CotCT – Epilogue – Kokip’s Life (Part 1) (2025)

by Drom G.

CHAPTER ONE

Love (or something like it)

One month had passed since Sasha had left.

The eight-sided palatial dome-topped bedroom she’d slept in lay empty. The music that had once rang through the halls— gone. Iona and Viv had taken to playing their harpsichord in lieu, but it wasn’t the same. Sasha’s playing had been…otherworldly. No human hands could touch a key and bring it to life like she did. The breath of fresh air she’d given the castle was gone. Only oil paintings and memories, leftover arts and crafts, and her red roan Aphrodite were all that remained. That, and the love she had given all eighteen years of her life, trickling down to even the smallest of spirits. Her aura could make a dying man dance on the street.

It came as no surprise to anyone in the Bromathan family that she’d left. No, Sasha had made sure her family understood and understood well. What she had told her mother and father had been far different than what she had told her eight younger siblings, but it was all the same. She was not coming back. She would leave and conquer the world. And somehow, none of that felt sinister. In fact, her brothers and sisters encouraged it. “You’d make a whole world of difference. Literally,” they’d said. Nothing she did could possibly break their hearts.

It had been three weeks since the latest assassination attempt.

“WAKE UP!”

A loud bell rang next to Lucian’s ear, and he woke with a start, grabbing the hand of whoever had decided to tempt death today and pulling it towards him onto his sheets. A startled yelp came from a pair of eleven-year olds, who then cackled in laughter as the First Valet de Chambre, Charon, walked in with six maids in their usual blood red and navy blue outfits.

“Good morning, your Royal Hi—”

“GOOD MORNING, YOUR HIGHNEEESS!” Alecto and Max jeered in unison at their oldest brother.

Lucian sat in the middle of his bed, his eyebags failing to stifle the gleam of his soft turquoise eyes, his hair tousled like a raven’s nest. His little brothers, having just turned eleven, still had the energy he wished he had, rolling about and jumping on the vast Renne linen sheets and pulling the cords of his canopy open and closed.

“Your breakfast today, sir,” Charon expertly dodged the bell that bounced off the makeshift trampoline as Alecto and Max kept jumping. He placed the menu at the foot of the bed, as per protocol, and waited for Lucian to pick it up. To give an item to the heir to the throne was a guarded privilege, and even the one person trusted with entering Lucian’s bedroom with keys was not given such.

“Alec— stop,” Lucian yanked his brother’s sleeve, forcing Alecto to land prone on the pillows.

Max took the opportunity and jumped on top of his brother, pinning him in a wrestling move he had seen when they’d visited the Korvosan Guard at Citadel Volshyenek.

Lucian wasn’t hungry, not since Sasha had left. Nowadays, food held little in the way of pleasing him. He could still enjoy a strong coffee, though.

“Coffee with a dollop of milk, please,” Lucian yawned and covered his mouth with the top of the velvet menu. Alecto and Max’s shenanigans behind Lucian forced the whole mattress under him to shift, and the Prince’s cross-legged form bobbed up and down like apples in a bucket despite being close to two-hundred pounds. He yawned again. “Pardon me. And maybe tea. Juniper with one sugar.”

He placed the menu back on the bed and lay spread-eagle, Alecto’s foot narrowly missing his chin. This was just a typical morning, a typical Toil—

“Wait—” Lucian shot up from the bed as Charon took a step to the hallway. “What day is it?”

“Twelfth of Sarenith, sir. Starday.”

“Luce, guess what?” Alecto squeaked behind him.

“Hmm?” Lucian groggily replied as he waved for Charon to leave.

“Guess what day it is?” Max giggled.

The older brother rolled his eyes. “Twelfth of Sarenith? Starday?”

“Wrong!”

“Super wrong!”

“Whose birthday is it?” Lucian sighed.

“I’ll give you a hint, it’s not yours!”

The two littles ones chanted “It’s not yours! It’s not yours!” as they jumped in a circle around the larger. Lucian pressed his hands to his face. At least they weren’t covered in chocolate stains this time.

But twelfth…of Sarenith?

Lucian marched to his dressing room where the Second Valet de Chambre, Horace, wrapped him in his burgundy smoking jacket and cotton trousers. He replaced his mink slippers with leather flats. And with a few swift brush strokes from the Handmaiden Juliet, his hair was laid to its usual slicked-back style, clearing all the distraction from his olive-skinned face.

“You get more handsome every year, Your Royal Highness,” Juliet said sweetly.

Lucian smiled back through the mirror. From the corner of his eye, Horace shifted uncomfortably in wait.

Lucian saw nothing wrong with a little flirting. It wasn’t like they were fucking in secret, nothing scandalous like that. A little friendliness here or there was something he was known for, and now that he was of age, he could freely do as he pleased with others his age. And besides, Juliet was gorgeous, young, and close to the family. Since the age of five, he’d always found her so, though he’d never thought it proper to speak of such matters.

“His Royal Highness, The First Prince Lucian—”

“—Valdur Bromathan,” Lucian mouthed in unison with the manservant, Oberon. It was a rather obnoxious practice, having to be announced in every room they entered. But, with eight children still living in Castle Korvosa, it was easier to have the servants bellow than lose your voice trying to find one brother or sister or whatever. Plus, the clock on the ten-foot fireplace read nine am, which was far too early for loud noises.

Far from understanding that concept, Alecto and Maximilian shuffled their feet behind their oldest brother, wearing twin emerald green robes that matched both their irises. As they entered, Catriona and Genevive turned from their usual gossip circle.

“Good Morning Iona, Viv….” Lucian nodded.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Catriona raised a thick but well-groomed eyebrow.

“No,” Lucian shrugged, taking a plate of tea from the butler, Alexandross. “Why?”

Catriona and Genevive crossed their legs at the same time, mirroring each other. “Come off it, Luce.”

Lucian sat down across from them on the fainting couch, stirring his tea and leaning back onto the pillows. “I legitimately have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

Catriona and Genevive pursed their lips and just a second before they could show genuine disappointment, Lucian jumped off the couch and hugged the two of them. “Just kidding. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”

He could feel the two of them breathe sighs of relief. “I would never forget your birthdays— you know that.” He pulled himself off them and waved at Alexandross to grab the presents he had prepared a week earlier. Catriona and Genevive squealed in delight. “And obviously, I got you both presents.”

The twins narrowed their eyes at him, though their smiles betrayed their dramatic response. “You never give us each a present.”

“True. But it’s the big one-six and I figured I’d actually buck up and get you both something. And besides—” he waited until Alexandross returned with two large well-wrapped boxes, big enough to house small toddlers. “—the Menagerie only had the two left, and I didn’t have the heart to separate them.”

The butler opened both boxes with a graceful pull of a string, and the noise that erupted in the room could shatter glass. Two Corgi-Samoyed mixes jumped out and waddled towards their new mothers, tongues out and curled tails wagging.

“HOW DARE YOU—”

“—GET US THESE…THESE—-”

“—PRECIOUS LITTLE PANCAKES—-”

The immediate turn of attention towards the two barely-month old puppies was enough to distract Alecto, Maximilien, and the girls for Lucian to leave.

“Wait—-where’re you going?” Catriona called out as her new son licked her face. “Luce!”

“Your birthday party’s tonight right?” Lucian asked, stopping at the door. “In the Throne Room?”

“Duh,” the twins replied.

“Then I have to go get ready.”

The twins stared at the grandfather clock. “It’s nine am.”

“And I have things to do.”

The room fell silent as Catriona raised an eyebrow. Even the puppies seemed to understand, and buried their noses in the girls’ laps.

“Where are you going?”

“Why?”

Genevive tutted. “We’re just making sure, Luce,”

“Who are you going with?” Catriona pried.

Lucian rolled his eyes. “With Adria.”

Genevive raised an eyebrow. “To do…what?”

“Sword practice.”

“‘Sword practice’ or ‘sword practice’?” Catriona crossed her arms.

“Actual swords, gods,” Lucian snapped. “Guys, Adria’s basically our cousin. Gods, you’re more intrusive than Mom and Dad. Leave me be to act on a spontaneous whim, heaven forbid—”

“You’re the heir to the throne, idiot. We have to be intrusive or you die—”

“—or disgrace our House—”

“—or sire a bastard—”

“I’ll leave you two to do those things in due time. I’m leaving,” the Prince replied annoyedly, adjusting his cufflinks.

“Don’t try anything with anyone, alright?”

Lucian laughed incredulously. “What? Since when?”

Genevive scoffed. “Since you started thinking with your dick. Since you’ve hit the perfect age to choose your future wife.”

“Do you know how many things we’ve heard through the grapevine about you? And the women you talk to?”

Lucian pursed his lips, “Women from the Major Houses? You mean the future heads of their Houses on my Grand Council? It’s called having conversations and exchanging ideas.”

“Don’t cross the line, Lucian,” Genevive scoffed. “You’re not exactly hideous—”

“—Wow, fuck you too—-”

“—and a lot of girls like you,” Catriona finished, sipping from her buttermilk tea. “And by ‘girls’, I mean the daughters of the Houses that Mom and Dad have to deal with on a daily basis. And by deal with, I mean basically fight tooth and nail to prove that our family won’t run this city into the ground. So behave, or we’ll send Aunt Cat after you.”

Lucian raised his eyebrow. He managed to keep an otherwise stoic face, but the mental imagery of reprimand from his mother’s honorary sister froze him in place. “You wouldn’t. You’ve never done that.”

“We did it when Lucrezia was acting a fool, and we’ll do it to you too,” Genevive threatened darkly.

Lucian smirked incredulously. “You’re serious.”

“We are,” Catriona and Genevive said in unison. “You do realize the Jeggares will never stop once they find out anything scandalous about our family?” Genevive said.

“The Bromathans and Jeggares have come to an understanding, haven’t they?” Lucian leaned against the doorway and watched the pups run in little circles around the coffee table.

“Only because we’ve been so careful not to overstep. Shoanti are still on thin ice and it’s not exactly a secret with Dad on the throne, something that the Motherland clearly does not want—”

Genevive elbowed her sister before she snowballed into the unmentionable elephant in the room.

Lucian rolled his eyes. “Dad never planned to be a king. He said he did it because he loved Mom.”

“Still, it was a big risk and frankly, any frivolity on your part is also a big risk.”

“So…would you rather I become a monk and live off in the mountains or what?” he snapped.

Catriona and Genevive exchanged wary glances. “The nobles would rather it be the Cinderlands.”

There was an awkward pause between the little yelps of the dogs, at which Lucian caught his appearance in the floor-to-ceiling looking glass beside the fireplace. Peeking out ever so slightly from his collar was the tip of a crescent moon, matching his father’s tattoo on the opposite chest.

“Fuck them,” Lucian muttered out of earshot of Alecto and Maximilian.

Catriona raised her other eyebrow. “You’ve known what to expect since we were little. Harboring hatred doesn’t help anyone.”

Lucian stared at his reflection again and this time he felt a twinge of resentment at the way he looked. “We have nothing to hide and I’m sick of being judged for the blood in our veins. The Jeggares and the Zenderholms have just as many skeletons in their closets. Imagine the look on Xerxes’ face if I’d told him what his daughter does behind her husband’s back.”

Catriona tutted. “Don’t start.”

“I won’t. I can’t. Besides, I can’t indulge in gossip either,” Lucian shrugged. “Mom says it’s ‘unbecoming’ of a future king.”

“Luckily, we don’t have any dirty laundry that people don’t already know,” Genevive replied smugly, curling her jet black locks around her dainty fingers.

“That’s what keeps us afloat,” Catriona reminded him. “Unless you start making your own.”

“You should tell Aunt Vivia, apparently she didn’t get the memo—”

“AUNT VIV! AUNT VIV!” Alecto and Max yelled and ran around the room, chasing the terrified dogs between the ottomans and footstools. “MAMA DRAGON! MAMA DRAGON!”

Lucian could easily tell there was some tension in his sister’s voices. They had always been maliciously compliant to the rules, and they played the forever-changing game of politics rather well, but it was simply out of duty that they never strayed too far from the expectations pressed upon them. At least, behind closed doors. They’d had each other since birth to confide their innermost thoughts, free of the judgement of the people outside their walls. Since he’d been born, Lucian had had Sasha to confide in.

Had. Did.

“Fine. For the sake of both of your already fragile anxieties, here’s my itinerary: I’m going to Orsini Academy to have three hours of sparring with Adria. Then I’m leaving—without anybody—to the Palisades Lunch Club in Citadel Crest, where I am having lunch with two of my tutors. Both of them are male. Zero interaction with anybody in a skirt from the noble houses. Drier than the Osirion desert. Is that what you want to hear? In fact, the next time I see a woman, I’ll wear my special chastity belt—”

“Okay, your tone’s a little bit pointed, we get it—”

Lucian turned away, hiding his usually-dormant frustration. “Now, can I please go?”

Catriona pursed her lips. “Legally, nobody in this room can actually stop you.”

“It’s not impolite to ask,” he retorted, walking away in a disciplined marching pace.

The two girls waited for Alecto and Maximilien to follow their brother out, and the door slammed shut.

“I hate what he’s become,” Genevive sighed, picking up her puppy off the floor and pressing its forehead to her cheek.

Catriona rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. He’s always been like that.”

“What, aloof and rebellious?”

“I mean…just look at the past month. Sasha’s gone. The Crown’s now expected on his head. Everyone expected our sister to become Queen, and she was adored so vehemently that everyone kind of forgot that she was part-Shoanti. But now, Lucian’s her replacement, and he’s nothing like her. Imagine realizing that you have to fill shoes that will never accommodate you, and a personality that no one could ever surpass. Lucian’s smart and good-looking, but it seems like all the responsibility kind of got dumped on him to safeguard our family’s reputation, and he takes it out on himself because he’s not what everyone wants.”

The two of them sat in silence, watching a flock of birds fly past the sixteen-foot arched windows of the Grand Living room.

“How long have you been waiting to say all that?”

“Ugh. Weeks,” Catriona sighed. “But there was never really a right time where I could say it without feeling guilty.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I agree with you—”

“When do you ever not?”

“True. But yes, Lucian’s under a lot of pressure. But Sasha told us that she trusted him to be a good ruler in her stead, and if I’m going to believe in anyone’s word, it’s hers.”

“Luckily, Mom’s still young, so Lucian won’t have to deal with the Crown for a while.”

Genevive’s brows disappeared into her bangs. “How is that lucky?”

“Because ruling this hellscape is far from the fantasy everyone thinks it is,” Catriona lowered her voice as two manservants passed through with trays of cakes to the secondary drawing room. “Mama was twenty when she took over Korvosa. Everyone thought she was just going to be another Ileosa, but she proved everyone wrong. But…if not for Papa, she would’ve probably worked herself to death. People don’t see that when they look at the two of them. They see a little girl who talks too much, and an uncivilized man trying too hard to fit in. And within a ten-year span, there’s been three assassination attempts…”

“Iona,” Genevive grabbed her sister’s arm and closed her eyes. “It’s nine am. I don’t have the energy to hate anything or anyone right now.”

Catriona took a deep breath and fell silent. The wounds were still fresh and the memories vivid. The two of them had been asleep when it had happened, but they could remember the screaming…the banging on the doors…Amarice and the Queensguard fighting off what sounded like dozens of intruders. When the dust had finally settled, their father was half-dead, slumped over the Queen’s body, protecting her. That, they’d been taught to expect. It was their father’s job after all— the Sword and Shield of Korvosa. From what they could glean from Aunt Viv’s erratic stories over dinner, he had survived much, much worse. But nobody had expected Lucian there. And when the foul red-clad beasts had seen the opportunity to kill two generations of the Bromathans, they’d surrounded the young man like locusts to a field of wheat.

Three weeks… Lucian had swept the event under the rug like it had been a minor inconvenience. But his sisters knew better. It had changed him for the worse. Catriona and Genevive knew the bright demeanour he displayed was only for the sake of his younger siblings, who hadn’t even been told of the event until the morning after. And more importantly, for the sake of their family, Lucian took it upon himself to appear invincible, as if an attempt on one’s life was but a mere practice in futility on the perpetrator’s part. But on the inside, without their darling sister Sasha to placate his fury, his sorrow, he was on his knees screaming.

Lucian found his way to one of the balconies, bursting through the doors and gaspin in a gulp of air.

“Sasha,” Lucian whispered to the breeze as he watched the sun rise from the tower balcony. “The nightmares are getting worse. My thoughts….are getting worse. I don’t know what to think anymore. Why did you leave? Why now?”

The wind mocked him with a whistling that forewarned of an oncoming storm.

“I don’t know who to talk to,” he continued, his ears ringing. “You were always there. Always. You made me feel like life was worth more than just this…constant uphill battle.” His thumb traced the raised scar that started at his right palm and ended just before the crook of his elbow. “You were a distraction from the truth. And the truth is…everyone hates us for who we are. Mom has fought for almost twenty years to give the Shoanti the full rights they deserve, and still…no matter how hard she tries….” He fought back tears by digging his nails into the meat of his palm. “…nothing can change who we are, who Dad is, who I am…”

Animals. Savages. Vile, uncivilized slaves.

Lucian’s chest ached. Some days, he was proud to call himself Shoanti, to show the moon-motif tattoos he bore in the name of his father’s Quah. His brothers had it too, and his mother adored their commitment to their ancestors. Other times…more often than Lucian would like…it felt like a curse. A never-ending carousel of checks and balances and keeping his mouth shut and ignoring the cruel whispers and rumors. Constantly surrounded by protectors, and watchers, and Aunt Cat hounding him day and night about the importance of appearances and what a single wrong step could do to his family. What it had already done to his mother. What it had already done to him.

“Your Royal Highness,” Vipond the butler called out from the doorway.

Lucian gripped the stone battlement he was leaning on until his arm ached. “Yes?”

“It’s getting cold, sir. Perhaps it’s best to stay inside.”

Lucian brushed the black curls away from his face. “I’m fine.”

“But sir—”

“I’m. Fine,” he repeated, hoping it was enough of an anvil-sized hint.

“Very well, sir.”

“Wait.”

Vipond stopped the turn he had begun on his perfectly polished heel and faced his master with his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, sir?”

Lucian walked up to the older man, almost as tall as he was, and regarded him with an exhaustion he had been careful to hide in front of everyone. “I need the boots of teleportation from my father’s chamber.”

Vipond looked near startled. “Sir, I’m afraid I cannot.”

“No, just unlock the door and let me find it.”

“Sir, I—”

“Vipond, please.”

The old man regarded his master with pity. His Royal Highness had done this many times before, in other parts of the Castle, and all for good reason, so he explained. But breaching into the King’s private quarters…

“Sir, I’m afraid I cannot let you.”

The Prince pursed his lips. “Do I have to pull rank?”

“If you must, sir. But I’m quite certain you’re outranked by His Majesty the King in all ways but youth.”

Lucian pursed his lips. “Did my father pay you to say that?”

“I’m on salary, sir,” Vipond replied with strain in his voice. “And I aim to always speak of truth, not opinion.”

“Fine, I’ll go do it myself,” Lucian unbuttoned his smoking jacket and headed indoors.

“But sir, you have a practice session at Orsini Academy.”

“Let them know I’m cancelling for an important meeting.”

“Any meeting with the Royal Family is considered important, Sir.”

“You know what I mean,” Lucian groaned. “Just…make a good excuse.”

The old man hesitated, regarding Lucian with the same look the older nobles cast when any of the youngbloods thought themselves masters and mistresses of their house. “No amount of excuses will get past the Queensguard. Or Lady Catherine Grey, for that matter.”

“Let them find out. I’ll be back before they can do anything about it.”

Lucian sat at the foot of the storage closet, waiting until Vipond headed down the flight of stairs. The boots of teleportation were worn out, caked in sand, as if his father had run it through the Cinderlands a hundred times over. His feet were a few sizes smaller than his father’s, and he felt the space between his shin and the front side of the boot before it settled to his size.

“Syracuse house. Old Korvosa.”

He closed his eyes, imagining the hardwood floors and delicate lace curtains that dimmed the summer sun. He felt his body shift, float, weightless, until the storage room made way for a well-furnished bedroom with blue sheets and a desk with a candlestick, solidified drippings of wax and stains of ink blots. He could smell chicken being cooked downstairs, and the smell of alchemical infusions in the room adjacent.

“You could’ve at least warned me.”

Lucian turned his head and looked behind his shoulder at a beautiful, black-haired woman with pale, moonlit skin and stunning hazel eyes, and the sweetest little coy smile as she emerged from behind the wall.

“Freyja,” Lucian sighed and before he could take a step, the woman walked up to him and kissed him. He melted into her, finding the hem of her blouse and sliding his fingers up her spine, the soft scent of cotton and raspberries inundating his nostrils. He breathed into her shoulder as they embraced.

“I haven’t seen you in a month,” she whispered. “I missed you.”

Lucian could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

One wrong move and your family will suffer the consequences.

He didn’t want to cry. He’d never cried in front of anyone.

“Freyja…” he stepped back from the woman, his hands shaking. “It’s over.”

The woman blinked. “Wait, you…what?”

“We can’t be together, alright? I thought I could…hold on to you for far longer but…” Lucian breathed through flared nostrils as his voice broke. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Freyja said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.

“A year of my life…” she chuckled to herself. “Granted, while mine is not as important as yours, it’s still a year. Where I thought,” she turned away from Lucian, crossing her arms. “I thought…maybe there was a chance. I was foolish to think so.”

He shuddered .“Not anymore.”

Frejya stood almost as tall as Lucian, her eyes watering. “You said you loved me.”

Lucian closed his eyes as she spoke with the softest of whispers. “I…don’t.”

The woman smirked. “I never thought you’d lie to me so blatantly. Who told you to do this? The Queen? The King?”

“No, it’s of my own volition—”

“Is it? After countless nights telling me you wish you could watch the sun rise with me every day for the rest of our lives?”

Lucian’s stomach twisted into knots. “After my mother nearly died, Freyja. After my sister disappeared. After I realized that if I want my family to even just exist, I can’t be seen with you. I’m sorry, but I can’t love you without condemning my entire family, or invalidate the reason I even matter in the first place—”

“So this is about the Crown. Nothing to do with how you actually feel—”

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” Lucian’s voice trembled. “Not if it destroys everything my family’s built. It’s over, Freyja. Don’t make this difficult.”

“Who do they want you with?” She asked quietly.

“Czariya Jeggare.”

Freyja laughed to herself. “Do you love her?”

“Of course not. Maybe I’ll learn to love her, I don’t know. Maybe love isn’t the point.”

Freyja traced the tear that had escaped his turquoise eyes, down to his jawline to his collarbone, and to the moon tattoo on his chest. “They built you a cage.”

“Don’t…start…with that ‘gilded cage’ metaphor bullshit. I’ve had a far better life than my mother or my father, or my aunts and uncles.”

“Do you? There’s a target painted on your back and it will never go away.”

“I know. But that’s all I’ve known. I can live with it.” He took a deep breath as the sound of clanging swords flickered into his mind. “But I’d rather not paint a target on yours. I’ve seen what happens when love gets in the way of politics. I’m not going to subject my children to grief the way that my father has.”

“Your father is a good man.”

“He is. He really is. He wanted a future of prosperity for his children. But it was his and my mother’s dream, not Korvosa’s. At least with the Jeggares it’ll—-“

“—keep the Royal Family on good terms with Korvosa’s other Royal Family. Distill the Shoanti side for future generations— you’ve told me this before.” Freyja sighed. “That’s what my mom hoped when she slept with my dad. And well,” she glanced at her face in the mirror on her vanity table. “It worked.”

“If we marry, the nobility are going to find out eventually. Especially if we’ve slighted them an arrangement with a noble girl. They’ll sniff out any dirt they can find to bring you down. And it won’t just be them. Once everyone find out who you’re connected to, the Quahs living South of South Shore will disagree too.”

Freyja rolled her eyes, and Lucian could see more tears forming.

“I’ve never even spoken to my mom’s Quah. I don’t speak Shoanti in front of anyone except you. I look more Chelaxian than most of the people in Cheliax— isn’t that enough? Just because the Lyrune and Sklar-quah are always at odds?”

“Your uncle is the Chief of the Sklar-Quah, Freyja.”

“So what? I don’t give a shit, nor have I ever met Kraj..Kruj…see? I don’t even remember his name—”

“Krojun Eats-What-He-Kills.”

“Yeah, whatever. Mom threw me into Dad’s lap as soon as I was born. Made up some lie that I’m his sister’s daughter and my parents died in some accident back in Cheliax, blah blah blah— just so I couldn’t have the thought of meeting him. Dad met him once, and said Krojun was the epitome of the Shoanti stereotype. Brash, loud-mouthed—”

Lucian scoffed. “You’ve just proved my point.”

He reached into his inside jacket pocket, and pulled out a vial of orange liquid that radiated a soft aura. An Elixir of Amnesia.

“Is this really how it ends?” Freyja whispered. “Not even a memory of our time together?”

“You pose a risk,” he replied coldly, placing the vial on her palm. “I can’t have you say anything outside this room. Not to your closest friends. No one.”

The woman bit her lip, clutching the vial in her hand. “I’m not important enough to be interrogated, Lucian.”

“Stop…saying you’re not good enough. You have always been more than enough.”

“Clearly not enough to keep me around.”

“Don’t…” Lucian stepped away from her and looked at the myriad of books and scrolls on the bookcases lining the walls. “Just…drink it. For both our sakes. I’m not going to ask again.”

He waited. He didn’t want to look at her. Not until she looked at him like she would a stranger on the street.

“Goodbye, my love,” she said in Shoanti.

He closed his eyes as he heard her drink. It was never going to work out. Foolish of him to think it could when it had begun. When Sasha was always the center of attention, there had always been a sliver of hope in his young, optimistic mind.

It never worked out that smoothly. Not in this city.

He turned back to look at her, and she stared blankly at him with furrowed brows. Another click of his boots, and she was gone, replaced by the boxes and bins of the storage room.

He sat in silence, for what felt like an hour, until he had nothing but exhaustion in his body.

“Get over it, Luce. Get used to it,” he breathed, wiping his eyes on his organza silk sleeve. “It’s done. It’s over. You did this for Mom and Dad. You’ll…you’ll thank yourself in the end.”

He had to catch his breath— something that not even a five mile run could force him to do. And he laughed quietly to himself— he’d taught himself to laugh when the situation proved too hard on his psyche.

He left a tear stain where he had wiped. “Shit.”

Lucian straightened his posture and opened the door, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Hello, nephew.”

Lady Catherine Grey stood at the doorway. At 5’2″ and lighter than most, Lucian could easily throw her. Then he would easily get a bolt through his neck.

He took a deep, rattling breath. “Auntie, long time, no see.”

CHAPTER TWO

Little Talks

Lucian and Aunt Cat took the nearest room, a drawing room with sketches of exotic plants that Lucrezia had read about, with three soft chaise lounge chairs and a coffee table. True to procedure, Aunt Cat took the chair between the door and the arched windows. Lucian took the chair farthest from both, and closest to the secret panic room behind the darkwood bookcase.

“Spend a lot of your time in the closet lately?”

Aunt Cat was always quick to a sarcastic quip, and Lucian noticed as of late that Catriona and Genevive were hopping on the snark bandwagon with gusto. Still, out of all his honorary aunts, Cat had always been Lucian’s favorite. She and his mother had been close since the days of Ileosa’s tyranny, and she’d supported their family when Drisaine had become Queen. It was the kind of unapologetic loyalty that Lucian admired.

Still, it had its disadvantages— Aunt Cat was the Royal Family’s go-to inquisitor to solve problems and make sure that any rumors or inflammatory activities directed towards the royal family were squashed as soon as possible. That meant she knew everything about the Bromathan children— their schedules, their acquaintances, their health— Lucian was certain they had a record of every spell and wand the Grey had used on him and his siblings from the day they were born. His father’s job was to protect the Queen, his darling wife, but between her and the eight children still living within Castle Korvosa, security had escalated after the first assassination attempt. By the time the second set of assassins had tried and failed, the Black Knight protocol had been implemented to ensure the children’s complete safety.

“It’s hard to get some privacy in this house. Sometimes all I can get is a closet. Or the pantry. Or the bathroom,” Lucian replied sardonically.

A flicker of humour crossed Cat’s lips, “Oh? You know I hate cramped spaces. They’re stifling.”

Lucian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah… Aunt Viv told us about that. She made Lucrezia cry at lunch. Tea? Orange juice?”

“I would love a glass of orange juice with ice.”

Lucian stroked the Master Senate Aid badge inside his pocket, sending the shortest message he could to Alexandross. Cat Grey. Orange juice. Ice. Drawing Room A. “It’s coming,” he informed the blue and silver-clad Cardinal.

The Senate Aide badges were based on a design from Taldor, where senators from the affluent families had a brooch attuned to all their aides or servants to send telepathic messages and know the approximate direction and distance of all the servants equipped with the badge. This was both a blessing and a curse— on one hand, Lucian knew exactly how to avoid running into the servants, who—as far as he and his siblings knew—reported everything they saw and heard to their parents and Aunt Cat. On the other hand, if Lucian took it off, alarms would go off to the Queensguard. If he failed to reply, the alarms would go off to the Queensguard. And Amarice was almost, if not just as scary, as Aunt Cat.

Lucian brewed on the logistics while they waited for Alexandross to arrive. He’d tried a couple of times to link the telepathic messages to an item that he could take off freely, but it was a scope of magic beyond his education.

The small woman stared at him with a knowing look; the boy had taken after the King-Consort, but he was just like his mother on the inside— smart, cunning, retrospective, self-aware. Lucian never talked much compared to his twin sisters— always a contemplative, brooding type. But he was also just like his father— impulsive, spontaneous, unpredictable— and she knew deep down the two sides were constantly battling for dominance.

Orange juice arrived in a small glass cup, one of the many fruits imported from the Mwangi Expanse, and kept fresh with spells by the Head Chef. Tea also arrived— Lucian’s favorite, juniper with honey— but as Alexandross set the cup down before him, Aunt Cat scanned it for poison with a divination spell. He looked down at the beads on his bracelet that also functioned to do the same— none of them glowed.

Lucian sipped his tea and tried to keep his visage neutral. It hadn’t been much more than an hour since he’d let Freyja go, but the decision had been in his mind for weeks, aggravated by the assassination attempt and his new role as Crown Prince. It tore at him from the inside. Unlike all the noble girls, Freyja loved him despite the Crown and wanted nothing but his company. Of course, being with her was a risk. He’d met her at a restaurant and managed to sneak a note into his used napkin for her to read when she took his plate away. Not exactly the classiest move, but it had miraculously worked. She had been the closest thing to freedom Lucian had managed to find for himself. And now she was gone.

Cat stared at him intently with a knowing look. “So, are you going to tell me why you stood up Adria today? Or do I need to keep making you squirm first?”

Lucian’s train of thought snapped back to the Material Plane, where Cat sat with her juice in one hand, her raven’s head walking stick in the other.

Here comes the interrogation, he thought. “Would you believe I had something spontaneous to do that’s not on a schedule? It was exhilarating, finding a space between private tutors and sword lessons and ribbon cutting and horn-blowing—”

“Except you didn’t make it to the sword lesson. When the Prince of Korvosa does not appear at his scheduled outings, people grow concerned.”

Fuck. Vipond, what the hell did you tell her?! Part of him regretted asking the simple manservant to cover up for him— he’d known it wasn’t going to fly past Cat, even if it had wings.

“You’re a Royal. Your life is a schedule.”

Lucian sipped his tea and smiled at her. “Well, you have nothing to worry about. It just so happens that I’ve gotten rid of one of my personal extracurriculars, so I won’t miss future sword lessons. See?” He somehow found the strength for his strained smile to reach his eyes. “Better for everyone.”

Cat narrowed her eyes at him.

Shit.

“How self-sacrificing of you… Do be sure to explain that to Adria when you next see her.”

Self-sacrifice, Lucian thought bitterly, staring at the two signet rings on his left hand. Me and everybody with the Bromathan name.

“I’m sure she’ll be glad to know that your extra-curricular horn-blowing lessons have been cancelled so you can spend less time in the closet.” Cat bit her lower lip to stop herself from laughing.

Lucian looked away, smiling. He was glad that she still had a sense of humor after all these years, despite everything. “I’ll make it up to her, I promise. Please don’t think I wasn’t…disappointed in myself. Especially since it’s led you here.”

Cat grinned wickedly. “You’re only saying that because you’ve been caught, dear nephew. You just made the mistake of making one too many excuses regarding things in which I’m involved. Catriona has covered for you before, and so has Genevive—”

“More than likely they straight up ratted me out for their own amusement.” Lucian crossed his arms. “They’re taking after you, Auntie. One day I’ll walk into dinner and those two will have their own ravenhead canes to smack my shins with any chance they get.”

Cat chuckled. Lucian drank the last of his tea and stared out at the travertine.

Goodbye, my love.

Freyja’s words repeated in his head. He fought back the tears, but his nose had a mind of its own, and he reached for the handkerchief box in front of him to blow it.

“Are you feeling well? You’ve been sick a lot lately…missing dinners and functions…”

“I’m under a lot of stress, Auntie. You know that.”

Cat nodded slowly in understanding. “How is your involvement with O.P.A.L. going? It’d be nice to see you at a function for once.”

Lucian could feel the sarcasm radiate from her. “I like being more behind the scenes. The planning and organizing and whatnot. It’s always been like that. Sasha was always the face of the foundation, and I was the brains behind it. Well, Mom is, but she can’t do all the work with everything else she’s got. The kids flocked to Sasha like a Mother Hen.”

“Yes, they absolutely adored her,” she reminisced fondly.

Lucian’s heart ached. “I guess I just…can’t fill the role like she can. How she managed the energy to be at so many functions…was impressive.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Cat’s gaze flicked down to his boots, “Perhaps those boots of teleportation could help with that…”

Lucian stopped his eyes from widening and his heart from racing— a skill he had learned from watching interrogations at Longacre. A skill that had kept the naysayers from reading his reaction. In front of Aunt Cat…there was a 40% chance he could convince her he hadn’t just almost shat himself.

“They’re…not mine. I borrowed them from Dad’s treasury room. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s let me borrow things before.”

“Has he?”

“He hasn’t really cleaned these ones though.”

“I can tell. Your father has a way of breaking in his boots.” Cat suppressed a shudder.

Lucian smirked. “You mean his sexcapades in the Cinderlands?”

Cat cringed. “You could say that… but not out loud where any nobility can hear you.”

“There’s nobody else in this room but us,” Lucian replied, then hesitated. “Right?”

Cat looked around casually with her one amber eye. “No. When did you hear about your father’s…?”

“Aunt Viv,” Lucian answered, suppressing a smile as his aunt sighed to herself. “Said before he married mom he dipped into a bit of ‘local cuisine’, as she so eloquently put it.”

