“I’m trying. It’s not that easy.”
Fyar folded his hands into the long sleeves of his elaborate white robes. “My poor, poor captain. It must besodifficult for you to focus on the measly troubles of the crown when you have so many of your own. Hurry up and tell me what happened already so we can get back to my problems.”
Killian groaned and dropped his head back against the sofa. He then spent the next few minutes giving Fyar a vagueretelling of the goings on in small town Turell. Of course, he made sure to skip the parts about Kade expressing a vehement and unfiltered hatred for Fyar and his entire family.
“I’m not seeing the issue,” said Fyar, puzzled. “It sounds like it went well.”
“It did,” exclaimed Killian, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “That’s exactly the problem.”
A most disappointed expression crossed Fyar’s face. “And to think I was genuinely worried about you.”
Killian jumped to his feet and pointed down at Fyar, threatening. Fyar only grinned, lazily like a fat cat. “This is why I didn’t want to talk to you about it.”
Fyar chuckled. “You’re so sensitive. Relax. It’s not like it was the last time you’ll ever see him.”
“It could be.”
“Only if you let it.”
“It might be for the best that I do.”
Tilting his head, Fyar asked curiously, “Why would that be? You left on good terms, did you not?”
Killian’s mouth moved. “I just don’t see how he could’ve forgiven me.”
“Well,” Fyar stood and straightened his robes. Then, serenely, said, “Luckily that’s not up to you to decide. Don’t argue it.”
Killian moved at a glacial pace through the halls leading to the infirmary, not at all looking forward to the upcoming task. He’d tried to send Loran on this particular errand, but the lieutenant had given him a bone stripping glare and in no uncertain terms, told him to get fucked.
As expected.
As Killian approached, he could hear shouting echoing through the halls.
The infirmary sat at the front of the palace, diagonal to the Guard’s Keep at the center of both courtyards. The entirety of the wing was dedicated to the practice of healing, official and experimental.
Patient rooms lined the lower two levels of the wing, personal treatment rooms for any who required it; from the smallest scratch to life threatening injures. Light and breezy and clean, they were designed for comfort.
Just outside, eight pristine greenhouses lined the western side of the palace, giving them constant access to fresh ingredients.
The working room at the end of the hall was bustling with life, it ballooned out into a wide space, with work stations lining the walls, each covered with a various collection of herbs and potions and strange, dead creatures. An apprentice stood in front of each station, completely engrossed in the task at hand as, adding in new ingredients to a small cauldron that bubbled away next to them while also trying to pay attention to their master’s instructions.
Approaching the open door, Killian caught sight of shining golden hair, silky in the sunlight.
Porthos.
The prince worked stoically, his focus entirely on the task at hand. Calm and sure, he stood out amongst the rest. He was the spitting image of his brother, tan skin and sharp cheekbones and foxlike sky-blue eyes, a freckle just below his bottom left lash.
From the middle of the room, Hokda spewed orders. He wore a stark white, pleated robe with matching trousers, free ofany embellishment or embroidery.
Hokda’s brown hair was cut short and choppy, sticking out around the crown of his head and down into his big, honey brown eyes in perfect chaos. His unusually long ears were filled with gold, he tinkled like a wind chime whenever he turned. His short stature and soft features gave him a cherub-like appearance.
The healer was beautiful as long as he kept his mouth shut.
Killian sucked in a breath of air and cleared his throat loudly.
The room went dead silent.
Hokda—cut off in the middle of a sentence—pivoted dangerously slow on light feet. Murder blazed in his eyes, his soft features twisted with furious irritation.
