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I revisit landmarks and cities until my shadow begins inching over the table and my vision blurs from concentrating.
A few months ago, Rassul and I were pulled from the Codrin frontline and sent to quell the Derian advance along Hazal’s southeastern border. Sammir had been there already. Weeks later, they both fell to Deria’s second prince and his soldiers. Humans whose blood branded my skin the instant I pulled the life from their bodies — an instant too late to save my brothers.
Sunlight peeks past the top frame of the western windows, shadowing the map even more and distorting the colors in a way that sends shivers through me.
Farrid’s murder not even a month after that left me as the lone heir.
Was that by someone’s design?
Nearly eight years ago, Codrin declared war against us. Because of Alia’s “abandonment,” I was on the frontline within months of that declaration. My brothers didn’t arrive till much later.
Deria joined the battle sometime during the last two years. Maybe not even that. And for the first part of Deria’s campaign, they were on the other side of the fighting, nowhere near the Codrin frontline. I had no interaction with Derian forces until the days leading up to Rassul and Sammir’s deaths.
Yet the moment their prince disintegrated before me, the remaining army withdrew.
Why?
Did they just want to see what I’m capable of?
Deria’s king has been in power at least as long as I’ve been alive, and he’s never taken issue with us until recently. So how is it thatDeria, not Codrin, is the nation responsible for the deaths of two of my brothers?
It was never Deria’s fight. Why did they even get involved?
If I ever knew the answer, I can’t recall it. If Codrin and Deria were even allies until the past several years, I don’t remember hearing that either. And the uncertainty simmers along every nerve, like there’s something important there, lying just beyond my reach.
Three fey princes of autumn, eliminated within weeks of each other. Retreat ordered moments after the enemy soldiers witnessed my magic.
There has to be something to that, right?
Prior to the war, most of what I knew of Deria consisted of Alia’s mother being from there. But before marrying Alia’s father, she spent most of her life in Palla. Though she was an ambassador for a time, she wasn’t of notable status, and she died nearly two decades ago. Even if Deria took issue with her death for some unknown reason, they’d take it out on Palla, not us. They probably never knew Alia was even born, let alone that she and I were involved.
I scrub my hands over my face and shift to face the sun. Its radiance envelops my skin, and I let my eyes close. The threads of Alia’s heritage may somehow connect to everything else, but they’re far too thin for me to make any sense of right now.
What will come of foreign relations over the next months and years as our nations recover, I don’t know. Whether someone truly did plot to kill all four of us remains to be seen. Whether Deria will seek revenge for my actions remains to be seen as well. Yet if they seek to avenge the slaying of their prince, we could do the same. Double-fold. They must know that. Won’t dare.
Regardless, they still have a crown prince. Though so, apparently, do we.
None of us lie in ruins. And crippling us had to be the goal.
Unless someone just wanted me in power. Though to what end, I can’t fathom.
I step away from the map. I could go on this way for days, tear my mind apart trying to make connections. Surely Hazal’s national enemies have nothing to do with Alia and me. And even if they did, there’s no way to figure it out anytime soon.
My attention is better utilized elsewhere. I’ve already wasted too much time asking the wrong questions.
Internal sabotage from someone in the court is much more believable than outside forces.
As I leave, the library door shuts behind me with a loud thud. I wince, gaze snapping to the halls. No one in sight. Not that being in the library is forbidden, but I don’t care to explain myself to one of my father’s advisors or any other noble.
Especially since I don’t know if any of them are trustworthy. It’s better to consider everyone a potential traitor than to confide in the wrong person.
I’m even less likely to run into anyone in the halls of history. It’s still plenty light out, so I have time. The ball won’t begin until nightfall. I only need to change clothes. Though, another bath might be somewhat relaxing. One without all the spices and oils that meld my memories with the water.
Even I can tell I need to relax.
But there isn’t time for relaxation, and I don’t remember how to do it anyway.
The halls of history take up much of the first level of the northern wing of the palace, just beyond the throne room and my father’s study. Leading up to the halls, everything in the palace looks normal and cozy, every decoration indicative of autumn. In most rooms, the heady scents of cinnamon, apples, and clove linger. Others smell more of coffee and vanilla mixed with various baked goods.