Cat hid her disgust. “Of course.”

“Nothing stops her “History Lessons”, even if she’s only had one drink. Though I could have done without her telling me about Dad’s… activities. To be fair, she knows to only do it away from the younger ones. Usually at dessert, when all the servants have gone to bed.”

Cat frowned, “Likely because she understands that you three have enough common sense to know when, and in front of whom, to keep your mouths shut.”

Lucian laughed, but he didn’t try to hide the emptiness of it. “Years of cautionary tales, warnings, never being alone, and etiquette lessons will do that to you.”

Cat cast him a pitying look, “The three of us all did some rather stupid things when we were younger…those “History Lessons” are so that you learn from our mistakes and don’t repeat them. There is a lot less wiggle room on the stage we all play on.”

“What wiggle room?” Lucian muttered bitterly into his tea cup.

“Exactly.”

Shit, of course she heard that.

Cat sighed and made a show of relaxing her shoulders, “Well, I just stopped by to check on you. Make sure you weren’t somewhere dangerous. I will be glad to report to your parents that you are safe inside your own home… cooking chicken and mixing alchemical tinctures.”

His heart skipped a beat. He’d forgotten her acute sense of smell. “As safe as I could be,” he added.

The more she smiled, the more he wished he’d stopped speaking.

Cat flicked her cane to indicate his footwear, “You have dinner with your tutors at 5 pm. Make sure you return those boots where they belong.”

“I will,” Lucian confirmed.

“And Turing will escort you there by dimension door.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have Black Knights posted outside—”

“—Aunt Cat—”

“—and you’re not to leave the reserved room of the establishment unless you absolutely have to. There shouldn’t be a reason to.”

Lucian’s exhale rattled. “I won’t.”

Cat smiled coyly, “Good. I’m glad you understand why I do this. It takes some weight off your parents, and I’m glad to help them.”

“I do. I’m thankful. I just think it’s…” Lucian stood up the same time she did, and watched her look out the window and past the closed door. “…a bit much.”

“It’s always a bit much. Until it isn’t,” Cat replied darkly. “I wasn’t there to help your father during this third attempt and it nearly cost us your life and his, and if it weren’t for Amarice—”

“Aunt Cat…please, stop,” Lucian begged weakly. “Please.”

He hadn’t told anyone the truth about that night. He knew the more she mentioned it, the more his guilt stabbed at him like a bayonet.

CHAPTER THREE

Sister Dearest

“Her Royal Highness, Princess Catriona Artemisia Bromathan.”

“That’ll be all, Chives.”

Catriona waited for her butler to close the door behind him. Just then, the back entrance of the wing opened and Alexandross stepped inside.

“His Royal Highness, Prince Lucian Vald—-”

“Thank you, Alex,” Lucian reached for the doorknob and closed the door before the butler could finish. His muffled voice could still be heard behind the door.

“…Valdur Bromathan.”

Catriona and Lucian snorted.

“Hey,” the Princess greeted. Her Shoanti was far from perfect, but her father had told her the accent she had when she spoke was “adorable”—- whatever that meant.

“What do you want?” Lucian replied back in Shoanti, unbuttoning his coat. In the year that he’d been around Freyja, it had become glaringly obvious that his accent had improved while he tried to teach her the language, though he had successfully blamed it on attending his father’s meetings in the Shoanti Gathering Room.

“Are you coming to our birthday party tonight? Everyone’s getting dressed. Genevive is helping out Lucrezia and Persephone break in their corsets.”

“I told you my meeting was going to run a bit into the night,” Lucian answered, dodging Duchess’ scurrying little body that dared to trip him. “Besides, I don’t know if I’m going.”

Catriona stopped and pouted.

Lucian looked away in time; his sisters had a knack for convincing people to do their bidding with mere expressions alone. Even the Queen herself couldn’t resist her twin daughters’ charms, and his mother was known as “The Malachite Queen”, a steel-faced, no-bullshit woman who did not take anyone or anything lightly.

Catriona knew just as well, and skipped in front of him, continuing to pout.

“Stop that,” Lucian reverted to Taldane. “You’re not six anymore, and I’ve never found it cute.”

“Pssh,” Catriona picked Duchess up and cradled the dog as they both walked down the entrance hall. “Don’t be such a grumpus, Luce. It’s not like all of us were born in the same month, it’s been, what, four months since the last birthday party?”

“It’s burning me out.”

“Mom said it’d benefit us if you did attend.”

“Mom says that about a lot of things.”

“She said for you to strike up a meaningful conversation with Czariya Jeggare.”

Lucian rolled his eyes away from her peripheral vision. “Her and I have met before, what do we have to talk about that we haven’t talked about?”

“Uh, that her older brother proposed to Adria?”

Lucian raised his eyebrows. A part of him felt a twinge of jealousy; Adria had been his sparring partner for years. “I’m glad to see it went through.”

“She’ll be there with Antin too. You should congratulate them—”

“I could,” Lucian said matter-of-factly, turning the corner. Just outside the hall’s windows, he could see the ever-looming shadow of the Black Knights, watching. Always watching. “But I’m honestly just really tired.”

“Lucian—”

“No.”

“What will people say when the future King doesn’t show up to half of the noble gatherings—?”

“Oh. My. Gods— Iona, who gives a flying fuck what they think?!”

His sister’s jaw dropped, dumbstruck. Duchess wriggled free of her grip and scuttled across the floor and hid behind her gown, whimpering.

“What in fresh hell is wrong with you lately—?”

“Are you blind? It’s only been three weeks since I nearly got my head cut off—”

“You said that the incident was done and over with! Were you just pretending that it wasn’t affecting you? Because it looks like it is—wait!”

Lucian found the nearest empty room and slammed the door shut as Catriona followed him inside. Instinctually, the two of them stood behind the column blocking the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Luce, you don’t always have to pretend that everything is fine when it isn’t,” his sister started in a calm, near-quiet voice. “Not in front of your family anyway.”

“Does everything I do and feel and think have to be confided to everyone? Why all the fucking time? Do I not get my own personal space and privacy?”

“You confided in Sasha—”

“Everyone confided in Sasha! She had nothing but good things to say!”

“By the gods, calm down. What is this really about? I know…I’m nothing like her,” Catriona took a deep breath, “but I want to help you.”

“Those people who come to all these parties are probably the same snakes who planned Mom’s assassination,” Lucian hissed. “And why wouldn’t they? Half the time they question her motives and her rulings and the other half is them hating our father for being half-Shoanti—”

“You have no proof that any of them did it. The last assassination was apparently from Cheliax—”

“And it failed. They probably needed people closer to the throne to carry it out successfully.”

“I’m not going to confirm that because I don’t know myself,” Catriona said, lowering her voice even further. “But Dad’s increased security ten-fold and Aunt Cat said she’d be there to help—”

“Of course she’ll be there,” Lucian sighed.

“Lucian, please. You swore an oath when Sasha gave you the Crown. Are you trying to break that oath?”

“No. I’m tired of having to appease a dozen nobles who only want their daughters to marry me for power. I’m tired of the pageantry, the perpetual circle of artifice, the fake smiling and the fake compliments and pretending I give shit about their stupid hobbies and where they travelled to last week and how much their dresses cost to custom-make by some hoity-toity seamstress from Taldor… I’m tired of being afraid to do anything I want to do for myself. I’m tired of not being able to take a shit without someone knowing. I’m tired of not being allowed to be tired!”

Catriona sighed. “Lucian…that’s your job. You trade some freedom for the power to change an entire city. To change a person’s life. To leave a lasting legacy in your name. You knew this, signing that oath. We live in absolute luxury that most normal people can never even experience a sliver of. You don’t know what it’s like to starve, or be without medicine, or freeze on the street, or sell your body to survive. The only toil your hands have ever experienced was sparring with our family sword. You get to have both your parents who love you unconditionally. You have us.”

“I know,” he croaked, leaning his head against the column. “I’m just…I needed to whinge about it.”

“Well, I’m glad to have been here to help,” Catriona said with a genuine sweetness in her voice. “Now, please get dressed.” Her eyes widened as her line of sight found her brother’s feet. She pointed at them with both of her newly-manicured hands. “What are those?!”

Lucian looked down at his shoes— he had forgotten to change out of the boots of teleportation. They fit to size, and it was almost like he wasn’t wearing them at all. “Shit. Dad isn’t home yet, is he?”

Catriona raised an eyebrow. “Quarterly council meeting with the Skoan-Quah. Those ones…take time.”

“No kidding,” Lucian tried to hide the relief in his voice. “I’ll go change.”

“Good,” Catriona picked Duchess up and clapped a soft hand on her brother’s cheek. “Thank you for doing this.”

The King-Consort’s Treasury was a trove of rare items that Lucian’s father had accumulated during the reign of Ileosa, and then some. Whenever Aunt Viv stopped by for dinner—usually without warning—she’d hand a few bags of holding to Kokip and Aunt Cat with a coy little smile, which usually meant that whatever was in that bag was either extremely dangerous, extremely volatile, or extremely valuable— usually two out of the three. Lucian was allowed inside the first room with his father, where the boots were usually kept among other accoutrements, but he knew that past the first room were two other rooms, sealed off with alarms….

Lucian opened the first room with the key he had been given on his fourteenth birthday. Half-dressed in his garb for tonight’s birthday celebrations, he slipped the key inside and turned counterclockwise until he heard a click…and another click…and soon a whirling chorus of disengaging locks could be heard from the other side of the door. With a heavy thud, the door swung open and the candles on the wall scones lit on cue.

“Boots…boots…” Lucian looked around the vast room as he untied his father’s shoes. “Oh— there.”

After replacing the boots back in their rightful home on the shelf, Lucian stared at the wall where he knew the second room was hidden. “Hrmm…”

He grabbed an old pair of brown clogs next to the teleportation boots. If he had speculated correctly…perhaps he could finally do it…

Half a minute later, Lucian meandered clumsily to the far wall, humming to himself as he walked past a painting by Salvatore Scream and a floppy, shapeless hat on a pedestal.

“I’ll just…lean on this here…” he said coolly, standing against the wall with crossed arms. He felt the room behind it shudder. He leaned forward a little further until his elbow was stopped by an invisible handle. “Oh? What’s this?”

He paused, frozen as he heard the footsteps of a manservant outside the first Treasury door, then resumed what he was doing soon after the footsteps trailed off. He pressed on the handle with three fingers, and with a light twist, the door opened.

“Alrighty…let’s mosey.”

On command, the clogs lifted Lucian off the ground by about a foot, and he entered the second room, gliding past the seal on the floor that would have alerted his parents if he hadn’t spent a good number of years figuring a way in.

“Holy Calistria on a flagpole…”

Lucian had never seen this room before. It had a strange, acrid smell, but tolerable at least, and the closer he got to the far wall, the more he felt like he was going to fall asleep. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked around in awe.

Rows and rows of different belts, vestments, necklaces, gems, ioun stones, piles of platinum and gold, robes on hangers, pouches of powder, and endless jars full of magical components filled the room. Though Lucian had never been all that magically-inclined, he could feel something inside him pulsate as he floated past certain items. They each had a small label in Common, written in a pretentious hard-to-read cursive that reminded him of noble wedding invitations.

“Truesight Goggles…Crown of Blasting…Necklace of Fireballs…holy shit,” he stopped in front of a pair of massive brown boots upon a thick slab of marble. “Boots of the…Mastodon?”

He passed by the rings section, comparing his own platinum signet ring to the ones on the hand-shaped pedestals. “Ring of Revelation…Ring of Ectoplasmic Invigoration—surprised Aunt Viv didn’t keep that— oooh, Ring of Shooting Stars…” he turned the corner and found a row of hats. “Stormlord’s Helm…Mask of Giants…gross. Cursed.” He avoided the gaze of the humanoid engraved into the mask. “Batrachian helm…Crown of Swords…”

Lucian stared at the radiant Crown of steel bedecked with miniature mithral swords longer than the other items. His mother had worn one of these during the Grand Council meetings since the assassination attempt. “Headband of the Tainted Orobourous…heh, ‘taint’.” He quickly cleared his throat, remembering he was no longer twelve. “Greater Hat of…Disguise….Extended?”

He squinted at the meager little feathered cap that could have been easily missed amongst the shiny, oddly shaped trinkets. Aunt Viv had spoken about these, how they could allow the wearer to assume the form of any humanoid of similar size…

Don’t, idiot.

Lucian stared…and could not stop staring…

Aunt Cat will find out.

He frowned. “Not this time.”

Yes, this time. Every time.

Freyja’s face, brimming with sorrow, flickered in and out of his mind. He clenched his fist. “I need to breathe.”

You’ll drown.

“Shut up,” Lucian snapped. He picked the hat up by the brim and placed it in the inside pocket of his coat and floated back to the first room without looking back.

CHAPTER FOUR

Truth Hurts

Catriona and Genevive’s 16th Birthday party was nothing short of indulgent and blissfully orchestrated— they were around the age that most noble girls would be approached for dances or considered for courtships, and the dance floor was the battlefield on which love could unexpectedly bloom. Of course, the King and Queen already had offers from the other noble houses, most of which they held onto for “future consideration”, as they knew the twins were quite unconventional in their ways.

It was second nature for Lucian to speak to the noble families with the eloquence of a nobleman. He’d had the finest private education offered to him by the Leroungs and Zenderholms, and hundreds of hours of discipline from Neolandus and of course, osmosis of habits picked up from watching the monthly Grand Council meetings and some high-profile trials in Longacre. At this point, it was a thoughtless job, and on some days Lucian felt like a soul trapped in a pseudo-human with its own willful machinations. All he could do was listen to himself speak and laugh as if he found every joke funny, and to pretend everything any of the noble girls said to him was the most interesting part of his day. But at the end of the long night, as the party would be winding down, Lucian would be unforgivably exhausted.

Czariya Jeggare was waiting for him, of course. In her blue and gold gown with little ribbons and tulle to give it volume. Every time they spoke, Lucian could tell most of her responses were meticulously choreographed, no thanks to her father Xerxes’ masterful instructions. She was pretty….sort of. Xerxes’ wife looked eerily similar to the Queen, black hair and blue eyes, skin like alabaster…and it had somewhat diluted down to her daughter. If Lucian squinted, he could swear he was talking to Lucrezia or Persephone, who had taken after their mother’s Chelaxian features, but unlike Czariya, his younger siblings were hitting six feet in height, and they hadn’t finished growing.

“I’d like to congratulate your brother, Lady Czariya,” Lucian said after the usual back and forths were exchanged with regards to “how have you been” and “what’s new” and “nice weather”. “I’ve heard he’s proposed to Lady Adria Grey.”

“Mm, yes! Adria’s a wonderful addition to our family,” the girl chirped with big, gleaming eyes. “A flourishing swordsman as well! Antin said he’d never seen anyone like her with a rapier, especially at her age.”

“That sounds like Adria,” Lucian replied, looking around the room for a flash of white-blonde hair amidst the many brunettes.

“She talks a lot about you too, how you helped her with her techniques.”

Lucian stirred. “Sometimes. We all help each other.”

“That means you must be incredible with a sword,” Czariya crooned, eyeing him with a look he’d seen Catriona and Genevive give to the tall, well-chiseled actors they met backstage after operas.

“I’m proficient,” he replied shortly, taking a sip of his drink. He looked at the Jeggare girl over the rim of his glass. She, like most girls her age, were stir-crazy and looking for an early experience before marriage, but Queen Drisaine had warned her oldest son about giving in to such impulses. It’s not like he hadn’t heard of gold dust before, what with Aunt Viv’s anecdotes about its flagrant and widespread use down in the Dead Warrens during the rebellion.

“I really like talking to you, Your Royal Highness.”

The corners of Lucian’s mouth moved up on their own, like he was possessed by some aristocratic demon. “And I to you, my Lady.”

Just behind Czariya’s overly-coiffed hair, Antin Jeggare and Adria were mingling with a few of Antin’s friends. Adria was in a silver gown, her hair like gold silk over her strong shoulders. Lucian took only a second. It was all he wanted, really.

Adria’s piercing blue eyes met his.

I shouldn’t have waited, Lucian thought, gripping his glass much harder than he intended.

The young Lady Grey smiled and waved at him, and he waved back. Antin noticed just as well and whispered into his new fiancee’s ear. They started to walk over.

“…Oh, speak of the devil, there’s Antin and Adria now. Big Brother!”

It was no surprise that most of the ballroom was staring where Lucian was standing. The Crown Prince, two Jeggares, the Sable Company Commandant’s granddaughter… Lucian could see his mother’s blue-clad form near the two thrones on the raised dais, where she and his father took their places. He didn’t even have to look in his parent’s direction to know they were expecting his best behavior.

Lucian shook Antin’s hand and grinned, “Lord Antin, I’ve been wanting to congratulate you and my cousin! Love is in the air, and from two exemplary members of the court.”

Antin chuckled. “You flatter me, Your Royal Highness—”

“Oh, not at all, I call them like I see them, naturally.” Lucian and Antin laughed in unison, and Lucian could tell Jeggare was trying not to laugh louder than him.

Adria smiled at him knowingly; Lucian and her were always quite casual during sparring practice, and for them to see each other in high society mode was amusing.

“We were just talking about horses. Czariya is quite fond of horses,” Antin said, fondly motioning to his sister. “She got her first colt when she was five. An appaloosa gelding I believe, name of—”

“—-Captain’s Wheel,” she answered.

“Lovely hocks, good lines on both sides,” Antin took a sip of his wine.

Catriona and Genevive’s eyes darted to their older brother, somehow overhearing the conversation from three crowds away.

“Yes… quite,” Lucian racked his brain for an answer. He wasn’t the biggest fan of horses— that was more of Sasha’s thing. But he had visited Harse a number of times and took four months of intermittent study on animal husbandry. “I have a blue roan myself, Scepter Gold. Born into the family from two Cavalier bloodlines.”

“Impressive.”

“Horses are quite majestic creatures,” Adria said, her eyes sparkling. “I wish we had more of them in Harse.”

“Yes,” Czariya added, sipping her juice.

“Mm, yes, quite.”

Oh my god, can I please go? Lucian screamed in his head.

The conversation went on for twenty minutes too long before dancing began, and pairs of nobles made their way to the dancefloor to take part in the Boulangeries. Some of the noble girls, as far as Lucian could tell, were trying to get close to his spot in the room so they’d at least get an arm link or two out of the Prince.

As the dancing began, Lucian began to zone out, remembering the Greater Hat of Disguise he had tucked away inside his goose down pillow. He couldn’t risk anyone finding it, and he had successfully switched the hat with a similar looking one from the pile of miscellaneous items in the main room of his father’s treasury. The possibilities he could have, and the things he could do…under the guise of someone else…

He linked arms with Czariya, who gazed up at him with obvious bedroom eyes.

Ugh, he smiled back.

He linked arms with Adria and turned about the dancefloor with her, while Czariya went the opposite direction with her brother. It always seemed so silly to him, talking out loud during these dances, but most of the pairings took to it as a way for witty exchanges with a time limit. Speed dating, if you will. He looked down at Adria as they took a circle around the perimeter of the room.

“So…you finally said yes,” Lucian observed in a low voice.

“Of course,” Adria smiled. “You know I’ve always liked him.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t show up to practice today. I was hoping to have told you then—”

They unlinked arms and switched back to their original partners. He didn’t take his eyes off Adria as he and Czariya took their turn around the other side of the room.

Left leg…right leg…turn…overhand, lock arm, dip… Lucian chanted cloyedly in his head, having had to memorize all the latest dances. Rotate, down and up and—

His arm left Czariya’s and returned to Adria’s.

“— but you didn’t show up. Cici said you were predisposed.”

“I…had things to take care of.”

The noblemen took the girls by the hips and lifted them to the air with a turn; Lucian lifted Adria like a feather, and Czariya glanced over to him as he executed the move with such masculine grace.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you,” Lucian apologized quietly.

“Well, sword lessons might be taking the backburner now that I have to plan for the wedding and move my stuff, and spend more time with Antin’s family.”

Lucian’s heart ached. “I see.”

“It’s not like you don’t have a full schedule anyway.”

“Yeah.”

Lucian never wanted to admit it. He’d always thought Adria was beautiful. But she was from House Grey. Queen Drisaine knew that if the Bromathans were to remain in power, he’d have to take on a Major Noble House that had already established itself in Korvosa. House Grey and his were still under quite the scrutiny from the Grand Council. But Adria could’ve been…should’ve been…

Lucian felt a strange sensation inside of him, a frustration he needed to quell. “It’s always about timing,” his father would say. And his was historically piss poor.

“My Lord?”

Lucian blinked. The dance was over, and Adria had already gone off with Antin to another group of Leroungs and Zenderholms. Czariya pursed her lips at him as the dancefloor dissipated.

“I need to…go,” Lucian said absent-mindedly.

“What?” Czariya furrowed her eyebrows. “The night just started— Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.”

He turned on his heel and made his way past the colonnade into the gardens. As expected, the Jeggare girl followed him with desperation in her step.

“Your Royal Highness!” she gasped for breath in her corset.

Lucian stopped by the hedge-lined fountain where a statue of Sarenrae made its home, glowing with enchanted lights. The nearest couple were over by the small grotto, making out in their own little world. And the Black Knights…they were around. He could tell.

“It’s been…almost four months…” Czariya started, almost muttering.

“Has it?”

“Yes. It seems you’re not very interested in me…”

Lucian’s heart raced. “I…I am.”

He sounded convincing enough, but Czariya was a Jeggare.

Lucian…please, he could hear his mother say.

Behind him, Czariya sniffled into a handkerchief.

Are you seriously crying? Lucian rolled his eyes, still turned away. She was only two years younger than him, but the aura she gave off reminded him of a petulant brat.

You have a responsibility, my son….

Lucian closed his eyes, and focused on the task at hand. Now’s not the time to think with your heart, idiot.

He turned towards Czariya, who was stowing her handkerchief back in her chain purse. She looked at the Prince and gasped; she had never seen him look at her like that before. The moonlight gleamed against his eyes, casting shadows on his prominent cheekbones, and his lips were slightly parted as he focused on her— just her.

“Czariya Jeggare,” he said quietly, walking towards her. “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed distant lately. It’s not becoming of a Prince to treat a Lady such as yourself with the degree of lassitude I’ve mistakenly conveyed. It is my intent to speak to you on a regular basis, and it is my hope you intend to do the same. If you may?”

The girl’s eyes watered and her mouth let slip a small, “Wow…”

Lucian’s eyes flickered up behind her. Adria and Antin were by the colonnade, holding hands. He felt sick.

“Yes—” Czariya said sweetly. “I would very much like that.”

“Good,” Lucian smiled at her, took her face gently in his gloved hands and kissed her.

Nothing. He felt absolutely nothing. He would’ve rather kissed Duchess. Or Alexandross. Or a night slipper. But he didn’t dare show that. He leaned into her and slid his hands down to her waist, and gripped her by the hips. She gasped into a second kiss and reciprocated enthusiastically, wrapping her arms around his neck as he lifted her off the ground.

Lucian opened one eye and glanced behind Czariya’s trembling form. Adria and Antin were gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Prince and The Frog

Lucian twisted the handle of the double doors into one of the private study rooms. It was only a few hallways down from the Grand Ballroom, and the rooms had become go-tos for Catriona and Genevive to have more private time with guests they particularly enjoyed. One could also share a round or two of Mahjong or specialty cakes from the kitchen.

Czariya shut the door behind them and locked it. Lucian’s pulse elevated as he heard her labored breathing. She walked around him to the large fainting couch with bright purple pillows and sat down, biting her lip.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Lucian asked warily.

Czariya nodded, “I won’t tell anyone. Unless you do.”

“I won’t. Not about…this anyway. Promise?”

Czariya rolled her eyes. “Of course I won’t say anything! I’m not about to make myself look like a common courtesan,” she crossed her legs under her skirt. “Some things are best left for the wedding night.”

Lucian paced in front of her, keeping his distance. He had never seen anyone look so eager to engage in a bit of here or there. “What do you want us to do, then?”

“Celebrate the beginnings of our courtship. Ravish me,” she cooed.

Lucian stopped himself from raising an eyebrow. “I don’t quite understand what that entails.”

“Fine. I’ll do it then.”

Czariya hopped off the lounge and pressed her body against Lucian’s until they were nose to nose. “I’m not as innocent as people think, you know.”

She reached down and hooked a finger around Lucian’s belt. As she pulled his trousers down to his knees, she bit her lip as her hand caressed the front of his undergarments.

“Oh gods, so the rumours are true.”

“What rumours?”

Czariya giggled. “That there’s a reason why there’s so many of you Bromathans. You’ve got the…right tools for the job. Big ones too.”

Lucian tried not to laugh— his natural reaction to incredulity. When he and Freyja messed around, the spark between the two of them was so intense that no intelligible words would escape either of them, only the animalistic cries of pleasure.

But this? It was worse than getting the yearly medical examination at the Grey. At least there, he had zero expectation to return the favor. But Czariya was not the type to back down— not when the carriage had left the party.

“I’m going to suck your thick cock, Your Highness.”

He could hear it in her voice; this was another contrivance she had prepared for, like a doctor going into surgery. She knelt down in front of him and pulled down the last layer of undergarment. She shot him a look of confusion.

Oh, gods. He closed his eyes and imagined Freyja’s naked body, slicked with sweat and afterglow, the puckering of her nipples, the sound of his hips slapping against hers…her labored whimpers into his neck as she climaxed…

He tilted his neck down. Czariya stared up at him, the end of his hard cock inches from her lips. He could tell she was brimming with excitement, but there was a nervousness in her blue-green eyes.

“Do you know what to do?” Lucian asked slowly, afraid of the answer.

Czariya cleared her throat. “Yeah…you put your lips on it and move your head back and forth—”

Are you fucking joking? he thought through an uneasy laugh. “Have you actually…been with anyone?”

Czariya blushed, “No.”

Lucian stepped back, pulling up his undergarments. He didn’t know how he quite felt about being with someone so…pure. Freyja was barely younger than him, and she’d had a wealth of experience from travelling with cohorts. But in Korvosa, it was an unofficial custom that one who had already besmirched her body to a man who did not think it wise to marry her, was not worthy of marriage to Royalty. He suddenly understood why Czariya looked so confused. Xerxes would’ve never let her be with other men, if it meant she were to give herself to her future husband without guilt.

It was as unsavory as it was abusive. Lucian crossed his arms. “Am I…your first kiss?”

Czariya blushed harder. “Yes.”

The Prince regarded her and took a deep sigh. “Czariya…stand up.”

“My virginity is yours, my Lord,” she said bluntly, which caught him off guard. “If you’re serious about me, you’ll be my first and last.”

Yikes, Lucian swallowed. Her naivete repelled him; he had grown up around strong, powerful women who talked back and fought back, and this was exactly the opposite.

She’s not going to stop until you do something.

Anything.

Come on, it’s not like she’s deformed—

FUCK. FINE.

He walked Czariya to the fainting chair by the fireplace and plopped her down onto it. She let out a strange yelp that was neither pain, nor pleasure. Lucian undid his jacquard, and his shirt, but stopped as he noticed the moon tattoo peeking just above the hem of his collar. He kept his shirt on.

“You’ll say nothing,” he whispered.

She beamed. “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

He leaned over her and kissed her neck, bearing his weight down on her. She tried to wrap her legs around him but her legs proved too short for his torso. Lucian unbuttoned her corset, and kissed the soft space between her breasts, the tip of his tongue caressing dangerously close to her nipple.

“Oh…” Czariya croaked, tilting her head back as his lips found the crease above her navel. Lucian stopped as she responded and moved back to her collarbone, nibbling it with soft kisses. Usually, he had to put some effort to get a woman to respond with gusto., but having had none of this before, Czariya took every sensation with a gasp, or a moan, or a little cry, even at the littlest touch. Was this what it would be like on his wedding night? Was this why men wanted this? To feel powerful over their women?

His hand reached up her skirt and traced the lining of her undergarments. She had soaked through her panties onto her petticoat. He slid higher up, until he felt a slight bump. Czariya whimpered. He sucked on the side of her neck, taking care of where he had this thumb. Just as she gasped, he slid his thumb back forth across the bump, pressing down on her stomach with his other hand.

Without warning, Czariya’s face and neck flushed a bright red, and she cried out, arching her back against the couch. Lucian could feel her whole body shake…and her legs tensed and relaxed multiple times as she climaxed for the first time in her life. Lucian looked at her face; tears rolled down her cheeks, and she smiled at him with her eyes half-closed, gasping for air.

“I’ve…I’ve never…”

Lucian retracted his hand and stroked her thigh, feeling the lace of her pantyhose.

“I want…more—”

Knock knock knock.

The youngest Jeggare shot up from the chair like lightning. She clasped a hand to her mouth and looked at the Prince with sheer, unbridled panic. Lucian got up calmly and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Stay calm,” he ordered. He reached for his jacquard and found the brooch pinned to the breast pocket. Room A. Who knocks? Occupied with an acquaintance.

He waited, and the longer the reply took, the more he felt anxiety wash over him. It couldn’t have been Aunt Cat. She took a more…direct approach to things; knocking was hardly her strong suit. It couldn’t have been the Queensguard…Amarice enjoyed yelling and all he could hear was light breathing on the other side. One by one, the responses from his team of seven servants trickled in, stating their locations and what they were doing. None of them were at the door.

Fuck, Lucian hastily put on his jacket, struggling to pull up his pants with his cock still jutting out in full force, fighting for freedom against his trousers. Czariya was holding her breath, trying to stuff her torso back into her ridiculously tight herringbone corset, but it had proven far too complicated to do by herself.

“Lu— uh, I mean, Your Royal Highness—” she mewed in a terrified whisper. “I can’t put my dress back on…”

“Lucy? Are you in here?”

He felt relief at the muffled sound of Catriona and Genevive’s voices from the other side of the door. Not just for his safety, but for what could have transpired had they not cut the tryst short.

“It’s my sisters,” he turned to Czariya, who had sat down with a pillow over her stomach to hide her state of undress. “Stay there.”

He opened the door— Catriona and Genevive were in matching emerald green organza silk dresses with open backs, adorned with ruby-encrusted gold bangles and matching pearl necklaces with dangling little moon charms.

“Need something?” he spoke quietly in Shoanti. He could hear the still lively din of the party not two hallways down.

“Archie Fordyce just proposed to Veronica Zenderholm.”

“Veronica?”

“Lord Louis’ brother-in-law’s sister’s youngest.”

“That’s a stretch,” Lucian noted. Genevive smirked. “And what did she say?”

“Don’t know if you heard the deafening applause from here, but yeah…she pounced on him like a lioness in heat,” Catriona smirked. “I think you should go congratulate them.”

“What are you doing in this room anyway?” Genevive tried to peer over her much taller brother’s shoulder.

“Or more importantly…WHO are you doing in this room?” Catriona quipped with a cheeky grin.

“No one. Now shut up.”

Genevive ducked just enough to see behind his arm. “Ohhhh….”

“You two need to calm down and get laid,” Lucian snapped, the last two words carefully disguised in Shoanti.

“We just did,” they both said in unison. “But everyone knows about us and the Leroung brothers anyway,” Catriona said, crossing her arms. “But you, good Sir…or should I say, naughty boy…”

“We didn’t think you’d actually go take Jeggare’s precious baby girl around the block a few times…”

“I didn’t,” Lucian insisted. “It’s just too loud out there and we wanted to talk—”

Genevive ducked again; Lucian snapped his arm flush with his side to block her view.

“Gasp! You undid her corset, you rapscallion you—”

The twins chittered in simultaneous laughter. Lucian felt the back of his neck grow hot.

“I don’t need this right now. You two idiots pretend nothing happened here.”

“Tell that to her daddy,” Genevive replied. “He’s wondering where she is.”

Lucian peered over his shoulder; it wasn’t just the loosened corset— Czariya’s hair had been pulled from its perfect conglomeration of flowers and ringlets, and her lipstick had smeared and found a second home on Lucian’s lower lip and neck.

“Move aside, you’re gonna need us to fix this.” Genevive tossed a handkerchief to her brother as she motioned for him to step away from the door.

“No.”

“Jeggare’s literally calling out her name in the ballroom, Luce.”

Lucian rolled his eyes and ultimately acquiesced. The two girls spoke calmly to Czariya, redoing her hair and tying her corset back, and even checking her skirt for loose goosefeathers from the tousled pillows.

“We won’t say anything to your parents,” Catriona reassured her, smiling until her dimples peeked through. It was enough to disarm anyone, and the girl smiled back. “We approve of you and our brother together.”

Behind Czariya, wiping his mouth, Lucian glared at his sister.

“We want to see more of you,” Genevive added, reapplying her makeup as tenderly as she could.

“We knew you and him were a smart match from day one, you know. Luce didn’t want to admit it at first—”

“—but we knew.”

Czariya beamed. Lucian rolled his eyes. He knew the twins were doing this on purpose. It didn’t help Czariya’s case that she was so affected by their saccharine acts of altruism, as if she wasn’t born and raised by her sociopathic family to not trust anyone.

Lucian and Czariya exited the room first, and the twins watched from the doorway as the couple walked towards the ballroom.

“He’s getting better, sis,” Catriona commented in Taldane. “Who knows, maybe he’ll genuinely love their offspring too.”

“Come off it,” Genevive said as her older brother and the Jeggare disappeared behind the massive fifteen-foot oak double doors. “You could see it right? He looked relieved to see us. The last time he brought a foreigner home from Persephone’s birthday party he looked ready to murder us for interrupting their debauched act of congress.”

“Hmm…wonder whatever came of Elyssa?” Catriona tilted her head.

“Shipped herself back to Cheliax, last I heard,” her sister replied. “And gods be damned to her entire bloodline if she admitted to House Thrune that she fucked a Bromathan.”

CHAPTER SIX

A Crimson Heart

As the night drew to a final close, nobles flocked back to their horse-drawn carriages waiting at the foot of the mastaba. It was quite the trek, walking in heels down the stairs and ramp, which to the average drunk, seemed to go on for miles. As usual, the Jeggares were one of the last to leave, thanking the many guests for coming, with Adria and Antin lingering by the entrance, waiting for Xerxes to say goodbye.

“Well, my darling daughter,” Xerxes stretched out his arm as his daughter approached, with Lucian trailing a few feet back. The patriarch of House Jeggare had spent the whole night talking to the Queen, who was standing at the foot of the dais in her “festivities” dress of vivid cobalt blue with long drop shoulder sleeves and her hair in a chignon dotted with pearls. She was surrounded by a fifteen-foot radius of ever-present Queensguard, their swords and magic ready to take down any would-be opportunists. Lucian smiled at Amarice, who stood like a statue with her hands folded on top of her sheathed bastard sword’s magnificent hilt. It took the fiery redhead a bit of consideration to produce the tiniest smile she could afford with her professional demeanour.

