She had run away to Trahir, and she had left Will, at fifteen, to fend for himself, to weather the storm that was his father, and she did not even have the decency to tell himwhy.
Not truly.
There was mention of Gianna’s piousness, how the queen’s obsession with the prophecy of the Second Saint might draw unwanted attention to Lorna given her lineage. But Will didn’t know why itmattered.
What knowledge did Lorna have regarding the prophecy? And why was she so keen to keep it from Gianna?
Lorna had refused to answer.
“I’ve already shared too much,” she had said, as if shehadn’t appeared in the alleyway and scared him half to death. As if she hadn’t had her newsonsubdue him and bring him to her new home. “You should go.”
Will hadn’t argued.
He did not need further proof his mother did not care. He had a lifetime of it. But as he’d stormed out the door, he’d caught himself on the frame, unable to keep one last question from falling from his lips.
“Does Father know that you’re alive?”
Lorna had stared at him, a mirror of his own face reflecting back at him. “Yes.”
He’d hated how the sting of betrayal had followed him home, how the Malas had seemed grayer than usual, the bite of the air not cold enough to distract him from the fury that burned inside of him.
Lorna may be alive, but hismother…
She was dead to him.
His father, too, for all he cared.
Gale had been furious when Will returned and stated his intentions to join the Dyminara rather than take up his mantle at the head of his father’s merchant empire. But how else was he supposed to get close to his queen? How else was he supposed to learn why the prophecy had urged Lorna to abandon her entire life—heronlyson?
Not anymore, he reminded himself viciously. Lorna had replaced him as easily as she’d disappeared from his life.
The year since he’d learned of his mother’s faked death had clearly done nothing to calm the tempest of rage inside of him.
“What about you, Castell?” One of the recruits nudged a shoulder against his, jarring him from his thoughts. Will hadn’t heard the question. He didn’t care enough to have the man repeat himself.
“It’s Will,” he corrected.
The recruit smirked. “Already shedding your surname? You’re not a member of the Dyminara yet.”
“Perhaps. But I like my chances.”
Let them think it was nothing but overconfidence in his abilities; if it kept anyone from suspecting the truth—that he was counting down the days until he could leave his father’s town house for the last time—he did not care.
One more year. One more year of training, and then he would take his oath.
A scoff sounded somewhere behind him, and Will turned to find Aya Veliri shaking her head. His stomach swooped as her ice-blue eyes met his, the back of his neck going hot under her piercing stare.
He’d always found her pretty, but now, at seventeen, she was stunning. Her dark brown hair was thick and plaited down her spine, her training leathers melding to her curves like a glove.
Too bad she regarded him like the dirt beneath her boot.
He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Most people saw his father when they looked at him. Aya had more reason than most.
Yet logic didn’t lessen the pulse of irritation that ripped through him as she fixed him with that unimpressed look.
It didn’t matter. He didn’t need her to like him or even tolerate him. He just needed to observe. Towatch. To see whether that nudge in his mind, the one that had him replaying the way he had not been able to feel a whisper of her that day years ago, meant anything.
But that didn’t stop him from prodding back.
