Airlean Tales S2E24: Florenhost (2)

Halcyon had never much been one for art.

Only three things had ever made him stop in his tracks and regard their beauty: the roar of the sunset and the fire it painted on the ocean shores; the prismatic streams of the mistlore and their vivid imagery; and—

—a river of silken hair, the softest pink like daylily petals.

He had first seen it at sixteen years old. Three years after Nali had taken him under her wing. Two years after the onslaught of the Great Storm. Much too long ago, yet not long enough.

It had started with a tavern, as most of Halcyon’s stories started. Nali had pulled Halcyon into an establishment on the harbor side of Mythaven, old but clean, quaint and smelling of seawater and varnish. The barkeep was a big man, swarthy, weathered hands telling of decades on the sea, salt-flecked hair speaking of the skill to make it back home.

“Nali!” he boomed. “Been ages since I seen your ol’ mug!”

“Darv!” Nali called back. “Tell me, is your ale still as weak as your throwing arm?”

He laughed and poured her a tankard. Nali turned to Halcyon, who was skulking under a drab cloak. But even the boxy fabric could not hide the fact that he’d sprouted considerably the past three years, approaching six feet tall and filling out with lean muscle.

“Don’t get into any trouble, duckling,” she said.

Halcyon shrugged. “Yes ma’am.”

She left him to his devices and pushed herself up on the bar stool. Darv set the tankard before her and nodded in Halcyon’s direction.

“Who’s the boy?” he asked. “I didn’t realize you had grandchildren.”

“We don’t.” Her tongue caught in her mouth. Ages later, and it still smarted that she had been barren, unable to bear Renhu a treasured child. “He nicked my purse.”

“Ah, and you nicked him from the streets?”

“Cleans up well, doesn’t he?”

“He looks like Renhu and seems sour as you. You have reason to be proud.”

She laughed, then quieted. With rare fondness, she admitted, “I am. You should see how he handles Renhu’s glaive.”

“Come, Nali. Tell me you at least taught the boy to read before he split open his first animal.”

She spread her hands innocently. “I didn’t put the glaive on him. One day I came home and found the box open, the boy swinging it about like a broom.”

Darv laughed. “Ah, children. They get into everything.”

Nali chose not to mention that the way Halcyon had been swinging the glaive had not been, in fact, anything like a broom. Each slash and jab had been practiced, precise. Deadly.

Like he’d been trained.

She’d seen the look in his eyes. That shine of excitement, that deep longing of handling an expertly crafted tool. Something in him called to war.

And it had pleased her just as much as it frightened her.

Nali took another swig of the ale. She met Darv’s kind eyes. “If he ever comes to you,” she said, “look after him.”

“Oh, Nali,” Darv whispered.

“My time comes.” She sighed, massaging her aching knee with a hand. “These bones are always weary now. Even with sunlight.”

The lines on Darv’s face deepened. He stared into the depths of her tankard. She frowned and placed a hand on his.

“I am sorry to burden you further, my friend. I know that times are troubled for you.”

Darv’s breath rattled as it left his chest. “It’s the blasted Storm, Nali. Villagers pourin’ in from all over, lives ruined, barely a penny to their names.” He shook his head. “What can we do? I don’t got a job for ‘em all, or even a roof.”

“You are a better soul than me. I only look after my own.”

“So say you after plucking a boy from the streets.”

“A boy who looks like he could have been my own. I will not pretend to be that good of heart.”

Darv’s mouth pulled up wryly. “The wharf’s full of beggars. Sailors now sayin’ that the water’s getting choppy. It’ll be too dangerous to fish soon.” He pressed his head into his hand. “Asters, Nali, is this how it ends? All of us shrinkin’ like rats and starvin’?”

A gentle woman, perhaps a matron or an apothecary, would have met him with kind and uplifting words.

Nali was neither.

“Head high, Darv,” she said briskly. “People look to you. Even when there is no hope, fools like us must hope.”

He lifted his head, laughing softly. “Is that what bein’ a Hunter taught you?”

“No,” she said. “Being old taught me that.”

There was a sharp crack like lightning, and the walls of the tavern trembled. Dust fluttered down from the rafters.

Darv flinched. Nali looked up and sighed.

“I don’t suppose that would just be a very fat rat in your attic.” She turned around. “Come now, duckling. Let’s get to—”

She stopped short, met with an empty table.

Halcyon was nowhere to be seen.

The corrupted falcon screeched vengeance to the skies, sleek feathers ruffling like plates of armor, talons crushing the bloodied remains of a guardsman. Halcyon ducked in the shadows with Renhu’s glaive clutched tight in his hands, heart sprinting hard.

A corruption rampant in Mythaven, unchecked. Where were the Hunters? No sleek silhouettes soared overhead, no manacraft vaulted down to smite the threat.

A young child waddled down the cramped cobbled street, wailing openly for his mother. The falcon turned immediately, drawn to the noise, and swooped down.

Halcyon’s feet moved before his mind caught up.

Nali had gifted him windsoles for his fifteenth birthday, and they served him well. One drop of mana sent Halcyon hurtling down the road. He reached out and seized the child around the waist, clasping the small form close to his chest as he rolled into the crevice between two buildings.

Talons lashed out, tearing up the stones where the child had been moments before.

