Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
I watch him, curiosity gnawing at me. What could the note say? What news does it carry to leave him so relieved?
The moonlight spills into the room, casting long shadows across Quin’s sleeping form. He lies still, his dark hair loose and fanned across the pillow, his brow free of its usual tension. Asleep, he seems almost . . . ordinary.
The note peeks from his belt, luring me closer. Slowly, I shift, my heartbeat loud in my ears. My fingers curl, careful and quiet, as they slither between the folds of his clothes and the fabric of his belt—
I jerk around as he sits up, our faces inches apart. My eyes widen on a shiver rolling through me. “Sorry. Just curious.”
He pushes me back slightly, his gaze fixed on my fingers tangled in his belt. “About what, precisely?”
I pull my hand back, flustered. “The note.”
Quin retrieves it and hands it to me.
“That’s it? No ‘off with his head’?”
“I’ll consider two rooms next time. Read, then sleep. Your body needs to recover.”
“Are you my vitalian now?”
“Quickly, or I’ll knock you out.”
I unfold the note. “‘Commander Thalassios of Wyvern division, recently transferred, Hinsard outpost.’ Who gave you this?”
“One of my network.”
“You have a network?”
“My most loyal subjects. I gave them the name of the lead I got during our drakopagon game. Turns out it’s a name used for private affairs.”
“Did you meet him during your trip to announce a new general?”
“No. He and his unit recently relocated from the east river.”
“Will he help us?”
Quin frowns solemnly. “Uncertain. We’d be better to meet him incognito until we can be sure. If he’s a spy for my uncle . . .”
“Aliases it is. Can I be something other than a cook?”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m thinking something impressive.”
“Go to sleep.”
I slink to the blankets on the floor. “Yes, your majesty.”
Quin and his chess set are gone when I wake, but his other things are still here. I eat the breakfast left for me while reading Grandfather’s books, freshen up and head off to find him. He’s sitting at a table in the corner downstairs, all stubborn and perfectly graceful angles. Gridded light from a nearby window casts him in an ethereal glow, and once again I’m hit with the fact: he’s important.
He notices my approach and his gaze drops to the clasp I reset onto my cloak. His eyes lift to mine with an emotion I don’t have the time to identify. As soon as it’s there, it’s gone again, replaced with cool calm. He gestures for me to sit. “Play a round with me.”
We begin, but a few moves in, he grimaces.
“Your head is not in the game. What’s on your mind?”
“I had vivid dreams last night.”
Quin moves his vitalian.
“Us, in the future.” The vitalian topples over and Quin quickly corrects it. I continue, “Not king and vitalian, but closer than that.”
“Closer?”
“Mm. I’m around to annoy you daily.”
“Close indeed.” His lips twitch, probably at the thought of how he’ll make me suffer in turn.
I move the prince. “I always thought you’d be a difficult brother-in-law, but now I think the frustrations will be worthwhile.”
He huffs.
“Did you dream?” I ask.
“Definitely not about you being my brother. Make your move.”
I shift a pawn to the middle board. “When I woke it made me think of all our past interactions. There’s one I don’t understand.”
“One?”
“Why didn’t you want me to go to that island?”
He studies me for a moment before his eyes drop to the board.
“Your whole face drained when I mentioned wanting to go.”
“You’ve experienced it now.”
“The conditions are atrocious, but I don’t understand . . .”
He corrects the move I made with an instruction about reading the board a few steps ahead. “I have something of yours,” he says. “Hold on for five moves, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Something of mine, and I have to earn it?”
“Yes.”
I grumble under my breath and start calculating possible moves and countermoves.
A group of travelling scholars enter, calling for the best beer. Locals shift to make space for them, doubling up on smaller tables.
“Have you heard?” one says, “Our king has abdicated!”
It takes a full second before locals start whispering their shock.
The scholar continues, “He left his son to take his place.”
“At four years old? What kind of father would abandon his child?”
“What will this mean for the kingdom?”
“The high duke is regent until the boy’s old enough.”
“Can’t be worse than it was with the king.”
Quin sits stoically, expression hardened against the slander, a confident king who easily dismisses such trivialities. But at each hurled insult, I recall him exploding for the sake of his brother before his aunt Frederica; recall his pained roar to the heavens.
This is another act. The act of pretending not to care what others say of him.
But there is a tired, hurting man underneath. I leap to my feet. “Slander.”