“Did you enjoy His Royal Highness’ company tonight?” Xerxes bowed to Lucian as the prince stopped next to his mother.

“Yes, Papa,” Czariya chirruped. She curtsied before the Queen. “Your Majesty.”

“She grows more beautiful every year, Lord Jeggare,” Drisaine complimented kindly.

Xerxes chuckled. “I’m sure everyone here—especially the Crown Prince—would agree with that!”

She’s a seven. Seven-point-five, Lucian thought. Czariya glanced back at him and he remembered her idea of dirty talk back at the private room. Six and three-quarters.

Lucian exchanged knowing glances with his mother. She had taught her son how to play the game of politics, and every little stare or cock of the head was part of the code the Bromathans had developed to master the art of subtlety. She wanted him to compliment the girl. Fine.

“I do enjoy Lady Czariya’s company very much,” Lucian said, deepening his voice slightly. “Her charms and pure heart have captured me, if I may be honest.”

“Oh, Your Royal Highness, I’m so glad you see her in such a light,” Xerxes said, patting his daughter gently on the back.

“Should I tell him, my Lord?” Czariya said to Lucian, unable to contain her excitement any longer.

“Tell me what?”

Before Lucian could open his mouth, Czariya squealed like a schoolgirl. “Papa…he’s asked to court me!”

The Queen’s eyes flickered like a panicked deer’s at a snapped twig to her eldest son, who returned a gaze to her discreetly, conveying a look that screamed I had no choice.

“Well, this is certainly amazing news!” Xerxes boomed, clapping his hands together. “I look forward to you and His Royal Highness’ future endeavours…with some more things planned on the horizon, I hope.”

The Queen tilted her head a few degrees to the right.

Ugh. “Of course, Lord Jeggare. I will be sure to keep in touch. Perhaps she and I could exchange letters?”

Drisaine relaxed her face in approval and beamed at Xerxes’ daughter. “That would be a lovely start, I would think.”

“Oh, yes,” Czariya said breathlessly, her eyes fixed on Lucian. “I’ll be waiting most ardently for your first raven, Your Royal Highness.”

“As will I to yours.”

There, can you fucking go home now? He barked in his head.

A few feet away, his father, the King-Consort Kokip Bromathan, was speaking to Adria’s grandfather, Lord Amin Jalento-Grey— though through a matter of adoption and unconventional partnership, he was only a couple years older than Kokip. It was no surprise that Kokip had left Drisaine to treat with Xerxes herself— years ago, the son of Mercival Jeggare had been an eager rival of the Bromathan House to nab the throne after Ileosa’s downfall, and had proposed marriage to Drisaine—- a move that could have united the two houses, with a King and Queen who could carry out both their ideas without much opposition. A proposal she’d declined, which to any reasonable third party, was a golden opportunity thrown in the trash. Though, it was not without reason, a reason that—if anything—kept the Bromathans close to each other even when the world conspired to separate them.

“I chose love over power,” Drisaine had said to her children many times. “But then I succeeded in both anyway.”

Kokip laughed a deep chuckle from his belly; for a man nearly forty, he had maintained his prime physique, something that Xerxes—much to the King-Consort’s satisfaction—had not. Lucian’s father looked purely Shoanti at the best of times, though Grandpa Victor had been Varisian and got mixed up with the Lyrune-Quah’s best cleric.

Despite looking out of place amongst the high hats, even with his mithril armor and obsidian crown, not even the most eager soothsayers could deny his station as one of the greatest fighters to ever exist in Korvosa— all thanks to a power that, unfortunately, he had not passed to the Bromathan children. Kokip never carried a sword with him— no, the ceremonial shortsword of the Bromathan House belonged to the Crown Prince, hardly used except in dire straits, should such circumstances befall Lucian and manage to pass the perpetual phalanx of guards, watchers, Black Knights, the Raven, and the Sword and Shield of Korvosa. Kokip made his own swords—or any weapon at his behest for that matter—from the Void itself, something that had both terrified and enticed Lucian when he was younger. He had held one of them too— a cold, empty shell of a weapon that dealt much more catastrophic damage than even the most visceral and well-crafted of blades.

Xerxes and Drisaine laughed, and at the corner of the ballroom. Catriona and Genevive were speaking with their youngest sisters, Persephone and Lucrezia. The twins looked up at the sound of their mother’s crystalline laughter. Even from across the room, Lucian could feel their scathing glares radiate towards the man who had dared to sabotage ‘one of the greatest love stories of all time’—at least, that’s what Aunt Viv had called it.

Perhaps it would have been better if his mother had married a Jeggare, Lucian sometimes thought to himself. There wouldn’t be any…hatred for who they were. His mother and Xerxes would have been two brilliant minds working on the city with great ambition. And yet…

Lucian trembled in place. He suddenly remembered lying on the floor, bleeding from shoulder to wrist as his mother screamed. He remembered his father, cut by almost a hundred blades as he covered his wife’s body with his. He remembered the look of panic on his mother’s face as her husband lay dying on the carpet— for the first time in his life, she’d looked utterly lost. How she’d embraced her husband when Aunt Cat had brought him back from the brink, the way she’d looked at him as if he was her air and she was drowning… That was true love.

A love you will never have, Lucian mused acrimoniously.

Xerxes bowed to the Queen before walking away, beckoning for his daughter to follow.

Czariya looked expectantly at her Prince as the gap between them grew, and he knew what he had to do. Lucian walked over, took her gloved hand and kissed it. She blushed as hard as she did back in the private room, remembering the exhilarating sensation he had summoned through her body with a single touch. The remaining guests turned their attention towards the Crimson Throne. Lucian could feel a hundred eyes sear into his flesh.

He leaned down and kissed Czariya’s left cheek, waiting a second longer to pull away. He gave her the same look he’d given Freyja every time he reunited with her in Old Korvosa— a look that now only served to fabricate affection as authentic as the respect these nobles had for his family. The more he repurposed it, the more he could feel his spirit splinter.

“Goodnight, Your Majesty,” Xerxes said, kissing Drisaine’s signet ring.

Lucian waited until Czariya and Xerxes had reunited with their family by the entrance; Czariya kept glancing back at him with an expression so dramatically besotted, he had to consciously stop himself from rolling his eyes at her. That was when he heard his mother’s soft but stern voice behind him.

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

Lucian paused for a moment as his mother spoke Shoanti— she had perfected the language and in turn had casually taught it to her children. With eyes closed, one could have thought the voice belonged to the Quahs still roaming the Cinderlands.

“For what?”

“I know it’s not easy,” Drisaine crooned from his shoulder.

“What? Politicking with the perfidious masses?” Lucian retorted. “At this point, I don’t think I could live without it, Mother.”

Drisaine smirked. “Your sarcasm is unbecoming of you, my dear.”

Lucian scoffed and lowered his voice, though he was quite sure that not many nobles had taken up Shoanti as a second language. “Czariya Jeggare is unbecoming of my mental health.”

“She’s young. She has much to learn.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“Where did you go with her? I saw you two leave into the gardens.”

“I needed fresh air and she followed me like a dog.”

Drisaine tutted at her son. “Your father and I taught you better than to insult a woman who has done nothing but try and appease you—”

“—for her father’s benefit, not hers—”

“—no, especially hers,” Drisaine countered. “Believe it or not, your father and I can see that Czariya genuinely likes you.”

“How could you be so sure?”

The young girl looked at Lucian one more time before the Jeggares began the long walk down the Mastaba ramp to their carriage. He could still remember her sprawled form on the couch, basking in the aftermath of her apotheosis, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks.

“She has hope in her eyes. Hope that you feel the same way she feels about you.”

Lucian sighed, watching his father make his way back from the chocolate fondue fountain. “The only thing that matters is that she believes it.”

Kokip walked over to his wife with a light swagger and looked down at her gloved hands. “Which one did Jerk-xes kiss?”

Drisaine pursed her lips. “The right.”

“Good.” Kokip took his wife’s left hand and kissed it gently. “It would’ve been ironic if he’d kissed your wedding ring.”

“Stop that,” Drisaine said to her much-taller husband. She snuck in a small smile as Kokip traced the curve of her cupid’s bow, and wrapped his large hands around her tiny ones.

Lucian cringed; it was around this late in the night, usually after a terribly gregarious function, that his parents exchanged expressions that could only be described as “sinful”. By the time the two of them retreated to the Queen’s Quarters, they looked just about ready to break the bed frame yet again.

“Hey Dad,” he greeted, bowing to his father.

“Kiddo,” Kokip returned, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You holding up?”

“As much as one can.” His father was a good four inches taller than him, but his face was far from intimidating, especially around his children. It was a source of comfort.

Kokip watched his son’s face slowly melt back into a stoic, far-away expression. Though a man of few words and not one for the two-faced complexities of politics, the King-Consort had a gift of comprehending his children’s capricious natures—especially Lucian’s— without exchanging a single word.

You don’t love her, Kokip conveyed with the sadness in his eyes.

Lucian smiled sadly back at him. I don’t think I can.

“Darling, you’re doing that thing again.”

Kokip turned to his wife, brows furrowed. “What thing?”

“Where you talk to your children without talking to your children.”

“That’s because he gets it, Mom,” Lucian defended, smirking.

Drisaine looked somewhat in-between amused and weary, watching the Queensguard rotate their positions in the room. “I’m going to bed now, alright?”

Kokip shrugged. “No one’s going to stop you. I’m, uh…a bit tired too. Sweetie?” he brushed his arm against his wife’s and she reciprocated with a hand to his chest as she whispered into his ear.

Lucian’s mind jumped back to his plans with the Hat of Disguise, and began compiling a list—a coping mechanism for his parents’ not-so-subtle sexchanges—and suddenly he felt a surge of energy that had been growing in the dormant part of his body. “Kay. Goodnight then.”

Drisaine raised an eyebrow as her son walked off in a march to the residential wing before she could answer.

Kokip glanced at her. “What?”

“If I know our son, and by the gods I hope I do, Lucian was never that enthusiastic about going to bed,” Drisaine noted, waiting for the all-clear from the Queensguard to leave the ballroom.

“Maybe he got new sheets.” Kokip shrugged. “Nothing’s better than sleeping in freshly-laundered blankets and pillowcases.”

“Nothing, you say?”

Kokip smirked. “Well, I don’t think I’d want to do that on freshly-laundered blankets and pillowcases.”

“Ah, but you have, darling,” his wife said softly in Shoanti as he escorted her out. “On the blankets…against the wall…against my office desk…the sparring room…”

“I can hear you both, you know!” Amarice called out behind her charge.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Into the Dark

Castle Korvosa was never quiet. If there wasn’t the constant hustle and bustle of staff cooking in the kitchens, scrubbing the baths, or shearing topiary, there were the Queensguard in every corner, and—as invisible as they should be— the Black Knights. Eighteen years was enough for Lucian to know the where and when of the perpetually present; and tonight was the night he would use this knowledge to break free.

Well, for a couple hours.

Lucian slipped on the hat without much anticipation. Aunt Viv had brought in some of the wackiest, whimsiest, most wondrous trinkets and treasures during her travels; he had seen her turn into smoke and wander around the room like a purple cloud. He had put on necklaces that let him walk through walls. And on one occasion, he had drunk a potion Aunt Viv had concocted with ingredients from the deepest depths of the Mwangi, and he found himself levitating and radiating a rainbow of colors for almost eight hours, after which his hair had turned green for three days.

As the cap settled on his head, he closed his eyes. This was the fun part— what did he want to look like? Who did he want to look like?

Clearly, he’d rather be someone with opposite features— the farther he looked like himself, the better. White hair— no, silver-blonde. White would stand out too easily. And pale skin, but not too pale— many Korvosans were Varisian of blood to some degree, and for his skin to become Chelaxian alabaster would make him stand out in a crowd. He was already six feet tall; he found himself shrinking his frame down a few inches.

Bromathan children were known for their baby blues, no thanks to the “flawless sapphires”, a term often used to describe Queen Drisaine’s eyes. Lucian’s irises flickered to a hazel, bordering on brown, and the well-manicured scruff on his jawline disappeared. Five seconds later, he looked at the floor-to-ceiling mirror next to his bathtub, and surveyed his new appearance with curiosity. He…felt like himself. But he looked nothing like the bronze-skinned, ink-haired Prince that everyone recognized. He grinned ear to ear.

“Alright,” he breathed. He made sure to make his voice less growly, though raising the pitch felt too strange, as if he wasn’t talking at all, but listening to a stranger at his side. He had tried to conjure clothes with the hat to no avail, so he took the plainest poet shirt he had and striped breeches that he had used once four years ago and promptly forgot he owned. He took off his signet ring— it was only going to make him obvious if anyone came too close, and his obsidian Prince’s ring that jutted out a good half-inch from his finger would be no help either. He cracked his knuckles and shook his hands, surprised at how light they felt.

It was one in the morning. The Queensguard would be changing positions, and the Black Knights—wherever they were—-would suss out any vulnerabilities at that time, keeping Castle Korvosa as one of the most secure buildings in Korvosa. To get in, of course. To get out was a different story.

Lucian was known to venture out in the gardens when he couldn’t sleep at night, but there would always be a wandering Queensguard to watch him. Still, he had his ways around it, ever since his early days with Freyja, who had gifted him several scrolls in Infernal for Dimension Door for their weekly visits. There were only two left, and he figured he’d rather have them for an emergency— a pre-emptive thought that ran through his mind at least once a day since the second assassination attempt.

This wasn’t an emergency. But it was an escape.

He had only ever vividly remembered one place in Old Korvosa— Orsini Academy, though it was in the opposite direction of Eel’s End— the red light district if you will, that Aunt Viv would casually mention as her “happy place” when she had been neck-deep in wine and flayleaf in her youth. Perhaps her recounts were greatly exaggerated for the purposes of storytelling, but Uncle Mouse and Korwick had confirmed a few of her anecdotes over the course of several dinners, much to his mother’s dismay.

He read the scroll in Infernal—one of the mother tongues of Cheliax—and a large gaping wound appeared before him, nothing but blackness inside surrounded by purple wreaths of smoke. He tucked the second scroll into his pocket, having memorized it in case anything were to happen to the parchment.

“Let’s fuckin’ go,” he whispered to himself, and tried not to grin like an idiot.

He entered through what felt like a blast of cold air, and as he stepped onto firm ground, he was at the corner of Orsini Academy. Its grand archway and balcony overshadowed a pair of wide, ornate oak doors, with carved knockers of an imp and pseudodragon locked in mortal combat. It was fenced by several nine-foot tall cypruses, and the cobblestone was immaculate from the edge of the street to the doorway.

He felt a pinprick of melancholy as he looked up to the second floor where sparring would take place at nearly all hours of the day and night. He highly doubted Adria would be coming regularly when she married Antin Jeggare, and he’d have to resort to sparring with the Blacksmith’s apprentice, Ivan Doescher, who—ironically—held a sword like he had never seen one in his life. Or heaven forbid, Felicity Ornelos—grandniece of the Academae’s Toff Ornelos—who resorted to cheating with magic every time she felt the fight wasn’t going her way.

The walk down Garrison Hill to the center of Old Korvosa felt like hours; the wind howled as waves crashed against the escarpment, and the strong smell of sea salt followed Lucian all the way to a four-way street, where suddenly the stench of industry and old wine assaulted his nostrils.

🙞🙜

The houses were becoming tighter and tighter in proximity to each other, and the stench of animal feces grew more prominent. Before Uncle Mouse and Korwick had taken to refurbishing parts of Old Korvosa, and the Jeggares had taken initiative to fund such endeavors, this part of the city had apparently been fabricated of makeshift wooden lean-tos built on top of existing, crumbling buildings, eventually interconnected by ladders, ropes, and long poles. Aunt Viv had said it was called “The Shingles”, a nickname replaced with “District Prime” when the buildings were repaired to almost brand new. No more were there lean-tos, but large apartments with sconces and stonework exteriors, and the cobblestone streets—while still a tripping hazard— were no longer littered with shit, piss, broken bottles of beer and wine, and blood—-apparently brought forth by the gangs— the Sczarni in particular—that made Old Korvosa a cautionary tale in his father’s time.

The Korvosan Guard now regulated the gang activity in this city. Lucian recalled his parents saying that a thieves’ guild had once been the only guild allowed in Korvosa. That guild had made crime legal, a ridiculous notion, Lucian thought as he walked past lively pubs with raucous music. Groups of men meandered past him in patched trench coats and tousled hair, sometimes with a woman at their side in various states of undress.

Lucian had never experienced a brothel— an establishment that his father thought underwhelming— but efforts had been made to revamp Old Korvosa’s sex industry to ensure the safety of its workers. Quite a major move on the monarchy’s part, as it had been banned by the Fallen Queen Ileosa during her reign, and very discreetly reinstated by Queen Drisaine after a safe-for-work proposal from her two nephews that included several allusions to civil rights. Lucian did find some comfort knowing that these women—whatever and whoever they were doing—wouldn’t end up beaten on the side of the road for not fulfilling their “duties”.

He eventually arrived at Wave Street— the south-easternmost edge of the district. The Endrin Isles were just across the river, connected by a vast stone bridge. Lucian was inundated with brightly-lit circular red lanterns from pilings or lampposts, tinting the entire block with a devilish red hue. “The Town That Never Sleeps,” Aunt Viv recalled fondly. It was a fantasy land to fulfill the most depraved sensibilities, catering to the vices of both noblemen and common folk at all hours.

The pier had been reconstructed around the tenth year of Queen Drisaine’s reign. Aunt Cat’s two youngest sons had been at the forefront of pushing the higher ups to rebrand the business practices within the area. The pier was made of metal, welded together by magic, and a multitude of illuminated ropes swung between five impressive ships that permanently docked at the most eastern tip of the pier. The largest ship, a red-painted Brigantine, had two women camped outside of it, advertising their “goods” to passersby as they caressed each other in see-through clothing. Obviously, the brothel, the House of Clouds, Aunt Viv called it.

Next to it was a red and black galleon whose bowsprit showed a naked woman, her bottom half a giant squid that wrapped its long tentacles around the bow. That one, Lucian couldn’t quite figure out its purpose, only that he could hear cheering and foot thumping from its lower decks.

The other three seemed to be either pubs, hotels, or a gambling den— the three Guineamen looked almost identical but for the statues in front of them that hinted at their establishment— the pirate holding a beer must be the pub, the one with the sign in the shape of a house was probably a hotel, and the third was a t-pole, from which hung a spade, a heart, a club and a diamond— most likely the gambling den.

“Oi, move.”

Lucian was pushed forward by what he could only describe as a ham for a hand, the force of which nearly knocked him prone. He turned around as a massive half-orc, almost eight feet tall, marched past him, his nostrils flared as steam rose from them. Behind him were two other half-orcs, only marginally taller than Lucian, and a human female, who could only be described as “unkempt”. As she walked past Lucian, she clicked her tongue against her golden teeth and winked at him, her eyes tattooed from the eyebrows to her cheeks.

The four of them clambered onto the deck of the brigantine, the slipway beneath them creaking under their weight. As the biggest one stepped on, the ship rocked ever so slightly. The loud muffled crowd inside silenced for a quick second, then picked right back up as the four disappeared to the lower decks.

“Ye walkin’ ‘lone ‘round ‘ere?”

A small man of venerable age limped towards Lucian, holding a pint of pale ale in one hand and a metal cane in the other. He took a swig and spilled about half of it down his shirt.

“I just moved into the district,” Lucian replied, trying not to show his disgust as the man wiped his lips with his severely matted grey beard. “Never been here before.”

“A virgin, ey? Well we’ll fix that righ’ away ‘ere,” he wheezed, burping at the end of his sentence. “Oi! Carmella!”

One of the scantily-clad workers outside the brothel walked towards Lucian, red hair cascading down and around her well-shaped breasts, her hips moving side to side in a mesmerizing dance. She went right up to Lucian’s body without a moment’s hesitation and ran her long, pointed fingernails down his chest. She smelled strongly of cologne, no doubt accumulated from her customers over the course of the night.

“Mmm…if I have my way with this one, he’ll never leave,” she crooned, booping the tip of his nose.

“Whaddya say, kid? Yer an adult, right?” the old man asked.

“Yes, I’m eig— twenty.”

“Ey-twenny? Never ‘eard that number before. As if Common weren’ ‘ard already.” The old man limped up to the woman and nudged her. “We ‘ave to ask whenever there’s a newcomer— gotta stick to the rules they got us followin’ since our coin-bitin’ overlords bought the damn place like they bleed gold.”

Lucian smirked.

“‘Owsabout it, lad? Carmella ‘ere’s known as “Superhead” where she came from before. But methinks the rest of her parts got talent too. Why don’ cha let her take care o’ ye?” he turned to the redhead and slapped her ass. “Give ‘im the old one-two with that tight pussy o’ yers—”

Lucian tried not to grimace. This man was utterly and unapologetically foul, but the woman named Carmella welcomed him to her side with gusto, rubbing the man’s shoulders as he finished his ale. If Lucian was in his true form, they wouldn’t dare show such disrespect…actually, if he was in his true form, he wouldn’t even be here.

“Maybe in a bit,” Lucian said, as if he was declining extra pepper from a waiter. The yelling and cheering from inside the biggest ship suddenly turned into a sea-shanty that rumbled through the decks.

“OOOH he’s the Lord of House and Home,

Where thunder claps and seadogs roam,

Upon his chair, a seat o’ bones,

He raise his hands and down we gooo!

The Goblin King doth give us bread,

And many slags to give us head,

Whoever’s next, may they be bold,

Or taste the salt of ocean cold!”

Punctuated with an eruption of cheers and hoots, Lucian was drawn to the sound like a moth to a flame. Carmella followed his line of sight.

“His interests are over there, it seems,” she said. “You a fighting man, darling?”

“I’m keen to find out,” Lucian replied. “What is that place?”

“That’s the Devil’s Den,” she replied, admiring the bowsprit’s voluptuous form. “The Goblin King has nightly fisticuffs, if it so pleases you, and they take bets.”

“Fisticuffs?”

Carmella raised an eyebrow. “Fight club.”

“Oh,” Lucian mouthed. He figured it was much like sparring at Orsini’s except perhaps with the heightened risk of dying from an infection. Before he’d taken up the shortsword, he had learned hand-to-hand from Amarice, a woman who had once resorted to punching through a door to get inside a room. “Interesting.”

“Go see for yourself,” Carmella said, her voice growing more seductive. “You might win the Goblin King’s favor, even rise up the ranks as his champion.”

“I’m more inclined to be a spectator,” Lucian replied, watching two more burly men of human extraction enter the ship’s lower decks. “I’m not reasonably equipped to shake down an opponent I haven’t preemptively gauged—”

“Wha’ in the gods’ green Golarion are ye sayin’? Speak Common boy!” the old man barked. “Ye sound like ye ‘ave a gold slipper up yer ass.”

“For the right price, he can put whatever he wants in mine—”

“Even my cane?!”

“Even your cane, baby,” the woman giggled.

The old man’s eyes grew wide. “Hot damn! Damn good luck I lost my way to the retirement home last year!”

Lucian’s heart raced. These people were…disgusting. Depraved. Without any notion of discipline or etiquette. Experimental, nefarious deviants. These people couldn’t care less about who he was, and he had a feeling that even if they did, they’d act just the same as they would to a stranger in the street.

He loved it.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” he said to Carmella, who beamed.

“Wha’ about me, pretty boy?” the man made a kissy face as Lucian started walking away. “Dear ol’ Abner deserves some lovin’ too, ya know!”

“No,” he replied shortly, ambling to the wooden slipway that led to the deck of The Devil’s Den.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Red Flag, Black Sails

Lucian was not prepared for the volume of the noise when he descended to the lower deck, which was far bigger than he had expected— much bigger. So big in fact, it looked more like a gladiatorial arena inside a warehouse, with makeshift lanterns on the walls and a sea of roughnecks gathered around a raised dais where two men exchanged bloody strikes to the face, bare-knuckled and half-naked.

He could barely hear himself think. Everyone stunk to high heavens as the sweat from over a hundred bodies accumulated in a cloud over their heads. On the balconies overlooking the pit, several well-dressed men— well, relatively well-dressed— sat in large chairs that could accommodate two. Most of them had women draped in silks sitting on their laps, cheering excitedly, bouncing up and down so their male counterparts could enjoy more than one view.

At the very far end of the room, a dragon’s treasure hoard towered over the spectators, except instead of gold coins and gems, there were swords and shields and books and large haystacks of flayleaf, all in a peculiarly neat pile, and at the apex of this hill, was a tall throne made of bones. For a second Lucian panicked, but he realized after a second they weren’t human. More likely from a dragon or a mastodon. The chair was draped in Varisian silks and illuminated by a tall swinging chandelier bolted to the ceiling. Sitting around it were two breathtakingly beautiful half-elven women and a gnome dressed like a pirate.

Holy shit…Aunt Viv?!

Lucian hurriedly walked around the edge of the crowd to take a better look. He breathed a sigh of relief as the redheaded one was not quite like his more eccentric honorary aunt. If it had been her, he imagined it would not end well for Cara’s psyche, or his.

The crowd roared as the bald-headed man found his opportunity to deck his far-larger opponent with a wild haymaker. Blood and teeth splattered everywhere, and Lucian held himself back from dry-heaving.

The bell rang as the man lay eagle-spread on the concrete dais, breathing in shallow breaths, his face so swollen he looked more like a giant wart. Two halflings rushed onto the stage and dragged the man off of it, leaving a trail of blood that reflected the wooden ceiling above.

Lucian had to do a double take as a willowy, androgynous man in a black pinstriped suit and a top hat had suddenly appeared and manspread on the throne of bones, his long blonde hair nearly matted into dreads. He exuded a confidence Lucian had only ever seen in someone like Xerxes Jeggare. The man wore penny loafers polished to a mirror shine, and his sharp, almond-shaped eyes were, as far as Lucian could tell, two different colors.

“Silence! The Goblin King speaks!” One of the half-elves at his feet called out, her voice magically enhanced to drown out the din of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!” he bellowed, smiling coolly at the room. “Frankly, my bet was on the other one, but I do love a good surprise! What is your name, good sir?”

The bald man wiped the blood from the gaping cut on his cheek and spat on the dais. “Fistborn, my King.”

The Goblin King tilted his head. “Just ‘Fistborn’?”

The bald man shrugged. “Me Mam was drunk when she named me.”

The crowd laughed and cheered; the Goblin King seemed quite amused. “Well then, Fistborn! What would you like as a prize?”

The bald man pointed at the redheaded half-elf. “Her.”

“You want her hand in marriage?” The Goblin King surmised in a mocking tone. The crowd jeered.

“I want to fuck the red out of her hair.”

The two half-elves blushed and whispered amongst each other, and moments later, the crimson-tressed vixen made her way down the pile of treasure and into the man’s arms. The crowd cheered as he hoisted her over his shoulder and walked to the nearest wooden door, slamming it shut behind them.

“Never seen this shit before, have you?”

Lucian’s heart nearly burst in fright as a woman spoke calmly next to him; she was about the same height as his mother, which—if not for the astronomically low probability of her being here—made him only panic for a split second. No—he looked down at the olive-skinned woman, clad in all-black with a single gold choker on her neck. Her shoulder-length hair was copper-brown, and her eyes gleamed like rubies.

He cleared his throat as a large percentage of the crowd stormed up the stairs for drinks. A small band of four fiddlers and a drummer appeared on the raised dais and began to play a lively jig.

“So…is it over?” Lucian asked, slightly disappointed.

“Another fight starts in half an hour,” the woman answered. “You new here?”

Lucian avoided her gaze. “Just moved in from Riddleport. Figured this place was more up my alley than around all those rich folks past the bridge.”

“Are you sure you’re not from Taldor with that posh accent?” the woman asked.

Shit. I should’ve sounded more like that decrepit old man outside. “My parents were from Taldor. We became destitute though, after he lost the farm.” He did his best to sound sombre. “Moved to Riddleport, and then both of them died in the house fire. I sold everything we owned and came here.”

The woman nodded as she listened. She had yet to uncross her arms but her face was far from stern or stoic. “Sounds like you need a break.”

“I do. I really do,” Lucian said. “What about you?”

“I was born and raised in Eel’s End,” she answered. “I’ve been past the Endrin Isles but only for a couple weeks at a time. Other than that…this is home.”

Lucian blinked. “So this is just life to you?”

“Yeah.”

The two of them had started walking around the arena as tavern wenches in tight corsets descended to the lower deck with about sixteen tankards, and everyone swarmed to them like chickens to morning feed.

“I didn’t get your name. Or I guess, what you prefer to be called,” she said. “Most of us like nicknames.”

“Leon,” Lucian said. Shit, that’s way too close. “But it reminds me too much of my parents, so…Michael it is.”

“Michael,” the woman repeated to herself. “Sounds so pedestrian.”

“Oh? What’s yours then?”

“Jennie.”

“And that’s not pedestrian?”

“It’s a nickname. I keep my real name to myself,” Jennie replied, walking past one of the women holding beer kegs. “Thirsty?”

Lucian swallowed. He’d never had beer outside of the yearly Biergarten hosted by the Jeggares. “Sure.”

Jennie raised an eyebrow. “You sound so hesitant. I thought you’d be a drinker.”

“Not beer, no,” Lucian said. “Tastes like wet bread.”

Jennie scoffed. “Not in Eel’s End it doesn’t.”

She smoothly grabbed two of the tankards passing by her and passed one to him. The froth swished around violently, spilling onto his hand and sleeve. Lucian cringed; wet sleeves always felt like a devil’s forked tongue giving your wrist tiny kisses. It was one of his least favorite sensations— the other was touching sticky door handles.

Jennie glanced at his face in quiet contemplation, then sipped her tankard with a small smile.

“No ‘cheers’?” Lucian asked. Drinking any sort of alcohol at home was always preceded by a toast, or at least a small formality of announcing good tidings. He figured with the devil may care atmosphere that there’d be something similar, albeit far more raucous.

“Why? It’s beer, not sparkling wine. We drink beer more than we do water.”

Lucian pressed the tankard to his lips and smelled iron and old weathered wood. He took a small gulp and then realized Jennie was watching him behind her mug. He took a deep breath and took three huge gulps. The ale was far sweeter than he had expected. In fact, it was downright delicious— and he finished his tankard as fast as he had started.

“Wow,” he said. He instinctively reached for his non-existent pocket square to wipe his lips, only to remember what exactly he was trying to hide, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve instead.

Jennie smirked into her tankard and finished hers.

“What?” Lucian cocked an eyebrow.

“If I’m being honest, I don’t think you ever quite left Taldor,” she chuckled, placing her empty tankard on a passing waitress’ tray in one swift motion. “You’re strange in your ways.”

“I’m a stranger in a strange land,” Lucian replied. He tried to place his tankard on another passing waitress’ tray but his timing was off and nearly dropped the tankard on the floor instead.

“Do you…want to go somewhere else?” Jennie said, tilting her head at him. “Unless you want an audience with Jareth.”

She motioned to the lineup of about twenty people at the side of the room, each of them walking up to the treasure pile and speaking to the blonde man with the same deference people showed his mother when they wanted a favor. The Goblin King sat with one leg up on the seat, the other leg swinging back and forth like a pendulum, and he leaned on his hand and listened with seemingly great interest.

“Who is he?”

“Jareth Stardust. Acadamae dropout,” Jennie answered with a sliver of fondness in her voice. “He proudly admits it though. Said it held him back.”

“So, he’s a wizard?” Lucian felt his stomach churn. He was fully aware of what wizards could do— and what they were able to discern without much effort.

“He prefers ‘artist of the magical arts’,” Jennie said. The sarcasm was not hidden from her tone. “We only cater to his eccentric choices because he somehow has an endless supply of…well, anything really.”

Lucian was reminded of Aunt Viv, then remembered that her father, Grandpa Meloigne, was also a thousand year old wizard. He shrugged, “Sounds about right. If you give people what they want, they’ll keep coming back.”

“The respect we have for him isn’t low in stock either,” Jennie added. “He talks freely with the owners of Eel’s End, always dealing with the limits of our depravity and all these new rules and regulations. No one else wants to treat with the higher ups. Makes us feel…enslaved.”

Lucian’s stomach ached. “Makes sense.”

“Want anything?” Jennie asked again, back to crossing her arms.

“No…” his voice trailed off as Stardust cackled then slapped a man across his face, after which the man started laughing uncontrollably. The fuck…

“Well then, I’m going for a Rub-a-Dub.”

“A— what?”

“The pub across the pier,” she said, weaving through the crowd. Lucian followed her, bumping into every person he came across and knocking them back.

“Watch yer fuckin’ step, ye pea-brained dandy!” a portly man barked at Lucian as his arm slapped against the former’s exposed belly.

“Apol— uh, sorry mate,” Lucian replied awkwardly. He ran into two more people and nearly tripped over a sleeping pitbull wearing a striped sailor outfit before he found the salt-saturated air of the upper deck, and about four men pissing off the edge of the ship into the river.

“Oi, Jen!” a man with one arm called out from the Captain’s wheel. “Got ye a new Rob Roy for the pluckin’ do ye?”

“We just met,” Jennie replied, heading down the slipway with ease despite wearing four-inch heeled laced boots. “Want a drink with us?”

“Narr, I got my own shit to do,” the man said. Seconds later a tavern wench emerged from behind the wheel and wiped her mouth.

Lucian was glad they had left the Devil’s Den when they did; it was stifling hot on the inside, and his whole life had always been a constant of comfort— a crackling warm fireplace in his room for colder days, and an enchanted propeller on his ceiling for hot days to circulate the air around his room. By the time they stepped onto the pier, he was drenched in sweat.

“You alright?” Jennie asked, half-grinning. Lucian brushed his silver-blonde locks out of his eyes. Should’ve picked shorter hair. “Just…warm,” he replied, following her up to the guineaman with gold and red sails that flapped loudly in the breeze, and past the statue of the Pirate Captain holding a tankard with his hooked hand.

CHAPTER NINE

Ascension

“JEN!” the crowd inside the tavern roared as she entered. She greeted them loudly and hugged a few of the customers sitting closer to the entrance. The tavern couldn’t have been bigger than the Posh and Turtle in North Point, one of the only real speakeasies he had visited— then again, it had been closed down for the day so it was only him and his two sisters. This was far livelier, brighter and louder than he could’ve imagined; the soundscape could have rivaled the Devil’s Den. In the corner was a halfling bard playing the fiddle, and several men and women dancing to his performance.

“Hey, it’s our darling Jennie sweet! What’ll it be today?” the owner, a muscular Ulfen man wearing a sleeveless tunic asked with a toothy smile, leaning on his elbow as Jennie and Lucian passed the bar front.

