except Daromir has clearly been doing a terrible job, if anyone else is noticing Vana’s exhaustion.
Indra and Zuzana aren’t strangers or enemies. Daromir should be grateful Vana has more people who care about him—not jealous.
“Thank you,” Daromir says. “We appreciate that.”
After Indra and Zuzana leave, Daromir writes a brief, banal note. He seals it and gives it to an on-duty drasgard, to be delivered to a certain blacksmith. Then he retreats to the bedroom, where he finds Vana, barefoot, his hair still damp, curled up with a book in Daromir’s bed.
Daromir’s breath catches at the sight. Only half the room’s lanterns are on, and the low light smooths everything out like a painting. Vana’s damp hair is silver-bright, draped over his shoulder. His gray and white robe makes his features warmer, more vibrant than usual. His eyes are lowered to the yellowed pages.
From across the room, in low golden light and feather-soft silence, Vana looks no older than the day they met. As if all the suffering in between hasn’t yet weighed down his shoulders.
Daromir is reluctant to speak and break the spell, until Vana glances up. His deep violet eyes are all the reminder Daromir needs of everything that’s changed.
“Any news?” Vana asks. He shifts, and the collar of his robe slides to expose more of his bare shoulder.
Daromir shakes himself from the memory of the last time he touched Vana’s shoulder. “The attacker escaped. The king’s drasgard are cooperating with yours, very forcefully. Indra negotiated for first interrogation rights on anyone captured.”
There’s only so much they can control when it comes to Imrik’s drasgard. But they can at least ensure any false accusations aren’t investigated through torture.
Vana closes the book and sets it aside. “Good.” He taps the book cover. “I apologize for going through your things. This was on the table, and I was curious.”
“What’s mine is yours,” Daromir says out of habit, moving closer. He takes a moment to recognize the book—a collection of poetry. He’d moved it out of the way while looking for something else the other day. “You can have that, anyway. I bought it years ago to see if I would like it or not.”
Vana’s lips curve. “And you didn’t?”
“Couldn’t understand the half of it,” Daromir says, unashamed. “I’m not one for metaphor, and half the words were made up.”
“Less than half, I think,” Vana says, still smiling. He unfolds from Daromir’s bed, taking the book with him. Daromir has to look away as the robe briefly parts above Vana’s knee. What’s wrong with him? As if he’s never seen Vana undressed before. “The rest of the apparent nonsense was High Fellrian. It was just transliterated very badly into the Trade alphabet.”
Daromir wants to delay another day. He doesn’t want to ask now. But the messenger’s letter burns in the back of his mind. “I hate to say this now, but I need another day off.”
Vana tenses. His lips part, then close, like he’s fighting back his initial response. He never used to control himself like this around Daromir. “Of course. When?”
Daromir lowers his eyes. “Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll stay for breakfast with your parents. Then Indra and Zuzana can take over.”
“Tomorrow?” Vana looks distressed, painfully surprised. “All right. Of course. That’s fine.”
“I won’t go if you don’t want me to,” Daromir says impulsively.
“Don’t say that,” Vana says. “Don’t tempt me like that. Of course you can go. Don’t ask. I’m just… Did I do something wrong?”
Daromir’s heart drops down to his stomach. He steps forward, and Vana steps back. Daromir doesn’t understand what’s wrong. Why can’t he just fix this by doing what he always does? His heart hurts, and all he wants to do is get closer.
He holds himself back. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Vana fiddles with his hair. “I know I’ve made you uncomfortable with the change in the bloodbond. This isn’t anything you ever signed up for, not any of this. Draskora. Illusion assassins. This twisted bond.”
“Hey. Hey.” Daromir grabs Vana’s hand away from his hair. Vana looks up with those gorgeous, painful violet eyes, so motionless he doesn’t seem to breathe in Daromir’s grasp. “I signed up forallof that. I knew what I was getting into more than you probably did, and how could either of us have known the half of it? But you’re right. I didn’t sign up for Draskora, or assassins, or this bond, or anything else. I signed up for you. and I’ve never regretted that. Got it?”
Vana’s eyes redden. He squeezes Daromir’s hands, and for one quiet moment, Daromir thinks he’s fixed everything. Then Vana lets go.
“Wherever you’re going, just be careful. Kazia told me you met a woman in a tavern last time.” Vana pulls his robe more tightly around himself. “I don’t know how he knows. I’ll admit I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to hear anything else.”
