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He slid his sword away and chewed on his bottom lip. Then he asked, “Do you want out of this task? If you feel your division is unfit, Commander, I’ll think about forcing another division to partake in this meeting.”

Ryn’s lashes fluttered. “No. Absolutely not!” And then, “Don’t remove us from this task, Your Majesty. Burn Division Twelve is prepared.”

Xerxes’s lips parted as he looked back and forth between her eyes. Was this really the same maiden who’d cowered in his presence the first time they met? A flash of doubt pierced his soul and he dragged a step backward. He looked her over from head to toe: her covered broad shoulders, her unwavering stare, her sword drawn like she was ready to use it. This was no fragile maiden.

But her eyes. Divinities, her eyes were what gave her away. They were Ryn’s eyes no matter which way he looked at them.

He released the breath he was holding and dropped his hand onto the hilt of his sword. Then he wiped a bead of sweat from his hairline. He was going mad—she’d cured him of his voices and he was still going mad. She was his medicine and his curse.

And she wanted to accompany him into the jaws of death like a fool. How many times was he going to let this treacherous maiden try to save him? Alecsander was no pear tree. His armies were no Intelligentsia. She might have survived the palace, but she wouldn’t survive this.

Xerxes turned his back on the division that would be a heap of corpses in the sand in three days’ time. “I need a bath,” he muttered toward Reza as he left the desert plain. The General could do what he wanted with them; it wouldn’t help. If the entire burn division was wiped out at the meeting, at least maybe Ryn’s god would save her.

Xerxes grunted as he disrobed and sank into the oasis pool, resting his elbows on the rock ledge behind him. The blue-green pool was too deep for his toes to find purchase; a straight drop in the rock right down into the pit of the desert. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the ledge, letting the afternoon sun’s warmth soak his tired bones, letting the cool water sooth his battle scars from the months of war. He wondered what Ryn would think of all his new scars if she saw them. Some hadn’t fully healed yet.

Whatever. He was still a handsome king. He still had his youthful face and his build and his…

He dragged a finger along the bright violet markings on his neck and jaw that had grown out more overnight. He’d gasped when he looked at his reflection in Reza’s helmet this morning and saw the glyphs spreading like fingers, one branch of violet reaching dangerously close to his left eye. The lower side of the marking had spread down his chest like roots reaching for his heart too. He swallowed, wondering what exactly might happen if the Vafat’s marking reached his shadow of a heart. If it would dig in and plant roots inside him. If it would take over his whole body and he’d be a stained purple body in his grave.

Footsteps sounded over the path, and a pair of army boots appeared at his side. Xerxes glanced up at a tall body in navy leathers. Bastone Issacs had removed his armour, revealing the sort of muscled chest beneath his leathers most men his age would envy.

Xerxes dropped his hand from his ink markings. “What is it?” he asked. He cleared his throat when his words came out grainy.

“I’m here to deliver a message.” Bastone spoke in a clear, firm tone.

Xerxes raised a brow, wondering why an actual messenger wasn’t used for such a task. Or Joshua—Xerxes glanced back toward the path to see if his red-eared assistant was hiding back there, but the path was empty.

“You have a message for me from Commander Adassah?” he guessed. At that thought, Xerxes studied the soldier afresh. Bastone Issacs wasn’t as pretty as Xerxes, but he was strong and had a nice glow to his light brown eyes. Only now did a memory return of when Xerxes had walked into the oasis the day after the Last Stand and had spotted Bastone with Ryn in a way that had appeared… suspiciously intimate.

Xerxes turned all the way around in the pool to see Bastone fully. He crossed his arms over the ledge as he observed that Bastone was a muscled man with nice eyes who’d been at Ryn’s side all this time. She’d likely learned to rely on him while fighting battles side-by-side. Xerxes squeezed his folded arms as he imagined long, late nights of conversations between the two, of tender moments of comforting each other. This dashing, loyal soldier had been acting like the Gold Maiden’s personal guardian since coming here. But it was unclear exactly what his relationship was with Ryn.

“Why are you here?” Xerxes finally asked, shaking the absurd thoughts from his mind before they drove him more crazy. “Does Commander Adassah wish to give me a message of some sort? Or admit anything?” He tried not to smile with the last question.

A puzzled look crossed Bastone’s face. The soldier shook his head. “I’m here on behalf of the General.” He slid a folded parchment out of his leathers, and Xerxes tilted his head. Reza should have come to deliver his messages himself then. “General Reza asked me to give you the report you asked him to put together on Commander Adassah.”

“Oh.” Xerxes turned and leaned back in the pool again. He waved him off. “I don’t need that anymore. I’ve figured out what I need to know.”

Bastone hesitated. He blinked a few times, then he said, “Where should I leave it then?”

Xerxes shrugged. “I care not. How about in my desk in the strategy tent?”

Bastone pulled the parchment back to himself slowly. The faint fragrance of mint soap wafted off him, catching in Xerxes’s nostrils, and Xerxes rubbed his nose. “Yes, Your Majesty,” Bastone said.

The grass whispered in a gust of air, and Xerxes raised an eyebrow when there were no sounds of the soldier departing at his back. He glanced over his shoulder—Bastone was still there.

“Is there something else?”

Bastone reached into his leathers and produced a silver-tipped card that looked exactly like the sort of thing that made Xerxes want to throw up out of nowhere. The soldier turned it over once in his fingers. “The Intelligentsia wish for you to approve this list of maidens…” He cleared his throat and inhaled to say the next part.

“Stop!” Xerxes said before Bastone could dare utter that announcement. Xerxes looked down into the dark depths of the pool, imagining sliding all the way down, down, down. It would be easier to hide under water than embrace the fact that Damon, that snake magician, had directly disobeyed him again. He’d looked right into the fool’s eyes, had held a sword at his throat, and still… “Has anyone seen it? The card?” Xerxes asked.

“Just the General and the messenger who delivered it.”

Xerxes rubbed his temples. Water fell from his fingers, dripping down his cheeks and falling off the end of his jaw back into the pool.

“Tear it up,” he said finally, dropping his hand and making a splash. “I want no one mentioning the Heartstealer trials. If you hear gossip about it in camp, squash the rumour. Send no reply to the Intelligentsia.”

A sunbeam caught Bastone’s silver sheath as he bowed and performed the army salute, and without another word, he left the oasis pool.