As she crossed the threshold, Salma held onto the doorframe, refusing to leave.

“Jaha, please! Who else will protect my family?” Her curls stuck to her cheeks from tears and sweat as she wailed for Zaethan to save her, and those in her employ. “You know this truth, Jaha, you know—”

Her hazel eyes bulged when the collar bit into her flesh, suffocating her cries. Salma’s fingers went limp, and her resistance faltered. The sentries escorted General Lateef toward the passage, following their commander. The last one closed the door gently, as if the leaders of the realm were merely sharing a midnight cup of tea.

Moisture and warmth flooded Zaethan’s nose. Reaching back to clasp his neck, he felt the room start to spin. He could still hear Salma’s screams.

The queen turned and buried her face in the handkerchief, weeping uncontrollably. Dmitri once again closed his eyes, wincing at the tempo of her sobs.

“We must speak with the Haidren to Bastiion on a matter of the utmost urgency,” he stated hollowly. “I request you all leave us and make for your beds. The royal guard will accompany you to your apartments now.”

Zaethan hesitated, wanting to console his friend, but made for the double doors. Sayuri clutched her middle as her uncle led her into the main corridor, clearly unsettled by the ordeal. Following her aunt, the witch was ushered into a semi-circle of Najjan waiting directly outside the Hall, each shadowman visibly more on edge than the next. Behind them all, Ira clumsily shoved his hands in his pockets and mutely departed with Zaethan, seemingly in a daze.

“Ira, I asked you to stay,” Dmitri called.

Zaethan and Ira shared a confused expression, spinning toward the prince. Dmitri perched forward on the throne, gripping his cane.

Gregor looked at his son and spread his hands. “Your Highness, Ira isn’t needed for these talks. Perhaps in time, he can attend these discussions—”

Shakily, Dmitri came to his feet, leaning on the byrnnzite handle of his cane for support. “I ordered an audience with the Haidren to Bastiion, not the sil’Haidren.” When Gregor sputtered, the prince cautioned sternly, “You are relieved from your duties on the Quadren, Lord Hastings. Orynthia thanks you for your years of sacrifice and service to the crown. Now, leave us.” His cane pointed to the corridor, then tapped his boot. “And please, Ira, don’t dawdle. We’ve much to discuss.”

Gregor reeled in place, dumbfounded. Outrage flushed up his neck, reddening the skin beneath his beard. Stalking past his son, Gregor grunted at Ira and slammed the door open.

Zaethan glanced back as he exited the room. The Prince of Orynthia produced a dry handkerchief and leaned down to wipe his mother’s tears. Except, Zaethan realized, he was no longer looking at a prince.

Within the span of a few terrible hours, Dmitri Korbin Thoarne had become a king.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Zaethan

   Zaethan patted Jabari solemnly on the chest as he passed into the royal gardens. Dawn teased the tips of the surrounding foliage, its golden hue challenging the bleakness of the night. Owàa was overstepping, too eager to spread his wings. Though Zaethan always knew this day would come, he was not yet ready to face it.

Considering the defeated bow in Dmitri’s posture as he peered into the dark, neither was his friend.

Zaethan knocked his knuckles against a nearby column. Wordlessly, Dmitri tugged his suit jacket tighter, drawing the excess fabric aside to expose more room on the stone bench. Heeding the invitation, Zaethan hitched a leg over the bench, then the other. Resting his elbows on his knees, mirroring his friend, they sat together in silence. As Owàa gradually took flight, birds started to chirp, their morning song unwanted and out of place.

Dmitri twisted a vine in his grasp, threading it between his thin fingers. Gently, he brushed a buttery petal of one of the blooms.

“Byronia lily. Repels the bugs,” he commented, sluggishly swatting the air.

“Supposedly,” Zaethan added, and studied the odd little plant, doubting its effects.

Dmitri’s wavy hair dangled over his forehead, shielding his eyes. Propped against the bench, his cane pointed to his feet, which Zaethen noticed lacked shoes. Bare and dirtied, his toes were coated in rich soil. His trousers, however, were delicately rolled at the ankles, free of grime. As light filled the garden, Zaethan spotted a thin trail of dirt extending out from the bushes.

When they were still cubs, the queen had become pregnant a second time, but sadly lost the child in the womb. News of the child’s passing swept the palace. Dmitri, no older than eight, had then gone missing for an entire day. It was Zaethan, only a year younger, who’d crawled into the gardens and found the prince covered in soil, huddled in the greenery, hiding from his tutors.

Six years ago, Dmitri had stowed away again on the eve of his Ascension. And just like when they were children, Zaethan found him pacing through the damp earth within the shrubs, overwhelmed and undone.

“What is that phrase you’re constantly spouting off?” Dmitri mused, twirling the lily. “‘Every gain has a loss,’ is it?” He plucked the petal, crumpling it in his fingers. “I’ve listened to that phrase so many times, but only now feel as though I’ve finally heard you.”

He crossed his ankles, wriggling debris between his toes. Then he set the vine aside and knit his hands together.

“Over and over, you’ve repeated that to me.” Dmitri lifted his head and let out a sigh. “But not once, in all these years, did you mention how significant the loss would be.”

Zaethan’s insides clenched, remembering the weight of that smuggled crate in his arms. Guilt coated his windpipe. Clearing his throat, Zaethan responded the only way he could.

“I will spend the rest of my life retracing tonight,” he vowed hoarsely. “I’ll scour my memories, searching for the way I might’ve prevented this from happening to you.”

“I know.” Dmitri suddenly straightened. Reaching for Zaethan’s forearm, he angled to face him, squeezing it. “I know, because that is who you are. If there was anything you could have done, it would have been so. You may spend your life reliving this tragedy, but I will spend mine wishing you free of its heaviness.”

Releasing him, Dmitri looked away. The shadows under his eyes grew more pronounced with the sunrise. “I know he became a father to you, much in the same way he was to me. Don’t allow duty to prevent your mourning, Zaeth. It’s just that…” Dmitri’s voice hitched. “It’s just that I don’t think I can bear it alone this time.”

Zaethan’s gaze anchored onto the track of dirt leading into the pristine garden, thinking of years past. After several minutes of silence, he bent to unbuckle the backs of his boots. Slipping off his wool socks, the soles of his feet nestled into the gravel beside Dmitri’s.