Halcyon grounded himself with a knee and straightened. The kid in his arms slouched against the wall like putty, and for one horrible second, Halcyon thought he’d crushed the thing’s skull. But in a moment, the child sprang back up, clutching onto a handkerchief like a lifeline, big eyes swallowing up a round face.

Despite the overhead shriek of the falcon, Halcyon tried to keep his tone even and look the child in the eye. “Can you hear me?”

Paralyzed silence.

“Go out the back way and turn left. Get into the shop with a fish sign. The man behind the counter looks big and scary, but he’s nice. He’ll help you find your parents. Nod if you understand.”

More silence. Then, all at once, like a puppet jerking to life, the kid nodded fervently.

Truthfully, Halcyon knew very little about Darv. He’d only seen the man for about thirty seconds. But if Nali trusted him, then he was trustworthy. It was that simple.

As the child scuttled off, Halcyon fired his windsoles and vaulted onto the low, squat roof of the nearest house. The salty breeze from the ocean washed through his hair and stirred in him. He felt the residual water mana thick on his skin like a shield. He was strong here.

Now for the simple matter of killing a creature three times his size.

The falcon alighted before him, a magnificent sight with its sprawling wingspan casting shadows over the breadth of the road. The roof beam that served as its perch groaned, bowing under its weight. Looking up at the beast, Halcyon hefted the glaive in his grasp and swallowed.

This had not been a good idea.

He’d learned how to use a glaive, yes—within the safe bosom of the Leventis training grounds, and the tutelage of Nali in empty wheat fields. He’d killed an abyssal, yes—long ago, flanked by siblings who’d despised him, but were unlikely to let him die.

It was quite a leap to go from hitting an old scarecrow to…this.

Nothing for it, he thought grimly. Just be careful. He could learn from mistakes as long as he didn’t die. Death was difficult to recover from.

The falcon’s head snapped out, beak jutting like a blade directly at Halcyon’s face. His arm shot up and his manawell burned before he realized it, and his glaive carved hard across the falcon’s face, a crest of powerful water mana plunging into the wound. The falcon recoiled with a screech.

He blinked. Huh. Some habits, it seemed, never really died.

The falcon, quite upset that its meal was fighting back, swiped out with furious, darting blows—swiping talons, pounding wings, a punching beak. Halcyon kept his distance with quick, smooth drops in his windsoles, coasting over brief sweeps of water to direct his momentum. He stayed just out of reach, watched, and learned—the way Nali taught him.

Again, she’d said out in the wheat fields. So he’d struck, and she’d dodged and batted him. And that had happened again. And again. She’d been shockingly spry for a cantankerous old woman, as elusive as the wind she’d mastered.

I can’t hit you, Halcyon had ground out, irritated. Why do you keep making me try?

You do not hit because you do not learn! she’d snapped back, equally peeved. Watch, child, and adapt! Don’t just swing like a mindless ox!

And so he had. It’d been a lesson hard-learned, but he’d come away all the stronger for it.

Halcyon noticed things now. How the falcon wobbled minutely when it struck, unused to its bloated mass. How its beak speared fast and true, but its eyes went with it, limiting its sightlines whenever it attacked. How the range of its talons were limited to stubby arcs.

He looked. He learned.

Then he struck.

Halcyon’s glaive carved in sharp, precise slashes, aiming for every weak point that he’d absorbed. He smashed the skull, carved into the flank, pinioned a wing, all while weaving flawlessly around the falcon’s strikes.

The falcon screeched at the onslaught, staggering from a particularly nasty wound where Halcyon pierced its soft underbelly. It rose, battered but very much alive.

Halcyon hefted his glaive, ready to begin the second round—

—when a flourish of glittering dust caught his eye.

He shouldn’t have been distracted, not while engaged in mortal combat with a beast, but he was. Thankfully, by some miracle, the falcon seemed equally distracted.

They both watched silently, an odd lull in the frenzied action, as the silver dust floated closer, waltzing on the wind. Then, unexpectedly, it exploded in a fractal—and a human figure tore through the starry veil, fast as a blur.

The impressions were memorable before Halcyon made out any distinct features. The striking, pristine navy of a Knight’s Academy uniform. The whisper of thread spooling through the air. The river of shimmering pink hair, like silken flower petals unfurled into the sky, each strand catching the light like morning dew.

Halcyon stared, entranced.

The newcomer plunged forward, her rapier sinking deep into the falcon’s eye and spearing its skull. A normal beast would have died, but the falcon did not. It reared back with a shriek, beating its wings at her; she was forced to leap away.

She landed on the rooftop next to Halcyon. Her face was just as beautiful and cold as her bearing had been, like frosted glass. The uniform cap had fallen off at some point, leaving her hair to tumble gracefully around her face like a waterfall of cherry blossoms. Halcyon’s heart thumped oddly as an unfamiliar feeling stirred in him.

But this was no moment to exchange pleasantries. She only spared him a nod of acknowledgement before she darted towards the falcon, and immediately, Halcyon followed her.

He hadn’t expected to share much in common with some snooty noble coddled in the stuffy lecture halls of the Academy, yet he and the girl moved as one. She darted in from the left; he crashed in from the right. Glittering mana thread strung through the falcon’s wings and tore out patches of feathers, while crests of water buffeted its head, disorienting it thoroughly. Somehow, they danced perfectly around each other, never interfering with each other’s paths and blows.

