Chapter 17
“Red?” Arawn asked later, as he stared down at the outfit laid before him on the bed. “I am not a man who wears red, Izill.”
Since he was a boy, raised with the weight of a crown upon his pale head, his mother had adorned him in white.
It is the color of the northern snows in which we make our stand, she told him, after he’d received his first penance marks.
His first branding, for daring to ask for something different.
She’d stomped the creativity out of him.
Stomped away the need to stand out, for he was a loyal servant of the Five.
Nothing more than a vessel to be used by them, until the end of his days.
White was the color of a future Sacred king.
But for tonight?
Izill had chosen robes of deepest fire-red.
He sighed, the buttons on his tunic half open, enough to reveal the enormous scar that spanned from his collarbone to his waistline.
The mark of Soraya’s betrayal.
The scar didn’t hurt anymore. It was the memory that did.
But...Arawn raised a brow, perplexed at the way his heart hadn’t skipped a sad beat.
It hurt a little less today than it had the day before.
Progress.
He would take whatever he could get.
He sighed again and held up the red tunic and cloak. “This must be a mistake. This is for Kinlear. It has to be.”
“No mistake,” the servant said, as if she’d read his mind. “Though I’m pleased to see that you do in fact have an opinion. Kinlear’s Absolution outfit is...well, it’s far flashier than this. Some color won’t kill you, Arawn. You could take a lesson from him.”
His shoulders tensed at the mention of his brother.
Izill paused, pursing her lips as she realized her mistake.
“Right. No talk of the other twin,” she corrected herself. “Though if you ask me, it’s high time you moved past the differences. The two of you could save the world...or burn it down someday. At least, that’s what Alaris has always said. And the woman is never wrong.”
Arawn chuckled, despite himself.
The women of the Citadel were all a force to be reckoned with.
Small as a mouse, and often just as silent, he was used to Izill dropping in on him. Used to her nonstop slew of words as she took care of him...especially in the darkest days, before he’d taken his leave of absence.
When he’d become a near shell of himself.
When he’d allowed only Izill and Alaris to come to his rooms—not even a member of his aerie, for he couldn’t face them.
Both servant and healer spoke to him as if he were a nomage grunt soldier, instead of the Crown Prince.
He paid it no mind. They gave him a sense of normalcy, when most either saluted or averted their gaze.
“Come on,” Izill said. “No pouting.”
He groaned as she tossed the crimson cloak at him next, and a mask of vibrant yellows and oranges. It could have been made from fire itself, as if Vivorr’s hands had woven it.
Most would think it lovely.
Arawn had never seen anything so outlandish.
“I’ll be a beacon,” he said. “As bright as magefire, Izill. Must I attend?”
She wasn’t his mother.
But in her tiny, soldierlike presence, he felt the need to beg her for permission anyways. And in the time that he’d spent without Soraya...dare he even think it...Izill had become a new friend.
One that would hopefully never try to kill him.
“You must,” Izill said, as she pointed for him to sit in a chair so she could braid back his hair as was customary for a prince. “And you will. You’ve missed the last few Absolutions while we’ve waited for you to recover.”
She held up two small hands as he opened his mouth to argue.
Recover.
Heal.
These were words for Kinlear, not for him.
And yet the brothers shared them all the same.
“I’m not saying you didn’t deserve the space,” Izill said. “I’m saying enough is enough. You’re to be king soon, but even then, if you won’t go for the parade of it, to be seen as alive and well for the countless Sacred who need normalcy, Arawn...who will die on that battlefield come darkness...”
Gods, for such a small woman she had a way of making him feel about as insignificant as a snowflake.
“Then go for her,” Izill said. So soft, it was almost a whisper.
He spun, locking eyes with her.
“Who?”
His face was instantly hot.
“You know exactly who,” Izill said, as she finished the braid and practically shoved him out of his chair, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You’re far too handsome for such a mood. You brood worse than a mother hen, do you know that?”
He lifted a pale brow. “Thank you?”
“It’s not a compliment.” She swatted him out the door of his own quarters, as if she owned the place. “And don’t pull a fast one, Arawn, and head to the kitchens instead. I told them not to make any cinnamon rolls tonight.”
He raised a brow. “You’re a monster.”
