Page 138 of Heartbreak Prince

“I hear you,” I say in an undertone. “Remember what I once told you, about saving the grief for later? You are the King ascendant. Act like it. I know you can.”

I place my hand against his chest, holding his gaze, and I breathe in slowly. He does the same, nodding, blinking back the tears. His jaw hardens and his gaze turns to unbreakable ice.

When he speaks again, his head is high, his voice clear. “Let all bear witness to the treachery of the usurpers, Vris Renfrow and Tolgan Occidell, as I reclaim the throne that is rightfully mine, as the third son of King Ralyf, last scion of House Molloi. Do you witness?”

“We witness,” respond the loyalists, and the Tularesk soldiers echo the words. Behind them, in one of the archways, I spot Lady Kaenan, accompanied by a group of her own people.

Heim Cordall answers too, standing by a pillar where he has a good view of the Prince, the throne, and the cringing man upon it. I have no doubt this exact tableau will be magically replicated by Cordall’s hand, then sold to a gossip chain and disseminated throughout Belavrin. I don’t begrudge him the money he’ll make from it. He deserves every coin.

Vawn walks over to Renfrow’s body and retrieves the sword he left beside it. He takes off his cloak, revealing a sleeveless tunic and strong, bare arms. He’s wearing the bracer and the enchained rings I bought him in Zeletas, and he looks taller than ever as he strides back to the throne.

Tolgan squirms and cowers, babbling incoherent pleas.

“Let this be a testament to the kind of king I wish to be.” Vawn sets the blood-slick tip of the sword against Tolgan’s chest. “I will begin my reign as I plan to continue it… with mercy and with justice, thinking not of myself and my own needs, but of this kingdom and its people.” He tips Tolgan’s chin up with the flat of the sword. “Therefore, Tolgan Occidell, I remand you to the custody of the Lady Everil Kaenan, whose husband was killed by your order. She will take you back to Anyssir Castle, where you will be imprisoned as long as she sees fit, and treated as well as you deserve. Now, get off my throne.”

Two soldiers pull Tolgan upright and drag him out of the room. Vawn brushes off the cushioned seat, then lowers himself onto his father’s throne.

My heart is blazing, bursting with pride and with love for him. I drop to one knee, lifting my left arm, my knife still clasped in my hand. “Long live the king!”

The chant echoes around the room, continuing and swelling long after I’ve stopped saying the words. Lady Kaenan shouts them louder than anyone.

There is so much to be done… reversing the rumor we spread, heralding the return of the rightful king, and stabilizing the kingdom, not to mention proclaiming and upholding the terms of the contract with Tularesk.

But for a moment, none of that matters, because with a smile like a sunbeam, my prince leaps off his throne, lifts me to my feet, and bends his face to mine for a kiss that sends the room into a frenzy of joyful cheers.

28

The entire city cheers again three days after that, when we kiss at his coronation, and again a month later, when the two of us fly from the balcony of the palace toward the Grey Province to personally oversee the final evacuation of Tularesk. Most of the Tularesk citizens are already within the safety of Belavrin’s walls, waiting in tents or in the homes of generous citizens until enough forest can be cleared and temporary housing erected in the new state of Iyrandar, along the northern edge of the Red Mountains.

At my suggestion, Vawn sentenced the Redeemers, Lord Steros, and all of Renfrow’s co-conspirators to hard labor clearing out the spidermaws and the wimmets from Iyrandar and constructing protective walls for the new settlement. Not all of the insurrectionists have been caught—we suspect some of them quietly took off their helmets and resumed their lives once they realized the takeover had failed.

Vawn and I plan to ceremonially welcome the last group of refugees, which consists mostly of the guards from the Tularesk border watchposts and the remaining staff of the Celestial Seat. -Inaya and Jillia will be among them. Their recent letter expressed their excitement about having a fresh start together in a new place, and it included an invitation to their upcoming wedding at the Chapel of the Fates near Anyssir Castle.

“I’m happy for them,” was all Vawn would say when I told him the contents the letter, but he didn’t look particularly happy about the news. Maybe he doesn’t want to go to a wedding, or he hates marriage, or he regrets ever mentioning the question that he said he was going to ask me, all those nights ago when we spent our evening of bliss in that abandoned house near the hoarded palace.

Vawn hasn’t said a word about the deal we made that night. Granted, we’ve both been incredibly busy since we retook the palace in Kyr. He’s already proving to be an unpredictable and problematic king, at least from the perspective of the pompous old nobles who keep trying to control him. Contrary to anyone’s expectations, Vawn has apparently been planning how he would rule for much longer than anyone knew, and he has very clear ideas of things he’d like to change. Not all of them are popular, but most seem quite sensible, at least to me.

In addition to my position as his primary bodyguard, I’ve also taken on a more subtle and threatening role. During court or meetings, I lean against Vawn’s throne or chair, cleaning my nails with a knife and shooting vicious looks at anyone who dares speak disrespectfully to him. According to Lady Kaenan’s gleeful reports, most of the nobility view me with terrified awe and tell stories of how I destroyed an entire horde of wimmets and took down whole battalions of Redeemers to protect the prince.

Maybe they are scared of me, but I’ve noticed several of the high-ranking court ladies wearing more black leather and adopting similar hairstyles to mine. I don’t tell anyone how much that secretly delights me, not even Vawn.

Maybe my reputation is the reason Vawn’s retinue didn’t make more of a fuss about him traveling alone with me, rather than with a full contingent of soldiers. Most of his servants and guards are brand-new anyway, pulled from the Academy, from the loyalists who helped reclaim the palace, or from among the prisoners the Exemplar snatched off the streets. Those prisoners had no love for Renfrow or the Redemptive Authority, so they’re ideal replacements for any servants and guards we suspected of disloyalty.

For whatever reason, we encountered little resistance when we announced that we planned to travel to the Grey Province alone, just the two of us and the carpet. Once we get to Anyssir Castle, we’ll have to deal with more servants and guards clustering around us—but for now, I’m enjoying the freedom of traveling as a trio, like old times.

At his coronation, Vawn was given a glyph-graven lute strung with unicorn hair that is always magically in tune and self-corrects when the player makes a mistake. He loves it, and he serenades me for the first few hours of the flight. His singing voice has a limited range, but it’s husky and seductive. I harmonize with him on a few songs that I’m familiar with.

Eventually our voices grow tired, and Vawn simply strums the instrument until the carpet says abruptly, “I have never understood why humans like music. It is just a series of random sounds.”

“You don’t like music?” I exclaim.

“I appreciate a well-balanced set of rhyming couplets, and a precisely maintained rhythm,” Severin clarifies. “But I have seen humans scream for joy or weep copiously because of a song, and that, I cannot comprehend.”

“Another difference between humans and magic carpets, I suppose.” I pat his surface affectionately. “Thank you for putting up with our singing.”

“I’ve put up with far more questionable activities during our travels.”

“Now, now. You don’t need to bring that up.”