Because she’s good, Halcyon realized. We’re at the same level of skill. We know what the other will do.

The thought was revelatory. He’d never considered himself the cooperative kind of fighter. But if it always went this smoothly…he could see why Nali had enjoyed battling with her fellow Hunters.

Several brutal strikes later, the falcon crashed to the roads, its corpse in tatters. Halcyon landed easily with a tap of his windsoles, and the girl next to him.

“There’s a Two here, and a Three just a little east,” she said. Her voice was as beautiful and sonorous as the chimes on Bell Day. “My unit can secure this area, if you would like to—”

Then her words cut short. She regarded him fully in his navy peasant shirt and simple trousers rolled up to his calves. No cloak, no sigil, no helmet.

She frowned. “You’re not a Hunter.”

“No.”

“And not the Garrison.” Her lips parted. “Are you—don’t say you’re a civilian!”

“I’m a civilian.”

He didn’t know why his first instinct was to goad her, but it was. He saw the flash of irritation in her—rather lovely—crimson eyes, and felt strangely satisfied by it.

“Then do get out,” she said crisply. “The last thing I need is some poor fool getting himself killed to service his delusions of grandeur.”

Halcyon’s appreciation of her pretty hair and eyes promptly vanished. Oh, she was one of those people. She’d seemed more than willing to trust his combat prowess before she realized he had no important, expensive badge.

“I don’t recall asking for your permission,” he shot back.

Her cheeks pinkened. “As—as the Captain of the Academy unit, I possess the requisite authority over you!”

“Fancy title.” He crouched down. “Pity that a title never killed a corruption.”

And with a drop in his windsoles, he vaulted up to where a shadow—another corruption—circled overhead. He heard the girl’s voice drift after him, aggrieved:

“I am responsible for your safety, you—you obtuse buffoon!”

He ignored her as he set his steps to the next corruption. And despite the girl’s protesting, she was quick to follow.

The second corruption was only a Class Two owl, and more easily felled. Halcyon flung it hard into the stone wall with a water-empowered sweep of his glaive, and the girl seized the opportunity to tear through it with a lattice of mana thread.

As the dismantled corpse fell away, she opened her mouth to say something cutting. Then, for a reason Halcyon could not explain, she closed her mouth, and with a miffed shake of her head, darted away.

She was insufferable, but even so, Halcyon found himself unable to tear his gaze away until she vanished around the corner.

“So! A girl finally caught your eye, duckling?”

Halcyon nearly jumped as he turned. Nali, in all her withered age and grey-haired glory, stood perfectly perched on the ridge of a roof.

He swallowed, bracing himself for a knock on the head. “I…uh.” He couldn’t say he was sorry. He wasn’t. “I…took down two corruptions. And saved a kid.”

Nali’s brow arched. “I know.”

Oh—she did? How? Had she been watching?

He shuffled, self-conscious. “I tried not to be reckless.”

“Few try to be reckless, duckling.”

He fell silent, contrite. But Nali only sighed. She vaulted down to him, her gaze gentle and, dare he say, proud.

“Some people are born with fire in their blood. To fight, or to protect. For bloodlust, or for benevolence.” Nali’s hands dusted at his shoulders. “You have that precious fire, duckling. Guide it well.”

Halcyon’s mouth ran dry. Was he honored by her trust? Burdened by the pressure?

Perhaps both. He couldn’t say.

“Come,” Nali said, jerking her head.

“What?”

“You are a man now.” She turned and fired her windsoles. “If you will be hunting, you might as well learn how to do so properly.”

The Atlantean mistlore was like the soft, vibrant auroras that sometimes danced in the skies of northern Airlea.

Sethis still remembered seeing them for the first time as a little boy—how his mother had woken him in the middle of the night with her hair disheveled and her riding dress hurriedly donned, a mischievous gleam in her eye.

The fairies are waltzing, Seth, Queen Esther Forsythe Lunaren had said. Would you like to see?

They’d hopped on horseback and rode north along the coast. The winter wind had nipped hard at Sethis’s nose and cheeks, but he’d paid it no mind—not with the sky exploding in color, the heavens singing in brushstrokes of green and blue and purple. He could still remember his mother’s dear, buoyant laughter in his ears, a sound like cider in a bottle.

The memory warmed him even now, sitting on an unfamiliar chaise far, far from Airlea. How could he feel closest to the memory of his mother when he was nearly on the opposite side of the world?

Beside him, Xiph propped her chin on her hands and stared out the window with unabashed wonder.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “A lot of things get old around here, but not mistlore. It’s always a special treat.”

Sethis watched as the mists, manipulated by expert manacrafters, took form. Wispy dryads danced merrily through the forests; a messenger darted through the clouds on winged shoes; a hero struck down a hydra, torch flame ablaze in their off-hand. It was as if the skies themselves were singing ballads, and he found his gaze transfixed.

“I am reminded of the northern auroras,” he said. “Have you seen them?”

Xiph’s smile faded. “I’ve never left Atlantis.”

Sethis nearly balked. Truly? She seemed so energetic, so free-spirited, and he couldn’t imagine anything caging her. He had no doubt the mountains would move if she set her mind to it.

But the fact was that she had not left. The idea that he could be the one to bring her, the one to see that color of awe and joy splashed over her face as she witnessed one of nature’s wonders for the first time…

“It really is something that needs seeing, at least once in a lifetime.” He hesitated, gauging his next words carefully. “I could take you there.”

