My head snaps around.
Daron is watching me, his eyes much brighter, shockingly clear against the candlelight. But that’s not what makes my lips part while something even brighter whirls through my core. No, it’s that smug grin on his face.
“Daron.” I cross the room in two strides, that twitching on the corners of my mouth something I can’t—and don’t want to—suppress as I drop to my knees beside the bed. “You idiot.”
His smirk widens—crooked, boyish, infuriatingly alive for a face that should look like it’s already halfway gone. “Still smartenough not to get myself stuck with a crown and a rotting kingdom.”
“Oh, shut up,” I breathe, and the sound that comes out is half laugh, half relief. I grab his hand again like it’s an anchor. “You shouldn’t be witty while you’re pretending to be dying.”
He squeezes my fingers, weak but deliberate. “Family curse, how we’re all feeling right at home in the grave,” he rasps. “Heard there’s more than one curse going around here.”
“What did you hear?”
“The lady without fingers mumbled something once.” He inhales slowly, as if each word costs him breath he can barely spare. “That the crown…brings the rot. That you’re trying to fix it.”
My throat tightens, but I keep stroking the ridge of his knuckles. “It’s complicated.”
“And,” he continues, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief, “I heard you got married.”
My molars grind. “Also complicated.”
He lifts a brow, shaky but no less taunting. “Is he one of those noble peacocks? Is he handsome?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Handsome,” he decides. “That’s new. You always said you’d marry a corpse.”
That shuts me up for a second. “Did I?”
“Years ago.” Daron laughs, small, wheezy, but real. His grin softens. “What’s his name?”
My throat tightens again. I hate how saying it feels like inviting him further into something I want to keep him from.
“Vale.”
Daron’s eyes narrow, processing. “Vale,” he repeats, then coughs softly. “That’s a place, not a name.”
That rips a chuckle from me, a reluctant spark of humor warming the tension from my throat. “How are you feeling?”
He shifts slightly, wincing. “Better.”
The word lands like honey in a starving mouth, letting my hope leap before I can leash it. “Pain?”
He blinks, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “Less pain,” he says slowly. “Less itch. Less…” His throat works. “Less everything.”
“Your ear? It’s not itching anymore?”
Daron shakes his head. “No.” He shifts, frowning slightly as his bones press against the mattress. “Help me sit up? If I have to look at that ceiling one more hour, I shall die of boredom before the sickness takes me.”
Nodding, I rise to sit beside him. “Alright. Gently now.”
I slide my arm behind his shoulders—his body light like a bundle of dry kindling—and hoist him up against the pillows. He gasps, his arms twitching uselessly before they settle once more.
“Better.” He looks at me, his gaze scanning my face with a terrifying perception. “Do you remember when you asked if you looked royal?” His breath hitches, but he grins anyway. “You said you’d sell my hands to the king. Saints, Elara, now youarethe king, and my hands have gotten pretty useless.” Daron’s mouth twitches, grin lifting even higher. “Can’t even become your guard and fight off your enemies with a stale crust.”
A soft laugh breathes past my lips as my vision starts to swim. “At least you haven’t lost your wit. That’s more than most guards have to begin with.”
His grin fades into something softer, a quiet sort of nostalgia settling in the lines around his eyes. “You remind me of Father,” he whispers. “Especially when you’re blunt like that.”
