Chapter 30
Felix woke to warm golden light spilling across his bed the way it always did when the sun was close to setting. He winced at the brightness, rolling onto his side to cover his face with the pillow.
It was evening. Why was he still sleeping?
He’d missed his shift. Why hadn’t his ma woken him?
He rolled back over, listening for the hum of patrons, the frantic sounds of an understaffed pub, but found only the sounds of the city pouring in through his open window.
Hooves on stone and the chatter of people on the street below.
He dragged himself upright and reached for the metal leg propped neatly beside the bed. After buckling it snugly in place, he pressed the metal foot to the floor, testing it. Something rattled near the joint. With a grimace, he retrieved a small wrench from the drawer and tightened the loose bolt.
His movements were slow, his arms heavy with exhaustion. A throbbing pain pounded inside his skull.
Why did everything hurt?
The memory of the woman with the hatchet filtered through the cotton in his head, followed by the screams and chaos and City Watch.
Oh.
They were attacked. August had saved him by…what in the hells had he done? Felix remembered the sudden, unnerving stillness. An impossible, silent void that his brain couldn’t quite process.
Then he remembered that word. The sound of everything he and August had shattering. The lies given shape.
Aesling.
August was royalty. And a wielder. And a filthy, godsdamned liar.
He scoffed, then tossed the wrench aside and shoved up from the bed, worsening the headache and sending the room spinning.
He threw out a hand, bracing himself on the wall until it passed.
Anger burned like a furnace, fueling his movements as he pulled on fresh clothes and headed down to the pub. He desperately needed a drink.
When Felix made it to the bottom step, he stopped, his grip on the railing tightening. August was behind the bar, an apron around his waist, wiping a rag across the bar top and pretending not to notice Felix, despite the far from stealthy descent down the stairs.
Why was he here? Why hadn’t he gone home?
Aesling.
Felix worked his jaw, waging a quiet war with himself. He wanted to shout, to shove August out the door and tell him not to come back. But his curiosity burned as bright as his anger, and he had so many questions.
August had done nothing but lie to him since they met. Felix had picked up on it from the very beginning, but he never would’ve guessed the extent of the deception.
He was an Ellingwood. His family, his ancestors, they were responsible for the laws and the oppression against wielders.
But he was also a wielder himself. One with an extraordinary power Felix hadn’t even known existed, and still didn’t understand.
He had lied over and over.
But he’d also saved Felix’s life.
Curiosity triumphed, but the embers of anger still smoldered. Felix crossed the room and slipped into the kitchen. He considered his options, sorting through the cabinets. There was only one that felt right.
“Hot chocolate?” he called to August. It was an indulgence he rarely allowed himself, given the cost of good quality chocolate.
A second later, August joined him, leaning against the counter the way he always did when Felix cooked for them. Attentive and curious.
Felix took that as a yes.
He grabbed two heavy ceramic mugs and set them on the counter, then plucked a bottle of fresh milk from the icebox.
“Leave it to my ma to make the heir aesling scrub down her bar.”
August pushed his dark curls back and stole a glance at Felix before his gaze dropped again. He shrugged. “I offered.”
“How long was I out?”
“Nearly a full day.”
Felix shuddered at the answer. What was that place, and what had it done to him?
He dragged a crate to the far end of the room and stepped carefully onto it, reaching for the high cabinet. He dug out the chocolate a baron’s son had bought him as a birthday gift, then climbed back down and lit the flame of the cooking range.
Beside him, August shifted uncomfortably, his expression drawn with what Felix assumed was guilt.
Good. He should feel guilty. Liar.
When the hot chocolate was finished and the mugs were full, he slid one to August, put out the flames, and went back to sit at the bar, grabbing a bottle from the shelf on the way.
August joined him a second later, standing at the end of the bar.
Felix added a splash of the rum to his cocoa and took a sip, and the warmth breathed life back into his tired body.
It tasted like winter nights by the fire, playing cards with his ma while rain lashed the windows.
It smelled of comfort, of warmth, of the few people he cared about enough to make the drink for.
His gaze jumped from August to the empty tables.
“Why is the pub so quiet?”
August stared at his own mug, turning it in a circle without lifting it, still refusing to sit.
“Your mother kept it closed today, probably so she could sleep. She was up all night at your side.”
The memory of his ma’s worried face returned to him. The black sludge he’d vomited onto the floor. The cold rag against his head.
Silence fell back over them. He let it linger for only a moment before turning to face August. If he wasn’t going to bring it up, Felix would.
“So, Aesling.” He didn’t miss the way August flinched at the title. “Any other massive lies you’d like to come clean about?”
His eyes finally met Felix’s, his mouth turned down, brow furrowed. “I didn’t lie.”
The fact that he answered the question with another lie drew a bitter laugh from Felix. “I don’t remember you mentioning that you’re royalty. Gods, August, I think I’d remember that.”
“Omission isn’t the same as a lie.”
“Yes, it is!” Felix was shouting now, his voice cutting through the silence of the pub, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.