Xiph flushed apple-red. “Oh, that’s—nice of you.”

Nice? Brazen to the point of scandalous, if she truly believed him a mere bodyguard. Such a decision was not in the purview of a Royal Guard. It implied closeness. Equality. Courtship, even.

Not for the first time, Sethis wondered what had her so impossibly determined to discredit his position. Was he truly so unprincelike? Or was there another reason she was intentionally blinding herself to the truth?

As the mists continued to bloom, Sethis heard a question from Xiph, so soft that he nearly missed it. “What was it like? The northern auroras?”

He smiled. “Beautiful. A symphony in the sky.”

“Was it cold?”

“Yes. But I saw it with my mother. She brought this enormous fur-lined cloak that swallowed the both of us.”

She returned his smile. “You were young, then.”

“I was.”

“It sounds like she loves you very much.”

“How can you tell?”

“I don’t know.” Her smile turned shy. “You seem like a generous person. People are only like that if someone loved them first.”

He felt his ears warm with equal parts bashfulness and pride. Queen Esther had passed when he was eight years old, murdered by the dying remnants of extremists from the Lightbringer Rebellion. Despite that, she had filled his eight years with countless precious memories: reading him tales of the Asters by the hearth, stealing midnight snacks from the kitchens, showing him the formations of the stars, playing the pianoforte while he belted tunes without a care.

“She was spirited, and intelligent, and charming, and compassionate—and a thousand other things that I could only hope to learn,” Sethis admitted.

Xiph’s mouth tightened. “Was?”

“She passed on many years ago.” He deliberated for a moment before deciding to tell her the truth. “She was murdered.”

He expected an appalled—or perhaps even disapproving—noise. But Xiph only frowned and tilted her head, looking at him inquiringly.

“Are they dead?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“The bastards who killed your mother.”

He felt a chill at her frankness. “Yes. The king executed them.” It had caused quite a stir at the time—the passive, cool-tempered King Lunaren, filled with a demonic vigor, had ordered a public, grisly, drawn-out death for the extremists. Some had praised the decision for its strength. Others had called it barbaric.

“Good,” Xiph said firmly. “Then your mother will feast in the halls of victory on the finest cattle and wine, until the day you meet her again.”

Sethis stared at her openly for a long moment, bewildered. Then suddenly, laughter bubbled out of him, so abrupt that Xiph jumped.

“What? What is it?” she said.

“Is that how Warmongers comfort the aggrieved?”

She looked utterly puzzled, a rather cute expression on her elfin features. “I—I guess it’s our benediction for the deceased. Why? What do Airleans do?”

“We usually share condolences or a prayer. A bouquet of flowers to dress the grave and show appreciation, perhaps a smattering of alcohol to sweeten the soil.”

Her brows knit in consternation. “Huh. That’s all well and good, but first, don’t you have to take care of the matters of the living?”

“The living?”

“The ones that the deceased leave behind.” Her mouth crooked wryly. “The wretches who are guilty need to be hunted down and sent to Hades. The living must be avenged before the deceased can be comforted.”

Sethis felt unexpectedly touched. “You care greatly for justice.”

“That’s a nice way to put it. Irene says that all we care greatly for is bloodshed.”

Irene, the senator of the Lovers. Xiph spat the name with a distaste that curled her lower lip. Curious. Sethis thought that love and war would have had more in common.

Xiph’s face softened. “They call the Warmonger a symbol of brutality,” she said, “but that’s not quite true. He is war. That means he is the ravage and the ruin, sure, but he’s also the protection that comes from love, the fires that come from the yearning for justice. He’s the one who answers cries of the common man when all the other Ensigns stay silent.”

Until that moment, Sethis had thought he was looking at a trapped girl, a bird in a gilded cage. But he realized he had misjudged her entirely.

She was proud of her lineage.

No, perhaps the word proud lacked dimension. She saw its value, yet understood the sacrifice that came with it. She resented it and yet protected it. It was both her bane and her purpose.

And Sethis…

He was utterly drawn in.

Xiph crooked a brow at him. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“Hardly,” Sethis whispered. He smiled. “Your resolve makes you so beautiful.”

The words dropped from his lips as the mistlore drifted to a stop, the light and fog fading back into the night, the instruments dipping to a whisper. Xiph stared at him with her lips parted, cheeks red, her eyes almost comically wide.

“What?” she eventually said.

Did she think he was mocking her? “You champion for your people. You fight for them, bleed for them, and do everything in your power to lead them well. Why would I think you crazy for that?”

Xiph was still staring, mouth agape.

His courage began to falter. “So I…respect you. Is what I mean to say.”

The music was gone. The mist had dissipated. There was no more sheen of romanticism provided by lush music and spectacular mists. Only raw, stilted silence.

Xiph shot to her feet, her hands dusting quickly at her skirt. “I hope you enjoyed the show,” she said hastily. “Good night.”

That was the only parting word she gave before she plowed out of the room like a charging bull, blazing right past Lilian.

“Wait,” Sethis said, bewildered—but she was already gone, rapid footsteps fading into the tower marble.

Lilian, who was cross-armed and leaning against the doorway, only stared at him with a raised brow. He ran a hand through his hair and chuckled dully.

“What did I do this time?” he asked.