Jennie motioned to the shelves at the back wall— they were almost overflowing with different kinds of bottles, of all types of spirits. “Pick your poison.”

Lucian would’ve picked a light scotch at most. But as he watched the barkeep pour Jennie a glass of absinthe and mixed it with something labelled “Fairy Dust”, he figured that she was expecting something more adventurous.

“What’s your strongest drink?”

Jennie almost coughed into her glass. “You sure you want to ask that to Gideon here? Because he will do his best.”

“Worth a shot,” Lucian shrugged.

Gideon and Jennie exchanged glances. “Welllll…since you asked so nicely.” Gideon walked over to the top shelf where a barely-touched crate rested, and opened it behind the bar rack to reveal a glowing blue tincture wrapped in an open metal casing. A few people sitting at the bar whispered excitedly amongst themselves.

“This here…oh, this here,” Gideon’s eyes gleamed at the swirling cerulean in the unlabelled container. “You sure you want this?”

Even Jennie seemed a bit surprised at Lucian’s initiative. Queen Drisaine’s disappointed expression flashed in front of his eyes. These were all warning signs…but he couldn’t back out now—

Before he could decline, Jennie piped up. “How about I drink it too? No use being astronomically fucked up if I can’t join in.”

Lucian felt a bit of relief wash over him as Gideon poured the viscous liquid into two shot glasses and sprinkled the tops with chili powder.

“Bottoms up, ye crazy fucks.”

Jennie and Lucian looked down at their drinks, which had now taken on a neon yellow color.

“Cheers,” Lucian said nervously, hoping she would reciprocate.

“Raise a glass to freedom!” Jennie called out. They clinked glasses and he braced for impact as his tongue touched the surface—

Water. It tasted like water. Lucian furrowed his brows as he smacked his lips, hoping there was something of an aftertaste to remotely enjoy. “Uhh..”

“There. Now we just gotta wait a couple minutes,” Jennie said, pushing their empty glasses towards Gideon. “I’ll take two more Honey Dip beers and we can go sit down.”

“That…that didn’t taste like anything.”

“Course not! That’s not the whole point of the damn thing!” Gideon chortled through a powerful beard. “No one’s going to drink it if it tastes like piss! Especially since, well…” he wiped the counter with a soft rag. “Well, you’ll see.”

He chuckled as he poured two tankards for them. The two sat down, kitty-corner to the fiddler and the dancing masses.

“Jennie…what did I just drink?” Lucian asked. He was starting to feel anxiety in his throat. Never eat or drink something you don’t know the name of, Aunt Cat had once said. Hell, even Aunt Viv had warned the kids about at least knowing the name or maker before diving headfirst into experimental potions. Still, there was something comforting about Jennie’s noticeably calm reaction. This was clearly not her first time drinking whatever that was, and she took the shot like nothing.

“Well, they call it ‘The Cailean’,” Jennie explained, crossing her legs under the small circular table. The tip of her boot brushed up against Lucian’s calf, and he felt a jolt of electricity travel from his leg to the corners of his brain. A very pleasurable jolt. “It’s more of a…supplement, if you will. Most people add it to their other drinks to give it some spice.” She clinked her tankard against Lucian’s. “There. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Lucian took his tankard in hand and sipped the smallest amount. It imbued him with the warmest, cuddliest sensation he had ever felt, like he had fallen into a pile of feather pillows. He took another sip.

“Then again,” Jennie finished half her tankard and set it down with a satisfied smile. “Most people only put in a couple drops. Three is pushing the outer limits of the human senses, and four is enough to fuck you up for days.”

Lucian’s heart raced. “And…how many drops did we just drink?”

Jennie stared at the bottom of her tankard with a contemplative purse of her lips. “Maybe sixteen between the two of us? Not quite sure. Gideon wouldn’t try and kill us outright. I’d just come back and kill him myself.” She laughed, but Lucian had descended into a full-blown panic, something he was trying to hide in his face.

“Six…teen? So…eight each?”

“You’ll be fine,” Jennie assured him with a soft smile. “You might…wake up in your bed a week from now, but hey— we always say, ‘All’s well when Eel’s End’s well’. You’ll be back here again in no time.”

She watched Lucian shift uncomfortably in his stool.

Fuck, fuck, fuck… He took a deep inhale, smelling the seasalt floating in through the open portholes of the lower deck. Relax…relax…

“So…” Jennie gazed out towards the Devil’s Den across the pier. “Want to go see the next fight?”

“Um…yeah, why not,” Lucian replied, gripping his tankard so hard he could feel it splinter. His entire body was pulsating, but he didn’t know how to respond to it or what to even do with his mouth, or his head…was he alive? Was he dead? Why does everyone look see-through? Why does the blue sky? What was his name?…. Lucky? Lickin’? Heh, finger-lickin’ good—

Suddenly, after a whirlwind of nonsensical thoughts, he was suddenly transported into a new plane, or at least it certainly felt like it. His limbs and head felt lighter than air, like he was flying, but his senses were sharpened, focused, as if everything in the room around him had organized themselves into neat little sequences that he could understand all at once. The tips of his limbs felt a strength it had never had, not even at his most physically fit. Across from him, Jennie was staring straight into his eyes, her piercing crimson irises tantalizingly caped by long, long lashes…all three-hundred and fifty-six of her lashes…

“Oop, there it is,” she announced calmly, and got up from her chair with half-hooded lids. “It’s got me now. How do you feel?”

“Like…” Lucian felt the back of his neck tickle. He stood up, and he could hear the whispering of fifty or so voices…was he reading everyone’s minds at once? Jennie smirked at him, and he counted the freckles on her nose as if he had all the time in the world.

“I feel like a fucking god,” he answered breathlessly.

Jennie tilted her head. “Sounds about right. The makers of The Cailean were hoping to mimic the exact moment when Cayden Cailean ascended to godhood while he was piss-wasted.”

“Oh,” Lucian replied, his face rippling with tingling sensations, wave after wave. “Well…they succeeded.”

“Want another drink?”

“I…don’t need another one,” he declined, realizing the lights around the room were ten or fifteen fireflies dancing inside glass bottles tied to strings. One had sixteen…another had eight…the one by the entrance had two dead ones. “I’m going to the brothel.”

Jennie raised her eyebrows. “Can I come with? Might be able to get you a discount on this one lady Carmella—”

Lucian snorted. “You mean ‘Superhead’?”

“Y’all gon’ see Superhead?!” a rather haggard-looking man barked from the next table. “Get ready to have your eyebrows rubbed off!”

He and his four friends laughed and drank to Carmella’s health. Lucian followed Jennie out to the upper deck. It was getting colder as evening bloomed into night, and the half-moon rose and peeked over the stratus of clouds.

“Looks like she switched out with Rosie,” Jennie said as they set foot on the pier. There was now a heavy influx of people going in and out of the boats, and buskers had set up along the edge of the pier, while several pop-up stalls congregated near the hotel, selling candies and chocolates.

Sure enough, the busty redhead had been replaced by a slightly muscular elf with braided pigtails that reached the small of her back.

“Have you been to the brothel before?”

“No, but they were advertising the hell out of their establishment before I went to The Devil’s Den.”

“Well…looks like it worked. After you, Michael.”

As Jennie and Lucian headed to the blood-red brigantine, some passersby would stop and embrace Jennie like a long lost friend, shaking her hand and wishing her well. After the fifth stop-and-smile, Lucian cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Running for mayor?”

“Pssh, fuck politics,” Jennie said plainly. Lucian couldn’t help but grin. “No, it’s what happens when you’re just nice to people. Everyone wants to be treated well, but they’re not usually given a chance when they’re trapped in a cycle of unfortunate circumstances…”

Lucian stopped in his tracks— he felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

“You okay?” Jennie asked in earnest, walking up to him as he trembled. “Let me know if you feel like puking—”

“No I…” he shook his head and continued on to the ship. “Just…my sister. She used to say the same thing. She was…arguably the nicest, kindest person I knew…”

“‘Was’?”

“She’s…gone.”

“Oh,” Jennie’s lip quivered. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She looked him up and down. “Seems like a recent thing too.”

“Yeah,” Lucian laughed weakly. “Too recent for my liking.”

“Well, let’s focus on something else, shall we?” Jennie picked up her pace and took Lucian’s hand. A surge of electricity radiated where their skin touched, and suddenly, for the first time in three weeks, Sasha was tucked far away from his conscious mind.

“Welcome to the House of Clouds,” Rosie greeted, handing what looked like a leather bound placard. “Just the two of you?”

“Not for long,” Jennie said, grinning wickedly.

A grid with several names caught Lucian’s eye. “Is…this a menu?”

“Here at the House of Clouds, we pride ourselves on premium customer service, no matter your budget or your needs,” the other woman recited breathily. “Everyone deserves to live out their wildest dreams.”

“Is Carmella free right now?” Jennie asked with tethered anticipation, letting Lucian keep the menu as he tried to pass it to her.

“She’s indisposed, unfortunately,” Rosie pouted. “I’d join her if I could, but her current client is adamant she be his for the whole night.”

Jennie sighed. “The Neck?”

Rosie scoffed. “Who else?”

“Who’s…?” Lucian stopped; he could tell the two of them weren’t fans of whoever this man was.

“He runs a guild a couple blocks south of here,” Jennie said in a low voice, lightly moving Lucian forward onto the lower deck, which had been reconfigured to open directly onto the slipway. “Wants to eventually run Eel’s End but he doesn’t have the balls to speak to the Big Boss, or even Jareth for that matter. All talk, no bark.”

At the mention of The Goblin King’s name, the two girls swooned.

“Halvara, I’m home!” Jennie called out. Lucian wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. The brothel was an exotic blend of furs, silken drapes, fluffy pillows and rose-adorned gates that separated the rooms. An half-elven woman, the madame of the establishment, appeared from behind one of the curtains, fully-dressed in what Lucian could only speculate was just body paint. Behind the gates and curtain-covered rooms, a muffled chorus of wild moans and whip-slaps could be heard.

“Jen, dear!” Halvara walked forward; as she passed Lucian he couldn’t help but watch her ass cheeks bounce like two puppies fighting under a blanket.

Calistria on a cracker, that has to be fake, he thought to himself as Jen and Halvara exchanged light pecks.

“And who is this tall drink of water I’ve never seen?”

“Michael,” Lucian said, taking her hand and kissing the top of a yellow diamond on her ring finger. “Pleasure’s mine.”

“Oh! A gentleman! Where’d you pick this one up from? South Shore?” Halvara and Jen giggled. The older woman surveyed Lucian’s posture and where he placed his hands. “He’s definitely not from here. But, I’m not here for your backstory, sweetheart.” She traced his jawline with her finger and down to his collarbone as he opened his mouth to answer. “You gotta be a real special kind of dessert for Jen to bring you here with her.”

Jennie looked away. “He’s not that special.”

“Wow, that’s quite the slight on your behalf,” Lucian quipped.

“I was kidding, Your Highness,” Jen sneered.

Lucian felt his head spin in panic, but then realized he still sounded like he was ordering servants around. He laughed uneasily. “Nah, I’m far from royalty.”

“Tell that to your cologne,” Halvara cooed. “The last feisty little nobleman I had here had a similar smell. Won’t forget it.”

“Speaking of Highnesses, Mick and I here got our hands on some good drinks, and we have, for the lack of a better word, ascended.” Despite her claim, Lucian could’ve mistaken Jennie for sober. “ I figured we could add a couple cakes to our dinner date.”

“Sorry about Carmella,” Halvara said in a low voice, knowing what Jennie would ask next. “We got Layla and Capri finishing up—”

Jennie perked up. “Both of them are free? At the same time?”

“For once, yes,” Halvara said. “A miracle, I know.”

“Who are they?” Lucian asked.

“Layla and Capri are mediocre at best, I won’t lie,” the madame replied. “By themselves. But if you put them both in anything more than one-on-one, customers usually have to be carried out in a wheelbarrow after several hours.”

Lucian blinked. Suddenly he felt out of breath. “So…”

“We’ll take them,” Jennie said without a second thought. “I owe Capri a favor from last week.”

“She says it’s fine,” Halvara waved a hand. “Don’t stress about that whole thing, dear. Make yourselves comfortable. Pomegranate juice?”

Lucian shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Halvara shrugged. “Suit yourself. These fruits don’t come cheap ya know. And they expire so quickly. And the usual for you, Jen?”

“Please and thanks,” Jennie said, sitting down on the bed of puffy pillows and slapping the spot next to her. “Relax a bit. You’re the most tense person to walk into Eel’s End, I swear.”

Lucian sat down next to her with his legs crossed like an owl; he wasn’t used to sitting on the floor. As he clumsily fumbled with his seat, his hand touched Jen’s and he felt that powerful surge again— he glanced at her and took a deep breath.

About five minutes

later, two blondes with long, wavy hair just past their belly buttons emerged from behind the purple curtains, and two other women followed, their hair tousled and their dresses dishevelled.

“Well, ladies?” Halvara said to the two customers. “Three hours is three-hundred gold, and you had the…”

“Whips and chains package,” Capri said with a strong but dulcet Tian Xia accent. “And two ball-gags.”

“So…three-hundred fifteen gold, five silver.”

The girls paid the madame and kissed Capri and Layla goodbye before they left, the shorter one limping out onto the pier.

“They’re ready for you two,” Halvara nodded, motioning to the room with curtains pockmarked with opal and rhinestone. “The Opal Room, if you please.”

CHAPTER TEN

It Was Only a Kiss

Perhaps it was The Cailean doing its magic, but Lucian felt nothing but excitement in his veins. Jennie could tell too, and she put a hand on his arm and grinned.

“Ready?”

The woman pulled the curtain of the room to reveal a sprawling bed, low to the floor and canopied with long swaths of red organza silk. The room was a hue of soft pink, and smelled of fresh lavender and cut grass. The floor was magically enchanted to have crawling white smoke, brushing against their ankles as they approached the two women sitting mirrored to each other on the bed.

Lucian’s mind was still hyper-focused, and he swore he could see every speck of glitter on Capri and Layla’s skin, and his ankles tickled as the mist danced around it.

“Who’s this, Jennie?” Layla asked. Lucian couldn’t quite pinpoint her accent, but it was definitely far from Varisia.

“Michael,” Jennie replied, walking up to the taller, bronze-skinned woman. She took the chain wrapped around Capri’s waist and pulled; the silken garments that were wrapped precariously around her floated to the floor. Capri reciprocated by pulling Jennie closer to her and slowly unbuttoning her blouse.

The only person Lucian even remotely knew in this four-way was Jennie, and their time together was— if the clock at the entrance said anything— all of fifteen minutes. He’d never been with complete strangers, and even the foreign ladies brought to court had full names and their titles attached to them. For all he knew—and it was more than likely— Jennie wasn’t even her real nickname.

“Safe word?” Layla chirped as she walked up to Lucian.

Lucian laughed to himself. “Uh…eggs.”

Already sprawled out on the bed with Capri between her thighs, Jennie snorted.

“That’ll do,” Layla said. She reached forward and stroked Lucian’s chest. He instinctively looked down to where his moon tattoo would be, but it was still well-disguised; the hat had become a hair clip tucked under most of his hair, and he feared if things got a little too interesting, he might accidentally reveal more than just his princely parts.

Layla pulled off his poet shirt and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “What do you want to do that you’ve never been able to do?”

Lucian laughed at the irony. “Never had a foursome.”

“Well, get on with it,” Jennie called out from the bed. She let out a light gasp as Capri’s lips found her pantyline.

“Do…do I get to…” Lucian glanced at Jennie, hoping she would understand before he had to finish his sentence.

“…You do whoever you want,” Jennie replied, closing her eyes. “Me, Capri, Layla…that body pillow—”

Layla giggled and pressed her covered breasts against his chest. His fingers found the back clasp that held her outfit together and pulled, revealing golden skin that sparkled under the chandelier. As her hands slid down his neck, he felt The Cailean making its rounds through his body, and all his inhibitions suddenly melted away. He picked Layla up and kneeled down onto the bed, and she lay next to Jennie, who was giggling uncontrollably.

“So strong…” Layla crooned as Lucian grabbed her hips and slid on top of her, leaning in to kiss her neck. “Mmf…”

Lucian’s body prickled, tsunami-ing from the top of his scalp to the tips of his toes and back up again; the hyperfocus the drink had gifted was now replaced by a kaleidoscope of sensations, skin pressing against skin, the sound of little whispers and gasps of delight. He felt nothing but an intense euphoria. When he opened his eyes, Layla was screaming into his neck as he pounded her against the back wall, her legs squeezed around his hips and her hands digging into his back.

Jennie and Capri looked up a few feet away, still in their tight embrace, legs wrapped around each other’s and fragrant petals floating in a mesmerizing spiral above their heads.

“Damn, where’d you say you found him?” Capri asked, raising her eyebrows as Layla laughed and cried like a crazed she-demon in time with his powerful thrusts.

“Devil’s Den,” Jennie answered, sliding her leg against the blonde’s long torso.

“I’m not surprised,” Capri said, brushing Jennie’s hair away from her face. “You have good taste in men, I suppose.”

“This one’s…an acquired taste,” Jennie noted, watching Lucian bring Layla back to the pillows, his back covered in little scratches. Layla was shaking so hard, Capri broke free of her partner’s grasp and kissed Layla’s face to calm her down. Lucian knelt down and his and Jennie’s eyes met.

“Layla?”

Layla said nothing; her body was flush with pink, and she was slick between her legs, and she pulled Capri close to her.

“You’re gonna love him,” she finally said, gasping.

Capri took her word for it, and knelt in front of Lucian, stroking his cock until he knelt to her height. He shoved her onto the bed and hooked his arms under her legs, settling between them as he kissed her neck. She was flexible enough to move her legs over his shoulders, and he pressed down, settling into a hard, rolling rhythm that nudged the bed back and forth along the floor.

Jennie intertwined with Layla and began to grind against her in a punishingly slow tempo. Layla propped herself up with her elbows and Jennie leaned down to kiss her, biting the bottom of her lip upon release. Lucian flipped Capri over so she was on top. She raised herself up on her knees, until only the head of Lucian’s cock was still inside her, then sank down again with a heartfelt moan. She repeated the action, a bit faster, settling into a steady rhythm. Without warning, Lucian gripped her waist to hold her still and jerked his hips up and down at a furious pace until she screamed into an orgasm.

Capri rolled off his still throbbing cock to where Layla and Jennie lay, her skin glowing and her eyes unfocused.

“Please bring him again next time.”

“Of course,” Jennie giggled, and she crawled over to Lucian, who was more than ready and eager. She went on all fours on top of him, and planted a soft kiss. He reciprocated eagerly, and ran his fingers down the length of her torso and thighs.

He flipped Jennie over as easily as he did with the others. He climbed on top of her against a nest of blankets. Capri and Layla joined in a few seconds later, Capri taking turns with Lucian to suck on Jennie’s breasts. Under him, Layla took Lucian’s cock with two hands and began to suck him off, her wrist movement so expertly executed he groaned into Jennie’s neck as his legs twitched. Layla continued until he was seconds from coming, then stopped, winking at him playfully as she pounced on Capri.

Jennie regarded the man between her legs, her eyelids half-closed, biting her bottom lip as she writhed in pleasure. Lucian took a moment to gaze at her freckles, her eyes, the way the corner of her lip curled into her cheek when she smiled…he leaned forward and kissed her again. She hadn’t taken him in, yet she could feel everything he could feel— their heartbeats in-sync, the powerful myriad of sensations ricocheting between both of them, the entire world melting away as he pulled from the kiss, breathing in tandem as their noses touched.

“Umm…do you still need us?”

It took a while for Lucian to even make sense of the disembodied voice on his left. He then realized he and Jennie had moved halfway down the bed and Capri and Layla were sitting where they had been entwined with the two of them. Jennie didn’t move her eyes away from Lucian, but she responded quietly.

“I…I’ll…”

Lucian could feel her hands caressing the back of his neck.

“I’ll still pay full,” she said softly. “Just…give me a moment.”

Capri and Layla exchanged knowing glances. “We’ll be here…scissoring, I guess.”

Jennie looked up at Lucian, who was still memorizing the features on her face like he was surveying the most beautiful piece of art. She exhaled a small laugh.

“Keep going.”

He pressed the head of his cock against her wet clit, and she whimpered. As he slowly entered, she gave out a strangled moan, bucking her hips, pleading for all of him inside her.

He started out slow…painfully slow, and as she whispered in his ear the things she wanted him to do to her, it only made him thrust faster and harder until her words gave way to inarticulate cries of pleasure so harmoniously sung that even Capri and Layla had to stop and watch in awe.

He didn’t know how long it went for— it could have been next week, and he wouldn’t stop. The two of them seemed to have fallen into their own little pocket dimension, free of every pain, worry, anguish— it wasn’t long until Jennie found her rhythm, riding him as he sat on the edge of the bed, her hands cupped firmly around his face.

“Fuck,” she gasped, her voice shaking. “I can’t stop…I can’t…I want more of you, all of you—”

He kissed her until she gasped for air and she quickened her pace. Lucian could feel her muscles tense and relax several times. He let her take over entirely and gasped as her body rocked against his, and every pull overloaded his senses. Her hips began to tremble as she reached her climax.

She clapped a hand to her mouth as she collapsed into Lucian’s arms, and nestled into his neck as muffled cries escaped her. He held her tight, taking this time to trace his finger down her spine, and stroke her lower back, feeling the softness of her skin. A few inches to the right of her spine, he could feel a large horizontal scar, cleanly executed, but still raised— couldn’t have been more than a month old. About a minute later, she released herself from Lucian’s neck, her face flushed and her eyes gleaming with tears. She giggled breathlessly to herself. He smiled back as she gently cradled his face in her hands once again.

Knock knock knock.

“Uhh…Jennie?”

It wasn’t Halvara. Jennie’s eyes suddenly snapped into focus, and she narrowed her gaze at the curtain behind her. Still, she remained sitting on Lucian’s hips, his cock still eager for more. “Who’s asking?”

“Tallus.”

Jennie rolled her eyes. “And who are you?”

“Uh…Gurdan? Gurdan Pascillier? He hired me yesterday.”

“Gods, a new fetchboy,” she grumbled softly. “What does he want?” She called out to the lackey.

“You’re up next, he said.”

“Shit.” Jennie dropped her arms to her sides, deflating. “I forgot.”

“What? ” Lucian sounded almost upset.

“I have to go back to the Den,” she said. “If you stop by, you’ll see me.”

“Wait, what?”

Jennie lifted herself off Lucian and he watched her put on her clothes so fast he thought she’d booped herself with magic. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and leaned against the pillar to tie on her boots.

Gurdan cleared his throat behind the curtain. “Jen—”

“Why are you still here?!” she snapped. “Tell him I’m coming!”

“The Goblin King waits for no one,” the messenger retorted quietly.

Jennie grumbled something under her breath, then marched to Lucian, who was still fully naked and surrounded by half-destroyed pillows.

“I…I had a great time. Maybe after I’ll…” she looked in the direction of where the messenger stood outside. “No. Some time in the future.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek once more; had she not the discipline and the time constraint she would have fallen onto him again and continued their dance on the bed. Before Lucian could speak, she had flipped the curtain and disappeared on the other side of the room.

“Where is she going?” he asked, the other two girls still grinding at the hip.

“She already told you.”

“Yeah, don’t you know?” Layla piped up, absent-mindedly squeezing her own breasts. “She’s Jareth’s prized fighter.”

Capri nodded. “In fact, probably the best fighter in Old Korvosa. She never told you?”

Lucian’s head started spinning again. “No…but…it never really came up in conversation.”

He got up and started putting on his poet shirt, only to wobble at the knees and sit back down again. Capri and Layla giggled.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Neck-Deep

The Devil’s Den was once again filled to the corners with spectators of all shapes and sizes. Lucian had sworn he only took thirty seconds to get to the ship, but by the time he showed up in the lower deck, there was already a fight happening below, the sound of flesh hitting flesh and the crowds reacting in time.

“About damn time you got on the boat,” the man who’d greeted Jennie from the Captain’s wheel gruffed. “Saw you wobblin’ your way from the House of Clouds like you just learned to walk fer the first time. She got you fucked up, did she?”

“You mean Jen?” Lucian said weakly. His knees were still shaking.

“Who else?”

Lucian felt sudden calmness as the breeze flickered between the locks of his hair. “Where is she?”

“Go down and see fer yerself. I ain’t yer fuckin’ escort,” he slapped the ass of the tavern wench sitting on his lap and she giggled.

Lucian made his way down the steps, and in the center of the dais were two women, both quite muscular, throwing bare-knuckle punches in nothing but shorts and a tight-fitting sleeveless shirt. But there was no hooting or hollering like he’d expected from the sea of men. They were all cheering and clapping as the two brawlers took turns grappling and striking in swift succession. The Goblin King was on his throne, talking to the halfling at his side. The men up above on the balconies were eagerly talking to each other.

“FUCK HER UP JEN—-”

“YEAAAAA—-”

Lucian’s head snapped to the stage at the sound of flesh slamming onto concrete, and an agonizing cry as a half-orc woman had her arm wrapped around Jennie’s neck. Jennie had her hair slicked back with some kind of oil to keep it out of her eyes, one of which was bleeding profusely from a cut under her eyebrow. She held herself from falling onto her stomach, her knees and hands balancing her weight and her opponent’s.

“Shit—” some of the spectators gasped as Jennie struggled to breathe. The half-orc woman pulled her up by the neck, bending her torso to an uncomfortable angle, and began whaling into her stomach with her fist.

“RITA! RITA!” several by the front of the ring yelled out with fervor as Jennie cried out in pain.

Lucian couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had never seen women fight like that before. Not without, well, rules and regulations, and certainly not in that state of injury. Even Amarice—as terrifying as she was— knew better than to keep going if she knew she’d struck a vital organ during a practice spar. But Jennie’s opponent did not stop, and as she continued to strike without mercy, her claw-like nails tore into Jennie’s stomach. Blood began to splatter all over the floor.

“No…” Lucian looked at Jennie’s form as her eyes began to roll to the back of her head. “Jen—”

As if he was close enough to hear, Jennie’s face suddenly turned to him; their eyes met across the room, and she smiled weakly.

SMACK. The half-orc, Rita, picked her up and threw her right back onto the ground like a ragdoll. “FIGHT, BITCH!” she roared, and swung her leg back, aiming for the human’s face.

Jennie dodge-rolled, and in one powerful arc, her fist slammed into Rita’s cheekbone. The sound of splintering bone radiated out to the crowd, a sickening crunch that made even the most seasoned spectator grimace.

The next few seconds were a series of tactically-executed blows in quick succession, and Rita was pushed back towards the edge of the platform. Jab, Cross, left hook, left elbow, right knee— that’s when Lucian realized Jennie was a southpaw. Her opponent tried to riposte, but Jennie’s speed and accuracy were relentless. One after the other— three, four, five, six precise strikes; Rita didn’t even have time to block, and she tried to find a break by throwing her body into her opponent’s midsection, hoping to unbalance Jennie into another grapple. Instead, Jennie grabbed both of Rita’s incoming arms and used them to mount herself onto the half-orc’s broad shoulders, much to the delight of the crowd, and she began to beat down on her head, her nose, her tusks—

The Goblin King had stopped speaking to his halfling friend, watching with great esteem as the smaller girl twisted her body and threw Rita down head-first onto the concrete with a crunch. She landed on her knees and sat on Rita’s chest, and punched hard enough to break a large chunk of tusk from the woman’s mouth.

The crowd roared in approval.

Jennie got up and walked a circle around her prone opponent, whose expression showed the least bit of awareness of where she was and how she’d ended up on the ground.

“There’s your fucking fight!” Jennie taunted.

Rita groaned, half-conscious on the concrete as three halflings rushed over to her bruised and battered form. The spectators went wild with screams and chants and suddenly, they chanted another sea-shanty as she wiped the blood off her face with a nearby rag.

“Ooooh, she’s five-foot-four and not much more,

She lives and breathes on blood and gore,

The champion of The Goblin King,

She’s Old Korvosa’s daaarling!

She’ll snap your neck and knock you dead,

She’ll break your spine and twist your head,

And when your body breathes no more,

She’ll ship you back to South Shore!’

Two hulking males picked up Jennie and threw her onto their shoulders and did a lap around the ring. She had about two teeth missing and half of her face was still covered in blood— whose, no one could tell or care, at that point. She threw a bloody towel to the crowd and about seven or so ran towards the souvenir like bridesmaids to a flying bouquet. When she was placed back down, she made a beeline to the far corner of the dais, where a large Shoanti man stood against the column with his arms crossed. He was definitely not from the Quahs down south, or the outer limits by the Plateau for that matter— the sides of his hair were shaved and the rest pulled into a wolf tail, covered in a blur of indiscernible tattoos. He broke at least six-five, wearing cargo trousers and steel-toed boots, and tied around his arm was a black bandana. As Jennie passed him, he leaned down and whispered something in her ear before she kissed his cheek.

Lucian suddenly felt too sober for his liking.

“Come, my dear girl!” The Goblin King stood up and walked down to Jennie’s limping form and embraced her like a long lost child. He spoke out to the crowd in a magically enhanced voice. “I never thought in my lifetime I’d have the opportunity to see such…such power! An incredible performance from my champion! I’m absolutely tickled pink.” He smiled down at the much shorter woman, who returned his gaze with a sweet little grin. “My dear Jenessa,” he leaned down and kissed the top of her blood-coated scalp. Lucian had a hard time discerning the exact relationship Jareth had with her, as Jennie didn’t seem to mind the doting on a very affectionate level. “What do you give a woman who already has the world? I’ve run out of ideas, my dear!”

Jennie quickly found Lucian in the crowd, but he wasn’t smiling. Or looking back. For a few good awkward seconds, she said nothing.

The Goblin King whispered something to her and she shook her head. Lucian’s eyes darted back and forth to the Shoanti to her, back to the Shoanti, then back to her, then—

The Shoanti man had disappeared from the column. Where he went, Lucian couldn’t tell, even though he was clearly about a head and a half taller than the average patron. The music returned and the usual clambering of tavern wenches with freshly draughted beer filled the room, along with the sound of boots running up the stairs to the main deck for a reprieve of the sweltering arena.

Lucian followed the crowd heading up the staircase. Perhaps he had a high tolerance to The Cailean, he had no idea, but it seemed that the singular act between Jennie and the brooding Shoanti had siphoned all the lingering ecstasy out of him. He had known her for less than hour, yet…

He suddenly remembered something that his father had said, “When Bromathans fall in love, they fall in love hard.”

This isn’t love, he thought, scoffing at his own childish heartache. You heard what everyone’s said. She’s a regular at the House of Clouds. She’s been with plenty of people. I’m just a little bead in her necklace—

Lucian shook his head as he breathed the cold night air, ignoring the pushing and shoving that had brought him up there inadvertently while he contemplated.

You’d do the exact same thing if you were her, there is no double standard. Lucian laughed at himself. Don’t make this her fault.

He walked down the slipway, his hands in his pockets, shivering. The old man was standing near a vendor holding a burlap sack of sunflower seeds, and as he sighted his newest friend, he limped over, spitting shells out in time with his steps.

“Well, well, well, lookit this one! Got your beak wet, didya?”

Lucian didn’t even have the strength to smile.

“Aww, did little Jennie go and break your heart?”

“I’m guessing you’re privy to her daily routine?” Lucian asked dully.

“Privy?”

“Having part in or knowledge of.”

“Oh. I thought ye meant like the shitter.” The old man chuckled. “Everyone knows everythin’ an’ everyone she does, son. Tha’ way, if she gon’ disappeared, someone’ll notice.”

Lucian furrowed his eyebrows. “Is that…a normal precaution for someone to take in this town?”

“Well,” Abner hacked into his sack of seeds, and Lucian grimaced. “She’s a woman in a man’s world— don’ matter if there’s a Queen on tha’ throne over yonder,” he swung his cane in the direction of Castle Korvosa, nearly clipping Lucian’s nose. “She gotta have a lot of people watchin’ ou’ for ‘er. Smart kid— livin’ on ‘er own since she was a wee lass.”

“She…she’s an orphan?”

“Oh, she didn’ tell ya shit did she?” Abner cackled. Lucian sighed in frustration.

“I didn’t have a lot of time to get to know her all that well—”

“An’ yet apparently yer more smitten than a bloomin’ debutante on her sweet sixteen—”

“You don’t know what ‘privy’ means, but you know ‘debutante’—?”

“I may be fuckin’ stupid,” Abner started. He popped a few seeds in his mouth and began to chew.

“Is…is there more to that sentence?”

Abner raised his eyebrows. “What sentence?”

“Gods,” Lucian groaned. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”

“To where? I thought ye lived ‘round here.”

Lucian left at a pace that Abner couldn’t catch, and the old man watched him disappear behind a street corner.

“Shoal.”

Abner didn’t have to turn to know who spoke his name with that tell-tale growl. “Thok.”

The Shoanti man was about a foot away from him, yet his voice rumbled as if he was speaking right into his ear.

“You know him?”

Abner scoffed. “He’s greener than a Druid’s bushes, I’ll tell ye that.”

“He’s not from here then.”

“Nah. He’s too sweet for this hellhole. Pro’lly some mutt from across the way. That or Garrison-grown.”

Thok took three large strides past the old man, then glanced back over Abner’s head at four men decked in thick black dusters. “Let’s go.”

Lucian took the same route the way he’d come, shivering as the wind cooled the sweat on his shirt. The neighborhood was still lively, though some houses had their lanterns dimmed or their entrances locked and shuttered.

He passed an old woman sweeping the dust off her entrance steps, two old men playing checkers under a flickering lamp, and a couple men walking into their residences with well-dressed escorts at their side.

He did enjoy this place. It was unpredictable, it was shocking to the senses. Not one person bowed down or knelt before him, not one person fed him compliments to appease him, and for the first time in his life, someone else didn’t check his food or drink for poison— a risk that he figured he shouldn’t take again. But it seemed even the so-called fantasyland his aunts reminisced of could collapse into a vista of disappointment. Whoever Jennie—Jenessa— was, he knew he wasn’t going to see her again.

The sound of several rattling loose cobblestones stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at his feet and felt the earth rumble beneath him as a looming figure and three smaller figures stepped within spitting distance.

“You.”

The growl in the stranger’s voice broke Lucian’s skin into gooseflesh. He’d only ever heard few sound as intimidating as this man, and most of them met with his father every three months in full armor, the blades strapped to their backs the size of most full-grown humans.

Lucian turned on his heel and stared into the piercing yellow eyes of the Shoanti from The Devil’s Den. Behind him were three less impressive figures of similar extraction, dressed in floor-length dusters caked in mud and grime from the shins down.

