“Think carefully on that,” Audric says. “My sources indicate strange movement from the drasgard, and House Dire is on full alert. Rakos Tem deserted the dragon corps last month—it’s chaos over there.”
“Whisper knows exactly what he’s proposing,” Julien says.
He moves to kneel before Whisper on the sofa, taking his lover’s slim hands in his. Squeezes, and the storm in his heart calms with the certainty in Whisper’s eyes. Julien doesn’t want to part from Whisper. He doesn’t want to send Whisper into danger.Don’t go,part of him wants to command. Whisper would obey.
But Bellamy is in danger, and Julien trusts Whisper far more than anyone else thinks he should.
So, all Julien says is, “Come back to me. That’s an order.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Whisper says, and leans into Julien’s kiss.
?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rakos
“It’s so nice to make new friends on the road,” Merry says. “More port?”
Rakos holds out his flask, then leans back against the wagon wheel. Tonight, Bell’s in their wagon with a headache, while Rakos sits with Petunia, Merry, and Teodor. He hadn’t intended to make friends in this caravan. In fact, he intentionally avoided the rest of the travelers during rest stops. But since Petunia and her business partners also seem to want privacy, the two groups have ended up sharing meals a few times.
Plus, Petunia’s wagon has lanterns.
Merry is a tall, plump man close to Rakos’s twenty-six years, with luxurious blond hair and an extravagant purple robe. He has a habit of leaning in and batting his eyes, which Rakos first thought was a professional affectation but may just be Merry’s personality.
His companion is certainly less flirtatious, despite sharing Merry’s profession. Teodor ties his dark hair back when he isn’t working, and he names a different culture of origin every time someone asks. His mood fluctuates between bored and annoyed, and he seems likelier to stab a person than bed them.
Probably both, for a price. Some people are into that.
“Where are you and little Bell heading, anyway?” Merry asks, swigging straight from his bottle of port before handing it to Teodor.
Grimacing, Teodor wipes the bottleneck down with his sleeve before pouring his share. “He’s not paying you to flirt.”
“And he’s a fucking cheat,” Petunia chimes in.
“I followed that pebble with my eyes.” Rakos sips his port. “Is there any reason it should have been under a different cup?”
Merry cackles, and Petunia throws a raisin at him. He throws it back and continues. “We were heading to Ostomar for the winter, but the caravan-master just announced a detour. There’ll be a bloodmasque next week in Nost.”
Rakos whistles through his teeth. “Do you know who’s dueling?”
Bloodmasques are one of Draskora’s oldest traditions, a holdover from the days before the land was a kingdom. When warlords and blood mages ruled their own tribes without answering to any higher authority. Duels between blood mages were frequent and brutal, often killing not just the defeated mage but innocent civilians as well. The mages drew on any source of power in magical reach, and ordinary people don’t have the inner reservoirs of magic that allow grails to safely fuel other mages.
As chaos gave way to order, the duels grew more structured. Formal challenges instead of ambushes. Shielded, public combat. Masked witnesses from the nobility and military.
Later, of course, structure devolved to spectacle. A formal duel between blood mages is now an event to rival any solstice festival or royal birthday.
“No idea,” Merry says carelessly, scooting towards Rakos. He brandishes the bottle but doesn’t move away when Rakos refuses a refill. “You should come with us. Event of a lifetime, even if you aren’t working. I’ll save a dance for you if I’m not too busy.”
Approaching footsteps draw Rakos’s attention upwards. The lanterns illuminate Bell’s tousled hair and sleepy squint. But there’s nothing sleepy about the way he drops to a seat beside Rakos—nearlyonRakos—and rests a possessive hand on Rakos’s thigh.
“Hi,” Bell says neutrally.
Eyes dancing, Merry retreats to his blanket with Teodor.
Rakos’s skin vibrates under Bell’s hand. There’s something so deliberately possessive about the gesture. “Feeling better?”
“Mostly.” Bell releases Rakos’s thigh to grab a portion of smoked pork and dumplings.
