Killian rolled his eyes. “Always and forever, my king.”
Enil, evidence of an oath taken.
A promise. A vow.
Shackles, some might say.
A collar, though one Killian wore willingly.
A binding oath was nothing to take lightly. It came with a great risk to an elf to tie any amount of theiren—their life force, their magic, the very core of their being—to another. No matter how littleenthey pledged or how fair the conditions set and agreed upon by both parties.
When Fyar had come to Killian that night in the dungeons, still a young prince with inky black hair and twinkling eyes, and asked for his story, Killian had nothing left to lose. Having taken an interest in Killian, Fyar had offered him a way to escape his fate of rotting away in the cold, damp dungeon just waiting for his inevitable execution. A simple oath and unwavering loyalty in exchange for opportunity and life.
Killian had not made the decision lightly. Despite his position, or lack thereof, he’d known that the consequences could be severe. It could cost him everything and be nothing more than a slight inconvenience to the prince. The royal family was not one to be played with. But death was his fate either way, so he’d taken Fyar’s hand and let himself be used.
“You would have my permission,” said Fyar simply.
Killian’s hands froze for a moment before he caught himself and quickly finished with the last of Fyar’s layers. He’d been working in a comfortable, companionable quiet until then. The steady, predictable way Fyar was bound in his clothing was almost therapeutic to remove. It was a mindless task, one Killian had plenty of experience with, having attended the king in many ways over the years.
Killian made an exaggerated noise of surprise. “You would let me out of the capital? What an honor! Oh, how much my king trusts me.”
Fyar shoved at Killian, laughing, then stepped out of his clothes when they fell into a pile at his feet to go off in search of looser linens to sleep in. “You’ve been outside the capital before.”
“On errandsfor you. Or on campaignswith you.”
Fyar raised his delicate white eyebrows. “Are you scared to go home, Killian? Is that what this is all about?”
“No.”
Fyar didn’t look like he believed that. He fixed Killian with an unimpressed stare, one that Killian avoided by dragging out how long it took to clear Fyar’s robes.
By the time Killian returned, Fyar had reclaimed his place by the desk, a deep frown marring his handsome face.
“What is it now?”
Fyar held up the paper he was holding, a flashily embossed letter covered with neat script. He read, “Prince Lyra Yylvr accepts King Fyar Engarathi’s invitation with pleasure. The prince is delighted for the opportunity to celebrate His Majesty’s centennial jubilee. Here’s to one hundred peaceful years on the throne.”
“I don’t like that you invited him back here.”
Fyar sighed. “It’s not like I had much choice. My cousin is still a prince of Netyere, even if it’s in title only. Not to invite him would garner questions I don’t want to answer. It’ll be easier this way.”
“In theory,” said Killian, stepping more into Fyar’s space. He scowled down at the letter over Fyar’s shoulder as if it were the sender itself. “Who knows what he’ll do once he’s here. I wouldn’t put it past him to try something. Gods knows it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And the first time is what got him stripped of his land, his position, his power here in the capital, and sent out to spend the rest of his days banished to the countryside. I pray he’s learned his lesson.”
“If he hasn’t?”
Fyar’s blazing eyes met Killian’s. “Then I will do what I must.”
Killian smiled, sharp and fierce. “Complicated families.”
“Complicated families,” Fyar agreed with an answering grin. “Make sure to keep a close eye on him while he’s here.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Now that’s settled, get out of my room.”
Bowing with a flourish, Killian turned to obey. He was nearly at the door when Fyar called his name.