She laughed. The sound was big in the looming, empty space. “You don’t realize?”

“I seem to keep misstepping with the senator.”

“Oh, Seth.” She approached and plopped down on the chaise, looting the refreshments table without hesitation. “It’s the exact opposite.”

“Pardon?”

“You said everything right.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she plucked a handful of grapes. “You completely charmed her.”

“What? That can’t be. I didn’t do anything particularly charming.”

“I know. You simply were yourself. And I suppose that proved the most effective of all.”

“Lilian—”

“Besides, you’re damned awful at lying.”

That much he could believe. But he was still hung up on Lilian’s faulty assumptions. “She fled out of the room like a bear was nipping at her heels,” he said wryly. “A charmed woman has never acted in such a way.”

“A charmed Airlean aristocrat.” Lilian popped the grapes in her mouth and divided several slices of cheese. “You’re dealing with a Warmonger here. An assertive leader, a brat, a soldier. She’s going to act very differently.”

“Running away? A hardened fighter?”

“You would be surprised how often the strongest warriors flee from anything that isn’t a fight.”

He still doubted, but he could tell that Lilian was beyond persuasion. Part of him wanted to believe her. The flush on the senator’s cheeks had been rather stunning…

…and, of course, he needed her trust before she got his delegation killed.

That was a little important.

The mistlore was beautiful, and Karis, who always absorbed art and theater with fervid appreciation, watched with rapt attention. When it faded, it left her with a lingering sense of melancholy—the good, sated sort of sadness after a truly remarkable production.

She felt Halcyon’s eyes on her, studying her reaction. “Did you like it?” he asked.

She smiled. “Very much,” she said honestly.

“It takes months of rehearsals. Manacrafters coordinate every detail in how they Form water and apply dye and colored light.”

“Their efforts are appreciated, I should hope.”

“They’re better paid than most entertainers, I guess.”

Silence fell, but it was comforting, enchanting. Karis did not know why, but she was fully content to sit on that rooftop, soaking in the lights and the distant cheer of celebration.

“We should rejoin with the prince,” Halcyon eventually said.

“I suppose we should.”

But Halcyon didn’t move, and Karis found that she was equally reluctant—chained there, held under the thrall of something she could not explain.

“Karis,” Halcyon murmured, so softly that her pulse quivered.

She looked at him. City light cast a silver glow over his profile like the caress of the moon. She felt the warmth of his arm pressing to hers, every inch of contact imprinting into her skin. His face was only a breath away. It would be so easy, terribly easy, to lean forward and—

—and consign her fragile heart to doom.

Yet in this moment, Karis could not bring herself to care. She should, she knew; being heartbroken would be most inconvenient. But such worries felt so muffled, so very distant. There was nothing but him, and lamplight, and the gentle night.

Halcyon said no words, as if a single noise would break the spell. Instead, his hand slid to cradle her jaw, coaxing a breath from her. The textured heat of his skin bloomed down her neck. His thumb raised to brush over her cheek, tender as falling snow.

Oh, whispered her heart, trembling like moth wings.

She felt the weight of his wreath on her brow and childishly wished to cry in frustration. He had made his favor clear throughout the day, yet it only added to her burden. Had he really chosen to make his move now? Tonight? This moment? Right after an ancient power had decreed that someone she loved would die? Right after he had nearly died himself?

Karis steeled herself and laid a hand on his chest, intent on pushing him away, but—

Curse her, she faltered when she felt the rapid flight of his pulse hammering against his skin, betraying every nerve that refused to show on his face.

Her eyes lifted to Halcyon’s. Another mistake. The way he looked at her was arresting, yet vulnerable, like she could unmake him with a single word. The watery blue of his irises seemed ready to bleed.

How unfair, she thought faintly. For she was the one who was helpless.

Something in her gaze seemed to empower him. Halcyon surged down and kissed her.

His touch was scorching, his lips questing over hers with an urgency and a passion that she did not expect. He braced her neck with one hand and pulled her flush to his chest with another arm about the waist. Karis melted into him with a stuttered gasp, tangling her fingers in his hair.

Oh, she had wanted this. She had never realized how much until he actually indulged her.

At her enthusiastic response, Halcyon released a strange, raspy sound, something between a laugh and a groan. He kissed her again, warming her blood with a slow heat. Every gram of affection he had never voiced was apparent in the way he cradled her close, fingers sprawled over the small of her back. She felt lightheaded with giddiness and her free hand grasped his shoulder for purchase.

Then she felt it. Minute, nearly undetectable.

He flinched.

A cold, irrational panic filled Karis. She knew what that flinch meant. She pulled away from his lips, pushing him back when his head dipped to chase her.

“Stop,” she rasped. “Stop!”

Halcyon started with a ragged noise, looking disoriented. He tried to back away, but Karis quickly seized his arm and turned it in her grasp, searching for her discovery.

“Did I hurt you?” Halcyon rasped, fear slowly crawling into his eyes.

“Don’t be silly,” Karis said distractedly.

She pulled at the collar of his tunic until it slid down his shoulder, revealing her quarry. A gash split the dark fabric of his inner shirt, showing a shallow, angry red line that crawled over the slope of his shoulder. She pressed a shaking finger to it and raised it in the cold light. There was a dark sheen, inky crimson.

Impossible man!

