The next morning is surreal. Lucien sits at Kazia’s table for breakfast, a collar on his neck and an earring in his ear. The same as most days of his imprisonment. Except now, his magic rests safe within him. And he obeys every order by pragmatic choice, not necessity.
Freedom brings its own anxiety, making him self-conscious of every movement. Because it’s not truly freedom. Lucien’s still surrounded by enemies, and if any of them realize he’s no longer muzzled, his life is forfeit.
Whisper is hopefully on his way out of Ostomar by now. He stayed the night, then hid when the prince’s drasgard broughtLucien out for the morning. He gave Lucien a short dagger and the working null-ring, as well as an escape route. When Lucien leaves the palace, he can seek out a woman named Petunia at an inn called the Tipsy Tree.
Left unspoken is the caveat: assuming Lucien survives his attempt on King Imrik’s life.
Several chairs away, Kazia is quietly cranky. His hangover deepens the circles beneath his eyes, and he picks at his breakfast.
Kazia Draskora Dire. As he so forcefully put it, he’s Imrik’s trueborn son. Will he mourn his father’s death? Where will the power struggle leave him? Marek has the dragon corps—if he takes the throne, will he treat Kazia fairly? Lucien likes to think he would, based on the hidden letter. But power goes to people’s heads. They stop thinking about other people as people.
Or Queen Margot might attempt to force Vana onto the throne. She’d probably like a Draskoran king who owed her. Lucien doesn’t know much about Vana. Whether he’s kind or cruel, or a little of both.
There’s no upheaval today. Just a tired prince glaring at his breakfast.
“You know they make elixirs for that,” Lucien says, because that’s the sort of thing he would have said before Whisper broke the collar.
Kazia stabs a piece of cheese. “I’m not hungover. Your face is just so ugly, it makes me lose my appetite.”
The insult falls flat. Controlling his laughter is harder than controlling his magic. “My mistake.”
Then Kazia glances at the doorway, where a drasgard stands on duty. And Lucien’s laughter dies down. This is why Kazia’sguards never take proper care of him—they don’t know they need to.
Lucien has never met someone so terrified of showing weakness.
He isn’t staying for Kazia. That would be absurd. But while Lucien is here, he may as well pry open the cracks of that vicious mask.
?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kazia
Kazia flinches beneath the third strike.
He should be at an economics lesson right now. Aliza has probably forgotten that. Even Kazia’s tutors have probably forgotten—he hasn’t attended any lessons since the war started. He would have skipped even if Aliza hadn’t summoned him to the map room.
Kazia’s time is better spent poring over Sabora’s paperwork, or plotting a second chance at his phylactery. Though when Aliza called him today, Kazia was just lying on his couch, fuming over the Tems while Lucien played with Butterfly.
Kazia already knew House Tem wasn’t ready to back his claim. How petty to send a cousin to tell him at Aliza’s stupid party. Lord Tem is to blame for Kazia’s drinking that night. Plus the stupid light mage and her stupid grail.
And stupid Lucien schemingsomething. Plying him with food and water. The man’s a dangerously good actor. In his drunken blur, Kazia had almost believed Lucien was concerned.
If Imrik has noticed any of Kazia’s misbehavior—public intoxication, breaking and entering, skipping lessons—he hasn’t said anything. Imrik never cares what Kazia does, as long as Kazia serves his purpose.
Just like he serves now, knees numbing against tile, while his back blazes beneath the lash.
The torture is slow today. Pauses between blows give Kazia too much time to feel. Pieces of skin burn hotter than the rest, tingling above his bones. Imrik must be making the most of each painful pulse of magic he drags from Kazia’s soul.
“Don’t go too far today,” Aliza says suddenly.
Her interruption is so shocking that Imrik’s next strike goes wide. Kazia chokes, reeling, as the lash bites his arm instead of his back. Through the unexpected pain, he barely hears his mother’s words.
“I’m too tired to fix anything serious.”
The pause is terrible. Kazia has too much time to feel the strikes he’s already received.
“You could have said that before I started,” Imrik says, clearly annoyed. The whip hisses on the floor.