“Can I help you?” Lucian asked. He immediately regretted acknowledging him; the houses on this block were far dimmer than the other streets, and peeking out of several windows were shadows that whispered to each other.

“You spoke to Jenessa?”

Shit, Lucian felt a lump in his throat. “She speaks with everyone, doesn’t she?”

The man strode towards him. Lucian held his ground.

“She does,” he replied, looking down at Lucian like a parent to a toddler. “And she does a lot more than speak. You’d know first-hand.” His lips barely moved as he spoke through gritted teeth.

Deep breath. Stay calm. “Who is she to you?”

“He really is green inn’e?” the bald-headed Shoanti a few feet back spoke up. “He doesn’t know who you are!”

“He don’ know shit about Jennie neither!” the one with braids down his back cackled.

“Might I suggest you learn a little more about our town before you go off fuckin’ the first person who gives a shit about you?” Thok said as calmly as he could get with the tenor in his voice.

“If you tell me who you are, maybe I will.”

“You won’t need to remember my name, boy,” the man spat darkly. “Not when your brain’s halfway down the street.”

He strode once more towards Lucian, whose heart was racing so fast he wondered what would kill him first— this redwood of a man or a drug-induced heart attack. Thok grabbed him by his collar and pulled him closer, and Lucian could smell flayleaf on his breath.

“Let’s see what’s so special about you—”

Thok grabbed Lucian’s neck and squeezed so hard that it could have killed him outright; instead Lucian found a direct line to Thok’s eyesocket and bore two of his fingers into the center of his pupil.

Thok didn’t let go; he yelled in pain and clutched his eye with his other hand, and found a nearby wall to pin Lucian against. He tore his shirt from the shoulder to his sternum. Stars exploded in front of Lucian’s eyes and he felt the air leave his lungs.

Behind Thok, the three grunts brandished foot-long serrated knives wrapped with boiled leather at the hilt, and surrounded their leader and their writhing victim-to-be.

Lucian remembered a cautionary tale, one of many in the tomes Aunt Cat had given to her nieces and nephews to read when they had time to sit in front of the fireplace, when they were old enough to handle a bit of “Pharasmin wisdom”… He’d been so young, a little too young to remember the exact details, but one paragraph stood out to him—

“A dying man needs to die, a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist. No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow. It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives—”

Laughter surrounded him as the aura of blackness grew in his peripheral. He felt his entire body go numb.

I haven’t lived.

He caught the Shoanti’s glare and the scar that ran from the top of his head down to his neck. He could feel the hot breath on his face—

I’m going to live, he thought, the anger rising in his stomach. I’m going to fucking live—

His eyes refocused and it seemed like The Cailean had returned for an encore. He could discern every wrinkle, every crease of Thok’s face, he could smell not just flayleaf, but musk, and soot, and sulfur, and varnished leather… His fingers wrapped around Thok’s massive wrist found their strength.

“Uh, Thok—-”

The lackeys backed away as the wind picked up around where they stood. Lucian’s vision flickered as the houses around them were suddenly bright as day, then dark, then bright again—

Thok was impatient; he looked around and saw a pole jutting from one of the nearby junk piles.

“Let’s have a barbecue, eh, boys?”

The three thugs chuckled and pulled the pole out of the scrap heap; it was an old metal curtain doily, with decorative sharp points on both ends.

“You don’t deserve the edge of my blade,” Thok snarled into Lucian’s ear. The Prince’s eyes darted to the razor-sharp machete, unsheathed and tied to the man’s belt.“You’ll die like a stuck pig, and maybe we’ll cook you for our dogs to eat—”

Thok lifted Lucian over his head like he weighed nothing; the three thugs held onto the pole as their leader took aim. The stars in the sky were twinkling, as if nothing down in Golarion could shake their beauty, not even murder on a random street—

“Tallus—”

Jennie? Lucian’s neck had been throttled so violently he was afraid to turn his head. Thok and the three thugs looked behind him; Jennie was marching down the long block, wearing a beautifully embroidered black duster with the design of a House Coat of Arms, too dark to recognize in the moonlight. The fourth duster-donning thug from Thok’s crew followed her like a whimpering child, bleeding from his jaw down to the hem of his duster.

“The hell d’ya do with Letch—?”

“I know you told him not to tell me where you went,” Jennie spat, shoving Letch into his three brothers. “Hire better flunkies, Tallus. This one ratted after three love taps—”

Thok dropped Lucian inches away from the pole, and he landed face first onto cobblestone. He could hear his tooth crack as his lip split.

“Stay out of this Jen—” the bald one said.

“Suck my left sack, Benri,” Jennie shot back.

Thok smirked. “Jenessa—”

“Just let him go,” she snapped, clearly annoyed. She watched Lucian writhe on the ground. Part of him wished she hadn’t intervened; every inch of his body was pulsating in pain, and death would have been less agonizing.

“He fuck you that good, huh?”

Jennie raised an eyebrow. “Fucks better than you.”

Damn, Lucian thought. If he had the strength to laugh he would have. He tried pushing himself off the ground and felt his wrists buckle.

Thok cracked his knuckles. “Then maybe this’ll solve the problem.”

Lucian felt his body fly into the air again but Jenessa suddenly whispered something under her breath and something slammed into him so hard he tumbled down several dozen feet away and landed next to several stray kittens playing with a dead mouse. They scattered and he spat out blood.

“Woman, what is wrong with you—?” Thok glared at her before shaking his head, chuckling. “Fine. I’ll let you have him one more time before I send him to his ancestors—”

Run, idiot, her soft voice echoed in Lucian’s headspace.

Lucian found his footing and resisted what felt like a four-tonne weight on the back of his neck. He turned on his heel and began running towards Garrison Hill, groaning in pain with every step.

“You stay here,” Thok ordered.

Jennie narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me what to do?”

The Shoanti stirred. “No…obviously not…you. You four stay put.”

The large man took off in great rumbling strides, following Lucian’s path.

“Oww..fuck…shit, oh gods—” Lucian could see the four-street intersection at the base of Garrison Hill. He had no idea how many wounds he was bleeding from. He knew his cheek had definitely been cut open; he could taste iron where the blood had trickled onto his lips. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the one scroll he had remaining, and surprisingly it was still intact.

“Uhh…” he could barely see through his eyes, which had swollen up. His mind was swimming so violently he couldn’t even read the swirling letters on the page.

“Come back here!” he heard in Shoanti.

“Shit,” Lucian breathed, wheezing at every inhale he took. He unrolled the scroll and did not stop running. But Thok was far too quick— one of his strides was equal to three of Lucian’s, and the hot-blooded man had closed the gap.

Lucian began reading out in Infernal when he saw stars dance in his field of vision again. This time, Thok had something metal on his knuckles— and Lucian fell prone. The stars did not go away. Thok loomed over him and pinched both sides of the scroll, ready to tear it in half—

“Wait…” the Shoanti narrowed his hawk-yellow eyes. “Aren’t you—”

He knelt down and watched the silver blonde transform into a deep inky black, and the skin of his catch darkened to a golden olive hue. Just under the torn fragments of cloth that held onto his chest, the Moon tattoo reappeared slowly but surely.

No, Lucian’s mind dived into a panic. The Greater Hat of Disguise had detached when Thok struck him. No, no, shit—-

He could hear footsteps coming up the alley. Out of everything that had happened, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Thok reached for Lucian’s neck once more, but all that escaped Lucian’s lips was a desperate, howling scream so soul-consuming every seagull, crow and raven within a mile radius took off into the clouds. He reached for the machete tied to Thok’s belt and kicked the Shoanti off of him. The blade slipped in his blood soaked fingers, and he dropped it as fast as he had snatched it, sliding along the cobblestone a few feet from his body.

The Shoanti burst out laughing. “Hastening your death are we?”

Lucian groaned and clutched his neck; he followed the sound of the clatter, his fingernails digging into the dirt as he crawled—

He felt Thok’s hands grab hold of the back of his shirt as his hands found the handle of the blade. As Thok hoisted him into the air, Lucian turned and swung blindly.

Something hit the blade— but it felt more like he had cut through paper than anything remotely flesh and bone.

Thok released Lucian from his grip. He fell knee first onto the cobblestone and groaned in agony, still holding the blade in his left hand. He glanced up to see what had happened.

Thok was still standing. His arms were dangling at their sides, and the soles of his feet rocked him back and forth. He took a single breath before his head slid off the base of his neck and toppled onto the floor in front of him.

The headless body collapsed in front of Lucian’s prone form, its blood pooling so quickly it had already found the edge of the street and was starting to trickle into the river.

“Thok? Where you at?”

Lucian sat up, shaking. He didn’t just…he couldn’t have…he wasn’t…

The footsteps were now loud enough that he could tell five people were coming out from the corner to bare witness towhat he had done. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the still-intact scroll, still pinched together by two of Thok’s fingers.

Jennie and the four flunkeys turned the corner— a large black hole had appeared on the intersection, and she could see Lucian’s boot disappear behind it.

Benri cried out like a wounded wolf. “Thok? THOK!”

“Holy mother of— Jen, don’t look—”

Jennie gazed solemnly at what remained; Thok had been beheaded. She knew exactly the implications that followed, and Thok’s Shoanti brethren were rightfully horrified. She, on the other hand, felt nothing but anger and frustration. She walked slowly up to Thok’s head as Letch and the others spiraled into a panic.

“Jennie, what do we do? What the fuck do we—?!”

The woman reached over and slapped Letch so hard he spat out two teeth. Letch backed away into his three brothers, lost for words.

“Clean it up,” she ordered simply in Shoanti. “Now.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Quoth the Raven

Lucian lay spread-eagle on the floor of his bedroom, the cold travertine against his back, his one sleeve hanging off of his arm for dear life, his hair strewn about on his face. The enchanted propeller above him blew air into his swollen eyes, and every waft of air stung against his cheek.

The Dimension Door collapsed a couple feet away from him. It was deathly calm, deathly quiet in his room; the moonlight was hidden in the clouds, and only the multitude of candelabras in his room illuminated the space.

An hour passed. And another. The sun was creeping over the horizon; the carpet was soaked in what he reasoned was less his blood and more Thok’s….Shoanti blood…his blood….

He couldn’t breathe. He wished he could stop breathing. He wished he was dead.

Knock knock.

Lucian couldn’t even comprehend the light knocking on the door. It sounded low to the ground, and the tempo was irregular. He didn’t care. Then he heard scraping, and a light yap from the other side of the mahogany doors. It was either Duchess or Nugget, and more than likely they could smell the blood.

“Go…away,” he mouthed, his heartbeat slowing.

Fifteen minutes later, Duchess or Nugget scuttled away, and he finally had the strength to look at his hands—

The only toil your hands have ever experienced was sparring with our family sword. You get to have both your parents who love you unconditionally. You have us.

His hands were covered in hundreds of tiny cuts. His index finger and middle finger were startlingly crooked after gouging Thok’s eyes. It was seared into his mind, Thok’s head landing with a sickening squelch, jaw half-open, yellow eyes looking at him stock-still and shocked…

He turned himself over, crawled to the bathroom and puked.

The mirror across from him revealed the true extent of Eel’s End’s warm welcome. He didn’t want to look at himself. As tears formed in his eyes, his eyelids stung. He reached over to the claw-footed bathtub and twisted the faucet until water shot out. He pressed his face against the cold porcelain. His head was throbbing.

It took a few minutes of struggling to get into the tub, and he lay neck-deep in the water, warmed by the heatstone attached to the base.

The sun broke through clear over the horizon; it was a bright, crimson red. Lucian looked down at the water; the color matched.

“Stop…” he pushed the drain open with his foot, and the water trickled down the pipe connecting the bathtub to the floor. The blood disappeared, until that was left was his body, covered head to toe in bruises and cuts. “Stop this…”

He climbed out of the tub and looked at his state in the mirror again. The blood was gone, but he looked half-dead.

“Stop,” he closed his eyes. His hands shook beyond his control.

He looked to the dark blue carpet where he had mulled, and realized it was red with blood. He suppressed a dry heave and began to roll up the carpet; the blood had soaked through onto the travertine.

“Fuck,” he breathed. If Aunt Viv was here, this could all be solved with a wave of her hand.

You kids don’t know how lucky you are, what you could have been born into…never take for granted the privilege and comfort you’ve been bestowed your whole life…”

His father’s kind voice echoed in his head, over and over until the words overlapped.

We worked hard so you didn’t have to suffer as we did. And we’re still working on it. Everyday, we’re one step closer to giving the Shoanti—my people— the rights they deserve—

“SHUT UP!” Lucian screamed, and clapped a hand to his mouth. He closed his eyes and felt hot tears slide into the cuts on his hand and wrist. A hand that had murdered a Shoanti— beheaded, to never join his brothers and sisters in the afterlife…

He sat down on the floor and tried to catch his breath, leaning on the thick roll of Osirian high-pile. He pushed the rolled carpet under his bed and started wiping the blood off the marble. Slowly, his mind was growing numb to the pain. He wondered if The Cailean was keeping him from breaking down entirely. He wondered what would happen if it didn’t.

As the last of the blood was cleaned, he took the soaked towels and opened the massive arch windows to the cold morning air. He grabbed a bottle of wine from his small sitting room where he’d usually play chess or read a book with his siblings. He uncorked it and poured as much as he could onto the towels; the dark red would be enough to deepen the blood to match.

“What time is it…?” he croaked, squinting as sunlight trickled into his bedroom. “Shit, Char—”

The door opened, as it always did, at eight-forty-five in the morning. Not a minute more, not a minute less. His butler and the six maids of his wing walked in as they usually did, followed by the pitter-patter of excited feet. FUCK.

“GOOD MORNING YOUR HI—- eww,” the twin boys stopped short of the bed, which hadn’t been slept in for the night. “It stinks in here.”

Lucian dropped the bottle onto the soaked towels and wrapped his body in his red robe. He raced to the myriad of lotions and potions next to his bathtub and grabbed a face mask his sisters had jokingly gifted him from the Jade Circle, and slapped it on his swollen visage, just as Charon walked inside, his greying eyebrows creased with worry.

“Your Royal Highness—”

“Oh, Charon,” Lucian’s voice had dropped out an octave— the scream had torn through his vocal chords. “Sorry— I just…I saw a pimple and I needed it gone.”

Charon stared at the open bottle of wine and the towels beneath. “I’m guessing that’s not part of your beauty routine, Sir?”

“Spilled a bottle,” Lucian replied, tying his bathrobe tight with its sash. “I tried cleaning it myself.” He laughed uneasily.

“Well Sir, you shouldn’t have,” Charon replied, walking over and picking up the towel with his gloved hand. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“LUCIAAAAN—-”

Alecto and Maximilian were jumping up and down on his bed again; the Prince took a deep breath and croaked out, “You two go downstairs. I’ll follow in a minute.”

“No—!”

“—your bed’s extra bouncy today—!”

Lucian stormed out of the bathroom and his brothers yelled with wide smiles at his appearance.

“Where’d your face go—?!”

“Alert the Queensguard! AUNTIE AMY—”

“Guys, shut up!” Lucian hissed. “Calling the Queensguard is not a joke.” He reached forwards and grabbed Alecto by the back of his pyjamas and winced as the cuts on his hands reprised the stinging pain.

“Whoa, Luce,” Maximilian glanced at his brother’s outstretched hand. “What happened to y—”

Lucian threw a pillow at the younger twin who giggled as he landed flat on the bed. The maids were in a strange position today— the curtains had already been drawn and all the doors were open. They stood in a line, waiting for the appropriate time to start their next schedule of duties.

Charon leaned forward to place the menu at the foot of the bed; Lucian took it straight from his hand instead. The maids behind him exchanged surprised glances.

“Sir—”

“I’m not hungry,” he struggled to speak louder than a whisper. He tossed the menu onto the foot of the bed.

Charon didn’t know what to do next— thirteen years he’d served the Royal Family, this was the first time the Crown Prince had, well…taken something from his hands. He didn’t know whether to swell with pride or show confusion.

He cleared his throat as the twin boys rolled off the bed with firm grunts, one on top of the other. “Coffee, then?”

“Nothing,” Lucian said blankly. His head was pounding against his temples. “What’s…what’s happening today?”

“You have…well, had breakfast to be served downstairs, but if His Royal Highness is not inclined, then your mother and father are having an early patio with Lady Catherine Grey.”

Lucian could feel his stomach churn. “She’s here?”

“In about an hour.”

His brothers waited at the door, taking turns throwing each other into finisher moves. More sounds of yelling and laughing were the last thing he wanted. He had to stay away from Aunt Cat; even a blind man could tell he’d been thrown into a pit of vipers.

“LUUUU—”

“I said DOWNSTAIRS!” Lucian yelled; his voice echoed out of the room and into the hallway. Alecto and Maximilian froze in place. He immediately regretted raising his voice; both their smiles quivered into thin lines, their eyes welling with tears.

Charon and the six maids held their breath.

“Umm…” Alecto squeaked.

Max slid off his brother’s back and sat still.

Lucian didn’t realize seeing his little brothers so upset could break his spirit anymore than it could at that moment. He looked away, gripping the edge of the bed. “I’m…sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. You two…”

“No, it’s…it’s fine,” Maximilian said calmly.

Alecto wiped his eyes with his pyjama sleeve, and gave Lucian a weak smile. “We’ll go.”

Lucian remembered being taught to smile through the fleeting feelings of distress, especially in public. His brothers had finally mastered it. And he hated himself for it.

He waited until the clap-clap of the boys’ slippers faded down to the staircase. “What’s…what’s next?” he asked, avoiding Charon’s gaze. “Do I have anything to do an hour before the patio?”

“No, Sir. You usually talk to your sisters at this time. About…” Charon tried to find a more appropriate word before the Crown Prince than ‘low-brow gossip’, “…current events.”

“Right,” Lucian bit his lip, which had swollen to about twice its size.

Charon stared and waited. Lucian had never given it a second thought that the butler could easily go to his Aunt and spill the beans. But Charon, unlike everyone else, was loyal to the Crown Prince, superseding whatever authority over private information a senior honorary family member could glean. And he’d yet to hear a single word from the maids that followed him. It was a gamble he needed to take.

“I need…a potion.”

“Sir?”

“Umm…” Lucian wrapped his head around his elementary education; they’d been taught the basics of alchemy and the effects of most common potions. “Cure Serious Wounds,” he said in a low voice. “At least two.”

It was then Charon realized the massive bruise around Lucian’s neck peeking through his robes, spotted with yellow and purple dots where Thok’s grip had been especially strong.

“Your…Royal Highness—”

Lucian caught his gaze, something that Charon had never met out of deference. The butler shook in place.

“Please,” he whispered. “In a teapot or something. Just…” his voice trailed off.

Charon took a deep breath, and straightened his ascot. “Right away, Sir.”

Lucian sat in his bed as his butler placed a silver tray on the table, complete with a gold-plated teapot and some matching teacups. The maids had finished their duties and left, asking no questions lest something worse come out of it. Charon, on the other hand, closed the double doors behind him and cleared his throat.

“One of the cups is Juniper, Sir,” he said in his usual plummy tone. “And the other is…Cure Critical. Same as the pot.”

Lucian raised his eyebrows. Charon regarded his Master without any hint of expression. He stepped back to let the Prince do what he pleased.

“I thought I said—”

“Two Cure Serious will not be enough, Sir. I can assure you that much.”

Lucian cast a wary glance on the butler, and took a small sip of what tasted like cherry syrup. As he finished, the cuts on his hand knitted themselves back together.

Charon poured his charge another cup and waited patiently by the door. Lucian and Charon spoke to each other maybe fifteen minutes a day – at most – since he was five years old. What his intentions were, Lucian could not read, and he took the second cup with obvious hesitation.

The butler looked out the window at the birds chirping on the sill. As he finished the second cup, Lucian could feel the soreness in his throat dissipate. His fingernails reformed into their original shape, after being broken and splintered by the cobblestone. He heard a chk chk as his two fingers snapped back straight.

He slowly slid off the bed, and walked towards the bathroom mirror. Charon followed him and watched Lucian’s expression relax. The Prince took a deep breath. He looked about as good as he could in the morning, not a trace of Eel’s End on his skin.

Lucian turned to his butler, who smiled through his thick greying moustache.

“Sir?”

Lucian couldn’t believe the next words out of his mouth. “Don’t. Tell. Her.”

“Who, Sir?”

Lucian combed his fingers through his hair. “You know who. You all report to her.”

“Who is “You All”, Sir?”

Lucian took off his robe to examine the rest of his body, then grabbed his smoking jacket hanging on the mannequin by the bathroom doors. “I need you to promise me.”

“I promise nothing, Sir,” Charon replied; Lucian opened his mouth to speak but the butler turned away. “I have not been hired by Lady Catherine Grey to spy on you. I was hired by your parents to watch over you and deal with your morning routine. Nothing less and nothing more. Whatever surreptitious affairs the Lady Grey has found are never on my behalf.”

He took the cup and teapot from the table and placed it on the table over by the corner of the room.

“T-thank you,” Lucian whispered.

Charon smiled and bowed. “Do you need anything else, Your Royal Highness?”

There was a long pause. The faucet drips echoed from the bathroom.

“Those towels…they need to be washed. Or disposed of.”

“Of course. And what of the rug, Sir?”

Lucian’s heart stopped.

“It’s gone from its usual resting place…”

“That’s…also been compromised,” he said quietly.

Charon titled his head. “The towels will be no more.”

He watched the Prince’s shoulders relax before he opened the door, walking down the hall at half pace.

Lucian found himself automatically walking to the breakfast room, a two-storey corner of the Castle with high-vaulted ceilings and a table that seated twenty-five. Over by the fireplace was an oil painting of the entire immediate family. Even in paintings, there was a strange aura emanating from Sasha’s figure, a feature that Aunt Trinia swore she had not added.

It would have been too irregular for him to not show up, even if he had no will to eat; if some of the kids were gone for tutoring or sword lessons, they would have most likely moved to the drawing room for a more cozy atmosphere. Staying in his room would have inevitably turned into Catriona and Genevive barging in and asking him too many questions. It was far better they asked their questions here, within earshot of the five youngest.

Catriona pushed a dollop of custard from her plate and smeared it on her bagel.

Genevive grimaced. “Are you pregnant?”

“What? Gods, no,” Catriona scoffed, “And to be honest, if you’re not pregnant, neither am I.”

She and her twin exchanged wicked glances.

Lucian exhaled through his nose— it was the closest thing he could muster for a laugh. Three seats away, Lucrezia and Persephone were whispering amongst themselves between bites of oatmeal with cinnamon sugar.

“What’re you two guffawing about?” Genevive spoke across the fourteen-foot gap between the four of them.

“Nothing,” the two girls replied, then relapsed back into giggling. Alecto and Maximilian were at the far end of the table, sharing a pretzel with mustard, and as soon as their big brother entered the room, they spoke to each other in a language that none of the other children had picked to learn. Lucian guessed it was Gnome or Goblin, mainly due to the terrible screeching noises that would leak through their private tutor’s room followed by positive affirmations from a very small voice.

“I think it’s that Ambassador’s son,” Catriona said, taking a bite out of her bagel. “He told her she looked like a doll and she won’t stop gushing about it.”

“I thought he’d said sock-puppet,” Genevive said.

“To be fair, we both suck at Infernal, so it could have very well been sock-puppet.”

Catriona finished her plate and slid it forward; on cue, the maid standing by the archway approached the table and took the plate away.

“You look like shite.”

Genevive spoke in Lucian’s direction, and already he felt the energy sucked out of him. “Couldn’t sleep last night.”

Catriona grinned. “Little afterparty with Czariya?”

Oh Gods. He’d forgotten about the Jeggare girl. He scoffed and replied in a low voice. “Not if I can help it.”

“Didn’t you just ask permission from Lord Jeggare to court her like, not ten hours ago?”

Lucian ignored her, then realized he usually wouldn’t. “I was doing my ‘royal duties’, Iona. You know, like you wanted me to?”

He glared at his sister, perhaps a little too maliciously. She was not smiling.

“Sorry,” he said, watching Genevive’s spoon travel across the plate in neat little circles. “I’m just….I’m irascible at best when I’m sleep-deprived. ”

“Yeah, no kidding. You’re like…twice as cantankerous as you usually are.”

“You should have some coffee. You never not have coffee.”

“My stomach is upset.”

Catriona snorted. “I always found that rather amusing, when someone says their stomach is “upset”. Like what, did the food you eat insult your stomach or—”

“That’s literally what that means,” Genevive said. “Coffee will wake you up, Lucy. Or tea—?”

Lucian shook his head. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Forcing me to fucking eat.”

The five other children in the room looked up from their plates and stared.

Catriona leaned forward and whispered. “Luce, we can’t give less of a shit if you swear around us, but don’t swear in front of the kids—”

“Why not? They’ll end up doing it anyway,” Lucian said in a low voice.

Both his sister’s emerald eyes widened. “Someone’s hitting second puberty,” Genevive jested, trying to make light of the situation. Lucian could tell she was far from amused— the circles on her plate were starting to squeak against the metal fork.

“Luce, seriously, drink some tea—”

Lucian stood up from his seat, dragging the metal feet of the chair across the tiled floor; Alexandross winced from his place at the table. He followed Lucian out the door into the hallway. Catriona and Genevive exchanged glances with Alecto and Maximilian.

“Was he like this in the morning?”

Maximilian’s eyes drifted sadly to the now-empty seat. “He’s getting worse.”

“Sir, will you be off to see Their Majesties now?”

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

As his in-house chaperone, Alexandross didn’t quite know how to respond. “V-very well. Perhaps a change of clothes? The temperature in the patio is quite balmy. Lovelier than Magnimar this time of year—”

“Sure, why not,” Lucian tried to smile, but all it did was make his chest ache.

The patio was a massive sprawling garden inside an enchanted room. The ceilings, the floors and the lush flora were all enhanced to provide a nearly-fully immersive experience of sitting outside by a lake, or in the woods— it was the Queen’s best reprieve from the industrial landscape of Korvosa, and one of the safest ways she could enjoy without compromising the safety of the Castle Walls. The Queen never took “breaks”. She had little pockets scheduled in her day to take a nap, or have some food, but other than breakfast, lunch, dinner, and six hours of sleep a night, she was always fully engaged in whatever needed attending.

Drisaine and Kokip were sitting on a circular sofa, and before them was a low-rise coffee table brimming with charcuteries, sweets, chocolates, sandwiches, sliced fruits, and sparkling juice. The Queen wore her blue long-sleeved gown with sheer sleeves, her hair free from its usual tight braid and her slippers cradling her feet. Kokip was in his trousers and boots, but wore a tight sleeveless tunic that showed off his rock-hard biceps. Other days, he would have been shirtless. Drisaine had once or twice scolded him for how casual he looked, lest Neolandus or some other servant were to walk in. But over time, she’d warmed up to the attire, and found herself watching her husband intently as he swam in the pool, and—much to her children’s dismay— biting her lip when he climbed out, his well-maintained physique glistening in the sun. “It’s the only time Mom stops thinking,” Catriona had said once before.

Across from the two Bromathans, Aunt Cat had made herself comfortable on a reclining chair with her hood pulled over her eyes. Next to her, Amrielle sat feet flat on the ground, reading a large book procured from the Grey about the Boneyard. The streak of white on her hair dazzled in the morning sun, and reflected off the bright blues of her eyes. Amphyllion had made a makeshift nest under her robes, his beak peeking out between the layers of cloth.

Kokip looked over his goblet at the albino flamingos that were feeding on shrimp in the nearby pool. He watched them click their beaks and ruffle their feathers.

“Honey…since when do we have flamingos?”

Drisaine cocked an eyebrow at the birds. “Meloigne gave them to us as an anniversary present. They’re not really there. Only when the room’s being used.”

Kokip narrowed his eyes at the long-legged enigma. One of the birds turned to look directly at him and made a strange gurgling noise.

“…I don’t like them,” Kokip said. “That one’s brimming with ill intent.”

His wife smirked. “Only because you question their presence.”

Kokip crossed his arms, ignoring the bird’s ever-present glare. “I’m going to eat that bird one day. Watch.”

Drisaine smiled into her goblet. “Again, darling, it’s not real—”

“Yeah, of course Meloigne would say that,” Kokip reproved. “That man is a thousand years old, he’ll do anything for a laugh.”

“In which case he could be tried for conspiring against the Crown,” Cat said quietly. “Joking, sorry.”

Drisaine perked up at the sound of boot heels heading their way. “Our son’s here.”

The two of them stood up as the double doors opened. Aunt Cat and Amrielle followed suit as Lucian strode in, dressed in a loose kimono-style robe that flapped in the breeze.

Drisaine gleamed at her oldest son and kissed his cheek as he embraced her. “Darling.”

Lucian walked over to his father and did their usual greeting, where they crossed their forearms against each other’s in an x-formation. Kokip had told his wife that it was a Shoanti greeting in some parts of the Cinderlands; Drisaine knew full well it was one of the other Orsini cheer signs that Kokip loved to do to this day.

“Aunt Cat,” Lucian performed the next few seconds with precision; one false look, or breath, or shift in his voice, she’d know something was wrong. He had saved all his energy for this.

“Miri,” he bent down on one knee and hugged her. As he pulled away, she looked at him with those piercing blue eyes and said nothing. Seconds later she looked away with a pained expression.

“Sit next to me, darling,” Drisaine reached out and let her son take the spot next to the couch. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen our son in anything other than his dress uniforms and armor. You’ve lost weight.”

“I switched to coffee instead of having a full breakfast. Two weeks ago,” he answered.

Drisaine’s eyes found the scar on her son’s left forearm. Lucian noticed and crossed his arms, hiding it under the opposite sleeve.

“Heard you’re finally courting Lady Czariya,” Aunt Cat stated.

“Yeah…” he said, letting a bit of melancholy leak into his voice.

“To be honest, I didn’t expect you and her, out of all the ladies in court.”

“You’re not the only one,” Lucian replied.

Aunt Cat raised an eyebrow. “I figured as much. Your mom and dad tell me you’re not exactly…enthused about it.”

Lucian smirked. “No, I’m really not.”

“I knew it,” Kokip sighed.

Drisaine sighed, tearing a grape from its stalk. “It was a little bit more than obvious after Lord Xerxes left.”

Kokip grumbled under his breath. “Lord Xerxes, King of the salt mines—”

“To be fair, you’ve declined more than half of the Ladies we recommended, and the Jeggares have been pushing for more time together,” Drisaine said. “You could have said ‘no’ to Czariya—”

“I could’ve. But then what? The other two ladies in their House are already married and if I chose another House, it’d be a slight to the Jeggares after all the boot-licking they do with our family—”

“Lucian—”

“Am I wrong? I made the best decision I could make for our House. After nineteen years, the Jeggares can finally shut up about not getting the Crown because their grandkids are now in line for the throne. Their daughter can be a ‘princess’ like she’s always wanted.”

Aunt Cat openly winced.

Kokip opened his mouth and Drisaine grabbed his thigh to silence him. He looked down at where her hand had landed and cleared his throat. Lucian’s vision blurred.

“Uhh…how ‘bout some fruit?” His father tried to mitigate the tense atmosphere. He reached over and grabbed one of the pineapples balanced on the display in the center of the table. The tips of his fingers flickered, and a butcher’s knife formed in his grasp. He took aim before slicing down on the pineapple’s tough exterior.

Thok’s severed head flashed before Lucian’s eyes. He looked away and took a shaky breath through his nose.

“Kiddo, you want some pineapple?”

Lucian shook his head. “No.” He stopped himself from dry-heaving.

He was so glad his father wasn’t wearing his circlet— the gem-encrusted wreath of metal that he wore during diplomatic meetings. As soon as he put it on, it was like his mother had fusioned with his father to create the world’s strongest politician, and from his dimpled smile came beautifully engineered sentences that brought charm to the delegates and Major Houses that gave him a chance to speak.

Instead, Kokip took a bite of the pineapple slice and fed the rest to Drisaine, who stared at him as she took the whole piece in one go, her lips touching the tips of his fingers.

“Get a room,” Cat muttered, both amused and embarrassed.

“We are in a room,” Kokip quipped, bearing down on the pineapple once more with his void-made knife for a second slice.

Miri was focused on her book, though once in a while she looked over to where Lucian sat and shot him a wary glance.

“I’m going to go and throw up,” Lucian said, seeing his chance. He jumped up from his seat. “Gods know I need another brother or sister using my bed as a trampoline and screaming in my ear.”

He held himself back from peppering his qualms with more colorful language. The double doors opened wide for his departure.

Drisaine and Aunt Cat exchanged glances.

“On it,” the latter said, removing the hood from her eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Regards

The sunlight crept over Eel’s End, casting long shadows from the masts and poles of the five ships. Seagulls congregated where drunkards had tossed their garbage and leftover food from the tavern into the water.

Still, activity went on; there were younger children running through the cobblestone streets chasing stray cats and dogs, the halfling bard from the tavern was now in the center of the pier playing a soft flute caprice.

The Devil’s Den was far more ghost ship than lively party ship in the early hours, usually anytime past eight a.m., when the Goblin King would take his half-elven comrades (and the halfling friend) to his chambers in the lower decks. Up above, the tavern wenches had gone home with whoever they had decided fit their fancy by the time they’d finished rolling in the kegs for the next night.

A block down from the pier was a small speakeasy, far from the relative grandiosity and liveliness of the guineamen ran by Gideon and his crew. This one was, for a lack of a better word, a hole in the wall, with a few half-filled kegs peeking out from behind the window that served draught at all hours if you brought your own tankard.

A clip-clop of heels alerted the half-asleep bartender that leaned against the sill, and he woke up with a start. An older man waited for him to acknowledge his foreboding presence. His gnarled hands shone with a multitude of gold rings encrusted with sapphires. A long gleaming oil-slick duster draped over his broad shoulders and concealed half his stern face. His hair was slicked back, and well hidden under a wide-brimmed traveller’s hat.

“Didn’t expect ye ‘ere this early, boss,” the bartender said, straightening his posture.

“You didn’t get the news, then.” He lacked the drawl and cockney of the average Eel’s End resident. “Thok’s been murdered.”

The bartender shrugged. “I just pour beer, boss. The right people are downstairs.”

The man lit his pipe without producing a source of flame, took a deep crackling breath and exhaled a deep-grey, almost black, plume of smoke from behind the raised collar of his duster.

The cellar stairs inside the speakeasy led down to a concrete room no bigger than fifteen feet, with two doors on opposite walls and a wall of kegs tied together by rope. Mice scattered as the man stepped down the creaking stairs, the tail of his duster slithering after him.

He reached for the door on his left and reached out with a clawed metal hand, and opened it to a small warehouse with wall to wall boxes of humming magical items, an assortment of chairs and metal bleachers against the far wall where several men and women slept.

