“Creepy. That’s creepy, you know that?”
“I prefer thorough.”
I stared at him, trying to decide if murder was worth the complications it would cause. Probably. Maybe. “Are you going to drag me back?”
“No.” The smirk widened into something almost genuine. “Where would be the fun in that?”
I blinked. “You’re not?—”
“Going to report you to Varyth? Alert the guards? Sound the alarm?” He examined his nails with studied disinterest. “Why would I? You’re not doing anything I wouldn’t do. Besides, watching you navigate your new reality is far more entertaining than another tedious evening at the castle.”
“You weren’t at dinner.”
“No.” Something flickered across his expression, there and gone too quickly to identify. “Darian can be... ill-tempered after stressful weeks. I find it best not to aggravate him with my presence.”
Right. Because he and Eilrys used to be together.
Cindrissian must have read the thought on my face because he nodded slowly. “Ah. Someone filled you in on the sordid history. How much did they tell you?”
“Enough to know it’s complicated.”
“Everything here is complicated.” He leaned against the tavern wall, all casual grace that didn’t quite hide the coiled readiness underneath. “That’s what happens when you trap immortal beings with long memories and longer grudges in close proximity. We’re all just waiting to see who bleeds first.”
I studied him, trying to reconcile the playful mask with the darkness underneath. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you don’t trust me.” He said it like a compliment. “Which means you’re paying attention. That’s rare.”
“Forgive me if I’m not throwing you a parade for basic observation skills.”
His laugh was soft, barely audible over the ambient noise from the tavern. “You know what I like about you, Isara? You don’t perform. Most people, especially new arrivals, spend so much energy trying to appear harmless or grateful or whateverthey think will keep them safe. But you?” He gestured at me, at the defiant set of my shoulders. “You’re just you. Prickly and suspicious and ready to burn the world down if it gets too close to your children.”
“Is there a point to this character analysis, or are you just lonely?”
“The point is that your instinct not to trust me is correct.” His expression shifted, something genuine bleeding through the perpetual amusement. “In fact, I’d recommend extending that policy to everyone in that castle. Including Varyth. Especially Varyth.”
I studied him, trying to parse truth from manipulation. “You work for him.”
“I workwithhim. There’s a difference.” Cindrissian pushed off the wall, moving closer. Not threatening, exactly, but deliberate. “I’m loyal to Varyth because it serves my interests to be loyal. The moment that calculation changes, so will my allegiance. That’s how it works here. Immortality makes mercenaries of us all.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that I almost believed him. “Which is why I developed my charming personality. If I’m going to spend eternity playing politics, I might as well entertain myself.”
“By following people who sneak out of castles?”
“Among other things.” The smirk returned. “I’ve survived longer than most of the people who came here believing in things like loyalty and honour and the inherent goodness of powerful men.”
“You’re telling me to trust no one.”
“I’m telling you, I haven’t trusted anyone since I was thirteen. And it’s kept me alive.”
The specificity caught me. “Why thirteen?”
For a moment, I didn’t think he’d answer. Old pain flickered across his face, but it was swiftly buried. Then his mouth curved into something too harsh to be a smile.
“Because that’s when I made the mistake of trusting the wrong person. It ended with my father shipping me off to another court.”
Horror crawled up my spine. “Your father—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The idea of a parent abandoning their child, sending them away like unwanted cargo. “Why would anyone do that? Why would a father send his son away?”
