Page 80 of Prince of the Sun

Who cares?whispers a small voice at the back of my head.You’re almost at the end. You’re quite literally headed to a different planet to die. Who cares if you fall back on old habits now?

I stare at the tray of glistening food and think about a pink box of donuts instead. About a bowl of mac and cheese. About a tower of paal fed to me by hand. I think about how cared-for I felt in those moments. How seen. How loved.

I think about how it was all a lie.

The pain that knifes through me is so visceral it makes me bend over at the waist.

It was all a lie.

He never cared for you. He was just waiting for the right moment to see if you were truly the Lightbearer. You are worth nothing to him.

You are worth nothing at all.

I know these thoughts. I recognize them. They’re the same sort of filth my brain tried to make me believe after Dad and Michael. That I, on my own, am not worthy of being alive. That I must look a certain way, must eat a certain way, must fulfill a certain set of criteria if I am to take up any space in this world.

I know exactly what this is. And on any other day, that recognition would have been enough for me to move forward. To let those thoughts echo meaninglessly in the chamber of my head, giving them no weight, no value, until at last they dissipated on their own. I’ve done it a thousand times since going into recovery. It always works.

But that was before.

That was before I learned the truth. Before I felt my heart tear wide open, leaving this gaping hole inside me. The pain of losing Daerios is so much worse than I would have expected. Itfeels nothing like losing a friend, or a boy I slept with one time. It feels like an entire piece of my soul has vanished. It makes no sense, and it’s excruciating.

It would be so easy to shut it off,whispers that same voice.You know what to do.

I look at the tray full of food one last time.

I turn around and walk over to the other side of the tent, leaving it untouched.

There’s a gap between the bottom of the tent and the ground. Fading sunlight leaks inside through the crack. I bend over onto all fours, checking for sets of elven boots or sandals. By some miracle, the only guards posted to my tent appear to be surrounding the entrance. Maybe the king trusts my word. More likely, he simply doesn’t imagine I have the guts to run.

And I’m not going to run. I’m not. If I leave now, Michael will never be rescued.

I just want to look around.

A hooded cloak hangs from the rack in the corner. My travel-wear for the next day, no doubt. I pull it off the hanger and slip it on. The material settles, heavy and oddly comforting, over my shoulders.

Slipping on a pair of elven sandals, I lie down on the grass and tuck my arms into my sides. Then I make myself as small as possible and roll out from under the tent.

By now, the sun has set behind the park’s western wall of skyscrapers, casting the camp in eerie twilight. I move like a silent hummingbird, flitting from tent to tent, leaning around stakes and ropes to ensure each grassy corridor is empty. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for. Confirmation? Evidence that I’m not throwing my life away for false promises?

I glance through the flaps of every tent I pass. Take stock of their insides. Of the ones that look like homes and the ones that look like storage and the ones that look like strategy.

Strategy. Maps and scrolls and logs. Anything that might contain research into the Lightbearer. Instructions, perhaps, as to how I should die.

Just when twilight turns to night, I come upon a larger tent out of which deep baritone voices drift. I think I recognize the king’s among them. This must be the main strategy tent.I dart around back, avoiding the bright light streaming out of the tent’s opening. I’ll have to hide until the group disperses. Maybe behind that cluster of trees over—

A hand covers my mouth, an arm wrapping around my chestand jerking me backward. I try to scream, but the elf’s long fingers hold my lips firmly together. I lift up one leg and am about to kick backward when my attacker whispers, “It’s me, Kallister.” I freeze at the sound of his voice. “Quit struggling or the entire camp will hear you.”

I bite one of his fingers.

Daerios pulls his hand back, hissing with pain, and I whirl to face him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I whisper.

“Saving your life,” he says. Then, before I can argue further, he wraps one hand around my wrist and, for the second time that day, the world goes black.

The first thing I see when I wake up is Daerios’s face. Handsome, sculpted, cheekbones like twin mountain peaks. I want to punch them.

But I’m too groggy. “You elves really need to stop doing that,” I croak.

“Sorry.” And he does look sorry, the evil prick. “I knew it was the only way I could get you to come.”