Karis shot him an accusing glare. Halcyon, who still seemed a bit discombobulated, took a moment to stare from her finger to his shoulder before he understood.

“It’s barely anything,” he said, pulling his collar up.

“It’s a reopened wound, you fool. From when you jumped headfirst into hostile territory.”

“Basically a paper cut.”

“There’s blood.”

He quieted, studying her face. “You’re scared.”

She couldn’t say anything. His closeness, the way his arms were loosely folded about her and his head was tipped close, breath warming her cheek, only served to boil the clamor of emotions in her head.

“I can’t.” She pulled away and stood abruptly. Cold air washed over her face as she turned in tight circles. The jitters were running rampant through her; she felt as tightly wound as a coil of steel. “I can’t do this, Yuden, I can’t.”

He stood with her. “What’s wrong?”

“He said you would die. That hideous boy, that Keeper—you’re going to die. And ever since that cursed day—it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he’s right. I keep seeing it, thinking about it.”

“But that prophecy was for someone that you…” His voice faded, and a spark of wonder brightened in his eyes. “That you…”

Love, yes, thank you. Karis felt vulnerable and she did not like feeling vulnerable. She cleared her throat lightly.

“Surely you did not think me apathetic,” she said.

“Maybe a little,” Halcyon said with a wry smile.

“Well, I—I’m not.”

His fingers lifted and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. “I know that now.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and resolutely turned away. Her ear tingled where he’d touched her. “Stop it, Yuden,” she said, strained. “I can’t lose you. And it could very well happen, with how recklessly you throw yourself into danger in every waking moment!”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she was scared to see his expression. She was scared of everything. The Second Hunter of Airlea, terrified like a little girl. How laughable.

“If not us,” Halcyon said, “then who takes up the mantle?”

The words knifed her in the chest, though she knew he intended it gently. He was not afraid to die. But why would he be, when she would be the one left behind? An empty locker in the Guild, spilling over with flowers. No glaive to guard her back when the shadows loomed. Only hollowness in that space where she had grown to expect his manawell, that thread of power that felt like sea spray and smelled like almond blossoms and tasted like cinnamon.

Not that he could back down. If he did, then one of the pillars holding back the greatest Storms would be gone. Without its cornerstone, Airlea’s defense would crumple.

Who would take up the mantle, indeed.

“You’re the same,” Halcyon said quietly. “Everything in you calls to the fight.”

“Not to spill blood!”

“No. To be perfect. To be a hero.” His gaze was grave. “To live up to your father.”

She felt his words like a dagger, no, a scalpel. Surgically precise. Meant to aid, not harm, but it hurt all the same.

Her face must have changed, because she instantly saw his expression cloud with regret. “Never mind.” He stepped away. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s your choice in the end.”

Karis wanted to choose him. And she knew he was right; she was a hypocrite. They both lived with a certain disregard for their own well-being; it was necessary to become the best of the best. Both of them constantly skirted the edge of death.

The thought of dying herself never particularly bothered her. But the thought of him dying did. Overwhelmingly so. And the more she grew to love him, then the more she gained to lose.

Karis shook her head, feeling choked. “I can’t,” she whispered. “If I—if I let this happen, and then I lost you…”

His face softened. “We all die eventually. It’s inevitable.”

“We both know you’ll be the one to go first.”

His mouth quirked at that.

Karis clasped her hands behind her back and looked up into the now empty and silent sky. “I’ve made my decision. You can call me selfish and unreasonable. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I’d never.” His voice was rough. “I’d lose my mind if I saw you die, too.”

Damn him for making her heart skip a beat while she was trying to distance herself. She tightened her grip until her fingers smarted. “Well—then—let’s both of us try not to lose our minds, yes?”

“Then this…” Karis heard him exhale. “It won’t…mean anything?”

Her chest twinged like a broken string. Which part? The kiss? Stealing away to the rooftop? Spending the day with laughter and swapped stories? All of it, probably. Every last damnable part of the whole that was…her falling in love with Halcyon Yuden.

Karis turned to look at him. He was standing with his hands stiff at his sides. Just as clueless as she in this moment.

“It will always mean something,” she murmured. “At least to me.” She shook her head at his hopeful look. “But that’s all it can be.”

He looked conflicted, but he nodded. “Alright.” His gaze wavered, and she saw it dip briefly to her mouth. But when he leaned in, he only ghosted his lips over her temple in a chaste kiss.

A breath caught somewhere in her throat at his warm, velvet mouth on her brow. It felt like gouging out her heart when she braced a hand on his chest and pushed him away.

She caught a flash of a grimace on his face before he turned. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely.

Karis laughed raggedly. Now was not the moment to tell him how much she’d enjoyed that. “You needn’t apologize,” she murmured. “I’m the one who is sorry.”

Halcyon looked at her one last time. Karis felt the words brimming on the tip of her tongue, too many to count—but what was there to truly say? That she wanted him to stay? That she would like nothing more than to tug him close and fold his arms around her? Such words would do nothing productive. They would only serve to intensify the pain.

He was the one to break the silence. “I’ll still watch your back,” he said. “Always.”

Her fingers curled, digging into the roof tile. “And I yours.”

He nodded. She heard his steps fade, knew he was gone.

She drew her knees up to her chest and tried not to think about what she nearly had gained. For if she had gained anything, she had just destroyed it with her own hands.

