Page 41 of Heartbreak Prince

“Look at me,” he whispers. “Right now, Syth. Look at me.”

Agonized, I drag my eyes back to his face. It’s all I can do to hold his gaze, conscious of the tears pooling along the lower edges of my eyelids. One tear escapes, slipping down my cheek.

Vawn catches it with the pad of his thumb. He inspects the bead of liquid, then places his thumb between his lips, keeping his eyes on mine.

“All right, then,” he says quietly. “Lead on, lovely. I will follow.”

He steps back, and I duck past him, awash with conflicting emotions. I’m angry with him for saying those things, but he did warn me about his struggles. Maybe I’m angrier at the fact that his pain forced something to the surface in my heart—something that I’m not ready to look at or name. Not yet. Probably not ever.

9

“Admit it.” The prince nudges me. “We look good. I made good choices with the jewelry.”

I follow his gaze, glimpsing a reflection of us in a shop window. “We do look good.”

“Of course, I’d look better if I could reveal my beautiful face. As it is, all I can do is show my eyes, which have terrible bags underneath them because I slept so poorly last night. Someone was tossing and turning for hours, getting up and down, opening and closing the door, checking the window...”

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was anxious. Couldn’t sleep.”

“You should have gone and asked the innkeeper for a drink. Or you could have released your tension another way. If you have a similar struggle tonight, then I, as your pretend fiancé, would be more than happy to assist you in any way that I can.”

“I’m sure you would.” My steps slow as we round the corner. The hazy streetlamps and the faint pre-dawn glow of the sky illuminate the plaza in front of the Rauveron Guild headquarters, a magnificent building of red stone. A line of people weaves back and forth like a snake among the statues of fashion icons.

“Shit,” I hiss. “We should have come earlier. There are dozens waiting already.”

“As long as we’re among the first hundred, we’re sure to get samples,” Vawn assures me.

Wrapped in our cloaks, we settle down at the end of the line on the cold paving stones. With every passing minute, more people arrive, until the queue fills the entire courtyard and disappears down a neighboring street.

Vawn isn’t the only person in line who’s concealing their face. There are a few Xarsians with head coverings, and many people are wearing hoods, helmets or masks. It makes sense that those who manage to score such a high-value item might want to conceal their identity so they can’t be targeted by thieves.

As the hours pass, the unfairness of it all becomes more obvious. A few of the more frail individuals can’t endure and leave the line. A woman shits herself rather than lose her spot, and the smell pervades the air until the people around her start to yell about it. Eventually, two guards come and drag her out of the line. I try not to look at the brown smear on the back of her skirt, but I can’t avoid hearing her sobs.

Around noon, new people begin to show up—people dressed in bold, revealing styles, covered in sharp studs, black chains, and silver jewelry, with jewel-encrusted shoes and elaborate nails. They don’t go to the end of the line. They approach those who are already waiting, offering them large quantities of money for their places in line. Many of the less fortunate folk who have been waiting since dawn yield their spots, desperate for the money. They could get more if they waited for the paint drop, but I suppose they’d rather have the certainty of what’s offered.

I’ve had to pee for an hour, and the pressure in my bladder is rapidly becoming too intense to ignore. I only allowed myself two sips of water before we got in line, hoping to avoid this exact situation, but apparently I didn’t dehydrate myself enough.

With the sun beating down on my skin and the wind rushing through the plaza in unpredictable swirls, I’m also parched. Even though it’s spring in the mountains, the rays are still intense. My head is beginning to ache from both the sun exposure and the lack of water.

To distract myself, I take a closer look at our neighbors in line. The woman next to me was wearing gloves earlier, but she has taken them off now, revealing a single endurance glyph on the first finger of her left hand. There’s a double curl on the third downstroke, so it’s a fairly powerful glyph, giving her a burst of physical stamina. But its intensity means that it will also spend faster than a weaker glyph would. She’ll reach the desiccation point quickly and have to deactivate.

For a situation like this, I would have chosen a glyph with a less noticeable effect that could stay operational over a longer period. But not everyone does extensive research into glyph mechanics and function before obtaining them. Some people simply trust the recommendation of the artificient and hope for the best.

Movement draws my gaze to the mouth of one of the streets that empties into the Rauveron Guild plaza. Soldiers in heavy purple uniforms adorned with silver chains, wearing crystal-studded helmets, march into the square, keeping step with each other. Six rows of three abreast—eighteen soldiers in total.

Shit.

They’re here for Vawn. They must be. The wyvern rider at the edge of the forest probably reported back to his superiors, and they figured out where we were headed.

My first instinct is to leap up and run with the prince. Get out of the square, hope that we can lose ourselves in the winding streets of Zeletas. But the soldiers are marching along the edge of the plaza, not even turning to look at the switchback lines of people waiting for the drop. They’re headed straight for the front entrance of the Rauveron Guild.

“What do we do?” whispers Vawn from beneath his covering.

“Wait.”

The soldiers halt before the Guild’s entrance. One of them steps from the middle of the first row and hammers on the door. After a few moments, the soldiers are admitted. Half of them disappear inside, while the remaining nine take up positions along the front side of the building.

Chatter rises around us—terse words, worried comments, and theories about who the soldiers are and why they’re here. Half a dozen people abandon their places in line, and the rest shift forward, eager to fill the gaps.