He knew he had every right to be angry, but he couldn’t pretend like he hadn’t done the same thing, used the same loophole to keep his magic a secret. August finding out was a complete accident, not a trusted confidence.
“Fine, alright,” he said evenly. “I never specifically asked if you were the heir to the fucking throne, so I suppose you didn’t lie about that. Technically.” He leveled a cool look at August. “However, I absolutely asked if you were a wielder, and you said no. That was a lie.”
“I’m not a wielder,” August answered without missing a beat, his nose wrinkled like the idea disgusted him.
“You tore a hole in the fabric of the world and stepped through like it was a damned doorway.”
August shook his head. “It’s not magic. It’s a curse.”
“Oh, shut up,” Felix retorted, looking to the ceiling for patience. “I don’t care what you call it. I don’t care that you’re so ashamed of being lumped with people like me that you refuse to accept what you are. You lied, and you know it.”
August didn’t bother to argue, and they drained their mugs without another word.
Of course August hated wielders. He was royalty. It was in his blood. And of course he’d hate the idea of being like them. Nobody played at hateful piousness like the nobility.
And Felix was used to people assuming they were better than him. It was nothing new.
So why did this feel different? Why did it feel so personal? Why did it eat at him with the ferocity of a starved dog?
Then again, everything about August felt different. He knew Felix—actually knew him, secrets and all. So that self-righteous look on his face, it was personal.
Felix traced a finger over the brim of his mug to pick up the last traces of chocolate, then brought it to his mouth, savouring the taste as he studied August, gaze sliding from his tired eyes to the cloth apron at his waist. He looked even better like this than he had in his fine waistcoat.
Felix, however, was in a bitter mood, and picking fights had always been his most ready response.
“You look ridiculous in that thing.”
August smoothed the apron with a swipe of his hand. “That’s simply untrue. I look adorable.”
He was right, of course.
“I’ve never worn an apron before,” he added. “I quite like it.” The slight lift at the corners of his lips was disarming, and Felix had to focus to keep his expression stubbornly set.
He wasn’t ready to let go of his anger.
But before he could take another jab, August added, “Plus, there’s room for snacks!” He pulled two green olives from the pocket. The almost-smile grew into a full one, and just like that, the fight drained from Felix.
“Alright, well, the enthusiasm is helping.” He tilted his head, eyeing August appreciatively. “The apron’s growing on me.” He took the olive and popped it in his mouth. “But you’re still a liar.”
The smile vanished, and August dropped onto the stool beside him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For not telling you.”
“Are you really, though?”
August frowned thoughtfully. “I mean, if we had to start all over, I would for sure do it again because what else was I supposed to do? But I truly am sorry about it.”
“That’s a shite apology, Aesling.”
His expression tightened. “Don’t call me that. I’m not anything anymore.”
“Why would you say that?”
August propped his elbows on the bar, burying his fingers in his curls. “Everyone in the market square saw what I did. I can’t be both the aesling and a wielder.”
Felix smirked. “I thought you said you’re not a wielder.”
“I mean, I’m not.” August’s head lifted, his arms unfolding across the bar. “I’m not,” he repeated in response to Felix’s withering look. “But I doubt they’ll make the same distinction. Now everybody knows what’s wrong with me.”
Felix’s breath hitched. It was a common belief—that wielders were broken, corrupted, less than. But hearing it from August, the boy who had always met him with respect and compassion, was a knife to the chest.
“Wrong with you?” he snapped. “You think being a wielder means there’s something wrong with you?” Before August could respond, Felix spun to face him, jaw tight, fury simmering just beneath the surface. “So, is there something wrong with me?”
“No, of course not.”
“Am I defective? Are you here because you pity me?”
“You know that’s not—I didn’t mean that.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“Because I’m an idiot!” August shouted. “I thought that was clear already.”
“Oh, it’s deadly clear.”
Felix turned back to the bar, eyes fixed on the rows of bottles. He was angry at August, but more than anything, he was angry at himself. For letting those words cut. For caring what he thought.
August groaned. “You know, I spent all last night and the entirety of today trying to figure out what to say to you when you woke up.”
“And this was the best you could come up with?”
“No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was going to be a normal, reassuring friend, and I was going to tell you I swear I won’t keep secrets anymore.”
Felix snorted. “Wow, you severely messed that up.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. I have a knack for that.”
Silence stretched out between them, the air fragile enough to shatter. August dropped his face in his hands, his shoulders slumped.
Felix could go back to his room. He could be done with all this and save himself any further blows to his pride. But the weariness and the aching in his bones made it difficult to keep hold of the anger. He kept losing his grip. It wasn’t worth the effort. So he released it. For now.
“I’m starving,” Felix said as he stood. “I saw some leftover stew in the icebox. You hungry?”
It was a peace offering. Not quite forgiveness, but a small step toward it. And guessing by the relief that washed over August’s face, he understood.
“I’m always hungry,” he answered.