“Porthos is partial to his brother, willing to do anything to please him.”
Fyar hummed. “I suppose.”
“I’ll explore the possibility.”
“You do that.”
“I have some questions then.”
Fyar leaned back in his high backed armchair and rested his cheek on his fist. “Ask away. I’m an open book.”
Killian pushed from the wall and dropped into one of the sofas, making himself comfortable. Fyar quirked an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “What was your relationship with Porthos like before you banished his family?”
“Nonexistent. He was a child. He held no interest to me.”
“Did he share his brother’s suspicions of your involvement in Numar’s death?”
“I don’t know. If he did, I don’t think I would have noticed. I remember having very few real conversations with him. He just…hovered. Followed Lyra around like a puppy.”
“So you weren’t close like you were with Lyra?”
“Gods no. Porthos was born when we were on the front lines, and by then, things were already beginning to fall into place for me. I was beginning to understand what needed to be done. I had no spare time to coddle a child.”
“I don’t remember what your father thought of him.”
Fyar snorted. “He didn’t. My father was deteriorating, barelythere on most days, I don’t think he was even aware Porthos had been born.”
“Poor Porthos.”
Fyar abandoned his work and rounded the desk, tucking his legs under him as took a seat next to Killian on the sofa. “Lyra and I were raised as brothers. My father doted on him like he was his own son, as did my uncle to me before his death. We grew up together, lived together, fought together. He was my right hand.” He paused to clear his throat. “When I learned he had gone before my father’s council to make a case against me, to have me stripped of my throne—my birthright—and branded a king killer. I was…shocked. I never thought he’d go against me. Even if he didsuspect, I thought he would come to me. Naively, I thought he might understand.”
“I think he did,” said Killian, not unkindly. “But he also saw the chance in it. His one opportunity to surpass you—the only son of King Numar. With you gone, the crown would have made its way onto his head.”
Fyar frowned. “He never used to care about titles or power. I don’t know when that changed.”
“When he got a real taste of it.”
“Yes,” Fyar said slowly. “The war changed everyone.”
Killian barely remembered Lyra from his time in the palace before Numar passed. Though, to be fair, Killian hadn’t exactly been a welcomed guest at that time; he was usually sequestered away in Fyar’s personal rooms or shuffled from empty room to empty room to keep him out of sight like a prized mistress. No one took too kindly to a former prisoner roaming their halls, no matter how reformed Fyar claimed him to be.
Lyra always shied away from Killian. Glaring at him fromacross the room as though Killian was a mad dog, poised to attack at any moment.
“I’ll keep an eye on Porthos,” Killian said.
“You do that.”
Killian narrowed his eyes. “You seem awfully blasé about this whole thing. You don’t care that someone tried to get into your little sanctuary?”
“It’s not like they succeeded. And they’re dead anyway. So it seems to me like they got what was coming to them.” Fyar smirked. “I have theutmostfaith in my magic and my captain. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Killian put a hand over his heart. “That means so much.”
Fyar chuckled. “While on the subject of brothers, do you want to talk about what happened with yours that’s got you so distracted recently? You haven’t said anything about your trip. I’ve been patient and given you time, but truly, Killian, your brooding is getting ridiculous.”
“I haven’t been brooding.” Killian flushed unhappily when Fyar fixed him with a flat stare. “Much.”
“Please. You’ve been stomping around my palace as if everyone and everything has personally pissed in your porridge. You need to get a grip.”
