“Would you think less of me if I said not yet?” he asked with a wan smile. “What I am proposing isn’t some realm-shattering revelation of your heritage, but for you to show them who you are beneath that and who you could be as a couple… and as their monarchs.”
Relief washed over me in a wave. I wasn’t ready for that much honesty after a lifetime of hiding.
“And then later we’ll break the news to them, when they’re less likely to gather any spare torches and pitchforks,” he added.
“Yes, well, that would be preferable, all things considered,” I replied with a shrug.
Soren glanced toward Nevara and brushed a trembling thumb across the back of her hand. Then, he pushed away from the bedframe with a slow and weary groan to meet Draven’s gaze.
“Let me help you,” he said. “For her sake, and for the sake of what little remains of my Emberkiss whiskey stash.”
I glanced up at Draven. A muscle worked in his jaw as he considered how to respond. I could feel his indecision warring through our bond, the implications of each choice weighing on him and tugging him down different paths.
Finally, he gave a single dip of his chin. Just one. And Soren’s shoulders relaxed.
“But I have a condition,” Draven said after a beat.
Soren’s raven-dark brows furrowed, his head tilting in question.
“Before we discuss this further, you need to take a damn bath.”
The emissary barked out a surprised laugh but then nodded as well. He tried to make a joke of it at first, but there was genuine fear in his eyes when his gaze cut back to Nevara. He didn’t want to leave her.
“We’ll stay until you get back,” I added quickly.
“I’ll only be an hour,” he said after a moment. “Two, at most.”
“Take longer,” I said firmly. “And once you’ve eaten, and rested, we can talk more about the specifics of this plan.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he nodded. His footsteps were slow but determined as he filed from the room.
When the door finally shut behind him, the room felt strangely hollow. Quiet, in a way that made my pulse echo in my ears.
Draven didn’t move at first. He just stood there beside Nevara’s bed, his hand resting near hers but not touching, the lantern light gilding the sharp line of his profile. His expression was unreadable, at least until he blinked, and I saw the grief crack through the mask.
He swallowed and gave a minute shake of his head before his attention caught on something in the corner of the room.
For several long moments, he stared at the ornate liquor cart and the shimmering bottles and glasses laid out neatly on each shelf. He didn’t say a word as he crossed the distance, reaching for one at the very back of the bottom shelf.
He eased it out with both hands.
The bottle was dusty and thick-necked, the glass a deep twilight blue streaked with silver constellations. Age had chipped away half the painted pattern.
Draven held it as though it were something fragile. Or maybe even sacred… Perhaps both.
“That one doesn’t look like Nevara’s usual array of whiskey,” I said carefully, cognizant of the fact that my voice felt far too loud for the silence that had permeated the air.
Draven didn’t look away from the bottle. “It’s not.”
“What is it?”
His thumb brushed the embossed star on the glass in a gesture so gentle it cracked something open inside my chest.
“It’s the first bottle she ever stole,” he said quietly.
I stared. “Nevara stole liquor?”
A faint scoff slipped from his lips.
