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“I knew, when I first saw you, that you were different. You spoke like you’d seen so much more than you possibly could have, living in the Moon District the entire time,” Cyrus says quietly. “You were smart and quick and you never followed a rule you didn’t like, and you have to understandhow startling that was for a young prince. And I thought you would become so much more.” He turns to me. “I am angry at my father for many things, but for making you his liar most of all. What a boon for him when I discovered you. An orphan Seer. My father wagered you’d be malleable—”
The hairs on my neck rise. “No one made me like this.”
“—and in turn, you’ve helped him a thousandfold more. But you’re grown now,” he continues without pause. “We both are. I thought you would break free of his influence. You’ve seen the world beyond, you know he is heartless. He would marry his son off and ask you to announce a future that leads to war.”
“Your father is playing by the rules of this world—and he’s only ever been fair to me. I am not throwing away seven years of goodwill just because you’ve been sweet-talking me for half a summer.”
“Do it for the future you want. Dante told me your theory that my ascension will make a difference, which is a nice parcel of hope, but what if it depended onyou?” His gaze is green and piercing. “What ifyoumade certain my father abdicates, with a prophecy you conjure up? What if you weren’t afraid to—”
“I’m not afraid of him!”
Beneath my glare, Cyrus props himself up on an elbow. His shirt hangs off of him—again,just so,infuriating for all its effortless perfection. “You hold your stare when you lie. When you’re saying something true that you’re terrified about, you look away. That’s your tell.”
My breathing has turned labored, my quickening pulsebetraying me. “And who will protect me when I defy him?” I whisper.
He cups the back of my hand. “I will.”
“You wouldn’t hesitate to ruin me.” His own words.
He kisses my fingertips. “Not if you did this for me.”
“Do you promise?”
Even with all his practiced charm, he hesitates before saying, “Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.” I clamber to my feet.
We’ve chosen our paths: I will do what’s best for myself, and the prince will do what’s best for his kingdom. All we can ask of each other is to stay out of the other’s way.
As I bend down to pick up my robe, Cyrus rises to his knees. Cups my face, tries to make me look at him. “You don’t know how brilliant you could be if you had any courage.”
I pull away, the aftertaste of his sugared words now bitter. “Just because you tack on a pleasant name forfoolishnessdoesn’t make it something worth reaching for.” I pull my dress in place and tug the bodice a little higher than it was before. I run a hand down my braid. It’s a little frayed, but neat enough to not raise eyebrows if I leave like this. “Have yourcourage.Don’t wait for me.”
“I don’t want to end up on opposing sides again. I was reckless when I tried to force you to leave, but I did have reason. I need to see my own vision of Auveny through, and it’ll mean making enemies of my father, the Council—and you, if I have to.”
My blood turns cold. The threat comes out at last.
Such is the veracity of kings,said the witch.
Breath shallow, Cyrus licks his lips, chapped from our kissing. The white flecks frosted along the edges fade into skin. “I know my father asked you to speak at my wedding. Instead of listening to him, force his abdication. Say that my reign must begin for the curse to end—”
“Even now, you only wish I’d obey you.” Unable to summon my usual vitriol, the words drop dully from my mouth. I am tired and everything hurts, from my head to my heart. “You might be a better king than your father, but you’ll still be aking.”
“I promise I won’t be my father. I won’t—”
“No promises, remember?” I don’t mean for the words to come out like an apology, and I tell myself,Better to fight a fool than partner with one.I feel myself trembling and I know I need to leave.
His thumb presses into my wrist to hold me here. He leans in as if to kiss me again, but I move away before he can. Before the image of him pleading can imprint into memory.
No more dreams or letters interrupt the final days of summer, and all too quietly, Cyrus and Nadiya’s wedding day arrives.
I ignore the muted revels on the streets. Anything celebratory is certainly planted by the palace to lift spirits. A parade of Balican dancers and musicians funnels through the Palace District in Raya’s honor. Temporary stalls sell white tea cakes and paper masks to eager children.
Above, the sun is bloodred. The Fairywood burns beyond the Sun Capital and the smoke drifts over our skies. I’ve heard more stories of beasts killed against the cries of those who have had loved ones go missing in recent weeks. I pity them; they’ve heard the tales of Lady Raya’s demonstration and have placed their hopes in a parlor trick.
In the privacy of my tower, I twirl and twirl in my chemise, my braid whipping behind me. The emptiness in my mind is unsettling—no longer a reprieve, but the theft of an intimate side of me.
I want my Sight back.
