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Bumps whispered over Xerxes’s skin. “Episode?” His teeth bit over the word that dragged old memories up from sealed tombs. There’d been no episode in the garden.

Damon carried on, “You know what I was thinking about today? Do you remember that time you lost control and ripped the West Garden to shreds?” His teeth showed when he smiled. “Or when you smashed that precious set of ancient celestial bowls and Belorme was furious?” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes with wet fingers, drips creeping down to his jaw. “I had to clean those up, you know. I remember observing how everyone looked at you.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Xerxes. “Actually, it’s not all that different from how people look at you now.”

Xerxes’s hands pulled into fists below the water as the horrid memories prickled over his mind. “That was a long time ago, Damon. I no longer have episodes.” He squinted, eyeing Damon’s thin frame and slender fingers that looked easier to snap right now than normal. “But maybe you’ve realized that already. Maybe that’s why you’ve resorted to such low tactics to take control away from me.”

Damon’s smile spread and he glanced over at the Folke at the far end of the room. A few of them nodded in greeting. “It’s not that hard, Xerxes. Belorme did all the legwork to turn this kingdom against you.” His black eyes darted back. “No one here likes you anymore.” He spread his arms out and rested back on the ledge. “And stop fooling yourself. You’re no different than before. It was obvious to everyone when you held a sword at my throat.”

Xerxes’s lips thinned, his heated body itching in the warm water.

“All I need to do is push you a little further—and you’ll certainly turn into that beast again.” Damon reached across the pool and poked Xerxes in the forehead. Xerxes tore his hand up from the water to grab his finger, but Damon yanked it back, the smile curling over his face.

“You’ll die for this,” Xerxes promised.

Damon’s laugh was light and shallow, grating against Xerxes’s last crumbs of sanity.

Xerxes lifted his hand from the pool to keep his promise, eyeing the Chancellor’s throat, just as voices lifted—not human ones. Xerxes stilled, hand suspended in the air between him and the sage as the familiar, dark sounds crept across the water, seeping out of Damon as if blooming from his pale flesh.

“Kill! Kill the King! We want him dead!”

Coolness raced down Xerxes’s arms. Damon’s thin lips stretched into a fresh smile as he stared, and Xerxes wondered if the sage had any idea Xerxes could hear his voices. The dark whispers were like hands plunging up from buried graves trying to grab Xerxes and pull him back down with them, and he huffed a weak, pathetic laugh. His gods had found Damon—the irony of that made him want to drown Damon all the more.

“I haven’t a clue what you came here to say,” Xerxes said in a low, careful voice. He dragged his knuckles along the stone bench beneath his legs, grating off the skin. “But unless you’re here to heed my warning about B’rei Mira, then we have nothing to discuss.” Xerxes stood from the pool. He should have left it at that, but… his hands balled, his thumb running over one of his damaged knuckles. “You’re going to regret turning the council against me, Damon. If you ever have to face Alecsander of B’rei Mira yourself, you’ll wish you had me on your side.” He climbed out, took a spare towel from the shelf, and went to fetch his bathrobe as he patted the towel over his face.

“That maiden you insulted in the garden earlier, Xerxes…” Damon began.

Xerxes.

“…she’s going to be the Queen of Per-Siana. You’d better watch your tone with her. Winnow Force is an ally of the council and has a well-known reputation among the people. All the Intelligentsia agree she’s to be the mother of the future heir of Per-Siana.”

Xerxes stopped drying himself. “And then what?” He turned, eyeing the sage’s pale back and listening to the whispers of haunting voices lingering in the air. “Are you going to kill me, Damon?”

Damon turned slowly, his smile gone. A bothered look crawled across his face as he studied Xerxes as if suspecting that perhaps the things murmured inside his head could be heard by someone else.

Xerxes tossed his towel away and pulled on his bathrobe. “What becomes of me once I have a son?” he asked again.

When Damon still didn’t reply, Xerxes released a grunt and headed from the bath chambers without fetching slippers. A trail of wet footprints spoiled the floors behind him.

So that was why the Intelligentsia were in such a rush to marry him off. Even when Belorme was around, he didn’t want Xerxes. Now the council saw Xerxes as an unfit king. Everyone in the kingdom would probably rather see their King gone. This had been a murder plot all along and the second there was someone to replace him, Xerxes would be dead, leaving behind a little boy to rule the kingdom. Like his father had done.

30

RYN

In a few short days, Ryn had forgotten the weight of her armour. It felt like dragging a whole forge along when she walked to the atrium in her breastplate, her forearms covered in embellished gold pieces that cast rainbows of colour as she passed beneath streams of sunlight. She wasn’t wearing her whole suit, just enough to appear as though she was ready to go to war. Maybe after watching nobles sip cool drinks and laugh a little too loud for several days, she was determined to remind everyone that the war had happened.

Servants in light blue and white robes moved out of the way for Ryn and Bastone to pass. Even the enchanted dusters went flat against the wall. Ryn stole a glance up at the glistening pearl statue of the serpentine dragon dangling from the ceiling by clear threads. If only the creature’s artists knew the dragon had always been held up by threads, never more than a puppet even back when it had sailed through the clouds beneath the stars.

“Your sabaton is broken,” Bastone murmured from where he walked close behind. He wore freshly cleaned leathers today, and a shiny silver dagger sparkled at his belt.

Ryn glanced down to a small plate of gold dragging off the side of her boot, adding an extra clap to her footsteps. She released a sound as she emerged through the palace doors, the fragrance of pomegranates and flowers sweeping over her.

The Folke, the organizers, even the servants chopping Damask rosebushes stopped what they were doing to marvel at the Gold Maiden standing atop the stairs beneath the blazing morning light. With all their gaping, Ryn considered sliding back inside the palace.

“Commander Adassah.”

A young, handsome king waded through the garden with his hands clasped behind his back. Xerxes’s expression was dark as he glanced off at a tree of yellow apples, his jaw flexing in small movements. His robe of nobility was done up for once. When Ryn looked back at the people scattered through the flowers and fruit trees, they all dropped their gazes. Organizers began pointing to notes on scrolls and mumbling to each other, servants used their shears to chop at shrubs with extra vigor. Ryn adjusted her shoulder plates as she trotted down the staircase. She was vaguely aware of the loose metal piece on her boot catching on every stair, but she wasn’t ready when it caught on one and didn’t let go. She tripped over her own feet—Bastone reached for her, their fingers brushing past each other as she sailed over the edge of the stairs with a shriek.

Two hands grabbed her from the air, and Ryn tumbled into a hedge of wiry stems and thorns. Petals and greenery spat high, fluttering down upon the King beneath her, hitting his face just below hers, leaves and blooms peeking over the shoulder of his royal robe where his back crushed the flowers.