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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kazia
Memory rings in Kazia’s ears. He knows the precise night. It was the thirteenth of Aramy, and Kazia was eight years old. He wouldn’t learn that war had begun until the next morning. All he knew was that Father needed help with something very important.
And it would hurt.
Lucien averts his gaze, withdrawn. “The worst part is how fucking pointless it was. We still don’t know what the fuck Imrik wanted.”
Kazia squeezes his hands between his knees to stop the trembling. To stop from clawing into his own skin, as if he could find the magic inside him and rip it out.
Dire magic killed Lucien’s family.Kazia’smagic. Without Kazia, the storm could never reach that far. “I know what the war was for.”
Lucien’s head snaps up. “What?”
Pulse hammering, Kazia scrambles to his feet. “Forget it. I shouldn’t tell you this.”
Lucien stands more carefully. He keeps his distance, and the angle casts his face in shadow. “Don’t say anything that’ll get you in trouble.”
A whimper of laughter catches in Kazia’s throat. “It’s not that.” He presses below his eye. His nose stings, but he can’t feel any tears. “It’s just a bad reason. You don’t want to know.”
“It’s not like there would be a good reason.” Lucien closes the distance. Slowly, he touches Kazia’s wrist. Tugs his hand from his face and holds him still. “Tell me.”
When did Kazia last order Lucien not to touch him? Presumptuous. Overbearing. Kazia can’t force a new order past his lips, because Lucien’s touch is the only thing keeping him from shattering into memory.
How much power could be wrung from such a tiny body? Not enough. Better wait until he could take more pain.
“It was a test,” Kazia says.
Lucien’s eyes flash as if he understands. “Of what?”
Of me.But Kazia can’t say that—and it’s not the full answer. “Margot’s heir was of age. Imrik wanted to take Audric’s measure. It was a test of Silaisan power. Draskoran power. Imrik’s own. I think he intended to test Vana too, but he never got the nerve. Too risky to temper the Kaiskaran hostage with combat experience.”
“That’s it?” Lucien’s voice is hard, but his touch is still soft.
“Imrik got what he wanted,” Kazia says. “Information, so he could prepare for next time. This war won’t end as simply as the last.”
Letting go, Lucien stares into the fire. “You’re right. That is a bad reason. I shouldn’t tell you this, but Queen Margot doesn’t intend for a simple peace either. A lot of people are going to die.”
Soldiers. Enemies. Friends. Families. Kazia’s wrist is cold. He touches it, then flinches away from himself.
There’s a reason Kazia tries not to think about what Imrik uses his magic for. Drowning in his own suffering is easier than coming up for a gasp of clarity.
But Kazia can’t ignore the damage when Lucien stands in front of him. Strong, solid, burning bright, and asking, “Does that bother you as much as it bothers me? Because I think we could do something about it.”
Again, that offer of partnership. It’s fake. It has to be. The collar is a stark shadow across Lucien’s throat. Lucien only offers an alliance because Kazia has him shackled.
He doesn’t know what Kazia’s magic has done, and Kazia can’t do this anymore.
Using Lucien as a tool was one thing when Kazia’s goals were loftier. Now, he just wants to run. He doesn’t need Lucien for that.
“Kneel,” Kazia says.
Surprise crosses Lucien’s face. There’s an instant’s hesitation before his knees bend—but he smiles. “This again? I know what you’re doing, brat.”
Kazia must be fucked in the head. He might even miss this insubordination. Without replying, he circles behind Lucien. The key-token is heavy in his pocket.