At the sound of the door creaking open, Benri’s one working eye flipped open, and he scurried to his feet at the sight of the man at the door.

“Boss!” he said. The others around him stirred, and seeing the man at the doorway, they jolted wide awake and stood up.

“Where is he?” the man said, smoke swirling around him.

Benri and Letch exchanged glances, then simultaneously pointed to the curtain behind them.

Inside, the headless body of Tallus Thok lay on a slab of building marble, watched over by a half-Shoanti man praying through the night. There was a wrapped bundle by the corner under a gentle repose enchantment, and the Boss stared daggers at the uncleverly disguised head of the Duster’s former leader.

“Shame,” he said, his voice cold and guttural in the cavernous repurposed dungeon. The half-Shoanti roused from his meditative prayer chant and stood up. “I’d expected him to see next year, at least.”

“My Lord…” the subordinate prostrated but kept his distance. “We didn’t know you would arrive so soon—”

“No one knows anything in this circle of fools and fiends,” the man said simply. “I need to speak with his second in command.”

“She’s in her bedroom, my Lord.”

The Boss said nothing and turned on his heel; he returned to the cellar stairs landing, walking to the other door and pressing his claw against the door handle until it unlocked.

The door swung open to a long-haired brunette, the sides of her vibrant hair shaved, riding a half-orc tied to a four-poster bed, her well-endowed tits bounced wildly as she cursed to herself. The presence of the Boss only half-surprised her, and she looked over her shoulder as her curvaceous hips slowed to a grind.

“You’re here early,” she said, her twinkling grey eyes surveying the man’s well-designed overcoat. “Must you interrupt?”

“Your leader is dead, Marlessa.”

“You mean Kynndors’s little brother? I was surprised he lasted that long, knowing his family’s….mmf,” she stopped to enjoy the sensations that bloomed between her thighs, “…propensity for making stupid decisions.”

“Exactly,” the Boss said. “But with him gone, we don’t have a scapegoat for this organization. The Thok brothers were an easy mark, but now all eyes will be on you.”

“The rival gangs and I have come to an understanding. There hasn’t been a blood feud in close to a year.”

“Blood feuds are the least of my concerns,” the Boss replied.

The half-orc under Marlessa’s grip suddenly groaned and flexed his muscles just as the woman started picking up speed.

“Ugh, disappointing,” the woman climbed off of him, wrapping her naked body with dancing silks. “Can’t get a man with some self-control these days.”

At news of The Boss’ arrival, the sleeping tenants of the cellar room were all awake, wiping the drool off their mouths and changing into less-beer and wine-stained garments. They took their positions around the room, the majority of them sitting on kegs and bags of stolen goods, and a few on the bleachers, taking bites of stale bread and aged cheese.

Marlessa leaned against a large cherrywood chair carved with ornate motifs of horses and mountains, once part of a dining set stolen from a ferry that had the misfortune of stalling near Eel’s End. The Boss sat somberly, boots planted to the floor, his hands clawed around the arms of the chair, and surveyed the room; his pipe had extinguished itself, though strange swirling smoke remained in a ringed aura around him.

“Do we know the name of his killer?”

“He called himself ‘Michael’ but that’s a lazy alias if I’ve ever heard one,” a ratfolk named Duke squeaked between two wine caskets. “Blonde, pretty tall, tall and pretty,” a halfling in a black cape chanted, rocking back and forth.

“He had no weapons on him, no potions, and yet, he managed to kill a Shoanti who survived getting shot by a gunslinger in the mouth.”

“In the worst, most heinous way possible,” Letch said, shaking his head. “He died in pieces—”

“By the gods, we get it,” a half-elf named Esyndril groaned. “If ye don’t die with ye head on ye shoulders, ye might as well punch Pharasma in the tits. No afterlife, no nothin’. How many else of ye kind been died like that? Thok’s not special—”

Benri shot up from his stool. “Eyy, shut yer pansy ass—”

“Sit. Down,” Marlessa snarled, pulling a blunderbuss pistol from inside her duster. “Next fucker who talks without raising their hand joins Thok’s corpse in that room.” She motioned to the curtain with the end of her gun and the three people sitting in the line of fire changed seats.

Bobar raised his hand. “Clearly, whoever killed Thok knew how to damn his soul— knew he was Shoanti—”

Duke’s hand shot up as he spoke. “Everyone knew he was Shoanti, it was kinda obvious—”

Letch threw his hand in the air defensively. “Why, because he’s big, tattooed, and in a gang?”

Duke rolled his eyes and kept his little hands up, “because he looks like a fookin’ Shoanti! Like how I, a ratfolk, look like a fookin’ rat, because I am a fookin’ rat—”

“Yeah, you would be a fuckin’ rat,” Esyndril snapped with hardly a finger raised to speak.

Duke turned to Esyndril and pointed. “Don’t you dare fookin’ accuse me, I’d never betray ye,” he turned to the Boss and his sparse whisker-like moustache twitched. “Pointy-eared mutt’s falsely accusing me, don’t listen to him!”

Marlessa raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. “Can we please get back to the topic of conversation?” She whipped her hair away from the front of her body. “What else do we know about him?”

“Can’t put a finger on what he was. Not Shoanti, not Varisian…he was too blonde to be Chelaxian—”

“Blonde Chelaxians exist, idiot—” Letch snapped, keeping his hand raised.

Bobar scoffed. “Ye can’t just keep yer hand up so ye can interrupt—”

“—you’re doing the exact same thing as me—!”

A bullet whizzed by Bobar’s ear and burst the empty oak cask behind him, sending wood splinters everywhere. Marlessa said nothing and waited for silence to fill the room.

“And what about Halvara’s two whores?” the Boss asked softly. “They notice anything? Orvus? ”

A man with a feathered collar and a deck of playing cards riffled them from the corner of the bleachers. “Ehh, said he fucked them like he was gonna die tomorrow.”

Marlessa looked up for the briefest of seconds.

“Other than that…same old, same old. They wouldn’t say shit about him and Jennie—”

The mention of Jennie’s name made Marlessa look away, her red-tinted lips pursed.

“Has she said anything?” the Boss replied.

“Hmmph. She won’t say much if she always has a cock in her mouth,” Marlessa said in a low voice. The Boss’ expression remained unchanged, but he turned his head slightly to the woman next to him.

Orvus continued. “She said he was just like every other guy on the street. Green too, had no idea what he was doing—”

A gnome named Judy lifted her cane instead of her far-less noticeable hand. “I thought you said he did—”

“We’re not talking about sex no more, Judy!” Orvus snapped. “He’s not from Eel’s End. Abner said the same thing.”

“So was he sent from the mainland?”

“Fo’ wot? To personally deal wi’ the Dusters? Doubt it,” Duke scoffed.

“Everyone knows their Queen just sends the Korvosan Guard after us while they figure out their own problems,” Marlessa said, looking at her long cobalt-blue talons. “Apparently all her new rulings have been putting the blue-bloods in a tizzy.”

“To be fair, she is better than Eodred’s main squeeze, remember that crazy bitch?” a woman named Gladys said. “Outlawed our entire island like she thinks that’s gonna stop us from sinning—”

The room laughed.

“At least this one—as far as I’m aware—has a good head on her shoulders. And her husband is, well—”

“A Shoanti half-breed,” Marlessa smirked. “King of the Pariahs.”

Letch wanted to retort, but Benri cast him a wary shake of his head.

“A Chelaxian and a Shoanti, who would’ve thought. In my lifetime?” an older, heavily-bearded man chuckled from the middle row of the bleachers. If he hadn’t spoken most of the room wouldn’t have even noticed his presence— he wore a plain black duster with a bandolier around his waist, and boots with tiny spurs that spun on their own. He looked Shoanti through and through, with tattoos of skulls, wolves and the runes “Sosmo” and “Eiril” on the side of his shaved head down to his neck and chest. All but for his very obvious Chelaxian accent, which even surprised Marlessa the first time she’d heard him.

“She hasn’t done shit for our kind either though,” Benri said.

“What in Calistria’s Codpiece you talkin’ about? She just passed a law makin’ y’all equal to the rest of Korvosa! Hell, Thok’s murder is illegal now!” Orvus barked. “Ain’t that a 360 if I’ve ever seen one.”

Marlessa rolled her eyes. “You mean 180.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Then perhaps we are justified in finding the perpetrator and bringing him to my court,” the Boss replied through steepled fingers. “And if he is from the mainland, I need to know who he’s affiliated with.”

“I doubt it,” a voice said from the highest point of the bleachers. Everyone turned to the stacked kegs, where Jennie sat cross-legged, staring contemplatively into space. “Good luck finding him. He used a Dimension Door to escape.”

“Aww shit, he’s a spellcaster?!” Bobar groaned. “This, we need.”

The Boss glanced up at the woman clothed in full black, her gold chain glinting against the lamp light. “That’s your area of expertise, Jenessa. Perhaps you’d like to join the class once in a while?”

The room chuckled and whispered amongst themselves. Jennie caught the older woman’s gaze and smiled. Marlessa reciprocated with a scowl.

“He’s certainly familiar with the use of magic. Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a magic user, per se. If you can read the language on a scroll it can be done.”

“And?” Marlessa raised her eyebrows.

Jennie took a deep breath and twiddled her thumbs. “He was disguised.”

She reached into her pocket and tossed the Greater Hat of Disguise onto the floor in front of the Boss. He narrowed his gaunt, deep-set eyes at the shapeless little hat at his feet.

Duke jumped off his seat, “Holy shit, do you know how much that’s worth—? That’s insane—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a bullet found the side of his head and with a sickening squelch his brain matter painted the keg next to him.

The room sat stone-still as Marlessa casually reloaded her pistol. “Anyone else?”

Everyone held their breath. Jennie rolled her eyes and raised her hand half-heartedly.

“Yes— the little tart hiding in the corner,” Marlessa called out.

“If I find more information, I’ll let you know,” Jennie said, ignoring her childish jibes.

“Do be hasty, Jenessa. We don’t run on your timetable,” the older woman smirked. “Perhaps cutting back on your emotional needs would speed up the process.”

“I was speaking to your boss,” Jennie replied politely to her. “I apologize if in any way it was implied that we care about your opinion.”

At least four people held themselves back from reacting openly. However, the Boss’ lips curled into a sneer.

“Now, now ladies,” he said, getting up from his chair. “I don’t need animosity in our circle. If you do have a concern to take up regarding another member of your little family, talk to me in private.”

“She’s not—” Marlessa started.

“Yes, I know she’s not,” the Boss put a hand on Marlessa’s shoulder and she shivered as his hand emanated a coldness that slithered down the length of her arm. He looked up at Jennie’s still hunched form and walked out, Marlessa’s swaying hips in tow.

As soon as Marlessa and the Boss re-entered her bedroom, she closed the door with a slam and aimed her fist for the stone, leaving a three-inch deep chasm where she’d punched.

“Get out,” she snarled at the half-orc, who had been waiting for her return with an eager smile.

“I’m…I’m still tied to the bed—”

The Boss raised his hand and the shackles snapped open all at once. The half-orc massaged his wrists and took off with a mink blanket around his hips.

The Boss stoked the fireplace with the nearby poker, watching the flames crackle as Marlessa kicked one of the pillows on the floor back onto the bed with her pointed boot.

“Why do you insist she stay with us?” Marlessa said, her hair slowly frizzing as she paced back and forth. “That little foundling has nothing but her ego, all because those idiots in that room haven’t seen a Sorceress before—”

“Is that your assumption?”

“Well, I’ve yet to see her whip out a spellbook or say anything remotely intelligent—”

“You know, Marlessa, projecting your insecurities on a young girl isn’t becoming of a leader.”

“She’s not a girl anymore!” the woman growled. “And I’m—”

“No longer as young or as beautiful as you desperately desired.”

Marlessa trembled; her fingers brushed lightly against the handle of her stowed pistol, but she dared not try anything in front of this man. If the stories were true, and they were…

“She’ll only be with the Dusters for a short while longer,” the Boss said. “Then perhaps…she’ll be off to the next thing on her, uh, ‘timetable’ as you so eloquently put it.”

“I’d rather she be off to the afterlife.”

“Hmmph,” the Boss smiled to himself. “You’re implying that she’s destined for one.”

“Most people are,” she replied, lighting the candles on her vanity table with a match.

“She’s not most people.”

Marlessa scoffed. “She’s not people, period.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” the Boss said, placing the poker back in its placeholder. “You can leave. You can stay. You can…make mistakes — of which, by the way, you’ve made many.”

The woman swallowed and said nothing.

“She…can’t,” the Boss sat on the winged armchair and crossed his legs. Embers floated from the fire and onto his duster, which then seared holes that repaired themselves as fast they happened. “And if she does, they’ll keep trying until she doesn’t.”

“They…” Marlessa crossed her arms, staring at the map of Avistan on her desk. “You know, you can only try so many times…”

“And you can only fail so many times,” the Boss retorted. “In which case… maybe Valdur’s precious wallflower is destined to stay on the throne.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Spirals and Suspicion

Lucian winced as the sun found purchase through the overcast sky. The foreboding spires inspired by neo-Chelaxian architecture towered over the baileys, the Epochal watchtower just peeking over the covered parapet walls. The warm breeze that trickled between the dark-stoned towers only did so much to calm his senses. Over by the flanking towers, dark shadows undulated back and forth, following Lucian’s steps.

The Black Knights were never quite explained fully to him and his siblings. Neolandus, his parents, Aunt Cat, and Amarice were the only people seemingly in on the organization….or whatever they were. As far as Lucian was concerned, they were special forces in collaboration with the Ornelos family after his father finally relented to utilizing the Acadamae past hiring a single recent graduate as a member of the Queensguard.

Alexandross had chased after his charge with his smoking jacket and waited until Lucian acknowledged him to let go. Birds chirped in the bushes immaculately cut into topiary of rampant horses. A row of hedges flanked both sides of the main bailey’s rectangular fountain that sprawled a good hundred yards, with tall geysers that seemingly touched the sky.

He closed his eyes and breathed in, smelling the salty breeze. He had stopped at the edge of the fountain, where the terrace gave a beautiful view of the sea and part of northern Korvosa. He did not deserve this view. He deserved to be in chains. Perhaps he deserved death.

Sasha…I killed someone. Someone of my own flesh and blood. My father’s blood. I made the decision to go to Eel’s End and I paid the price. I have blood on my hands. I took a life. I wish you could hear me. Please help, what do I do—?

Old Korvosa loomed over the horizon, peeking out by the Roost where the Sable Company housed their hippogriffs. He remembered being aged ten and going to visit with his father and Aunt Cat. His cousin Kester had taken him—much to Queen Drisaine’s chagrin—out to Conqueror’s Bay on Fuffin, a hippogriff he’d affectionately addressed as his son. Lucian remembered the sun setting as wind whipped around him; and then he remembered being surrounded by six other Sable Company marines on their steeds, ready to take an aerial attack for him.

Life was amazing. And yet…why had he gone to the deep dark of the Korvosan underworld? A peasant would sell his soul for this…this life…all the orphans he had met through O.P.A.L….he remembered their faces when they saw Sasha approach, how they hoped for a family, and flocked to Sasha like a child to its mother.

Sasha’s voice echoed in his mind; a small memory from their days of studying together. “Life will always have pros and cons. Doesn’t matter if you were born in a ditch or a bed of roses. The human tendency is to find pain and control it.”

It wasn’t much in the way of advice, but it was all Lucian had to hold onto. He repeated her words over and over until his heart rate slowed. Thunder rolled overhead from the east; he watched the stratus layers make way for dark nimbus clouds rolling towards Korvosa. It hadn’t rained in a long time. Not during summer. But it was perfect timing.

“Quite the ray of sunshine you’ve got coming out of your ass this morning,” Auntie Cat said behind him with her signature snark.

Lucian closed his eyes. He didn’t want his heart rate climbing again. “Mom sent you again? Figures, she has enough work on her plate.”

“You made the extra work, so I volunteered… I do have a mind of my own.”

“I know you do. A brilliant mind. That knows more than it really should sometimes.”

“It knows what it needs to know.”

“Like every step I take?”

“You addressed your mother like I’d address my enemies,” Aunt Cat said. “Your mother should be the last person you antagonize, after everything she has done because she loves you—”

“Aunt Cat, it was just a sarcastic quip. You should hear Catriona and Genevive when they argue with mom. You’d have them thrown into the sea.”

“I have half a mind to throw you into the sea right now too.”

Lucian laughed to himself, but he was not smiling. “You’re welcome to do so.”

Cat snorted a laugh and assessed his posture, mirroring his crossed arms. “Well, we both know I can’t physically lift you, so you called my bluff.” She attempted to make light, hoping to disarm his teenaged attitude. “It’s my job to know things, and to keep you all safe.”

Lucian knew all too well the tone she carried— after nearly eighteen years, that much should be apparent to him.

“If this is about Czariya—”

Lucian rolled his eyes. It seemed he had accidentally conditioned himself to do so when her name was mentioned in any capacity. Ironically, his qualms about courting Czariya, and by extension the Jeggares, was nothing compared to his current fears, the guilt swallowing him inside out.

Cat waited for him to say something, anything. It didn’t come. He barely moved. “Czariya isn’t written in stone… There might be other options… Your mother is good at finding loopholes.”

Lucian shook his head. “I mean, I could probably tolerate spending the rest of my life with her if I really have to, but why right now? What’s the hurry? Mom’s hopefully…” Lucian’s voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. “Hopefully she reigns for a long time. I’m not going to be King in ten years, or twenty, or hopefully thirty. I wasn’t on a time constraint like her and dad. Who knows what’s going to happen to me in— even five years?”

“It is maybe a little early… After this…third attempt, we’re all a little worried. And Sasha leaving…”

She paused as Lucian’s shoulders made an obvious heave. “With her departure, plans were thrown out the window. We’re all scrambling to make sure that your mother’s legacy is protected, should something happen, and now that main plan is focused on you.”

Lucian looked behind him to Aunt Cat; she was in her cardinal robes, with her raven-head cane stabbing the immaculately cut grass. Cat was casting him a sympathetic look. She understood—and most importantly— had experienced what it was like to suddenly have the weight of a city thrown on one’s shoulders.

“It’s time to start thinking about marriage, alliances, and responsibility, so that we can solidify your position on the throne. It won’t be an easy handover, if and when that time comes…”

Lucian saw Aunt Cat tremble; the Cardinal ad Mortem of Pharasma never trembled. But he and her shared the same fear; Lucian ascending to the throne meant that his mother—Cat’s chosen sister—had to die. She did not want to dwell on it for too long; she could see the fear in her nephew’s eyes and words could not transcribe his expression.

Aunt Cat continued on, noticing the time by the height of the sun. “Normally, the Grand Council vote is a formality, but this will be the first time in history going into this vote with a new House and a ruler of Shoanti blood set to take the throne…”

Lucian groaned. He turned back towards the horizon; Cat could see a single tear fall onto the alabaster fountain. Cat hesitated; she did not quite know where that had stemmed from, but nevertheless, she continued, “You can see why we’re trying to get things figured out early. Help you earn a reputation that sets you on the right foot with the Grand Council. If the Bromathans lose this next generation of leadership, then it’s likely that all the sacrifices your mother made to give rights to the Shoanti will be lost.”

Thok’s head. Thok’s head. The sound it made. The smell of blood. Lucian pressed a hand on his stomach to stop from dry-heaving.

“I know I have to be a good King. A wise King. My mother has always told us to surpass her in every way we can. It’s the only way to survive. I get that. I need a good…a good reputation,” he tried to shake the headless body from his field of vision. “A reputation I’ll have to maintain for the rest of my life.”

“That’s how reputations work.” Cat then teetered her hand in the air, “At least a part of it. Reputations do change…” She grinned, “Mine certainly did.”

“For the better,” he said. Fallen Prince. Shoanti King. Murderer of his father’s kind.

“Certainly for the better…” Cat could easily see that the boy was struggling. Through the softer compliments and shaking voice, she could see right through the facade he had been playing for the masses. He had been through so much the past couple months, more than likely the cause of his confounding behavior. She hesitantly reached out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Any other hand would have made him recoil, or push away, or feel sick. But Aunt Cat’s hand, it both comforted him and haunted him.

She has no idea, he thought, only half-relieved. She doesn’t know I murdered someone. She wouldn’t do this if she knew.

Lucian’s heart was back to pounding against his chest. He pressed a hand to his decolletage and found himself thinking about Eel’s End… Thok’s goons had said everyone knew who he was…who Jennie was…and if he should be traced back, his family could be in danger. All because of a stupid mistake. A stupid whim.

“Lucian… What’s wrong?”

He paused. He couldn’t even separate his lips to speak. His mind was spinning with the endless ways that last night could come back to destroy his family. Cat watched him laugh to himself, shaking his head.

“Now I know how dad feels…when he can’t get the words out right…and he just…crumbles.”

Cat took a deep breath. She remembered…all those attempts Kokip had made…all the things she knew he wanted to say…

“We’re not all the best with words at times,” she replied. “Aunt Viv’s told you the story of how she lost her hand to the Hellknights, right?”

Lucian nodded. “Snark. And stupid choices.” A small smile appeared on his otherwise concerned visage.

“Exactly, so don’t do that.” Cat returned his smile, then grew somber. “Lucian…” Cat opened her mouth, then closed it; she found it rather humorous that she too, was struggling to find the right words. But she needed to ask. She had to ask.

“What did you do to Freyja?” She watched his reaction; he was stone-still, turned to Old Korvosa like a needle on a compass. “Is all this,” she gestured at his being. “-to do with her?”

The Crown Prince suddenly laughed like she hadn’t heard in weeks. Then the tears followed, and she watched him wipe his face with his pocket square. He looked down at the red square; his hands were still shaking, “Seriously, how the fuck do you do that?”

Cat shrugged casually, “I could explain the intricacies of my magic, but then it’s not a secret.”

Lucian smirked. “I would have secrets but it seems one way or the other it just…finds its way back to you.”

“You’re the future King of Korvosa, the sooner you learn that everyone will know your dirty laundry, the better. That being said, I don’t follow your every step, and I don’t want to have to,” Cat admitted; she had too many other things to do, and Lucian knew this. However, she was finding that more and more of her time was spent on the boy. “The only time I have to keep a close eye on you is when we’re worried, and I am worried. I’m hearing gossip that I’d like to nip in the bud, especially before someone turns it into something worse, or gets pregnant.”

Lucian’s brows furrowed. “Auntie…. Mom and dad gave me the talk like… 10 years ago.”

“Yeah, well, your father still doesn’t seem to have grasped the concept,” Aunt Cat rolled her eyes. “I’ve lived through it, barely. Trust me.”

Lucian remembered Cat telling his parents she was pregnant; he had been in the kid’s dining room with Sasha, Catriona, Genevive, Lucrezia, and Persephone – all in their little footie pyjamas – fighting over crayons and drinking chocolate milk under the ten-tier chandelier that illuminated their playspace. But he remembered the sound of her frustration, how tense the other room had been… How Sasha had known to go and calm down the mood with a sweet overture she had composed. A blissful melody…

“Trust me, I’m not going to get anyone pregnant. I have gold dust on reserve and…” he caught himself and paused, shaking his head. “Wait, why am I telling you this?”

She grinned impishly, “Because I have a trustworthy face?” She and her nephew had a close relationship, and if anyone was going to hear his worries, she would be next after Sasha— but he knew full well that The Raven was a good interrogator because her magic simply encouraged people to tell her things. It was always fun to watch at Longacre, and quite frankly it made things a little more streamlined in the court system.

“Pssh. If looks could kill.”

“They certainly have.” Aunt Cat smirked. Unbeknownst to her nephew, she in fact did like calling her bolts ‘looks’. The pun worked well in most cases…

She cut a hand through the air, “Back to the point… Gold dust doesn’t always work.” She cleared her throat, recalling the panic she’d felt when she’d been late despite all of her and Amin’s precautions. “Neither does tea.” The gods had meddled in hers, Amin’s, and Aly’s lives plenty. She wasn’t wholly unconvinced they wouldn’t meddle with Lucian’s now. He certainly didn’t need to draw their attention with erratic behaviour.

Lucian blinked. Then the panic hit him. “It…wait, what? What do you mean ‘doesn’t always’—?”

Cat watched confusion and embarrassment intermingle on her nephew’s face. She had been worried that Lucian had wiped Frejya’s mind because he thought she was pregnant, but Amphyllion had confirmed that she wasn’t.

“It can last one to three days… So, are you counting days? Are you taking it every day? Your teeth will turn gold after a year of use…”

Lucian didn’t know what to say. Freyja had been drinking tea and once in a while he’d try gold dust if he knew there would be…foreign presences in court. And Capri and Layla…obviously they’d be well equipped, and Jennie…well, she hasn’t had a baby yet…that he knew of. He trembled at the thought. What were the chances…?

“And as I said, it just doesn’t work sometimes, though I think my case was special. Your father-” She waved a hand about vaguely.

Lucian feared the next words out of her mouth.

“…is potent.”

Lucian laughed uneasily, “Apparently.”
As if on cue, Lucrezia, Persephone, Alecto and Maximillian came dashing through the second-over garden terrace, laughing and chasing each other before being ushered back in by the butler, Oberon.

“So, who knows what he’s passed down to you kids.” Cat had sworn that Kokip needed to be studied after he’d told them that Tekrakai had given birth to quadruplets.

Lucian combed his hair from his eyes. “Heh, I’d like to think my dad’s got some kind of… No, actually, I don’t want to think about that at all,” he grimaced. “I think nine kids in ten years says enough….”

He knew full well that if his parents were not so inundated with royal duties, he’d have a few more pitter-patters of feet visiting him in the morning. Victor Iosif, his youngest brother, had not been planned, but was definitely a blessing in disguise.

“And to answer your question, because it looks like you already know, no, I did not do anything malicious to Freyja.” Saying her name made his chest ache. “In fact, I did her a favor. She won’t remember the pain I’ve caused her. She won’t talk or start rumors, and she won’t try and win me back. I just wish I could do that to myself…about a lot of things…”

Cat winced at his simple way of viewing the situation. “I can empathize with that… But I need you to understand what your actions might look like to someone else… You had her wipe her memories! People will call that an abuse of power, that you take advantage of people. They will say you’re hiding something.”

Lucian swore under his breath. “Is it always going to be what it looks like to everyone else or does this fucking family give a shit about how it looks to me?!”

The matriarch of House Grey pursed her lips at him, unimpressed with his whinging. “And how does it look to you? Do you think that was your best course of action under the circumstances?”

She preferred if he didn’t run around with women at all until he was happily married, but she knew that was an unrealistic wish. It would have certainly made her job easier though…

“Of course it’s not the best course of action!” Lucian continued, his breath condensing as the air around them cooled. “Because everything has to have an agenda behind it. The Crown’s agenda. No—

Cat interrupted him, “The Crown’s agenda is your agenda. It’s your life! It’s what protects you!”

“I just ended what was probably one of the best relationships of my life because it would only end tragically otherwise. I can’t keep telling myself I’ll have a fairy tale ending with a woman I genuinely care about because I won’t,” Lucian squinted his eyes shut and turned away. Don’t you dare fucking cry in front of her. Don’t fucking cry—

“And look at that!” he laughed to himself. “Now I’m free to have a loveless marriage with some airhead with whom I have about as much chemistry as a dead alchemist!”

Cat bit her cheek to stop herself from making a joke about undead. Now was not the time… She sighed and grumbled, “Czariya is young and immature, certainly…” And so are you, she thought. “She’ll grow up.” And so will you. “Xerxes will coach her. Otherwise, I’ll be fighting another rebellion in my fifties.”

Lucian tilted his head knowingly. “Why? No one’s going to poison my playing cards without you knowing about it.”

Cat cocked an eyebrow at him, “Only a complete moron of an assassin would attempt a trick I would already be looking out for.”

Lucian smiled at her confidence. It was one of her more endearing qualities, other than harboring a great deal of power inside of a tiny lady. He felt somewhat better, having gotten to let some of his steam out. Still…it was only a tourniquet for something worse.

“If mom and dad ask…just…tell them I had someone. But I ended it. Don’t mention her name, just…give them something to understand. I have…too much on my mind.”

“I won’t tell them…” Cat promised honestly, it was enough that she knew the truth and could come up with mitigating plans. However, she did have a few other concerns to voice with him. “But having too much on your mind seems to lead to clouded judgement… I’ve heard that you do enjoy spending a good amount of your time in closets with women you claim to despise… Or Chelaxian visitors.”

Goddamnit, Lucian pursed his lips. Those two are pushing it. “Not even twenty-four hours! They’re getting worse. I’m surprised they’re not trying to get into the Korvosan Guard with that much tattling—”

Aunt Cat’s eyes narrowed; Catriona and Genevive, named after her and Aunt Viv, also had a soft spot in her heart— though they were far less interested in anything near the throne, their intentions towards their older brother had always been out of care.

She lowered her voice. “You’re in the middle of a party! You are the Prince! You are of eligible age! All eyes are on you!” she hissed, stepping closer to him. “No moment is private! If you don’t want to lead her on, then don’t fucking give her ideas or give the Jeggares a hook into you!”

Lucian said nothing.

“Nothing cements a marriage in the nobility faster than rumours of fucking in back rooms.”

“It’s a little late for that, Auntie. I’m officially courting her anyway,” Lucian said in a pompously mocking voice. “Oh, look at me, Purrrrincess Czariya Jeggare! Guess who loooooves me!’ By the gods, she’s just turned 17 and she acts like she’s 12 and….ugh,” he shook his head; the thunder overhead rolled and rumbled, and he waited for the droplets of rain to make their presence known. “What’s the point of me complaining about her? I have my whole life to complain about her. Maybe I’ll fall in love with her. Maybe she’ll drive me insane and I’ll kill her.”

He regretted that last sentence; the tale of the murderous fallen Queen Ileosa, King Eodred’s wife, was well known to him and his siblings. He trembled to think what would have to happen that he’d do such a thing to his future wife.

Well, you’re one step closer. Had enough practice last night.

The guilt only swelled inside him. He crossed his arms as the wind picked up. He laughed to himself with incredulity, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Hell…”

Cat could see him spiralling, and it worried her. However, his off-colour comment made her wrinkle her nose. “Don’t make jokes like that… You need a partner. Someone you can actually trust on that throne with you. Someone who will respect you and watch your back and be your staunchest supporter. I’m not a huge fan of the girl either… But people change. I’ve been surprised by less.”

Lightning flashed over Conqueror’s Bay and he could feel a single droplet on his face.

“Can we just… clone my mom and then she can rule longer?”

Aunt Cat sucked in a deep breath. “Also not technically legal.”

“Figures.”

The woman watched the windows around her close and the curtains get drawn as the storm threatened to touch down upon Korvosa. “I know that this is all overwhelming, what with everything that has happened recently… But we’re here to support you and make sure that you’re ready for this responsibility when it comes time. We’re not going to leave you to flounder. I know it’s easy to think you might never be ready for something of this magnitude, but sometimes we even surprise ourselves…”

Cat had doubted herself plenty of times throughout her life, and had always been surprised when others saw competence in her. However, she’d always managed to pull through to meet, and even exceed, those expectations once she’d stopped holding herself back.

Cat continued, “You have responsibilities now, and it’s time to start living up to them and holding yourself accountable to a higher standard. You are the future King of Korvosa.”

Lucian’s chest ached. Aunt Viv had told him about the succession crisis, how his mother had been willing to take the responsibility of the Crown off of Aunt Cat’s shoulders. And he knew what it meant— freedom to live as she desired, free of the responsibility and hatred from the masses at any wrong decision. Kester could have been next in line to the throne if that had pushed through. But so it remained he stayed in the Sable Company, happily married to the woman he loved, with a career he ultimately enjoyed. And Sasha…she would’ve been Queen, but she had always told him she was destined for something else…and as much as he wanted to resent her for it, he blamed her for none of it. If anything, she’d known Korvosa would hold her back. But his mother…and Aunt Cat…everyone…they expected nothing but complacency on his behalf. They let Sasha go as quickly as she desired. He wasn’t allowed to leave or abdicate.

“I guess it can’t be helped then,” he took a deep breath, struggling to keep his composure. “Freyja was right. I am in a gilded cage. A cage designed by those who felt the weight on their shoulders should better find its home on the backs of those they claim to love and protect,” he ignored the raindrops landing on his face and neck and glared at his aunt.

A rare hurt expression fleetingly transfixed itself on Aunt Cat’s features before she covered it up with her stone-cold Cardinal stare.

“And you don’t have to constantly remind me of my future like you’re drilling it into my head. It’s the same shit every single day. ‘You are going to be King, you will be King, if you want to be a King then act like one— Yes, I will be—a King puppeted behind the scenes by the same woman who didn’t want the Crown in the first place. The relief you must have felt when my mother took up the torch. Blameless in all things, the targets away from you and your family, free to love, and free to leave. You don’t understand the extent to which you have damned my soul and the souls of my brothers and sisters to save yours from this merciless city-”

Cat reached up and slapped him as quick as a serpent’s strike. Hard.

Her body trembled with rage, “Don’t you dare pretend to assume you know what it’s like to be damned! You have no idea the exercise in futility it is to do good – to risk your life – and know you will still end up tortured for eternity. If this-” she gestured at the castle and grounds, “- is what it is like to be damned, then fuckin’ sign me back up!”

Lucian said nothing. He had never been struck before. Other than perhaps a bit of rough and tumble with his brothers, or sparring with Amarice. No, that slap had a wealth of anger behind it. It cut into his cheekbone and left small red welts where her rings sat on her fingers. He felt every muscle in his body ache, and it hurt to even move. More magic on her part…

Part of him wished she’d just killed him.

For a second, Cat thought of the consequences she had bestowed on herself by striking the Queen’s son and the Crown Prince. Anyone else with a heartbeat might as well have their hands cut off. Even Kokip had once said the day he struck any of his children was the day Drisaine became a widow; he could never live with his conscience if he struck his own child— as Gaedren Lamm had done to him on a regular basis. Cat didn’t have quite the same level of misgivings, especially when such disrespect had been thrown her way.

Cat’s face grew dark, “If being a King is too terrifying a prospect for you, try being a pauper. I could just as easily have left your parents to struggle to attain a millionth of what they now have. I’m sure that after your privileged upbringing, you could certainly stomach a life on the streets of Korvosa,” she sneered through her condescension. “I would love to show you what happened to a young Shoanti boy who simply made the mistake of wandering into the streets during Ileosa’s reign. ‘Torn to pieces’ is putting it mildly, simply for going out to the market.”

