I pull back slightly. "Your mother is here?"
He closes his eyes. “Everything about her is inconvenient. Her timing included.”
I press my lips together to keep from smiling. “You must go."
"She does not ask often," I continue. "And we need whatever information she is willing to give." I pause. "I will have the great hall ready at seven. Be back by then."
A faint tension passes through his expression, the thought of leaving clearly displeasing him.
His hand comes up and covers mine where it rests against his chest, holding it there for a moment.
"I do not like the idea of you eating alone," he says.
"Then don't take too long."
He looks at me once more, then stands to leave.
Dessert
SEVRIN
The dinner arrives at the usual hour. He sits alone, the plate untouched before him. A servant follows with a narrow tray and sets it beside him without a word.
Asharin’s utensils.
Forks. Knives. Gathered over time. Most still bear the remnants of her meals, dried into the metal. Others have begun to turn, the edges darkened, a thin bloom creeping along where time has been allowed to sit too long. Sevrin does not look at the servant as he leaves. He selects one and turns it once between his fingers.
He begins to eat with it.
Halfway into his meal, he pauses. Then he reaches down and presses his thumb against his ankle, against the mark that has been there since a spring on a mountain and a girl in a white veil who said saying goodbye would hurt.
He knows who she is now. He closes his eyes. The familiar thrum moves through him, the one that runs through him whenever his Morraks or anyone else that belongs in Morrath are near.But this one is different. Richer. And it could only belong to one person.
Colsar's horse left through the eastern gate two hours ago. The palace is quieter for it. He rises. Straightens his cuffs. Picks up his goblet. Morrath was calling for her, it would let her enter, of that he was certain. Whether or not it would let her leave was another matter entirely, and one Sevrin was unconcerned about.
He thinks, briefly, that she may ask for dessert.
He walks out into the corridor.
His Turn
TEORIN
He had not been back an hour from the Border when he was summoned by King Fyris. The throne room of Thrykis feels airless. Jagged columns rise toward a ceiling lost in shadow, the air thick with heat and something older.
King Fyris does not sit easily on his throne. “Teorin,” he says, voice measured, though it strains at the edges, “I hear that you provoked the princess of Yorali. Why would you do this? Your connection to her is already dangerous enough.”
Teorin does not answer.
Fyris leans forward slightly. “You know what she is capable of. If she commands those creatures the way your brother Sevrin does—” His face darkens. “Our people are exposed. Yorali is already a threat, do not make it worse. You will think before you act.”
Silence. Then?—
A soft, disappointed sigh. “I’m so disappointed in you, Teorin.” The human woman at the king’s side steps forward, all silk and false softness, her voice lilting as though she has the right to speak his name.
Teorin turns toward her slowly. He smiles. It is the last thing she sees. He moves too fast for the room to follow. His hand catches her throat, and then his mouth is there, tearing into her neck with a violence that is not human. Blood spills hot across his hand, across the polished floor, her scream cut short before it could fully form.
The court freezes. Her body collapses at his feet. Teorin straightens. For several seconds, there is only the sound of blood dripping onto the floor.