“Yes,” she said, crossing her arms. “I am. Now, I suggest you make your way to the training room as swiftly as the wind...or Ezer will be there all alone with Kinlear. I’d gather to think they may already be dancing.”
That was all he needed to hear.
When he was at the door, she called out to him one last time.
“Arawn?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”
She did not smile.
“The gods gave us this night as a precious gift,” Izill said gently. “And... forgive me for speaking too plainly but...” A sad smile came across her face. “I think it’s high time you dance with someone whose heart isn’t tied to his.”
He nodded, then made the long march towards the training room, his heart beating strangely in his chest.
He felt as if he was headed for war...instead of the Absolution dance.
Perhaps war would have been better for him, because the moment Arawn Laroux laid eyes on Ezer, he was defeated.
Gods have mercy on my soul, he thought.
Because the moment he saw her...
He’d practically guzzled a goblet of winterwine down in one desperate sip. He hadn’t started drinking it until recent months...when it felt like a relief to have his mind melt.
When he remembered a voice that screamed Avane’s name, a wall of furious wind and a puddle of black blood on churned up snow.
He blinked...
And Ezer was a vision in all white and silver sparkles, her raven-black hair in ringlets that tumbled over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall. So soft, he felt the urge to run his hands through the stands.
And the dress?
Oh, the damned dress. It had been spun just to torture him.
She’d been nearly covered up by the dancers, but as she stepped into a beam of torchlight, his eyes widened.
He glanced over his shoulder, daring another man to look upon her the same as he did.
Because he could see every curve, every dip, every perfectly crafted part of her that had his thoughts spiraling right back to that night in the bathing chambers, the steam kissing every part of her bare skin like a promise.
It was an effort not to let his jaw drop.
And perhaps it was the winterwine already swimming through his system, but he felt that hunger from earlier return.
It was an appetite that would no longer be sated by hushed whispers through the speaking stone, by stolen glances in the Citadel’s halls. Not even by the press of her body against his, when they trained together in this very room each night.
Run, his mind whispered. Run, before you do something you’ll regret.
There was no room for a woman in his heart.
Not anymore.
He’d decided that, months ago on the battlefield, when his magic left him. And then, in the months after it, when he saw how much of his kingdom was decimated.
He would give all of himself to his crown, his mission.
He would never fail again.
He would never deviate.
He was about to turn and leave, to rid himself of the pressure he felt in his veins— damn the winterwine, he’d made a colossal mistake, and hadn’t he learned from what the poison did to Kinlear? — when the crowd suddenly shifted again.
And he realized she was not alone.
She was with Kinlear.
Of course she was with Kinlear.
And perhaps that was for the best. His brother was Unmatched, now that Soraya was gone. He was unchosen, unreserved for any true crown. Kinlear and Ezer were going to cross the Expanse together, ride into darkness together on the back of a raphon...the first duo to ever do it.
They’d forged an unbreakable bond already. He could see it by the way she was laughing, delicate and free, how her eyes shined with life behind her mask as she looked up at him.
It was a brightness that Arawn could never give her, because he had no fire left.
He’d be Matched soon with another. And even then, he wouldn’t give his Matched his heart. To do so would be to open himself up to brokenness again.
Arawn planned to do what his father did, and close his heart away. Because someday, sooner than later, he would stand before the gods’ veil, the Diadem on his head...and offer something through it.
He’d be damned if it was her.
So... why did he still dare to hope?
The song shifted, and the dancers moved, and then, oh, gods, he was walking towards Ezer.
As if his feet had already betrayed him.
The crowd parted as if the Sacred sensed their Crown Prince’s presence, people nodding their heads in admiration...and suddenly he felt like a damned fool in his outlandish red.
A beacon for all to see, especially Ezer, as he paused before her and Kinlear.
The silence that hung between them was palpable.
The tension, like a true dark power.
He swore it could have raised the dead.
“Kinlear,” Arawn said tightly, for he wouldn’t dare be second to speak.
Not now. Not with her ears listening, and her eyes—oh gods, her eyes were boring into him through her red mask, a color he suddenly realized matched his own, as if Izill had played another one of her clever little tricks on him again. “You look...well.”
Kinlear lifted his chin, handsome as ever.
And then he slid his bare hand atop Ezer’s, holding her even closer to him. Touching her skin...as if she were his.
As if he were claiming her already.