She huffed in a breath to quell some of her rage, “Your mother made a choice for you all… This cage, as you call it, provides you protection – it’s keeping you safe from my full ire right now,” Aunt Cat said the word ‘cage’ with a sarcastic snarl and mocking tone. “I may be part of that cage, but do not forget that we are all risking our lives for yours. It’s made of bars, not a solid wall. Figure out how to make the gaps work for you.”

Aunt Cat swivelled on her heel and stormed off, muttering the harshest Varisian curses under her breath, some of which Lucian wouldn’t even dare say in front of his sisters.

The rain had swollen into a torrential downpour and Lucian stood without the slightest bit of regard. Perhaps if he tilted his head up, he thought to himself, he could drown like he had predicted.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Deadly nightshade

“He used to call me D.N.

That stood for deadly nightshade

‘Cause I was filled with poison

But blessed with beauty and rage

Jim told me that

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

Jim brought me back

Reminded me of when we were kids—”

Jennie stopped her softly-whispered melody as footsteps approached the door to her makeshift bedroom. It was more like three keg barrels and a pillowed cot on hay, but she couldn’t care less for its lack of luxury. She waited for the knock at the door.

“Jenessa?” It was the Boss.

She stared up at the wooden cellar ceiling, watching the spiderlings crawl in and out between the cracks of the floorboards. “Come in.”

The Boss opened the door, heavier than it looked, and it hit the stone wall with a slight crunch, and loose concrete scattered onto the floor.

He chuckled, ducking under a wooden beam. “You know…this isn’t what I was expecting when they agreed to keep you here.”

“Marlessa was adamant she got the biggest bedroom. It’s only in her nature,” Jennie said matter-of-factly, standing up and dusting off her pants. “Happens when you’re forced to remind everyone that you’re still their leader.”

“I take it you and her never got along.”

“Five years ago, perhaps,” Jennie pulled two of the small kegs towards her and placed them within a two foot distance of each other. “Sit?”

“I’d rather not.”

Jennie shrugged. “Your legs, not mine.”

She sat cross-legged on the keg; the Boss could see hardly a twinge of fear in her eyes. In fact, she looked quite happy to see him, like a long lost friend reminiscing over tea and biscuits. She’d always been like this.

They did quite a number on her psyche, he thought.

“How’s your family?” Jennie suddenly asked.

“Thriving, at best,” the Boss answered, pacing the room, surveying the state of her living quarters. “Melania’s heading off to Bard College.”

“Kitharodian?”

“Only the best for her,” the Boss replied.

“And Rosabella?”

“She’s in Absalom with the boys,” he said. Jennie nodded. The boss’ wife always took a two-month journey with her two youngest to the biggest city in Golarion. “I’ll make sure she brings you back a souvenir.”

The two of them exchanged genuine smiles.

“They don’t tell me anything, your superiors,” the Boss lit his pipe without a flame. “And for the price I paid to have you here…well, I expected a bit more than the usual bureaucratic response.”

Jennie tilted her head. “To be fair, I think you’re the only one outside of Cheliax to know anything remotely about this.”

“That last one…it was—”

She answered in a low voice. “I failed on purpose.”

The Boss raised a scarred eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I had my reasons. Logistically and..well, emotionally. And halfway through, I realized she wasn’t there,” Jennie sighed. “Could’ve changed the course of the night.”

“Would it have mattered?” he said, taking a deep inhale. “She wasn’t the prime objective.”

“No, but taking her out or taking over would have opened the floodgates to taking all the names off Abrogail’s list in one evening.”

The Boss chuckled. “Always the completionist.”

“It was one of two options I had—well, was ordered—to choose from. The other would have been for him to finish the job and I get away with it.”

The man looked at her hunched form; she could have really been just another pretty girl on the street. Yet he knew what lay inside her physical body. The things he had seen when he visited Egorian…the things they said they did…even he could not fathom such levels of depravity and lack of humanity in his lifetime. And he was known for his penchant for raiding noble carriages and killing off the families inside them.

“When’s the next one?”

Jennie shook her head. “Even that, I don’t know specifically. But they are recalling me back two days from now to…fix me.”

The Boss gave her a sympathetic nod. “That’s the worst part, isn’t it?”

The girl laughed to herself, but her gaze was distant. “Best and worst. It used to excite me as a child, the things I could do when they finished their usual rituals. But now…it’s all numb to me.” She took out a small gold-plated butterfly knife humming with magical energy and played with it between her thin fingers; it mesmerized the man, the way it danced in her hands. “It has to be.”

“And what about this ‘Michael’?”

Jennie stopped playing and tucked the knife back in her breast pocket. “What about him?”

“A greater hat of disguise wouldn’t be an obstacle for you,” the boss said. “You can see right through them, can’t you?”

Jenessa rolled her eyes. “To an extent.”

“Well, to what extent did the man—or woman—under that enchantment show their true self to you?”

Jenessa took the next few seconds to carefully map out her response. “We fucked, didn’t we? I saw every last bit of him.”

The Boss was not impressed. Jenessa would have been his youngest daughter’s age, had she not died three weeks before her first birthday. He saw Jenessa as a surrogate daughter, even if he knew their time together would be short.

“Then you know what he looks like.”

Jenessa looked up at him. “Yes.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “Just another run of the mill guy. Varisian, looks like it. Tall. Nothing like his altered self.”

“You’re keeping your responses strangely generic.”

“Yes,” Jenessa smiled at him. “I don’t suppose the other intimate details are of your concern, though I must say, it did a number on me that night.”

She could see his discomfort under his duster collar.

“Very well then, if you’re not inclined to tell me at the moment—”

“I’m not,” Jenessa said plainly. “If the Dusters want revenge for Tallus’ death, I’d rather they figure it out themselves. Let Marlessa show how smart she really is at solving problems, if that’s what pleases her. I’m not their informant.” She looked at the moth-ball scented pillow she had been using for the last six months. “Just a tenant.”

The Boss sighed to himself. For over thirty-four years, he had been the boss of his crime family, one of the last remaining of the Sczarnis who had managed to scrape past the upending of Old Korvosa and Boule’s sudden death. For years, people had looked upon him in fear. He was not used to being refused information, but he would have rather thrown himself in Longacre prison than get in this girl’s bad graces.

“Now, if the Grand Council could please turn to page seventeen of Addendum seven, section 6,” Queen Drisaine spoke from the head of the table.

The six heads at the table flipped several pages of the copies of notes she had made for them; Kester was representing Grey, much to Lucian’s relief. Louis Zenderholm, Alicia Ornelos, Xerxes and his son Antin Jeggare, Marcus Endrin and Aisha Leroung were all present to represent their houses, wearing the ceremonial red sashes each meeting that matched Her Majesty’s.

Standing behind Drisaine’s chair was Amarice and nine of the ten members of the Queensguard, standing like statues at their usual position, their sheathed swords before them with both hands on the hilt. On the second level of the Grand Council Meeting Room, Lucian sat on his designated seat— a black throne with red velvet that was separate from the rest of the seats for spectators. He was flanked by Alexandross and the Queensguard’s esteemed Bloodrager, Illyasviel Tornique, a woman who wielded a greatsword longer than her six-foot tall charge.

“The Qualifications Bill under Section 17, to which the new standards for registered guild members to file a claim for workplace compensation benefits will extend to injuries sustained to and from their place of work, within 30 days of incident,” Drisaine took a second piece of paper from Neolandus, whose old, shaking hands and knees still found strength to stand next to Her Majesty. “The Crown is willing to give Royal Assent after final advice is given. Vetoes are now in session, what say you?”

Lucian looked on from the throne, watching the Houses speak their turn. Twenty-five other spectators were present to watch from the second-floor balconies, most of them children and significant others of the Heads of Houses, some were political science or law students who were allowed to sit in with their Professors. A few of the girls found it boring enough to whisper to themselves, after which they would be shushed by their lady-in-waiting or personal chaperone. Ever since the Crown Prince began making his presence on a weekly basis, the number of ladies that had been showing up had increased— Czariya’s sparse appearances included. However, he found some relief that she was currently occupied with another matter, and so he sat without much interruption.

“…that concludes advice given, all in favor six to six,” Drisaine held out her hand and Neolandus gave her a prepared pillow with a signet ring on it. She slid it onto her pointer finger and the Seneschal placed the Qualifications bill before her.

“By the power vested by the Crown, I, Queen Drisaine of House Bromathan, and by the six heads of the great Houses of Korvosa, doth assent to this bill, with promulgation.”

Neolandus poured the wax over the bill, near where seven signatures were signed, and Drisaine waited a few seconds to press her signet ring upon the cooling wax.

“Next order of business—”

“Oi. Lucy.”

Lucian stirred in his spot as Catriona’s voice trickled between his ears. He looked around and spotted her sitting down in the first row with her handmaiden Týra and Miles Edgeworld, Second Lieutenant of the Korvosan Guard. It was typical for a high-ranking Officer of the Guard to accompany the other children of the Royal family outside the walls, but Lucian knew she had handpicked Miles for his ridiculously well-crafted jawline and impressively broad shoulders. Genevive, sitting adjacent, had the same rationale with her choice of Lieutenant Amber Krauss, a muscular, orange-haired half-elf with twinkling silver eyes and a devilishly wicked smile.

“The final Bill under Section 27, please turn to page eight.”

Lucian fixed his posture to the sound of several turning pages. “I’m trying to concentrate,” he returned to Catriona. “Mom talks so fast I can’t keep up sometimes. What is it?”

“The trial of Dragoslav Moscovici is tomorrow, and apparently he’s willing to testify against the Sczarni with some new information—”

Lucian’s interest piqued. “I’m listening.”

Catriona shrugged from across the balconies. “That’s it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Were you hoping for me to come with you? It was on my schedule already for the fifteenth.”

“Obviously. Why else would we ask?” Genevive cut in. “Everyone’s going to be there. Including the Jeggares.”

Lucian narrowed his eyes.

“Idiot, why’d you tell him that?” Catriona glared at her younger twin.

“Because he’s gonna find out anyway,” Genevive rolled her eyes. “Czariya’s going to make a beeline for him and he’s going to have a bad time because he wasn’t prepared for it—”

Lucian took a deep breath. “I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll let Czariya sit next to me during the trial.”

Catriona and Genevive’s heads both simultaneously locked onto their brother’s.

“Are you high?”

“No…just…trying to make it work between her and I,” Lucian said, his expression neutral and unchanging.

You have responsibilities now, and it’s time to start living up to them and holding yourself accountable to a higher standard. You are the future King of Korvosa.

Lucian stroked his finger on the spot where Aunt Cat had struck him the day before. He had felt nothing but regret since their talk on the garden terrace. Aunt Cat didn’t deserve what had been said to her. She had been there since the beginning, a woman who, despite her tough exterior, was incredibly loving and incredibly caring. She was like a second mother to him, and he knew, deep down, he had only said those things to make her angry enough to hurt him physically. Yes, part of it had been simmering under his skin, waiting to come out. And while it worked, it definitely hadn’t been worth it. To hurt a member of her family, he knew, was the last thing she wanted to do. And he’d made her do it.

You have responsibilities now, and it’s time to start living up to them and holding yourself accountable to a higher standard. You are the future King of Korvosa.

He watched his mother sign another bill, and place the signet ring back on the pillow. In five minutes, she had passed two laws that could now very well change the future of Korvosa’s common folk. Laws that she had been working to push since the start of her reign. And what’s more, he could see how much she enjoyed it, letting slip a small but genuine smile each time the Council agreed in full.

“Stop staring like that.”

Lucian’s eyes darted to his sisters. “Staring like what?”

“You’re about to burn a hole into the Grand Council table.”

“Bugger off,” Lucian said, pursing his lips.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he rather enjoyed these meetings. This was when the power of the Crown was at its most visible.

Do not forget that we are all risking our lives for yours. It’s made of bars, not a solid wall. Figure out how to make the gaps work for you.

The meeting ended without much pomp and circumstance, as Drisaine preferred. She shook hands with each of the Grand Council members before retreating to her main office. Xerxes took an extra bit of time with his exchange; he smiled at Drisaine and held onto her hand a second too long before sliding it away.

“Cunt.”

Genevive stopped herself from bursting into laughter. “Iona—!”

“He is! He’s still simping for our mother like a wounded puppy. The guy’s married with five kids for Shelyn’s sake—”

Genevive snorted. “Yeah, to a bargain bin version of Mom.”

Lucian bit his lip to stop grinning.

“Don’t talk that way about Lucy’s future father-in-law.”

“Oh gods, he would be, wouldn’t he? If you end up marrying the bobblehead?” Catriona smirked.

Lucian rolled his eyes at the twins. He rose from his seat and his guardians followed. The doors opened downstairs and he could see Adria walk in followed by Aly, and Antin kissed her cheek as they crossed paths. He could only turn away and exit through the secondary entrance.

Private tutors followed the Grand Council meeting— he had Chelaxian History one hour with Vance Leroung, the University’s Dean of International Studies, and one hour of Civilian Law with Senior Arbiter Druscia Vulso. Then he usually had an hour riding with Scepter Gold before dusk.

Catriona, Genevive and Persephone usually joined in on the Law classes—- they congregated at one of the larger study rooms that served as their mother’s personal library of legislation, criminal codes, university textbooks, city charters, and philosophers’ theses on human sociology. They were surrounded by thousands of books, and the only window was always pulled closed by curtains to keep the children safe. And of course, one member of the Queensguard on rotating shifts to watch the entrance.

Lucian sat, spinning his ink pen on his thumb and forefinger, a habit he had been trying to quell after Neolandus quite literally had to leave the room to save himself from high blood pressure, having heard enough of the Prince dropping his pen to a loud clatter on the marble floor.

Arbiter Vulso was a tall, quite animated Chelaxian woman with a burgundy red buzz cut and a permanent scowl, and if not for her kind eyes and dry sense of humor, classes would have been dreadful, as she spent most of it reciting the laws and asking fake scenarios for the children to answer. The wrong answer usually led to about ten minutes of extra ranting from her end as to the long-term consequences of making the wrong decision with the scenario, which at one point included a petty theft charge butterfly-effected into the entire city collapsing into a sinkhole.

“Alright, page seven please, of Melyensohn’s Archives of Capital Punishment,” she barked from her velour armchair. Catriona and Genevive both shared a book with little messages on anything but the topic of the book, and Persephone had her own in her little corner, with hundreds of little supplementary notes scrawled on the margins. The second youngest Bromathan daughter was rather interested in the law system and would join her older siblings to watch the courts in her spare time. She took the most after her mother out of all her siblings, and even her pale skin, blue eyes, and ink-black hair could fool the average man into thinking the Queen in their presence.

“Alright, can any of you tell me the five different methods of execution that have been historically used in Korvosa’s law system and which two have been recently abolished by Her Majesty The Queen for use?”

Persephone raised her hand up. “Beheading, Burning at the Stake, Hanging, Poison and Systematic Impalement.”

Lucian’s heart skipped a beat. On Vulso’s lap, Thok’s head smiled back with no teeth before disappearing.

“And which two were abolished?”

“Burning at the Stake was eradicated in 4728 A.R., and Systematic Impalement in 4733 A.R.”

“Well done, and why were they abolished?”

Genevive waved her personally-engraved fountain pen in the air. “Both methods were considered too long to be executions, fitting into the far less humane category of torture. Also they were barely used anyway, and far from contemporary. Also this city hates arson.”

Vulso nodded. “Can anyone tell me the second amendment to one of the three methods still used to this day?”

Catriona raised her hand up. “That anyone of Shoanti blood who professes belief in the Shoanti afterlife will not be submitted to the capital punishment of Beheading.”

Lucian took another deep breath. This had to be some kind of sick joke.

“Yes, as you all know, Her Majesty passed the Shoanti Equality Law nine months ago, making monumental strides in providing the citizens of Korvosa of Shoanti ethnic background equal rights in the court of law. Can anyone tell me the new punishment for murder of a Shoanti?”

“Should be the same as any Korvosan citizen,” Persephone answered. “Beheading. Unless they can determine it was self-defense or a hate crime, then those factors can change the punishment clause.”

Self-defense. That had been Lucian’s go to for the last 24 hours whenever he relived that night in Eel’s End. It had been one of the few things he’d been telling himself to keep from spiraling off the deep end. To be fair, Tallus did start the confrontation, and despite being told to stop—by a third party— he’d continued. If he hadn’t done it, the man would’ve killed him. Part of him just wished he hadn’t subjected him to the worst kind of death for a Shoanti. That continued to haunt him throughout the day, and the guilt was not going away any time soon.

“Prince Lucian,” Vulso called out. Shit, here we go.

“Yes, Your Honour?”

“Two men have been charged with killing a man, John Smith—”

“—now that’s a Shoanti name—” Genevive muttered.

“—of half-Shoanti ethnicity. Now, Mr. Smith does not acknowledge his Shoanti heritage, instead choosing to identify as 100% Varisian and passable as such—”

“—traitor—” Catherine jeered in Shoanti.

“—but after being confronted by the two men after work, he is killed and dismembered, then thrown into several areas of the Jeggare river.”

Catriona and Genevive grimaced. “Please tell me this isn’t based on a real case.”

“4709 A.R.,” Persephone interjected. “Ogstead and Roland v. Regina. This is why you shouldn’t swim in the Jeggare River.”

Vulso raised a hand up. “Unfortunately the Princess Persephone is already aware of this case, as she has told me she read all six thousand pages of Trials of Malice a week ago.”

Catriona smirked.“And I thought Mom was a huge nerd—”

“Thus, she already knows the ending. Please let His Royal Highness answer. How will the men be charged? And based on the newly amended Korvosan Criminal Code, what punishment is appropriate?

Lucian spun his pen in his hand again. “Uhh… does he have a tattoo specific to his Quah?”

Vulso looked down at the textbook. “None.”

According to the King-Consort, when children were deemed adults by their Quah, they chose their new names and received tattoos as part of the process. His Dad had been thirteen when he had gotten his. “What was his actual name?”

Vulso flipped a page. “He went by a Varisian name.”

“Then…they wouldn’t have known,” Lucian said after a few seconds. “With respect to mens rea, neither the purpose nor knowledge of his being part Shoanti informs the method in which the two men killed him, because they didn’t know. So if there is no mens rea on their part, Shoanti Equality laws would not apply to the conviction. So..” he looked down at his textbook, which he kept relatively scratch-free compared to his siblings’ “…since they planned this ahead of time knowing what time he got off work…it’s premeditated so…first degree murder. So torture followed by execution, because Chelaxian federal law supercedes municipal law, which applies to former Sovereign states.” He tapped his fountain pen on his desk. “Was…that a trick question?”

Vulso looked at him and he could swear her mouth disappeared as she pursed her lips. Then she nodded and smiled. “Well done. We might make a Head Arbiter out of you yet, Your Highness.”

“So, why is there still torture?” Catriona asked.

“Because we follow the Chelaxian criminal codex when it comes to indictable offenses like murder. Methods of execution vary between sovereign states, but it is almost always torture followed by execution. Unfortunately this is something Her Majesty has tried to change, but alas, Korvosa is one of the smaller colonies of Cheliax and well…our relationship with the Motherland is…precarious.”

Lucian looked down at his paper and felt a burning in the back of his throat. He had been told about the first assassination attempt that had happened after he had just turned three. Mom had been Queen for less than five years. As for his father…he, as far as Lucian knew, was still banned from entering Cheliax. How they’d managed to last this long on the throne was a testament to the people that protected them— and of course, his father’s stubbornness and his mother’s resolve.

“Mom— uh, Her Majesty said she was planning to become an Arbiter after University but then Incident Ileosa happened,” Genevive piped up.

“Yes, I have heard from her myself that she had ambitions to eventually become a Senior in Longacre, focusing on Civilian Law and Shoanti rights. I would have had the pleasure of working alongside her. Fortunately, Arbiters and the Crown work closely together, so I still got my wish,” Vulso said, turning the page. “She is rather brilliant.”

Lucian raised his hand up. “Hypothetically, what happens if a member of the Royal family killed a Shoanti?”

His three sisters turned their heads towards him.

“That’s oddly fuckin’ specific,” Genevive giggled. Vulso tutted ever so softly. “ Sorry— that’s oddly specific.”

“Well, I wouldn’t think of a reason for that possibility to come to fruition, given your heritage,” Vulso answered plainly, looking at him with a concerned expression. “But the Royal Family is subjected to the same laws as the civilian populace— no one is above the law—- unless your last name is Thrune, first name Abrogail,” she smiled to herself, “then there are ways around it, for reasons I cannot go into because we have four minutes left.”

Catriona and Genevive exchanged glances.

“Homework is a four-page essay on any of these three topics—”

The twins used to groan outright in a rather dramatic fashion to piss Vulso off since they started attending law lectures, but now it seemed they had resigned to their fate of receiving an essay a night for as long as they showed up to class— which, if Queen Drisaine could help it—was five days a week, no exceptions. At one point, they had both tried to feign sick with Bloodveil, but their father had revealed to them after three days of faking symptoms that those with Varisian blood, even at a quarter of its strength, had a 15% immunity to the plague that had wiped out over a fifth of Korvosa’s population. That, and they’d had the twins tested and inoculated at birth, same as all their children.

“I only ask for four pages or sixteen paragraphs, whichever comes first..”

“How big can we write?”

“If their Royal Highnesses could please look at their personal scribbles on page 16 of their textbook featuring two drawings of male genitalia, that size is adequate.”

Catriona and Genevive blushed and slammed their textbook shut.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Namesake

The bells tolled over Castle Korvosa, which then echoed into Longacre building, the last stop for the city’s most violent criminals. Also known as Arbiter’s Hall, the sombre song of the bells were the requiem for incoming criminals, as those sentenced to death were executed within the Longacre Building or in the Deathhead Vault beneath it.

Clerics of Abadar and Pharasma regularly patrolled the building. Despite the amount of precautions that had been added over the years, there was always the inevitability of the dead coming back. Next to Aunt Cat’s jurisdiction of the Grey, more undead came from the Longacre Building than anywhere else in the city.

Noon had come too fast; Lucian had spent the morning scrawling as much as he could on the topic “Chelaxian vs. Korvosan murder offences” from the three topics Vulso had given him and his sisters.

“….and….and, and, and…” he tapped on the parchment with his fountain pen, racking his brain for any different-sounding sentences to get him to four pages. “…and…that is why….the Death Penalty…remains….the same in….Cheliax as it does Korvosa….there.”

He reread the last paragraph and grimaced. He had basically said the same thing four times, and in his haste, his handwriting had grown bigger with each word.

“Your Royal Highness, your attire for Longacre.”

Alexandross entered the room with a full rolling coat rack. Lucian watched him from the reflection of the bedroom mirror.

“Just..leave it there.”

“Sir, I need your choices.”

“Uhh…” Lucian ripped off the parchment section that included his horrendous last paragraph. “Lay it on me, Ross.”

“Flare-hip or Saddle-seat jodhpurs, Sir?”

“Uh…Flare-hip.”

“Shadbelly jacket or short coat?”

“The first one.”

“Embellished stock tie with rubies or emeralds?”

Lucian stopped writing and figured he’d be better off making something up while he was at Longacre. He got up from his seat and started picking out the rest of his outfit.

“Who’s attending?”

“Their Majesties, the Princess Catriona, the Princess Genevive, the Princess Persephone, the Heads of the Major and Minor Houses, and some of the families from Old Korvosa— families of the viictims of the accused’s apparent activities, and anyone who wishes to see the proceedings, as is their right to do so.”

Lucian placed his outfit on the table in front of him, after which three handmaidens entered and began helping him into his clothes. Juliet took to unbuttoning his smoking jacket, revealing his bare torso underneath, and he caught her staring a second too long before walking away.

“Who’s my watch from the Queensguard?”

“Priestess Venetia Claurance, though I was told you also have two secondaries from the Korvosan Guard. Watch Captains Kaydence Horstoc and Betrix Martinique.”

“Watch Captains? That bad, huh?”

“This man has connections to the Sczarni crime families, Sir. We cannot risk anyone having the opportunity to take revenge on those present and undeserving.”

Lucian tilted his neck up as Juliet fixed the brooch on his stock tie and pressed down on his chest. He tried not to smile back, noting Alexandross’ watchful eye from the foot of the bed.

Lucian and his sisters were brought to the Longacre building by Dimension Door, to a secret room in the foyer where they could appear in relative peace. Catriona, Genevive, and Persephone were all wearing similar clothes to their older brother, except Persephone’s Shadbelly tails touched the floor, much like her mother’s when she had been a fledgling law student. Catriona and Genevive had pinned a corsage of Black-Eyed Susans and Lavender to their chests, the former symbolizing justice and being the main flower in the lawns of Longacre’s front facade.

The Hall of Justice had been renovated a few times over Lucian’s lifetime, and each time it never failed to amaze him. The massive great hall reached over seventy feet in height, with hammerbeam roofs and ceilings painted with a renaissance-style interpretation of the written history of Korvosa, from the Occupation of Cheliax in Varisia to Queen Domina’s militaristic reign. A recently added murale depicted three heroes— one riding on a raven with a crossbow, another one on a bear with two swords, and the last in a purple hat riding a snake with wings, surrounding an idealized red haired woman partly concealed by a swirl of blood. Behind her, the wings of a massive blue dragon and a crown broken into seven pieces was visible just over her head.

The nine arbiter chairs were intimidatingly tall piano-black Slat-backs on a long raised platform, about eight feet above the open area, and on three sides, the galleries could seat up to sixteen-hundred with huge marble columns every twenty feet to support the ceiling structures. Crimson-red benches were placed on three sides of the chamber, as well as a separate taller dais behind the Head Arbiter’s seat with a smaller version of the Crimson Throne and its ebony counterpart where the Queen and the King-Consort would take their places. Lucian’s parents hadn’t arrived yet— but as he entered before his sisters, the Page of Justice at the entrance called out, “His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Lucian Bromathan.”

The rumbling of feet stepping onto marble preceded his entrance, and Lucian walked into about twelve-hundred people in their best clothing, standing up in deference and bowing to his arrival. Priestess Claurance led him to the second floor balcony where members of the Great Houses sat; his chair—which had once been Sasha’s seat— sat at the very front of the gallery facing the Arbiter’s podiums and looking down at the first gallery below. His other sisters’ seats sat about three feet behind his.

All eyes stared at Lucian; he could see the Jeggares on the left side of the second-floor gallery, with Adria sitting next to Antin. Kester, Trinia, Mouse, and Korwick were next to them. Aunt Cat was in full Cardinal attire with Amphyllion perched on her shoulder, speaking to Bishop Keppira d’Bear on her right. The Bishop was rather venerable now, and most could see her declining health, but she held onto life with the same gusto she always had.

Upon seeing his Aunt, Lucian felt a pang of guilt in his chest, but he quickly swatted it away.

Catriona and Genevive followed him with their Lieutenants from the Korvosan Guard and their lady-in-waiting, Týra. Their eyes immediately found Basil and Harry Leroung, the Headmistress’ favorite nephews, with whom they had shared a fair bit of close “friendship” over the last few years, and they grinned back.

Lucian sat down, with Priestess Claurance on his left, and his two Watch Captains flanking his left and right, five feet equidistant from his seat.

Alexandross placed a folder in front of him. “Up to date information on the case, Sir. Moscovici vs. People of Korvosa.”

Vulso had been giving them updates on the trial over the last couple weeks, nicknamed “The Trial of the Century” after the crime boss called Madman Moscovici had ambushed several aristocrats by Garrison Hill, brought them to his residence, and had them flayed and butchered for his own amusement. He had been caught after a sting operation by the Korvosan Guard, and after a bloody manhunt, was found in the cellar of his mother’s house armed with naught but potions of alchemist’s fire. And now, apparently, he was attempting to weasel a way out of being executed with some spicy information on the very men to whom he had sworn unconditional loyalty. Lucian knew full well that the center of the room was enchanted with a zone of truth, so it would only be a matter of time before the truth (could) set the criminal free— at least, from death.

Behind the Queen’s seat was a fifteen-foot tall statue of Sarenrae holding a gold scepter and a set of silver scales, flanked by smaller allegorical statues of Justice and Clemency—the former with a bare sword and an inflexible expression, and the latter showing sympathy and offering an olive branch.

As Lucian sat down, everyone sat with him. He found Czariya already marking her target, her long chocolate-brown hair in a fishtail braid and dotted with silver pins. Her dress was a form-fitting black with a structured military-style jacket. She watched him from across the second floor, gleaming.

“Sucks we can’t use telepathic bond here,” Catriona sighed, leaning against her chair. She and her two sisters had also received similar documents from their chaperones. As soon as they were comfortable, Alexandross, Týra, and Persephone’s chaperone—the relatively young and handsome Mortimer Stryx— left and returned with hot tea for them while they waited for court to commence.

“There’s your lady love,” Genevive whispered in a sing-song voice behind her brother to his ear.

“Indeed. There she is,” Lucian replied monotonously. He returned the Jeggare girl’s sentiment with a small but obvious smile. Catriona and Genevive stared at him with matching furrowed brows.

Czariya waved for her chaperon, Vemont, and said something into his ear; Vemont walked halfway around the second floor, waved down Alexandross and relayed something to him. Finally Alexandross returned and leaned towards the Prince.

“Sir, the Lady Czariya Jeggare wishes you good health and would like to speak with you after the proceedings.”

Lucian locked eyes with the girl, “She can speak with me now. Please bring a chair for her and have her sit next to me.”

He could tell Alexandross was slightly surprised. Lucian sat back on his chair and casually flipped through the pages of the court documents. A minute or so later, Czariya was making her way towards the back of the second floor to where Lucian sat. A red armchair had been placed to his right. Lucian knew all eyes were on her and him; and from his peripheral vision, he noted Xerxes Jeggare in powder blue, bursting with pride.

“Hyee,” she said softly. She sat down on the chair, shoulder to shoulder with the Prince, and she let out a soft shudder as his arm inadvertently—or from Lucian’s point of view, rather intentionally— brushed against hers.

“I must say, Your Royal Highness. I didn’t expect to be sitting next to you under these, um, grim circumstances.”

Lucian tapped his finger on the armchair and smiled at her. “I didn’t realize how much I’d missed you until I saw you on the other side of the room.”

Czariya beamed, “Same.” She giggled to herself.

The two of them sat in a desperately awkward silence, for what felt like a minute, before Czariya’s little voice slithered back into the gap between them.

“So…who is this guy, Dragon…uh, Dragosi?”

“Dragosi Moscovici. He’s a notoriously prolific crime lord.”

“Oh.” She crossed her ankles and tried to copy Lucian’s steepled fingers. “Okay.”

Another long, pregnant pause. Behind him, Catriona opened the noisiest bag of biscuits she could find on purpose, biting down on her lip to stop from laughing.

“…Do you usually attend Justice court?”

“Only tennis courts, unfortunately,” she replied. Catriona and Genevive suppressed snickers behind the two of them, though they were not trying their best. Lucian had half a mind to tie their boot laces together and push them down the stairs.

“Her Majesty, The Queen.”

The entire room rose to their feet as the Page of Justice announced to the room. Lucian peered from the balcony railing as his mother walked in wearing a long-sleeved black dress and a red and blue sash that doubled over one of her shoulders. Her necklace was the same one she always wore at Longacre— a gift from her husband that strung six ioun stones together, easily removable to use if anything should go awry. His father walked four steps behind the Queen, dressed in his own regalia of black with a matching sash and a wolf’s head as a right shoulder pauldron. The badges on his chest also had six ioun stones, ready for use, and the magical circlet on his head enhancing his mind to keep up with the bombardment of legal jargon.

As Drisaine took her place on the throne, the crowd remained standing until the nine Head Arbiters walked in stage left; they all dressed in their foreboding pitch black silk and gabardine gowns with flap collars and long closed sleeves. A badge on each of their collars showed the Korvosan Coat of Arms,

The Page of Justice called out. “Their Honours, Arbiters of Justice Druscia Vulso, Oris Varin, Fausilius Kross, Désiré Zenderholm, Castilia Plantelle, Cornelia Constacé, Igor Maxilian, and Kristophe Carowyn. Residing over proceedings, His Honor the Head Justice Louis Zenderholm.”

As the nine Arbiters passed the Queen, they bowed and shook her hand. They showed the same deference to her husband before they stood at their spots. Louis Zenderholm was last to appear, his black silk damask gown trailing behind him, heavily embellished with gold jewelry and filigree.

“Court is in session,” Head Justice Zenderholm announced, and everyone sat down with the exception of the Law Court Guards and the Clerics stationed at every entrance.

Persephone ogled Louis Zenderholm with a wistful, faraway expression. He had warm brown eyes and high cheekbones that balanced his perpetually stern countenance, and when she had first met him and shook hands, his had easily dwarfed hers. She had once said to her sisters that if “Lord Louis” wasn’t old enough to be her father, he would have been her first pick for courtship.

“Case 17213 of the People of Korvosa against D.G. Moscovici,” the Head Judge read out through his spectacles. All nine Arbiters opened their documents in unison. “I, Chief Justice and Head Arbiter Louis Matthias Reginald Zenderholm, do hereby summon the name thus spoken to those attending on this day, the fifteen Sarenith, year 4728 Absalom Reckoning, in the city-state of Korvosa. Proceed.”

The Head Justice banged his gavel and the floor slid open slowly to reveal a rising platform, upon which a dishevelled man in his sixties, grey of beard and matted hair combed back into a ratted ponytail, was chained stiff to the granite platform on which he stood. He was flanked by six Korvosan Guards, with their hands ready on the hilts of their sheathed longswords.

The platform stopped just short of meeting the ground floor, and the whole room dissolved into whispers as the platform locked into place and the sound of mechanical gears ran throughout the belly of Longacre.

“Ew,” Czariya whispered.

Lucian paid no heed to her disgust; he watched his mother, usually a woman of steel and solemn spirit in the presence of her subjects, shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her eyebrows furrowed as she watched the man breathe in haggard rasps.

The Head Justice peered at the accused over his half-moon spectacles. “State your full name for the record.”

The man raised his head, and his eyes slithered between the nine Arbiters, between them, around them, to the Queen herself.

“Oh, ‘ow ye’ve grown, lil one—” he began, his voice wet and guttural.

Head Justice Zenderholm banged the gavel once. “I will only ask once again. State your name, or face immediate execution.”

The man turned his neck and his bones cracked. “Dragosi…Grigorel…Moscovici…” he took a long, drawling breath, “Underboss of the Moscovici crime family.”

The Queen looked away from him towards her husband. He returned her gaze and he sat up in his seat.

“The accused stands charged: that you, Dragosi Grigorel Moscovici, between the years of 4700 A.R. up until 12 Pharast 4728 A.R. inclusive, enacted a total of one-hundred and seventy-five counts of premeditated murder, murder in the second degree, arson, kidnapping, torture, grand theft, grand larceny, attempted murder, rape—”

Lucian could feel Czariya shrink in her seat.

