“At the beginning, yeah,” Lucien admits. “Now I know how smart you are. You notice all the little details. I’d like your help. And…”
Kazia sips his zalvin. Sets it down, because Lucien is about to say something awful.
“If we’re working together, it’ll be easier to keep you safe,” Lucien says.
There it is. Kazia looks away, even though Lucien will read far too much into that. Fuck Lucien for offering such tempting lies. Fuck Kazia’s delusions, too, for accepting them. “I can’t just kill my parents.”
Lucien’s face does something complicated and soft. “I’m sorry. They’re still your parents.”
Kazia rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a fucking idiot. I would happily kick them off a cliff, but I need more resources in place to secure the throne. I’m not ready.”
“You want the throne,” Lucien says, startled.
Right. Kazia almost forgot himself. He’s not a powerful contender for the crown. He’s a weak, pathetic grail with a miserable reputation. Stupid of him to think Lucien hadn’t noticed. “Or what, let Marek have it? Leave it empty for the mages and warlords to squabble over? I’m sure Margot would love to sponsor a puppet, if she can move fast enough.”
“No offense intended.” Lucien sets his glass down. His expression is calculating, and suddenly Kazia recalls this man isn’t just a mage. He’s commander of the Silaisan Skyguard, and he’s a far better strategist than he claims. “If you don’t have the resources, what was your plan?”
“I was going to leave,” Kazia says. “After I find the—the object in Aliza’s room, I can leave. I’ll figure out how to build power in hiding, then return.”
It sounds stupid when he says it out loud. Kazia isn’t used to having plans, much less describing them.
Lucien frowns. “I’m an expert in shaky plans, and that’s shakier than most.”
“I don’t have a choice. The… it’s getting worse.” Kazia can’t bring himself to name the pain. He’s not used to describing that either. “I can’t think anymore. I can’t stay here.”
Lucien moves to sit on the coffee table in front of Kazia. Close, but not touching. “If you had the choice, would you rather escape or fight?”
“I want them dead.” Another thing Kazia isn’t used to saying out loud—but he wants it so much, the words are easy.
“My plan was to kill Imrik by myself,” Lucien says, like he’s confessing a childhood tree-climbing accident. “Like I said, I’m an expert in shaky plans. But I think if we combined our resources… together, we could do far more than we could alone.”
Kazia can’t help it. He wants to believe the addictive certainty in Lucien’s eyes. Forget all the fake flirting. Offering to kill Imrik and Aliza is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to him.
“Stop being so nice,” Kazia says, because Lucien can choose whether to obey the order now. “It’s disgusting.”
“Please. I’m fucking delightful.” Lucien glances at the clock and stands up again. “It’s late. I’m tired, that zalvin is fucking strong, and if I stay here any longer, your servants will gossip. Let’s talk strategy in the morning, okay?”
The storm has quieted. Lucien doesn’t look tired. He’s plotting some stupid, manipulative scheme to make Kazia get some rest.
Kazia decides to allow it. “Sure. I’ll skip my riding lesson.”
“Dragons or horses?”
“Extremely slow ponies.” Aliza would never let him ride anything exciting. Kazia stands up too, rubbing the back of his neck—then freezes when Lucien stoops to pick up the collar. “What are you doing?”
Lucien dangles the collar. “If your drasgard see me without this, the game is up.”
Kazia reels.
Lucien is right. If he’s staying, he has to stay like this. The necessity doesn’t change the import. Lucien is willing to put the collar back on. Subject himself to Kazia’s control once more.
It makes sense—but Kazia isn’t sure he would be capable of it. If he finds his phylactery, he’s never letting another soul touch it.
“Wait,” Kazia says, before Lucien puts the collar on. He pulls the key-token from his pocket. “Take this.”
Pressing the silver disc into Lucien’s hand requires touching him. Warm skin kisses his fingertips, lingering after Kazia lets go.
Lucien watches Kazia instead of the token. “What is it?”
