“Good,” she says, and pulls me into a hug. She climbs inside the carriage, the door closing behind her as the carriage begins to move. I watch it go longer than I intend, another faint wave of nausea rising and fading as quickly as it came, leaving behind a subtle heaviness that lingers beneath everything else.
When I return to the table, the meal has begun. Conversation moves across it in overlapping threads, plates filled and wine poured as though nothing here has the potential to fracture. For a brief moment, it almost resembles something ordinary.
That illusion does not last.
Across the table, seated beside Venya, a young man about my age sits next to her and eats his food silently, staring coldly at me in between bites. "That is Hurstinal," Syle says in my head. "The bastard my mother made with her brother. He is a shit. Ignore him." I look at Hurstinal again. He comes fully into focus in a way he had not before. He carries both of them in his face so clearly that it feels less like resemblance and more like replication. The same dark hair, the same pale skin that seems to resist warmth, the same narrow structure that leaves him looking thinner than he likely is, as though something essential has been pared away rather than built up. His eyes hold the same coldness I have already come to associate with Venya, watchful without ever softening into anything resembling kindness. Even in stillness, there is something unpleasant in him, somethingthat does not invite attention so much as demand it and resent it at the same time.
He speaks without waiting for space to be given, his voice cutting through the room with confidence that feels entirely unsupported. “I would like a command post in Avanki,” he says, directing the request toward Uralish.
The reaction is immediate. Uralish laughs, the sound carrying fully across the table without restraint or courtesy.
Hurstinal’s expression tightens. “I am skilled with a sword. I do not wish to train alongside basic guards when I am of royal blood and should lead with a title.”
Uralish takes a slow drink, then lowers the goblet with something like satisfaction. “You failed your swordsmanship training twice,” he says. “You are unpleasant, you lack intelligence, and you have not demonstrated a single quality that would make anyone willingly follow you into anything resembling conflict. Why would I grant you command over soldiers who would die because of you?”
Hurstinal turns to me. “And yet you bring her here,” he says. “Handing everything to her like it belongs to her.”
Uralish doesn’t even look up. “It does.”
“For now,” Hurstinal says.
“Birthright aside, she is smarter and far more competent than you,” Uralish adds. A pause. “And as a reminder, the Avanki belong to her.”
As he speaks, nausea rises in my throat again. A bitter swell that forces a small sound from me before I can stop it. It catches halfway between breath and voice, more reflex than intention,and I press my lips together at once, willing it down, willing the sensation to pass before it betrays me further.
Hurstinal’s anger redirects quickly, his gaze snapping toward me. “Queen Heir,” he says, his tone sharpening, "you dare laugh at me? Not all of us have the luxury of becoming royalty through birth. Or how was it you became Princess of Veynar again?” His lip curls. “Oh, that’s right. Your cunt was sold to a?—”
The room is swallowed by darkness. It happens so completely that I cannot tell whether my eyes have closed or the light itself has vanished. Sound continues around me but sight is gone, replaced by something that presses against my awareness in its absence.
When it returns, it does so all at once. Enovar crouches on the table in front of Hurstinal, his presence commanding the space with a force that leaves no room for anything else.
“Syle,” Uralish says, his voice carrying warning now in a way that a parent tells a child to stop when he does not truly care if he does or not.
Hurstinal attempts to respond, a flicker of power rising and collapsing before it can form into anything usable. I cannot tell if anyone else moves to intervene or if no one feels inclined to.
Before I can decide, Hurstinal is thrown back across the room, his body striking the wall with enough force to carry through it.
“Stop,” Venya says, rising too quickly. “Stop this at once. It was only a jest?—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Uralish replies, his attention not even shifting toward her. “He is the result of what happens when two hateful things decide to create something together.”
Enovar straightens, his attention moving through the room with unsettling ease until it lands on Venya. “Where is your brother?” he asks lightly. “Ah, yes. With Ellavee, I believe. The newest girl at the brothel. Supposedly a beauty.” His head tilts slightly. “You are not.”
Venya’s face flushes deep red.
More questions rise in my mind. How does Enovar know what happens at the brothel? I wonder if he and Syle share women together, or perhaps he ventures out on his own? I wonder if he jumped out just now because Syle told him to or at his own behest.
Across the table, Petunis continues eating as though nothing here requires her involvement.
Uralish watches with open amusement. The rest of the room behaves as though this is expected. Another wave of nausea rises, more intense this time, pulling tight through my stomach and throat at once, and I steady my hand against the edge of the table, forcing my breathing to remain even as it passes.
Enovar lifts his hand. Hurstinal’s head strikes the wall behind him once, then again, the force controlled but unmistakable.
“Apologize,” Enovar says.
Hurstinal sneers. “I would never?—”
“Please,” Venya says quickly, leaning toward him. “My love, just apologize.”
