Yarif’s innocence ended with the battle. He’d been happily oblivious to the devastation of war, his entire knowledge coming from books or old soldiers’ stories.
He’d not enjoyed the best childhood after his mother’s passing. Still, looking back, he’d been spoiled and given everything he desired—within reason.
In the huddled group below, Yarif sought out familiar faces—a groom here, a cook there. Whereas once the courtyard would’ve been filled with courtiers, no one passed through the ornate iron gate in evening finery.
Not one official approached Yarif with the news; however, he’d heard whispers of which nobles were confined to cells awaiting judgment. Thus far, he’d heard of no innocents he’d need to defend. How many former friends lost their lives or loved ones to the battle? He’d fared far better than most.
Damned war. Yarif scrunched his eyes closed.Merciful deities, take the slain unto yourself, comfort the mourners, and see to a better tomorrow.
A gentle breeze caressed his cheek. An answer?
He sipped wine while taking in the evening, a bottle presented by Draylon from the Cormiran stores due to Yarif’s liking for the golden vintage. The one good thing to come of meeting the man.
The man. Warrior. Prince. Soon to be king. Yarif’s husband.
Tomorrow Yarif’s world would change. The fantasies of finding love, having a lavish wedding, and living happily for all his years with a man who loved him would be gone. No more dreaming of what the future would hold.
He mourned his dreams.
Now his future lay planned out for him. Would he be allowed to keep his rooms? The emperor’s odious little secretary visited earlier, explaining how things would be. Yarif would become an Aravaid, giving up his DiRici family name.
Giving up his life. Would he be allowed to continue handling the kingdom’s business? Practice with his rapier? Draylon showed interest in learning, perhaps a good sign.
The sun sank farther behind the trees, the air growing cooler. If only Yarif could take his horse, ride past the city gates, through the woods, and into the mountains. Maybe he’d seek sanctuary in Delletina or find his mother’s kin in Draige.
Not without the children. The emperor chose well how to best shackle Yarif to his new role. Bitter bile stung the back of Yarif’s throat. Acid churned in his gut.
Servants chattered excitedly about a royal wedding while preparing Yarif’s bath behind him in his rooms. He couldn’t join in their high spirits but lacked the energy to stop them. Besides, they’d had little enough to celebrate recently. Let them have their illusions, unknowing that tomorrow might as well be Yarif’s funeral.
Not fair for someone else to make him dance to their tune. Not bloody fair.
Soldiers walked the streets below, far more than mere months ago, their armor jangling with each step. They laughed with each other, but Yarif would forever hear the screams of the dying and smell smoke, blood, and burned flesh.
He’d never known the horrors men wreaked on each other—at least not firsthand. Now the stories read in books took on new life.
His supper waited in the sitting room. Yarif DiRici would enjoy his last meal as a free man, soak in his tub, then retire to bed tonight.
Tomorrow night, he’d be married, with no father, mother, brother, or kin to stand with him, other than the children. Yarif Aravaid, puppet consort to King Draylon Aravaid.
Alone.
He placed his empty wineglass on the balcony railing, lifting the bottle to his lips.
Draylon sat alone in the rose garden, sipping some horrid gin Rufe found for him—or as alone as his guards allowed. Guards assigned by Father as much to keep Draylon from running as to defend him.
He could leave. Pay off his guards, saddle Gryphon, and ride, uncaring where. He’d made friends in all the kingdoms of the empire. Small matter to change his name, maybe even book passage to Verlan or one of the Southern Isles.
Maybe he’d sign on with a mercenary band.
He slouched on the uncomfortable stone bench. Few roses bloomed this late in the fall. Soon the garden would be nothing but thorns and withered vines, a suitable representation of Draylon’s life.
Father managed to keep Rufe away tonight under the guise of guarding Avestan, who’d recently arrived, and whom Draylon was also not allowed to see.
No, he’d spend his last night as an unmarried man alone with only his roiling thoughts for company. In Cormira, he’d visit tavern after tavern with boisterous friends, then find a room and a few willing bedmates.
Tomorrow he’d have staggered, barely awake, to face fate. Father spun Draylon’s entire life plan around and around. Draylon had planned to grow into an old warrior with many stories to tell his nephews and nieces or, more likely, find an early grave.
Nothing in his wildest imaginings had him a king, with a consort and subjects to look after. He’d only wanted himself and his warriors. Then again, managing people couldn’t be too much different than managing soldiers, could it?
