“I’ll be back later. Keep the door locked just in case.”
“I’m coming with you,” Vanya said.
Soren shook his head. “It’ll be safer for you here.”
“You already took care of the threat.”
Vanya stepped outside before Soren could protest, squinting against the sunlight. The clerk was more than happy to follow Soren’s order, and the heavy door was shut and locked again in seconds.
“This isn’t your job,” Soren reminded him as they trudged back to his velocycle.
“Solaria is my country.”
“Wardens keep the borders, not you.”
The borders were ever changing and didn’t necessarily mean the defined country lines on maps. It was wherever the poison fields existed—the bogs, the fens, the dead. Wardens might have pushed the boundaries of every country ever outward over the Ages, but pockets of poison were inevitable. Alchemy could only change so much for so long, and they were always one mistake away from another Dying Time, or so the wardens taught.
In the three years since Soren had been promoted to a warden in the field, he could see the truth in that history, for Maricol was not an easy mother to love.
“The borders of Solaria are still mine,” Vanya said as he sat in his usual spot on the velocycle.
“I’d say you’re greedy for a prince, but you’re the first one I’ve had the unfortunate luck to meet.”
Vanya looked at him, gaze raking up and down Soren’s body with a casual assessment he didn’t know what to do with. “Oh, but I am greedy. I wouldn’t have survived this long if I wasn’t.”
Soren shook his head and got on the velocycle. “That’s not greed. That’s stubbornness.”
Vanya’s hands settled on his waist, his grip familiar after so long traveling together. He leaned against Soren’s back, uncaring about the weapons in the way, lips brushing over Soren’s ear when he spoke.
“You should know we Solarians are an entirely stubborn people.”
Soren swallowed, blaming stimulant-driven exhaustion for the shiver that snaked its way down his spine. “Clearly.”
He ignored the prince behind him in favor of the task at hand, because the dead couldn’t rest until they were ash.
Nine
VANYA
Bellingham was a dot on the horizon that grew larger as the sun neared its zenith. Soren remained a steady, warm presence in front of Vanya on the velocycle as they rode toward the city. Vanya had changed back into his robes an hour ago, ranking medallion hanging prominently around his neck. The stained white fabric of his clothing whipped against his body from the wind blowing past them as Soren kept a steady speed.
They’d left the way station at dawn, when there was enough light in the sky to see the land and any threats that walked it. The clerk had kept the way station locked down throughout the night, the gas lamps burning bright inside and outside the building. Soren had kept watch for half the night on the roof, and not even the chai the clerk had brewed for them before they left had eased the tired line of his mouth in the morning.
Vanya had wanted to smooth the worry from Soren’s brow, wipe the exhaustion from his gray eyes in that moment, but they’d still had miles to go. So Vanya had said nothing when Soren chugged the chai and answered Vanya’s questions about the day ahead with curt, one-word answers.
The complete lack of deference directed toward Vanya was startling and new, almost amusing. He’d spent his life catered to and expected to be listened to, not ignored. Any anger he could have had about the situation was buried under the knowledge that Vanya was alive only because of the warden.
He’d have died for certain if Soren hadn’t walked through the wreckage of the train carriage to find him. If he hadn’t had the antidote to the poison Vanya thought he could still taste in the back of his throat. Vanya was viscerally aware he still breathed because Soren belonged to no House that would see him dead.
We keep debts; we do not owe them, his mother always said.
Vanya knew well the danger of becoming indebted to someone of the Houses, but Soren was a warden—nameless, stateless, holding loyalty to no one, only his duty. There was little threat in owing Soren his life, not when the wardens were bound by the Poison Accords and stood outside the laws of every country. The debt could be safely paid, no one the wiser, and his House would be in the clear. The tricky part was getting Soren to accept such a payment.
Vanya tightened his arms around Soren’s waist, mindful of the poison sword sheathed across the warden’s back and the pistols holstered on both hips. Without a helmet, his light brown hair tangled in the wind. The fair skin on the back of Soren’s neck, normally covered by the helmet Vanya now wore, was sunburned from their travels. He had to quash the desire to brush his lips over the reddened skin, curious about the heat to be found there.
Soren was different and dangerous in a way that Vanya could not ignore and did not want to. The handful of days spent under Soren’s watchful eye as they headed north had left Vanya wanting in a way he always dealt with bytaking. Vanya wasn’t shy about letting his interest be known, but Soren was either oblivious or ignoring him.
Vanya hated to be ignored.
