He let out a sharp breath, cutting through that thought as well. She’d made her feelings to him clear all along. Ironically, it was he who had attached deeper meaning to their time together.
In the end, it was she who had conned him.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, once our forces are recovered. I will speak to the Red Tigress to understand her plans in dealing with Morganya and handling the Empire. Once we are no longer needed, we shall go.” His tone softened at Torron’s expression. “No need to look so worried. King Darias awaits your and our squad’s return to your positions in the Navy.”
“And you, Captain?”
The letter in his breast pocket—the one bearing the King’s seal, delivered by one of the reinforcement commanders—suddenly weighed heavy.Punishment,stated the words inked in King Darias’s handwriting,by expulsion from the Three Courts and revocation of your role. Trial for treason should you wish to return to the Blue Fort. As monarch, my power is constrained and checked by the vote of the Three Courts. I can promise nothing.
“Me?” Ramson let out a low chuckle. “Don’t you worry about me, Torron.”
He had nothing left—no men, no resources, no coin—and yet somehow, it felt liberating. Somehow, it fueled a spark inside him as he walked away.
He’d done this once before: started all over with nothing to his name, and it had carved him into a different man, led him in a direction that had made him stronger and tougher than he’d ever been. He’d gone down a path of darkness, but when he closed his eyes, he would remember Ana, and how she had shown him light.
He could do it again. Start over, but this time, not because he was running from his father or from Alaric Kerlan.
This time, he would build his life from scratch, and it would be for himself.
His steps were heavy as he traced the path up the marble staircase to the healer’s wing. The smell of antiseptics and bottled salves reached him as he entered a vast hall lined with beds.
They were all filled. The air was rent with moans and sobbing from the wounded.
He entered a section that had been quartered off, where those not needing urgent care had been brought and were resting. Ardonn nodded at him from a pallet as he passed, but Ramson made for a different bed.
Olyusha looked up at him as he approached. She was holding the patient’s—herpatient’s—hand with a fierce sort of protectiveness.
Shamaïra leaned against the headboard of the bed. Her cheeks were gaunt, hollowed, and at this point she might have been no more than skin and bones. A bowl of hot kashya sat at her bedside table, untouched.
The sight of her filled Ramson with equal parts relief and guilt. The last he’d seen of Shamaïra fully conscious and awake had been moons ago, when the Imperial Inquisition had burned down her dacha and dragged her away. Outnumbered, Ramson had only been able to watch.
The next time he’d seen her back at Ana’s camp, she’d been unconscious, gravely injured from the battle against Morganya and Sorsha. Later on, even during the brief periods she’d woken to eat and drink, she’d been feverish and exhausted, falling back into her prolonged sleep afterward.
Now, her eyes turned to him with a piercing clarity as he eased himself onto a stool by her side. Ramson nodded to Olyusha. “Go get some rest,” he said. “You’ve been up for long enough.”
She pursed her lips and stood. “You’ll be all right, mamika?” Shamaïra nodded. Olyusha turned to Ramson, and he saw exhaustion lining her eyes. “She’s just woken. No strenuous activity, got it?”
He smiled as he watched the poison Affinite leave, but the smile faded as he turned back to Shamaïra. “You’re awake.”
Her cracked lips parted a sliver, and her voice was no more than a whisper. “That I am, and I’ve never felt better.”
He’d forgotten how much fire was in her spirit, how her words crackled with power.
Ramson paused. What was he to say?How are you?Anything that came to mind sounded disingenuous, especially considering his remorse.
No more lies,he thought.No more regrets.
He gently touched her hands. They were like claws, brittle and curled. Ramson lifted his gaze to hers. “I am sorry.” He had the urge to look away, to stand and walk out. But he pushed on: “I was there, the day the Imperial Inquisition took you. I’m sure you knew. I should have tried to save you.”
Her eyes crinkled; she made a sort of noise in her throat thatsounded like a rasping laugh. “And what, foolish boy? Be killed in the process? Who else would have gone to the Red Tigress, who else would have been able to raise an army and rescue not just me,but the other Affinites Morganya had imprisoned?” Shegave him a devious grin. “I am an Unseer, Ramson Farrald, never forget.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall behind them. “But some things,” came a deep, steady voice, “you do not see.”
Ramson turned to see Kaïs stepping forward. He had shed his armor and rinsed the blood and grime from his face; he stood in a simple and pale Cyrilian shift, mirroring that of his mother.
His mother.
It was impossible to deny it and unimaginable that Ramson had not spotted it before, the resemblance of their features: their straight noses and chiseled jawlines, strong brows and hair that gleamed like black ink in the candlelight. And those eyes—like the purest of spring waters rushing down a snowy mountain.
