Kazia turns to Hyda. “Did the confirmation from Gabra arrive?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Hyda says. “We’re ready to leave at your command.”
The prospect doesn’t seem real. No—it isn’t real. Not until he’s broken the phylactery. “I have things to take care of here first, but we’ll leave within the month.” Kazia needs to say more. Niceties are so much harder when they’re earnest. “Thank you both for your service. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Salarin and Hyda don’t know what he is. They don’t know what Imrik does to him. All they suspect is that Kazia doesn’t want to wait for his inheritance—and they’re loyal to him, not the king.
“Is there anything else?” Kazia asks.
“That’s all, your Highness,” Salarin says.
Kazia buries his relief. “Then you’re dismissed. Send Lucien in.”
Salarin and Hyda look at each other with fresh dismay. But they thankfully don’t question Kazia’s orders before leaving him alone.
Sagging in relief, Kazia retreats to his bedroom to fix his hair. Twisting it up with the pin is second nature. He feels better once it’s off his neck again. No stray hairs left from falling. He moves to put the brush away—and notices the jar of hallabark ointment.
His back shouldn’t hurt today. Mother healed him. She even fixed the bruise on his hand from hitting the floor. Why does he still feel the tearing pain whenever he stops moving? When he closes his eyes, he sees faraway cities and rivers and mountains, all outlined in tile.
A deliberate footstep precedes a light knock at his door frame. “Kazia?”
Kazia jerks in place, stopping himself from whirling around. He should enforce proper decorum, but he kind of likes the way Lucien uses his name. “Give me a moment.” A glance in the mirror says his hair isn’t quite perfect. He needs to fix it again. “Wait in the parlor.”
He pulls out the pin, and his hair spills onto his shoulders. But his hand is shaking too much to put it back up. The pin clatters to the vanity.
Clearly visible in the mirror, Lucien doesn’t move. His lips tighten, and when he speaks again, his voice is rough. “He hurt you again.”
Fuck. Kazia is okay as long as he doesn’t talk about it. “I’m fine.”
Lucien frowns. “Let me see.”
Kazia turns around. “Mother healed me this time. There’s nothing you can fix.”
Lucien exhales, clearly restraining his anger.
Part of Kazia resents that anger. The rest of him craves it. Lucien has no right. Yet Lucien has every right. Kazia’s magic was used to kill Lucien’s family. And Kazia is tired of being angry by himself.
There’s some pathetic, ridiculous part of Kazia that wants to strip his shirt off anyway. Let Lucien rub salve into invisible wounds, as if tenderness can ease the bruises in his soul.
“Maybe we should just leave,” Lucien says. “Forget the coup. We can get rid of Imrik once I’ve gotten you out of here.”
Forget telling Marek. That’s exactly what Kazia has been planning, but he finds himself reluctant. “As soon as I get the phylactery.”
“I can find it myself,” Lucien says. “How soon can you get out? I don’t want you here another day.”
Kazia can’t leave, he realizes. If he leaves, he’ll never be brave enough to come back. He’ll live his whole life in hiding, in exile, his entire being a secret, not just the worst and weakest part of him.
Kazia wants to live, escape the pain, but he doesn’t want to disappear.
“I’ll survive another week,” Kazia says quietly. “Father always needs me intact for next time. Don’t worry about me.”
Lucien moves closer. “That’s one order I can’t obey, brat. Maybe you can take it, but you’re stronger than me. I’m one wrong move from incinerating this entire fucking palace.”
Kazia laughs, sharp and quick. “Tempting.”
Lucien doesn’t quite smile back.
Kazia doesn’t feel strong. He wants more than ever to lean on someone else’s strength. To destroy Imrik and Aliza once and for all. But Lucien is right. To do that, Kazia would have to reach out to Marek.
