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It wasn’t like he could really chase her. And how horrifying that he felt this way to begin with. It was that cursed mask. What would he do when he caught her anyway?

He turned his back to the maiden, ripping off his shirt and marching toward the pool as the cool wind caressed his skin. He lightly touched the injury across his abdomen where the physicians’ creams were dried out and peeling off. He had so many scars now, he couldn’t remember which ones were from which battles.

“If my mask is bothersome to you, Your Majesty, I’ll stay far away so I don’t spoil your mood.” Her snippy voice sailed into his ears, making him drag his steps to a halt. “I’ve heard how you feel about Adriels. I’m best off avoiding you anyway.”

His head whipped around, but the path was empty. Pebbles formed over his flesh when the cold wind met his spine, a shiver creeping up his back.

She must have forgotten that he knew where her tent was—that he could find her there. That he could pin her down and wrestle the mask from her face. That her little tone of defiance was exactly the sort of thing that put him on edge. That her flaunting her Adriel heritage wasn’t going to get her far with his Weylin loyalties.

He huffed and let his body relax, tugging a hand through his hair where tiny grains of sand clung to his scalp. He didn’t even have voices to blame anymore for his behaviour. Just his horrid instincts.

He’d spent four months in this desert and hadn’t faced a problem as unusual as a rebellious commander. He would destroy that wretched mask when he got his hands on it. He’d make sure she learned that Adriels were, in fact, his enemies. And that he had reason more than ever these days to suspect them.

The water was warmer than the air when Xerxes lifted handfuls to splash his face. He stared at his rippling reflection in the pool after, his features warping with the waves. “What a bitter old hag,” he mumbled—not sure if he was talking about himself or the over-inflated Gold Mortal.

He glanced toward the path between the rocks again, imagining an aged hag hiding beneath the mask. Or at the very least, a middle-aged woman. A woman with youthful, vibrant dark brown hair. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, he imagined running his fingers through that hair to see what it felt like; if it was the brittle, coarse texture of a woman twice his age, or if it had the softness of a young maiden in her youth…

His grip tightened on the pool’s edge and grass poked through his fingers. What did it matter how old she was?

Oh, for Divinities sake. He wanted to rip her mask off more than he’d ever wanted anything out here. He could have her tossed into quicksand for refusing to obey the King of Per-Siana. As if he didn’t have enough people back home ignoring his orders, now he had an influential commander here doing it too. He splashed his reflection away and sat up on his heels, looking up at the moon and glaring at the celestial gods in the sky for bringing him to this desert in the first place.

If Alecsander was planning to stab him through the heart at the meeting… that meant Xerxes only had nine days left to live. Nine days left to try and save Per-Siana.

He raised a hand to his chest where a slow beat barely managed to exist through the shield of his flesh. The mere shadow of a heart. A false heart. A heart that didn’t truly exist, except for this one, faint sign that most days he thought was just his imagination. Soon even this shadow of a heart might cease to beat forever.

It was well past midnight when he returned from his bath, beads of water dripping down his neck. He rubbed his eyes as he came into his tent and nearly jumped when he found Reza awake, sitting up on his cot.

Reza had a strange look—inquisitive saggy eyes, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t scowling, per se. Xerxes laid back on his cot and watched the men outside starting late night fires. The ice-cold desert breeze flung bits of ash and singed fabric around the camp, some rolling into Xerxes’s and Reza’s tent.

Xerxes almost fell asleep to the sounds, but naturally, Reza wouldn’t allow that. Xerxes waited for the righteous lecture brewing in the General’s mouth about safety and how he shouldn’t bathe alone in the oasis pool, how he shouldn’t put himself in compromising positions like meeting with enemy warlords, how he shouldn’t run back into a battle to save an ill man such as himself, and how he shouldn’t do anything else he wanted to do.

When Reza clasped his thick hands, Xerxes knew it was time. Here it was. The lecture.

“I think you should consider going back to the palace, Xerxes.”

Xerxes let the breeze drag its cool fingers through his damp hair. He nestled deeper into his cot, pulling the blanket up over his chest. “I’m sleeping,” he said.

“It’s not just about keeping you alive, which has been difficult enough. It’s for another reason.”

Xerxes yawned. Didn’t open his eyes.

“I think you need to seriously consider returning to Per-Siana to produce an heir.” Reza released a raspy cough that whipped against Xerxes’s nerves. The General had the audacity to add, “Then you can return to the battlefield if need be. This is about preserving the kingdom. You’re far too careless about your own life but at least think of the rest of us. If you die without an heir, we lose the royal family forever. The kingdom will be left with no king, and considering our current political situation with B’rei Mira, Per-Siana may cease to be a kingdom at all.”

Xerxes was already glaring before he opened his eyes and looked over at the General. The man didn’t even sound like he was joking.

“Just think about it, Xerxes.” Reza patted his belly in a slow beat. A satchel with some sort of dried fruit snack sat open on the cot beside him, leaving a sharp, sour scent in the air that made Xerxes want to plug his nose.

Xerxes shook his head. “The Intelligentsia couldn’t make me do it, Reza, so you don’t stand a chance. Forget this nonsense immediately. I’m going to sleep.”

“But—”

“Quiet, Reza!” Xerxes rolled over, turning his back to the man who’d always been too brave in the King’s presence. A second later, the sound of shuffling blankets filled the tent, and eventually Reza’s light snores drifted in, a quiet music on an otherwise loud, windy night.

Xerxes stared at a tiny hole in the tent wall where threads were unravelling in a slow release, giving the hole more power and the tent less stability with every breath of wind that roared against it. A bug raced out through the frayed opening into the cold. The whole tent would collapse soon if that hole wasn’t dealt with.

Reza snorted, his cot squeaking as he readjusted his large body. Even though their sleeping quarters was void of conversation, Xerxes still heard that wretched suggestion that left a phantom cloud of fog between him and the General that Reza would never see.

Reza was made of desert heat and army metals. The old man hadn’t spent time in the Mother City, had never even been inside the palace. He had no idea of the things he spoke of, or why Xerxes would never take another wife. That Xerxes had learned the hard way that beasts only lived happily ever after in fairytales. Someone like General Reza would never understand that.