Daromir’s heart settles because he’s been missing this too. Ever since they left the inn at dawn this morning. Out in public, Daromir keeps a proper distance. He only touches Vana when necessary to protect him. But in private, touching Vana is as natural and necessary as breathing.
“You’re not allowed in that office tonight,” Daromir says sternly.
Vana leans harder into Daromir’s touch. “You’re so bossy.”
“No, you’re just difficult,” Daromir counters. But there’s nothing difficult about the way Vana moves with him. Vana follows as Daromir pushes him to the center of the parlor, then stops as soon as Daromir stops. Holds completely still, only lifting his left arm when Daromir begins unlacing his glove at the wrist.
Daromir starts to relax too with each careful movement of removing Vana’s gloves. There’s something soothing about the feel of Vana’s narrow bones. The soft skin of Vana’s exposed wrist beneath Daromir’s fingertips. Black leather pulls away, and Daromir holds Vana’s bare hand for a moment. His thumb rests in the curve of Vana’s palm, and separating their pulses would be impossible.
This is routine for them, but never ordinary. Always important. Daromir tucks both of Vana’s gloves into his own pocket, then begins unbuttoning Vana’s coat.
“I can do that myself,” Vana says, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“You could,” Daromir allows, but doesn’t stop. Vana doesn’t want him to.
Daromir slides Vana’s coat carefully from his shoulders, then shrugs his own off with far less grace. He pauses after draping both coats over a chair. Tension is clear in Vana’s throat, a slight flush over his high cheekbones. Concern furrows Daromir’s brow. Did the journey from Sabora take more out of Vana than he thought?
Maybe. Exhaustion lingers in his prince’s red eyes and dry lips.
Sometimes Daromir still thinks of Vana as the fourteen-year-old boy he found crying in the storage room. Vana has grown taller since then, though he’s still half a foot shorter than Daromir’s six foot three. He’s strong enough to wield both magic and blade. But in these private moments, a familiar vulnerability haunts his face.
Those bright violet eyes. Vana is a sword hammered and sharpened by fourteen years in Draskora. Forged in pain.
“You’re tired,” Daromir says, touching Vana’s face.
Vana averts his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Daromir exhales. That’s one order he’ll always struggle to obey.
They were younger in heart than Daromir realized when they left Kaiskara. A ship brought them across the Jaws to the Draskoran shore, and after that a fabulous procession brought them across the nation to the capital. The journey took a full month, and every noble house along the way feted the king and his newly adopted son.
Daromir remained at Vana’s side the whole journey, relieved that Vana seemed to be adapting more easily than he expected. Until they finally arrived in Ostomar, and it was time for the inheritance spell. The ritual that would impart the king’s Dire magic to the new prince.
King Imrik ordered Daromir to wait outside the chamber. Obeying that command is still Daromir’s greatest regret.
The feeling of the inheritance spell itself was brief. A muted pain behind Daromir’s heart, before Vana’s body accepted Dire magic as his own. But neither Daromir nor Vana knew that House Dire intended to change his eyes as well, using the queen’s blood magic.
Draskoran purple eyes are the result of generations upon generations born in regions impacted by scalestone aura. Not everyone in Draskora has purple eyes; plenty are born in the more distant regions or have foreign parents. But Vana’s bright green eyes clearly marked him as foreign. As Kaiskaran.
King Imrik decided to change them, as brutally as he crushed the rebellion that led to Vana’s adoption in the first place.
Queen Aliza claimed afterwards that she hadn’t realized how painful it would be. That Lord and Lady Tellik had approved the procedure. In the dark underground hallway, young Daromir had no warning before the pain seared his eyes. The unbearable burn drove him to his knees—with the horrified knowledge that this was only half the pain.
Worst of all, the pain vanished after just a few seconds. Not because it was over, but because Vana sealed off their connection, taking on the full agony alone.
Daromir still doesn’t know whether he hated himself more at the time, for not doing his duty, or whether he hated Vana for not allowing him to. His hatred of House Dire needs no questioning; it’s as intrinsic as the blood running through his veins. After the ceremony, it was weeks before Vana could open his eyes again. Even now, they’re weaker than they should be.
But Vana survived. They both have.
“You’re not in charge right now,” Daromir says, forcing a grin. “I can look at you however I want.”
Vana rolls his eyes, and his slight, helpless smile eases Daromir’s heart.
“Small magics only for the next week,” Daromir says more seriously, his hand finally dropping from Vana’s neck. “That journey was nearly too much.”
“Hopefully I won’t have to show off for Lady Naoko.”
Daromir tugs Vana by the arm, and Vana follows obligingly towards the sofa. The iron and velvet monstrosity is comfortable—but most importantly, it’s very large. There’s plenty of room for Daromir to slump onto it and pull Vana down with him.