“—robbery, conspiracy against authority, forced disappearance, sexual slavery, racketeering, obstruction of justice, incitement to genocide against people of Shoanti origin—”

“Prick,” Catriona and Genevive grumbled in unison.

“—and drug trafficking.”

Moscovici laughed in his sorry state, his chains so heavy he hunched where he stood.

“How do you plead to the charge of sixty-five counts of premeditated murder—?”

“Not. Guilty,” the man snarled.

“Seventeen counts of murder in the second degree?”

“Not. Guilty,” he repeated.

This went on for another ten minutes, with Louis Zenderholm listing so many offences that Lucian’s numbed mind was wandering elsewhere, once in a while glancing at his mother’s face— she had calmed down from her initial sight of Moscovici, but the way his father looked at her with immediate concern, the way her hands gripped into the arm of her throne…something was affecting her far more than she’d hoped.

When Moscovici had finished pleading not guilty to the compendium of charges, Zenderholm pursed his lips and straightened his stack of papers. “While imprisoned under the custody of the Korvosan Guard, you said you had testimonies against the Moscovici crime family and were willing to testify in exchange for a reduced sentence.”

“Yes…Ye ‘onour.”

“Do you understand that upon the conclusion of your testimony, that if the court deems the newfound information either invalid or irrelevant, that there is a possibility you may not be granted clemency and thus face the appropriate punishment for your crimes if you are found guilty?”

“Yes, Ye ‘onour.”

“Do you understand that the appropriate punishment for 129 out of the 175 counts on which you have been charged involve torture and execution, the former of which stacks until completed followed by the latter?”

Moscovici snickered to himself. “Yes, Ye ‘onour. But I’m willin’ to disgrace me name ‘mongst the Sczarni for me freedom from the axeman.”

Louis Zenderholm kept his visage neutral, and flipped his page. “Please remove his chains and place him four steps towards me.”

The Korvosan Guard unlocked his chains in unison, and he rubbed his wrists as he was guided by three separate wardens to the humming area in front of him. The man immediately looked at ease, and Lucian knew he was inside a Zone of Truth.

“What evidence have you, Mr. Moscovici?”

The man looked up at the Head Justice, his eyes half-closed. “I’m not the man ye’ve ultimately sought these last few years. The man ye wan’ is none other than the boss of the Moscovici crime family. The Chairman. The Emperor of the Underworld. I’m simply ‘is understudy, a younger brother who was willin’ to take leftover duties as big brother began ‘is relentless extortion of Old Korvosa.”

“Please state the name of the head of your family, this…Emperor, as you call him,” Zenderholm said with a fair bit of sarcasm.

The man’s eyes darted to the Queen’s deep blue ones, then smiled a toothy grin. “Dragomir Patriel Moscovici. Known in our circles as ‘The Massacre Master’. Ye might recognize ‘im, if ye see ‘im, Ye Majesty.”

Something about the way this scum of the earth spoke directly to his mother made Lucian feel violated.

Head Justice Zenderholm banged his gavel as the crowd whispered amongst themselves once more. “Mr. Moscovici, you are not permitted to speak to Her Majesty directly. You had been instructed about this ahead of time. This is your last warning.”

“Fine,” Dragosi rattled. “Then to you, Ye ‘onour, I speak of an incident that happened almost thirty years ago.” he coughed into his tattered sleeve. “Dragomir wanted to place the Moscovici on the map— the Sczarni were tired of not bein taken too seriously— even by their own kin, an’ he wanted more. Always more. So he took it upon ‘imself to remove whole families. Civilians were ‘nough to sate his lust. But if he could get ‘is hand on the Aristocrats, Minor ‘ouses an’ rich merchants, he’d find the notoriety ‘e craved since he was a child. He knew them Major ‘ouses were too powerful to tamper with.”

“So we followed ‘is lead. His instructions. Disguisin’ ourselves as brigands an’ Shoanti scum an’ raiding carriages that strayed too far from the city limits. The men an’ women we slaughtered…the children we orphaned…their mothers an’ fathers, left to die with naugh’ but the skin on their backs…”

Lucian could see his mom swaying slightly in her seat. His father took a deep breath and whispered something to her; she closed her eyes and exhaled.

“Is…is Mom okay?” Catriona whispered behind him.

“I…” Lucian’s heart rate suddenly climbed.

“…I’m sure, if ‘Er Majesty could remember, a li’l incident at the start o’ my brother’s crusades of murderous rampage?” Dragosi looked up dreamily, as if reminiscing a fond moment in time, “where a coach carryin’ a family o’ three was ‘eaded back to the city after an excursion to Magnimar…”

“Lucian…” Genevive whispered behind him with the slightest bit of panic in her voice. “Mom’s—”

Her brother absent-mindedly raised his hand to silence her, and she spat him a glare of incredulity. Even Czariya had turned stone-silent, watching with concern, leaning forward with her arms crossed over her knees.

“…we’d hoped the family patriarch was also inside this lovely li’l carriage…but unfortunately, all me boys could find were ‘is wife, ‘is son, and ‘is sweet little daughter—”

Aunt Cat was on the edge of her seat, her eyes narrowed at the man on the floor. The crowds whispered to themselves in an almost confused, excitable panic, and the Head Justice banged his gavel once more with increased annoyance.

“I’m sure their names would ring a bell,” Dragosi continued. “Drisolde Endrin Bromathan an’ Virgil Lucian Bromathan, if I remember—”

The crowd descended into gasps and loud exchanges of shock. Lucian watched his mother clap a hand to her stomach and she rose from her seat. The entire room rose with her and she was swarmed by the Queensguard, who blocked her view from the ground-level crowd composed mostly of civilians and families from Old Korvosa. Aunt Cat disappeared from her chair quick as lightning, only to reappear on the ground floor moments later. She stepped between two Queensguard to speak to Drisaine. Louis Zenderholm turned around and exchanged words between her, the Queen and the King-Consort, who—as far as Lucian could tell between the gaps of the Queensguard’s formation—was now holding his wife’s hand as she struggled to stand.

Catriona softly clapped her hands over her mouth and—for once—had nothing to say.

“Holy. Shit,” Genevive said out loud, trembling.

Lucian’s mother had once told him he was named after her brother, Virgil. A man whose death—along with her mother Drisolde’s—was so violent to witness, Drisaine had been rendered mute for over a year until Kokip became part of her family. And what was more egregious, the Sczarni had made efforts to disguise it as an act of Shoanti savagery. It suddenly made sense why his mother had so desperately wanted to become a lawyer. Why she advocated for Shoanti rights. Why she was ceaselessly paranoid for her children, far before any assassination attempt was in her diaries.

Five minutes later, the Queensguard dissipated and Aunt Cat had taken a seat next to the Field Marshall, her arms crossed with an austere expression. Drisaine sat back down on her throne, graceful and composed as ever, her expression neutral. Lucian’s father, on the other hand, looked about ready to turn Dragosi into red dust and bone chips with his bare hands.

Bang. Bang. Bang. “Order in the court.” Louis Zenderholm was the King of the Gavel, as Persephone had always said. It seemed he enjoyed the sound of his prized darkwood gavel against its sound block a little too zealously. “Mr. Moscovici, is there anything you’d like to add to your testimony?”

The man smirked and wheezed out a laugh. “I know where my dear big brother is hiding. He calls it staying, I call it hidin’. I’m sure, wit’ the power ‘Er Majesty now holds, she can finally seek revenge.”

“Mom would never,” Genevive whispered to Catriona. “She’s not that kind of person—”

“You bell-end, it’s literally the man who killed our grandmother—”

“You two shut the fuck up,” Lucian hissed in Shoanti over his shoulder. “I’m trying to listen.”

“Of course you’d know his whereabouts,” Louis Zenderholm said with a disingenuous smile, ignoring the decrepit man’s last sentence. “Your point?”

“I can give ye the location of ‘is main headquarters in Old Korvosa, if it so pleases ye.”

Field Marshal Cressida Kroft perked up from her seat near Drisaine, then whispered something to her First Watch Captain Amelio Grandere.

“If ye do get to ‘im, ye’ll find a lot more than just family secrets in that rathole,” Moscovici continued amusedly. “Why, the things he’s planned, the people he’s collaborated wit’, why…” he glanced at the Queen once more. “…it’s beyond me scope of understandin’, but it seems he’s gotten his hands dirty wit’ some…” he stared at the King-Consort, “…uncharted territory. Magic beyond ‘is control.”

“Rhetoric,” Louis Zenderholm snapped. “Justice Plantelle?”

Plantelle said something indiscernible before the court and it seemed the space between the Head Arbiter and Moscovici became disfigured; no sound emerged from it until about thirty seconds later, when the center of the room reverted to its usual condition.

“For the court, Mr. Moscovici has told me the apparent location of Dragomir Moscovici,” the Head Justice declared. “Which will be withheld from the public until a full inquisition can be carried out.”

He exchanged a knowing look with the Field Marshal, who then whispered to Aunt Cat and Watch Captain Grandere.

Lucian felt a prickling in the back of his neck and shivered. Czariya sat back and exhaled.

“Well that was…” she cleared her throat. “Eye-opening.”

“How do you think this is going to turn out?” Catriona whispered to her twin.

“Well they’re gonna raid the location and either find a bunch of well-equipped gang members followed by the greatest standoff of all time or they’ll find nothing and Dragomir knew his brother was a snitch and a half.”

“Well, Dragosi wouldn’t be lying—”

“—no, but he only says what he thinks is the truth, and if we’ve learned anything about the Sczarni—”

“—they don’t quite trust each other all that much either.”

The prickling returned, and Lucian could not shake the ominous feeling in the back of his head.

He peered down at the crowds on the first floor. They were all wearing their Sunday best, some in black cloaks, some in their finest dress suits, and some of the more obvious social climbers wore gowns that made them stick out like flowers in a graveyard. One of them was a rather voluptuous woman in cerulean blue, surrounded by black-cloaked women in grey or subtle blues, of which two or three whispered amongst themselves.

One was staring back at him.

“What’s taking the judges so long?” Czariya asked, watching Louis Zenderholm whisper to Vulso on his right hand side. “How long do these things take, do you suppose?”

Lucian said nothing; he stared back at the woman, his mouth agape. A pair of deep crimson eyes kept their gaze on him.

Czariya sighed. “I suppose you wouldn’t know either.”

“No…I wouldn’t…” Lucian said absent-mindedly.
The corner of the red-eyed woman’s lip curled and she turned away.

Louis Zenderholm cleared his throat and banged his gavel. “Anything else, Mr. Moscovici? Before we reach our verdict?”

Moscovici chuckled. “These are bloodthirsty times, Your Honour. Even the most obedient child can only stay so obedient. Beware the son of Varisia.”

He stepped four paces back and Zenderholm would have looked almost nonplussed if his eyebrows hadn’t been so permanently condescending. He was none too impressed.

“How quaint, for you to finish so forebodingly. Perhaps you’d have made a better poet than murderer,” Zenderholm said sardonically, closing his documents folder. “How do you identify yourself, Mr. Moscovici? Varisian? Shoanti—?”

Moscovici barked out a hollow laugh. “Shoanti? I’m not particularly fond of fuckin’ ‘orses, Ye ‘onour. No— Varisian through an’ through.”

Lucian could see his father’s hands slowly open, just wide enough to hold the handle of a shortsword. The crowd around the room whispered; for a split second Lucian caught Xerxes smirking at the King-Consort, then exchanging glances with the aged Academae Headmaster Toff Ornelos from across the balconies.

Son of a fucking bitch.

Someone sniffled behind Lucian and Mortimer leaned towards Persephone with a handkerchief. He felt the heat in his chest come to a boiling point. Czariya looked at him from the corner of her heavily-lined eye, then to her father, and scowled.

“Order. Order.” Bang bang. Louis Zenderholm took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Do you have a god, Mr. Moscovici?”

“Once,” Mr. Moscovici said. “Norgorber, Ye ‘onour.”

Persephone scoffed. “Figures.”

Zenderholm’s caustic smile snapped into a domineering frown. “Then I suggest you make peace with him. Dragosi Morovici, we the nine heads of justice find you guilty on all one-hundred and seventy charges—”

Genevive grimaced in confusion. “What? That was so quick—”

“As such, just punishment will be carried out without delay. As per the Codex de Imperium Cheliax, you will be sentenced to…” he looked down at the numbers he had added onto his documents, “….21 days of torture followed by execution by beheading for your crimes.”

He took the quill at the corner of his desk and began writing on a piece of paper under the stack of documents.

“But— I told ye everythin’!”

“Yes. A little too much I’m afraid,” the Head Justice replied vaguely, scribbling onto another paragraph. “Your testimony alone implicates your involvement with the Sczarni families, and that itself carries a sentence of 50 days of torture followed by execution.” He signed the paper, pressed his signet ring on the wax, took the quill, and snapped it in half. “Due to your astounding contributions in bringing down your family, we’ve reduced your time in torture by more than half, and then some. That, I think, is far more than you deserve,” Louis Zenderholm said with neither a smile nor frown. “If I do any less they’ll start thinking I’ve gone too soft.”

The eight Arbiters next to him either smiled or kept their expression neutral.

“Case closed.” Bang.

The Korvosan Guards grabbed Moscovici by his shoulders, pushed him onto his knees and replaced the chains on his wrists, waist and feet, and the platform slowly descended once more.

Drisaine and Kokip rose from their seats and everyone followed at different speeds. Lucian stayed frozen in his chair and watched his father open the door to the antechamber and just before his mother walked through, she looked up at the gallery where he and his sisters had been watching. In the eyes of the public, he’d never seen her look so close to tears.

☙❧

“Drisaine—”

Kokip closed and locked the door of the antechamber, the rumbling of moving feet muffled by the thick stone walls. The antechamber itself was brightly lit with six or so armchairs adorned with plush pillows. A large fireplace with rampant Hippogriff mantels and a baroque-style lintel crackled at its center.

Drisaine waited several seconds, until she was sure no one would walk after her and knock. Then she slowly walked up to her husband and collapsed into his arms, crying like she hadn’t cried in almost two decades.

Kokip held her tight, stroking the curls of her hair and resting his cheek on her head. He didn’t care if she wailed into his ear, or soaked his regalia with tears— the sound of her crying ripped into his soul; all he wanted was to stop them for her.

After about two minutes of non-stop crying, her fingernails had dug marks into Kokip’s immaculately pressed collar, his ascot and sash were damp, and Drisaine remained whimpering into his neck.

“My love,” he said quietly. “Whatever that cretin might have said in front of everyone…he means nothing. His words only mean to incite a reaction out of you and make you look vulnerable, and we should accept his words as words of a criminal and a fool—”

“Kokip…” she choked out. “Take your circlet off.”

He looked down and spoke softly. “Why—?”

“I don’t want…I don’t want another politician in this room…just be yourself…please…?”

Her husband obliged, carefully placing the near-priceless circlet on the mahogany table next to the door. His head went numb for several seconds, but he seemed much more like himself. His inhibitions reared their head.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. He brushed a lock of her hair from her face. She wiped her tears with her handkerchief and began sobbing. “I hate that he made you cry like this. That fucking asshole deserves more than torture.”

“I remember his face, Kokip,” Drisaine tried to catch her breath. “His face…he was dressed in leather armor…Shoanti leather armor…and he had tattoos and a spear but it’s him. And what he did to Mama…what they did to Mama…and she’d begged them to stop…and what they did to Virgil—-”

She held her hand to her throat and shook her head. Kokip could feel her slowly turn into dead weight, but she found her footing before long. No words came out of her, just bare gasps and a panicked stare, as if she had lost the ability to speak. Kokip suddenly had flashbacks to the day he’d met her at the Bromathan manor.

“I’m here…” he cupped her hands and she looked up with those glistening ocean blue eyes that had transfixed him from minute one. Kokip was one of four, in twenty-eight years, other than Cat, Nectus, and her father Valdur, whom Drisaine could face in the state she was in, without worry about what the other might think. As his hands held her cheeks, she seemed to relax slightly, dropping her shoulders.

“Louis’ done his duty. That monster will never see the light of day again. And now the Korvosan Guard have information to take out his brother and the rest of them—”

“I know. I know. It’s just…it’s been over twenty-eight years, Kokip,” she breathed. “It’s been…it was for all intents and purposes, erased from my memory, or at least, I’d come to terms with it. I always told myself that if I couldn’t do anything to avenge my family, I could at least help others find the justice they deserve. I’ve always told myself that revenge is no way to live. It only begets more violence in the end. But..”

Kokip looked down at her shaking hands. “Anything before the word “but” is a lie.”

He removed his white gloves and wiped a tear from his wife’s pallid cheeks.

“What can I do?” he asked, his strong eyebrows creased with worry.

“You’re doing more than anyone else can,” she sighed, leaning her face into his hand. “No one else.”

Drisaine knew he wasn’t going to say anything that could dissuade her sorrow. He wasn’t going to make some special motivational speech for her to keep fighting. Moments like this, just her and him, without the rest of the world watching, were the source of her happiness, away from all the politics and subterfuge and distrust.

“They insulted you, Kokip,” she said after a long pause. “He insulted you, our children, and me. Lucian…the girls…they hear it too much, too often, even when it’s said behind their backs—”

Knock knock.

Kokip rolled his eyes and lowered his voice. “Not five fucking minutes—”

“Your Majesty?” Amarice called out from behind the door.

Drisaine was still trying to compose herself, her hand cradled by her husband’s; his hand easily wrapped itself around her whole fist.

“She’s preoccupied, Amarice,” Kokip called without opening the door.

“Head Justice needs to speak with you.”

“Louis can wait three fucking seconds—”

“No, it’s…it’s alright,” Drisaine said, pressing a hand on his chest to calm him down. “They need to discuss the execution date and Cressida needed to speak with me right after, she said she’s already planned something out with the information—”

“Yes, but what do you need?” Kokip asked in earnest.

“Honestly?” She traced his jawline and the curve of his lips; she leaned closer to her husband and his hands slid down to her waist.

Kokip took a deep breath and looked around the room. “Honey…”

Drisaine rolled her eyes. “Well obviously not here!” she hissed, a smile peeking through her tears. “But seriously, I—” she took a breath and straightened the diadem pinned to the top of her chignon. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Kokip acquiesced and unlocked the door. Just before he could open it, the Queen tiptoed, grabbed his neck and pulled him into an almost-angry kiss, biting his lip with a soft exhale before exiting back into the Justice Hall.

“I’m…glad we got to sit together,” Czariya chirruped to Lucian as the room cleared. They were surrounded by a wall of Korvosan Guards as the lower half of the room clambered out onto the front steps. “To be honest, being around you is a breath of fresh air, away from my family…” her voice trailed off as her father approached from the other side of the gallery.

“Expect a raven, tomorrow,” she added quickly, her eyes twinkling at him.

Lucian tried not to shrug and smiled back. “I shall.”

His eyes darted back and forth between the civilians leaving, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jennie. Sadly, the Korvosan Guard would not budge, even if he’d ordered them to.

“Excuse me, if I may have my daughter?” Xerxes called out between Martinique and Horstoc with an animated wave, “Czariya, sweetheart!”

Lucian walked Lady Jeggare over to where he stood; the two Watch Captains made a gap just big enough for a single person to walk through. Lucian took Czariya’s hand, kissed it and then her cheek; she had sprinkled something like juniper and lavender at her neck and he was mildly taken aback. . Several feet away he could hear an “aww” from the direction of the twins, and he rolled his eyes before withdrawing from Czariya’s face.

Lucian locked eyes with Xerxes and clenched his fist under his sleeve. He had half a mind to sock the pompous prick in the mouth. He knew the man only ever tolerated his father because the ‘stable-boy turned bodyguard’ had taken his prize right from under him, without as much as his own family name to show for it. And with that prize still within gawking distance, Xerxes had to be well-behaved if he was to be allowed to gawk in the first place.

“Your Royal Highness,” Xerxes greeted, bowing with a flourish.

Lucian smirked. Czariya walked over to her father and kissed his cheek. Xerxes was waiting for Lucian to acknowledge him back.

Two can play this game, Jeggare.

Lucian stared deep into Czariya’s eyes and conveyed the same look he’d watched his own father give his mother whenever they thought no one was watching them in her office. He could see Czariya’s chest heave and she clutched the jewels on her neck.

“Goodnight, my lady,” Lucian said in his softest, most dulcet tone, as if every second he was with her was his personal paradise.

Without another look at her father, he turned on his heel and walked away, finding his sisters chatting away with the Leroung brothers.

Xerxes’ eyes furrowed; that boy—the son of that savage drudge… had clearly forgotten his manners—

“Gods, I’m in love,” Czariya swooned, loud enough so her father could hear. “I’m marrying that man some day, and gods be damned if I can’t have him.”

Lucian suppressed a smile at her father’s half-horrified expression.

☙❧

Dinner time was quiet in the castle that night; the Queen and King-Consort had made some sort of excuse that they had several other important things to run through with the Arbiters before the night was done. Kokip assured his oldest children that their mother was alright—for the most part—and to carry on for the night.

So the children opted for the smaller dining room on the same floor as their bedrooms, with a mahogany table with baroque carvings on the legs, leaving them much closer in proximity than the breakfast hall. Lucian, the twins, Persephone and Lucrezia all sat at one end of the table. Alecto and Maximilian flanked Victor Iosif on the other end, with the younger twin spilling minestrone soup everywhere.

“Hey, clean that up,” Catriona ordered from her chair. “No, not you, Alice—” she stopped Maximilian’s handmaiden from walking forward with a wave. “He’s got to learn to clean up after himself. Or not eat like he’s trying to win a contest at the circus.”

Maximilian gruffed and took his cloth towel, dismally sliding back and forth around his soup, which only pushed the bigger bits away from him.

Lucian looked up from his plate of cornbread halibut, horseradish and mustard slaw, and baked julienne potatoes with garlic seasoning. Alecto and Maximilian were avoiding his gaze.

“Guys…” he began, putting down his knife and fork. “Al, Max…”

The two of them stopped eating and looked up.

“I’m sorry. For yelling at you,” Lucian said. “I’ve been going through a bit of a strange personal tribulation lately, and it’s made me more irritable and prone to lashing out. I’m not going to make any excuses for taking my anger out on you. You didn’t deserve any of it and I genuinely enjoy seeing you two in the morning.”

Alecto and Maximilian stared at him like he’d turned purple.

“I hope you can forgive me,” Lucian said.

Lucrezia and Persephone exchanged whispers at the table. Genevive nudged them both to stop with her slippered foot. Victor Iosif flung a carrot down the table; Nugget jumped up and caught it in his mouth before scampering away.

“Of course we forgive you,” Alecto said finally.

“We’d forgiven you already,” Maximilian added. “We’re not blind, you know; we could tell you were going through a rough time.”

“And we figured it would only be a matter of time before you figured yourself out and then hopefully asked for forgiveness.”

“Which you did.”

“So we’re over it.”

The two of them grinned, each one missing a tooth. Lucian’s heart swelled with an emotion he hadn’t felt in over a month. “Sometimes I forget that you guys are growing up way too fast,” he said, picking up his knife and fork again.

“We’re not grown up,” Maximilian retorte, furrowing his thick brows.

“Just dorks,” Lucrezia chaffed, taking a bite out of her Shepherd’s pie.

The dinner ended with a round of dessert— honey melon-flavored ice shavings with cornflakes and condensed milk poured in a hatched design on the top.

“Who discovered how to make this? Holy sh…” Lucrezia stopped herself from swearing as she finished her dessert before Catriona could take a bite out of hers.

“ ‘Holy shit’?” Victor Iosif repeated, giggling.

“Vi!” Catriona and Genevive gasped. “None of that from you!”

“She forgot how to say it. So I helped her,” he said in the sweetest little voice.

“Stop being so cute,” Catriona cooed at the littlest Bromathan. “Adelaide, can you make sure Vi goes to bed an hour early?We’re going horse-riding out on South Shore with the Leroungs,” she stared at her other siblings, particularly her older brother. “Wanna come?”

Lucian stared out at the splash of orange and red on the horizon. “It’s almost sundown.”

“Yeah, and that’s romantic as fuck,” Genevive said. “So it’s perfect.”

“Base and Harry?”

“Who else?”

“You four are getting pretty serious,” Lucrezia commented, wiping her mouth on her napkin.

“Weeell…” Catriona tilted her head; the word ‘serious’ was not exactly her favorite way to describe her to-and-froms. “I mean..as serious as one can be, it’s not like we want to get crackin on proposals right away or anything—”

“Mmmhm,” Lucrezia snarked into her dessert bowl. “You know I can hear you both at night talking about wedding dresses, right?”

“Oh shush, you,” Catriona picked up both hers and Genevive’s empty plates and handed them to Chives to place in the kitchen. “So, if anyone else wants to join us—”

“I’d rather not be the fifth wheel in that carriage,” Lucian said, remembering overhearing his sisters’ play-by-plays of their dates with some very colorful imagery.

“Then bring Czariya.”

“No.”

“Oh!” Alexandross raised a hand from the corner of the room. “Excuse me, Your Royal Highness.”

He left in a power walk out the double doors to the hallway leading to the main entrance.

“The hell was that?” Genevive scoffed.

Lucian’s butler returned with two envelopes with gold filigree and a string tied around each one of them. “These came for you from the Lady Czariya Jeggare. My sincerest apologies for the delay; the raven had made quite a mess in the mail room…”

“It’s alright, Ross. Thank you.”

Lucian took the two letters after Alexandross placed them on the table. He raised his eyebrow at the perfect calligraphic execution of the address and his, so satisfyingly balanced at the center of the envelope’s back in deep purple ink.

“‘To the Prince of my heart’,” Catriona and Genevive read out loud over their brother’s shoulder.

“Can you two just go already?!” Lucian snapped, stuffing the envelopes inside the inner lining of his jacket.

☙❧

The sun was now giving out its last farewell until the moon would have her turn; stars were already twinkling overhead. Lucian was sitting at the red and black grand piano in his bedroom, playing a fast but somber melody- Etude Op. 25 No. 12—that he had inadvertently begun repeating on the same two pages as his thoughts wandered…

He thought about Jennie’s face…he knew she was from Eel’s End, so she would definitely know about this trial…but why look at him? Had she known it was him under that disguise? Then again, a fair bit of women had ogled the Prince before, but this felt like more than a coincidence.

“Sir?”

Lucian jumped from his seat as Vipond knocked thrice, entered the room and bowed, but continued to play. “Yes?”

“Her Royal Highness the Princess Lucrezia is wondering if you can, in her words verbatim, ‘stop playing the same thirty seconds of arpeggios over and over like a god-damned jack-in-the-box’?”

“Oh,” Lucian flipped the page back to the beginning. “Apologies.”

“Also, she says ‘your legatos are delayed, and your “A” key on the fifth octave is out of tune’.”

Lucian pursed his lips; Sasha had seen incredible potential in her youngest sister and had taken it upon herself to teach Lucrezia how to play when the latter was old enough to press keys and count to 8; thus, Lucrezia had fallen in love with the instrument so fast, she’d developed perfect pitch and a ceaseless snobbiness for the craft.

“I’ll send for a Piano Tuner in the morning, how’s that sound?”

“I will inform her, Sir. Oh, and—” he cleared his throat and spoke louder over the piano. “‘She said if His Royal Highness ‘continues his terrible intonation’, she will, uh, ‘bite that damned piano until it stops working’.”

Lucian raised his eyebrows. “Yikes, fine. Tell her to calm down— we’re not at the Opera House and unlike her, I stopped classes altogether and switched to swordfighting when I realized a piano’s not going to stop a man from stabbing me in the chest. Or she can cut my fingers off if she’s so inclined to.”

Apart from her musical virtuosity and being a patron of the arts, Lucrezia had inherited her father’s temper and her mother’s tolerance for bullshit, a lethal combination that proved to benefit her as much as it ailed her reputation; rumours had spread that a gang of thieves had once attacked her and her chaperone on the way to the Ayisha Leroung Grand Opera House and she had “yelled at them until they were crying on the ground asking for help.” Probably half-true, at best, but par for the course.

Alecto and Maximilian in particular were at the receiving end of her brutal quips, and the twins generally avoided pranking her or making her cross. Lucian knew better than to get her into too much of a pother.

Vipod left and Lucian began playing the piece from the beginning, as soft as he could, until he got to a part where he had no choice but to crescendo into fortissimo, and closed the lid of his piano. He stared at the two envelopes on the table in his bedroom lounging area. Two separate letters written in four hours?

Czariya must literally do nothing at home.

He opened the first letter with his desk pen-knife and laid down on his three-seat velvet sofa. Folded in thirds, a small handkerchief fell onto his chest, fragrant of the same scent he had noticed on Czariya at Longacre.

Czariya had impressively neat writing; it was almost like she had gotten a professional scribe to write for her, but it was more than likely Xerxes had made her perfect the way of the fountain pen for all her future signatures and notes. He rearranged his pillow before he started reading.

Dearest Prince Lucian,
Thank you for taking the courageous and most arduous endeavour of courting a member of the Jeggare family.

Lucian suppressed a snort. This was a level of self-awareness he didn’t know Czariya possessed. He continued:

My father does not check or proofread these letters, for he fears any salacious back-and-forths would be ingrained into his psyche, reminding him that his daughter is, indeed, a woman and a future wife. I know our exchanges have been…aggressively stale. And I am fully aware that you do not have any genuine interest in anything I have said or contributed in casual conversation.

Lucian’s eyebrows furrowed. Was this the same woman he had been talking to for the last few months?

Dear Papa insists that I play a submissive, naïve damsel-in-distress, as he believed this would pique the interest of the future King. Historically, this is how the dreaded fallen Queen Ileosa had garnered King Eodred II’s attention, but I would rather not compare myself to some fire-crotched harlot who nearly taxed the city to economic ruin with her hubris.

But I have found that despite my half-hearted efforts, you are not the sort of man to chase a woman whose only talent is her virginity. Yes, I am a virgin, and yes, I have no idea what I’m doing with anything you have to offer me. But I have been keeping this charade up for far too long.

I was happy you could see past all the pomp and circumstance. Ultimately, I imagine you gave up on finding a different prospect and asked to court me, out of obligation, as I too was obliged to pursue your attention as the only woman of marrying age left in my family. As soon as we were allowed to exchange letters, I knew these clandestine exchanges harbored the best possibility of conveying the truth— the real truth.

That I, Czariya Odysseia Vellamy Jeggare, would love nothing more than to learn how to use a sword and spend time discussing history with you. I am inclined to solve ciphers, puzzles, and riddles. I can bake better than most Chefs but I only ever get the chance to do it when my parents aren’t home. I love anything to do with equestrian sport— animal husbandry, dressage, and show-jumping. My favorite dish is bouillabaisse, but I will turn it down for chocolate croissants. I can speak Varisian, Infernal and Celestial, and I’m currently learning Elven with my private tutor. I believe the Shoanti population has a right to life and luxury, same as any citizen of Korvosa, and I’m afraid the way my father behaved during the court proceedings—-with regards to the blatant disrespect upon your father, the King-Consort—-was my final straw and my last nerve.

It is strange to think Papa would want me to have children with ⅛ Shoanti blood, but he figured at that point that it would be so diluted it would not matter in the end. Papa is obsessed with how my future children would look with you as their father. Clearly, anything remotely Shoanti would garner nothing but deep-seated resentment, but he trusts that somehow, the hypothetical children he has conjured will resemble the Jeggare side more than the Bromathan side.

Nevertheless, his ambitions are exasperating., and thinking about you has become my silent reprieve. I hope you can understand why I act the way I do. I have to admit, it was amusing at first, but I know the rumours that circulate about me, and I do not want those rumours to perpetuate. I am more than the sum of my family’s parts.

Looking forward to your future messages,
-C.O.V.J.
P.S. If you can solve this puzzle before replying, I’ll bake you a rhubarb pie.

QU HRTNXIME HPNWEX IA DPEEOIZB-JERXMA

Lucian reread the letter, for what seemed like over a dozen times, until he couldn’t help but smile to himself. This had to be some kind of ruse…right?

Czariya Jeggare…you are full of surprises.

He placed the letter aside and looked up at the domed ceiling, his mind rushing with thoughts he never had about the Jeggare girl. How many aristocratic children felt the same way as she and him? He wouldn’t put it past Xerxes Jeggare to shape his kids into extensions of himself, to correct the mistakes he made in the past, while they validated his authority as a father and patriarch, but Lucian had no idea…no idea Czariya was so…

He caught himself grinning like an idiot in the bedroom mirror and he turned his body away, opening the second letter with gusto.

There were no swatches of juniper in this one— only two small scrolls, humming with magic, written in Infernal. Lucian sat up and stared at them on his lap, and checked the return address on the envelope.

Jeggare Palace, No. 9 Garrison Hill, Endrin Isles, City of Korvosa

“Weird,” Lucian said, unfolding the second letter. He knew the posts were checked for poison, but for magic? Unless—

He looked to the page— it was absolute nonsense, strange little letters that made his head spin. He turned it upside down, feeling rather foolish as he did, hoping that it would somehow make more sense. Then he realized the words shifting about, changing on their own, as if being descrambled by an invisible hand.

“Michael”,

I thought you’d looked familiar. Didn’t think I was getting in bed with the future King of Korvosa….

“Shit, how the fuck did she—?”

Lucian’s heart shot up into his throat, and he felt sweat on the back of his neck. He leaned over his knees on the couch and continued momentarily glancing at the surreptitiously hidden magic scrolls. She knew all along, he thought to himself, fiddling with his signet ring in a nervous habit. He thought he’d be in a more panicked state, but…

I’ve given you two scrolls of Dimension Door. If you remember Gideon’s tavern, the lowest deck of the ship underneath serves as a makeshift inn for travellers and passers-by. The tavern’s closed— Gideon went to Riddleport for his Grandma’s funeral— so don’t worry about being discreet. If you want to stop by, we can talk downstairs..among other things. What happened in the House of Clouds between the two us…sometimes at night, I’d wake up gasping your name. I’ve never felt so alive, not until we met. I need to know that what happened wasn’t just a dream. I need to know…and I need you now.

This is a fucking trap.

It was his first thought, but not his first instinct. He exhaled softly at the last sentence and leaned back on the sofa. He remembered everything so precisely, as if he was reliving the experience again and again— how their bodies felt pressed against each other, their hearts beating fast and matching the rhythm of his thrusts, the sound of her hips slapping and grinding against his, the melody of pure, unbridled pleasure she made…the terrible, awful, morally decrepit, licentious things she spoke into his ear, the sweet taste of her soft, supple skin, that scar on her back…her eyes gleaming with tears as she climaxed….

Lucian rubbed his face in his hands and took a deep breath, his eyes darting between the two letters before him with disbelief as the sun set over Conqueror’s Bay.