Page 65 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain

Before long, Nakir drew back his hood, revealing the black horns rising just past his hairline. They earned a handful of curious looks as they moved through the market district, but no whispers followed them, no pointed fingers, no stir of recognition.

Alethea found herself drifting closer to him—partly for warmth, partly because resisting the pull between them was growing harder by the moment. When the crowds thickened, his hand settled at her waist, guiding her easily through the press. The touch sent an unwelcome heat to her cheeks.

She cleared her throat and tilted her head up toward him as they walked. “What’s it like,” she asked, “being an Aeshlien?”

Nakir’s smile turned devilish, though his gaze stayed on the road ahead. “We know far more about Aeshlien now than we did when I was born. You know the story—how Aeshma overthrew his father in a divine war for sovereignty.”

She nodded.

“In his final moments, Osiron cursed him,” Nakir continued. “And every descendant of Aeshma after him. This”—he gestured vaguely toward his horns—“is the result. Mine’s fairly mild. I’ve met Aeshlien with fangs. Tails. Balthasar once told me about a girl who grew her horns at twelve years old—one of the first to show the curse.”

Alethea frowned. “What happened to her?”

“Her parents were horrified. She was cast out of her noblehouse.” His mouth twisted slightly. “Though, from what I hear, she got her revenge in the end.” He let out a breath. “For a long time, people thought it meant our bloodlines were corrupt—that families like mine were simply cursed. Now we understand it better. All Aeshlien are descendants of Aeshma. We don’t bear our own failing. We bear his.”

Alethea absorbed that quietly. “Like the Empyreans,” she said. “Descendants of Osiron.”

She’d always been able to spot them—the dark golden skin, the curls, the deep brown eyes. “Is Emi Empyrean?”

“I believe so,” Nakir said. “She doesn’t talk about it much. It only truly matters when it comes to the Imperial family. The Macierres claim Osiron chose them to rule—at least, that’s the story they tell.”

“Like the Hasans were chosen by Aeshma to rule Lenorea,” Alethea said.

He smirked, the expression brief but bright, like candlelight flickering in the gathering dusk. “So we’ve been told.” After a beat, he added dryly, “At this point, who was actually chosen and who simply declared themselves so is anyone’s guess. We could ask the gods, I suppose... though maybe not Osiron.” His tone turned wry. “I’m not sure if dead gods can speak—even Primal ones.”

“I take it you don’t keep any faith?” Alethea asked. Most who worshiped carried some small token—a charm, a sigil, a thread tied around the wrist—but she had never seen anything of the sort on him, except the mysterious pendant he wore at his neck.

As they wandered through the market district, her gaze drifted to the people around them. If one knew what to look for, signs of devotion were everywhere. The sun-and-scythe of Anya appeared most often, etched into pendants or painted on stall posts. She spotted the compass rose of Diwa, god of travel and luck, and several brightly painted lyres honoring Nysos, patron of festivals and love.

Nakir was quiet for a moment before answering. “I won’t deny my connection to Aeshma,” he said at last. “I’m his descendant, part of an unbroken line of Hasans. My family founded Lenorea centuries before it ever bore that name.” His voice remained even, thoughtful. “As the Primal war god of strength, justice, and retribution, I think he understands me in ways few others could. I pray to him before battle—to protect my soldiers and my friends.” He paused, jaw tightening slightly. “But the coup against my parents was fueled by religious fearmongering. I have no intention of wielding faith as a weapon in my own cause.”

Alethea thought of Goran Arranil’s words to her mother:“Aeshma’s vengeance upon you. A curse.”

“I place my faith in people,” Nakir continued. “In their ability to change the course of fate. To shape their own destinies.”

The thought lingered, unsettling and fragile. Did he believe inher?

“I take it you do not.”

“No,” Alethea admitted. “I never really connected with any of the gods. I envy those who have faith—they seem so much more at peace with their place in the world.” She hesitated, then she added, “My mother was staunchly secular. Especially after my father died.”

“Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right one yet,” Nakir said lightly. “There are so many to choose from, it’s a wonder anyone keeps them all straight.”

She smiled despite herself at the blasphemy in his tone, half-expecting a thunderbolt to strike him where he stood. “Nehalennia is the goddess of Fate,” he added, glancing at her. “And prophecy.”

Alethea only shrugged. Religion had never been part of her world—it was difficult to imagine inviting it in now. “Did your parents follow any of the gods?”

They paused at a crowded crossing, and Nakir turned to faceher fully. “Yes. My mother was devoted to Aeshma. My father came to be as well.” His voice softened. “They never lost faith, even when it seemed like he’d abandoned them.”

She bit her lip, stepping a little closer, drawn in by the intimacy of the moment. “Maybe he didn’t abandon them,” she said quietly. “Maybe he sent them a son. A beacon of hope, in a world that can feel... lacking in it.”

Nakir’s smile widened, something bright and unguarded breaking through. His fingers brushed against hers. “I thought you said you weren’t religious.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice as she hid a smile. “Maybe I’m just starting to believe in something.”

His laughter, rich and warm, rose around them as they rejoined the flow of the market, the moment lingering long after it had passed.

“Does that mean your children will be Aeshlien?” Alethea asked, turning back to their original topic of conversation.