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Ryn was here. Estheryn Electus, the Heartstealer maiden. Here in the desert, in his army, walking toward him. No wonder she’d wanted to hide her treacherous little Adriel face. And he’d been dragged through the underworld these last few days thinking she was dead. He hadn’t been able to sleep, had barely been able to eat, had cursed the sky and the desert and the kingdom—all because of her. Divinities, he wasn’t sure whether to punish her, to hug her, or to rip off her mask and force her to tell him everything he wanted to know right in front of the cooks. How had she ended up imprisoned in the seventy-fifth province? Did she use her network of priests to change prisons and hide from the Intelligentsia’s wrath? How in the name of Boreas had she learned that god-like fighting technique that had kept her alive in the desert after she could barely raise a sword against him in the palace courtyard the day of the Initiation Ritual?

Ah, that’s right. Ryn was favoured by one of the gods. Though he’d never seen a transformation like hers, not even by the strongest celestial magic.

“What is it?” Ryn stood before the table, glowing like a Divinity and making the sunrise jealous. Xerxes shook his smile off. He cleared his throat, telling himself all over again that this wasn’t a dream. All night, he’d been sure it was, but no—he wasn’t wrong about this. He’d never been more certain about anything. The moment she’d called him “King” something had changed within him that could never go back to believing she was dead. Then, she’d used his name by the oasis pool, had lost her mind when she thought something had happened to him… Maybe he did believe in the grace of the Celestial Divinities, just this once.

Ryn sat down in the chair across from him, her armour clanking, her deep brown gaze steady. It was clear she didn’t want to be here. Perhaps that made it more entertaining.

Now that he was looking her right in the eyes, a muscle twisted in his chest. The day in the throne room flashed before him, the day she’d yelled his name before nobles, had been waiting for him to save her, and he never did, and he swallowed.

Well, he did save her, actually. He’d sent her to prison instead of the Execution Hall.

Exactly one hundred and thirty-eight days ago.

For one hundred and thirty-eight days, he’d wondered if Ryn was surviving the cold underground, if she’d gotten sick, if she’d starved. For one hundred and thirty-eight days, he’d worried she was being stalked or harassed by men in prison simply for being the King’s Heartstealer. He’d counted each passing day one hundred and thirty-eight mornings in a row. And now here she was—alive, well, nourished enough.

Maybe her god had a hand in that.

He sat up straight. “What would you like for breakfast, Maiden?” he asked, lifting his glass. “Wine?”

“I don’t drink.” Her words sailed from behind her pretty bird mask. His glass paused against his lips, then he dragged it back off and set it aside. He straightened his crown which he’d decided to dig deep out of the camp storage chests for this special circumstance.

“Neither do I.” He folded his hands on the table before him, waiting for her to contradict him after she’d seen him sip drinks on several occasions in the palace.

She didn’t fall for it. Instead, she folded her arms and tapped her toe against a rock in the sand, creating the tiniest noise. Ryn’s demeanor now was opposite from the Heartstealer trials. The golden figure before him looked as if she hardly cared about anything, wasn’t impressed by the lavish silver-rope tent decorations he’d ordered the messengers to hang up, or the gorgeous black and gold outfit he’d chosen to wear, or the thought of a rich breakfast feast after all her days of eating bland food in the desert. “I’m not that hungry,” she said. “So… fruit?”

“Pears?” he suggested, and her toe stopped tapping. “I have a whole tree’s worth of them.”

Her eyes were frozen open in the holes of her mask. It turned something over inside of him, made him fight another horrid smile.

“Or apple pie?” he suggested next. “My cooks can make excellent apple pies. Not salty at all.” He waved a hand through the air. “Or so I heard.”

Ryn’s hand flattened on the tabletop—almost as if she planned to push herself up to stand. Xerxes sat back in his chair, picking up his knife and spinning it over his fingers. Ten years of beastly instincts flooded into his words when he said, “You want to run again, don’t you?”

Ryn was pretty when she was startled. Not that he could see her face, but knowing her identity made guessing her expressions easier. And now, looking at her, all Xerxes could see was Ryn chopping the base of the pear tree, all the voices in his head screaming in protest until she was finished with them.

“Adassah…” he said her real name over to himself. The name she’d hidden from him in the palace. It wasn’t all that bad of a name, even if it was an Adriel one. Some might say it rolled nicely off the tongue, could sit in one’s mind all night if one couldn’t sleep. “A-das-sah…” he tried again. Three syllables.

Adassah Cahana. Daughter of a greedy absent father, traded to the King of Per-Siana, entered into the Heartstealer trials against her will, stole the heart of the King and didn’t know it.

Ryn hadn’t moved a muscle in several seconds. So, Xerxes waved over the cooks. “We’ll have fruit,” he said.

Ryn’s hand came slowly off the table. She rested her arms on her lap and relaxed in her chair when the cooks began milling about, bringing over dishes of food. Pouring her wine she didn’t want.

She didn’t touch her breakfast of sliced melon and imported pomegranates. At first, Xerxes thought it was because she wasn’t hungry, but he quickly realized it was because she couldn’t eat without removing her mask, and that was especially amusing. He tried not to point it out as he ate delicate fruit squares in front of her. “Mmm,” he said. “The oasis melon is particularly good this morning. Don’t you think?”

Naturally, she didn’t answer because she couldn’t try the fruit.

Morning sunlight fell through the tent slits, bleaching the table and making Ryn’s mask sparkle. It emphasized the soft shade of brown her hair had become in the desert, lighter than the near-black it had been at the palace. She didn’t reply, so he folded his hands in front of him with his fork poking out between his fingers. He wondered how long she could last playing this game. Not eating and making it look normal.

“You could take off your mask,” he suggested. He stabbed a melon and twirled it on the end of his fork. Then he held it toward her mouth to feed it to her.

She didn’t respond again, she didn’t even lower her gaze to the melon, she just stared at him. He laughed, and half a dozen cooks craned their necks toward him, startled. He closed his mouth, sealing away that sacred laugh that wasn’t meant to be heard by just anyone.

He sighed and pushed his plate away. “Forget it. You have no manners, Commander Adassah, but I think I’ve realized by now that you don’t care about manners.” He leaned and called to the cooks, “Prepare a tray of breakfast and have it sent to Commander Adassah’s tent. She won’t eat with me despite my begging.” His gaze flickered over to see her reaction at the last part, but, like before, he couldn’t see much with that mask in the way. As expected, all the cooks scowled or inhaled insulted-sounding gasps at her bad manners.

Divinities, she wasn’t going to break easily. Little breakfast tricks weren’t enough to make her admit who she was. Xerxes smirked and rose from the table. “See you in training, Maiden.”

She stood too, offering him a shallow bow followed by the salute meant for Per-Siana army commanders to use. It was the first time he’d received the salute from a burn division commander. Or an Adriel Heartstealer maiden.