Xiphia Kairhea Vascea was a fool, a nincompoop, an utterly witless moron.

There was no end to the stream of self-arraignments as she paced fruitlessly in her too-big, too-cold chambers, cursing every choice she had made from the day of her birth.

Gods. She should have seen this coming a fathom away. She had seen it coming a fathom away, she just—she’d thought—

She’d wanted to be blind.

The prince’s bodyguard was handsome. Far too handsome. The moment she laid eyes on his face, she knew he meant trouble. So what had she done, of course? Cuddle that trouble, put a collar on it, and give it a home right next to her dining table. She’d drawn close to him, teased him, stuck right at his side—all the while deluding herself that it was for information, for investigation, to study any scandalized reactions of the delegation.

She’d fooled no one, least of all herself.

Instead, with every gentlemanly gesture, every careful touch, every heartfelt, winning word, she’d found herself canting further and further into the disastrous territory known as complete juvenile infatuation. Because, well, no one had quite treated her so. Not like she was so interesting, so worth hearing, so…human.

And now, she was in love.

With her betrothed…

…’s bodyguard.

A man who would always be hovering around her and her husband, close but untouchable.

“Thunderlord smite me,” she muttered, fisting her hair with a hand. She was thinking much too far. No, she wouldn’t be marrying anybody from Airlea at all—not with the daily fiascos taking place, hell-bent on driving a wedge between their countries. She would be lucky to walk out of this situation without a war. Betrothal was out of the question.

“Thunderlord smite me, Reaper dust me, Warmonger mount my head on a bloody pike,” she cursed, striding faster. What was there left to do? Avoid the bodyguard—who she’d temporarily designated as Sethis Squared until she learned his real name—and pretend that nothing happened? No, she already could see it: her steadfast avoidance bringing out that pleading-otter look in his eyes, wondering what he had done to offend her, fretting that he had somehow sullied the name of his prince.

She was so weak to otters.

Then what? Continue this dance, this charade, all the while knowing that she was plummeting further into these terrifying feelings?

“Thunderlord, Reaper, Warmonger”—she ticked her fingers, searching for more founders to aggravate—“Forger smelt me, Huntress pierce me—”

“I fear you may invoke the fury of the entire pantheon at this rate, dear one.”

She looked up just as a familiar silver-haired envoy emerged into the sanctuary of her room, citrine eyes softened with a smile.

“Simon! You’re back!” She flung her arms around his waist and he laughed, fondly ruffling her hair.

“Have you been behaving, dear one?”

“I’ve been the very picture of hospitality and etiquette.”

“Hm.”

“The poets shall pen epics about my warmth, my civility, and my, uh, endless generosity.”

“Oh my.” He regarded her seriously. “When are the Airleans declaring war?”

She colored as she drew back. “Simon!”

He laughed, unbothered. The sound never failed to ease Xiph’s spirits. Her father had died while she was still young, leaving her as the frightened and confused heiress of a turbulent empire far before her time. She had been utterly reliant on Simon’s sage counsel—and his recent absence, while necessary, had been marked.

She plopped down on the nearest chaise and motioned for him to sit. “How’s Rath looking? Did the miasmatist help at all?”

Simon’s humor faded. “Ah. Yes.”

Oh. Simon looked serious. That was not good.

“He experienced a seizure and lashed out during Daphne’s preliminary examination. The nihil cuffs went into overburn and fried. They had to be replaced. He’s currently incapacitated, though we don’t know for how long.”

Xiph paled. “Daph got out, right?”

Simon’s lips pressed. “She was injured. She’s being treated at the caduceum.”

“Oh, gods, how bad?”

“Physically, superficial. But she had direct contact with an infected senator who is approaching furor.”

Defeated, Xiph slouched. “We’re out of time, Simon. The miasma is everywhere. The people are dying. The few Ensigns who are left won’t listen.”

“Then perhaps it is time,” Simon said carefully. “If we have no other allies…”

She felt a bolt of fear. “No! The Airleans don’t trust us yet. It’s too soon. They’ll be out of the country before we can blink!”

“As would be within their right.”

She felt a deep pang as she remembered the gentle light in Sethis’s eyes. Beautiful, he’d called her. No, even deeper; he’d seen her struggle, her resolve, and he’d found her more beautiful for it. Had anyone ever thought that kindly of her?

She imagined that soft smile darkening into betrayal, disgust, anger once he discovered just how much she’d concealed. It made her sick inside.

“If they leave, then so goes our only hope of an ally,” she said instead. “We’ll be alone. Vulnerable.”

“And we will survive, as we always have.” Simon laid a hand on her shoulder. “This choice is not ours to make, dear one. Their safety is equally at risk.”

Xiph was stiff for a moment, but she eventually folded. Simon was right. He always was.

“Rath’s state is too unpredictable,” she said. Slowly, at first. Finding strength as she went on. “Bring in the prince of Airlea. Tonight. We need to know if he has Excalibur. If the light still cleanses, or if the power of his line has dwindled too far.” Her eyes narrowed. “And it’s about time the coward has shown himself, anyway.”

“You have not met the prince?” Simon said, surprised.

“Only his guard.” She bit her lip as Sethis’s handsome, kind face surfaced again. “But his guard—he’ll understand how important this is. He’ll convince the prince.”

