Morelli grinned at his best friend. “You grumble, but be honest—you wish you had ten of me.” When Cregon muttered a curse, Morelli chuckled and clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Why don’t you join me at one of Zagrev’s many fine taverns tonight? You could use a little loosening up.”
“Another time,” Cregon said. “I’d like to speak with my son.”
“Fair enough.” Morelli bid them both goodnight, leaving Cregon and Carver alone in the throne room. Only half of the large iron candelabras spaced throughout the vast space were lit, making the shadows stretch long and hang deep at the edges of the room.
Cregon’s assessing gaze swept over Carver, his voice low as he asked, “Do you feel like talking about everything?”
“You heard my report.” More than once, thanks to Keats and his repetitive questions.
His father shook his head. “I may know what happened in Esperance, but I don’t know the most important thing.” At his questioning look, Cregon’s face softened. “How areyou?”
Carver let out a long exhale as he leaned against the edge of the table. “Truthfully? I’m not sure.”
Cregon’s brow furrowed, but his eyes were clear. “Talk me through it.”
It was a favorite line of his father’s. Carver had missed hearing it. He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m worried about Amryn.”
“That’s understandable.” A hint of a smile lifted Cregon’s lips. “And quite obvious, by the way. Tell me why you’re worried about her.”
“She’s nervous about being in the capital,” Carver admitted. “And after how Keats just acted, I can’t blame her.”
“He was only doing his job.”
Carver lifted one eyebrow, his gaze pointed.
“All right, he did it a bit aggressively,” his father admitted. “But if Amryn has truly disavowed the Rising, she has nothing to fear.”
Carver’s fingers dug into his folded arms. “I want to take her home. Westmont would be safer for her. From the Rising,” he added quickly.
“Probably true,” Cregon said. “But you won’t be leaving any time soon. You’re both needed here, until this mess can be sorted.”
Carver wanted to argue, but his father wasn’t wrong. Everything was a mess right now. He couldn’t ask the emperor to let him and Amryn leave until they’d sat through the emperor’s meeting tomorrow morning, and Amryn had been questioned by Keats and Morelli.
Lost in his own thoughts, he nearly missed the shadow that had risen in his father’s eyes.
Dread curled inside him. “What is it?”
Cregon’s jaw worked. “I didn’t want to have this be one of the first things we talked about, but I don’t want you to hear it from someone else. Trouble has been stirring along the border.”
He didn’t need to clarify which one. Carver swallowed. “Tell me.”
Cregon sighed. “It’s small skirmishes, mostly. Harvarian militants who don’t want to admit the war is over.” He held Carver’s stare, a muscle in his cheek jumping. “They’re leaving bodies near our watch towers. Soldiers we thought were killed during the war.”
Nausea churned in his gut, but Carver refused to blink. Or look away from his father’s worried gaze. “How many?”
“A lot,” Cregon said grimly. “Too many. They’re all fresh kills. They’ve been kept as prisoners all this time, only to be led to the slaughter. The enemy is clearly trying to incite us.”
There was a roaring in his ears, but Carver tried to ignore it. “They were tortured before they were killed.” It wasn’t really a question.
Sorrow and sympathy warred across Cregon’s expression as he said, “Yes.”
Dark memories threatened. They’d been closer to the surface ever since the vivid nightmare Amryn had woken him from, but now—knowing the horror those men had endured before their senseless deaths—Carver felt like he was drowning in them. Raza’s voice was in his mind. The screams. The pain.
He curled his hands to fists, tight enough that his fingernails cut into his palms. Trying to force the memories out. But nothing could erase the past. His experiences in Harvari were forever a part of him, no matter how much he longed to forget.
His father was watching him too closely.
“Do we know which militant group is responsible?” Carver asked.