But still, Simon did not scurry away to the Library, full of urgency. He only regarded Xiph with an odd expression.

“Dear one,” he said, “this guard…”

She cringed, predicting his question.

“You blush when you mention him.”

“I don’t! Well, not much.” When Simon’s expression complicated further, she hurried to explain herself. “It’s nothing. Look, Rath is about to go ballistic, we have bigger fish to fry.”

He still said nothing.

“Is this really the time?”

Only silence.

Xiph sighed. With it, she swore all the air left her body in a single whoosh. “Alright, yeah, let’s say, hypothetically, that I was feeling an emotion.”

Simon raised a brow. “Ah.”

“A silly one. Just, just some passing interest, mind you. Does this really matter with the end of the world at hand?”

“The world won’t end tomorrow, dear one. And if you ever become a parent, you will understand how exciting this kind of development is.” He grinned connivingly. “So, this interest is for this…guard?”

Her blush deepened. “Do we have time for this?”

“What is he like?”

She did not want to be like one of those breathless, swooning maidens who prattled on and on about the loves of their lives, but she couldn’t deny that her voice had a slightly airy quality. “He’s, um…nice.”

Simon gave her a flat look. “Nice.”

“Yep.” She tried to push through her embarrassment, but the words were still halting, ashamed. “He’s…he’s got a good heart. A strong will. He’s like those heroes from the myths, Simon, so strangely nice that I don’t think he could truly exist.”

“And his name?”

She shook her head. “Sethis, according to him. But I know that he’s here to take the place of his prince, the same way King Asher did all those years ago.”

Simon’s brows shot up to his hairline. “Ah,” he said. “What makes you believe he could not be the prince himself?”

“Oh, come on, Simon. You can’t say that after everything you told me about the prince!”

“I told you things?”

“I asked you what the prince was like, and you said, and I quote: Hypothetically, dear one, if the prince was cruel and selfish, and terribly hideous, and also a bit of a loon, would you still follow through on this betrothal?”

Simon paused and rubbed his chin. “Hm, yes, I do recall saying something of that nature.”

“What kind of hypothetical question is that?! Just say that my betrothed is awful and get it over with!”

“But it was hypothetical. To see the strength of your resolve, no matter the ways of the Airlean prince.” There was an unfamiliar sobriety in his gaze. “Marriage is a precious arrangement, dear one. It is not something to take lightly.”

“Yes, well, would’ve been nice for dear ol’ Papa to consider that before he wrote his daughter off like an unwelcome debt.”

“Ilias—” Simon broke off for a moment, looking strangely frustrated. “Your father had…many flaws, it’s true. But he only ever tried to protect you, to do what was best for you.”

But her father was the one topic where Xiph could not accept Simon’s counsel. They had been close as brothers. Surely in that one area, Simon would be blinded.

“It’s fine,” she said, waving her hand. “My beau to be is a fruitcake. So be it. Maybe there will be a speck of goodness in the hollow recess where his heart should be. Or maybe he’ll do it to save his own ass. Go to the Armpit and ready Rath’s floor for visitors. I’ll bring the prince there myself.”

And besides, even if she felt no loyalty towards the cowardly prince of Airlea, his guard had been good to her. Sethis Squared, at the very least, deserved to survive.

Halcyon hunched on the rooftop, not unlike those dark gargoyle statues he sometimes spotted adorning the gates of the nobility. He leaned heavily on his glaive like a cripple.

The visions would not leave his head. They laid before his eyes every time he blinked, mocking him. The shimmer of Karis’s hair as it flowed down the soft slope of her neck. Her intent gaze as she listened to him ramble on about Nali. Her beautiful, wondering smile as she took in the glory of the mistlore.

He closed his eyes, but that only made the images flow faster. The lilac flush on her cheeks, soft as petals. Her lips like silk as they caressed his. The way her fingers had brushed up his neck, tangled in his hair.

Gods. Now that he knew what it was like to kiss her…

Halcyon felt a yawning void in his chest, as if a great claw had reached down and torn out a chunk of his flesh. He leaned his forehead against his glaive, struggling to breathe.

Ah, duckling, drifted that ever-present, sage voice of Nali Yuden. You are heartbroken.

He rejected that voice. He didn’t want to be heartbroken. Being heartbroken was a wound that he didn’t know how to heal.

Oh, he’d expected pain. No matter how positive the signs, a small part of him was deathly certain that Karis was apathetic, that she found him stupid and pathetic or otherwise not to her taste, that he was just someone worth pitying or tolerating. He’d expected Karis to take his open, vulnerable heart and slap him in the face with it.

He had not expected, however, that there could be agony with her returning his feelings. No, he had not expected that at all. To have her so close, so willing, yet still unattainable.

Was that it, then? Was he to leave it be and move on?

Ordinarily, Halcyon would have thrown caution to the wind and chased Karis. She was worth every disadvantage and every obstacle. And the idea of dying had never particularly bothered him. But the confusion and grief in her eyes—the panic induced at the thought of losing him—he knew it all too well.

Karis had lost her father. Halcyon could not inflict that grief on her again.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes, stretched out on the roof. He probably looked pathetic. He’d grant himself this one night to feel shattered and weak and everything the First Hunter never could be. In the morning, he’d pull himself together. Maybe forget all of this ever happened.

Better to consider this entire day a hopeless dream than to mourn the loss of what could have been.

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