“This is Lucien Vaire.” Julien claps Lucien on the shoulder. “And this is Whisper, to my eternal delight.”
Whisper shifts the box he carries to one arm for the next round of diplomatically fraught handshakes. “I hadn’t known Prince Marek visited Greenhaven.”
The remark is very neutral, but Julien’s grin widens. “Are you jealous? Marek, put my partner’s mind to rest. He’s subtly asking whether I seduced you when we were teenagers.”
Julien did no such thing—but the suggestion makes Marek turn for Sei’s reaction.
Sei only tilts his head. “I’m suddenly curious as well.”
As a very confident fifteen-year-old, Marek might very well have bedded a foreign prince. Except Marek had found Greenhaven suffocating. It was the longest he and Loska had been separated since they bonded. Neither House Dire nor House Sandry had wanted a Draskoran dragon visiting Silaise.
“As I recall, we barely spoke,” Marek says, before this turns into something stupid. He’d rather talk about imaginary gossip than about the war, though, which he suspects is why Whisper brought the topic up.
“See?” Julien says, but Whisper looks strangely skeptical until Julien sighs. “All right, fine. Audric heavily supervised me the entire time to prevent an international scandal.”
“That makes much more sense.” Whisper smiles at Marek and Sei. “Queen Margot sent gifts on behalf of House Sandry, but we have a rare vintage of Pellerin red as a personal gift for the occasion.”
Marek gestures them farther into the room. “Our personal thanks, in that case. Let’s open it together.”
There’s a ritual to sharing wine between foreign agents. Julien uncorks the bottle as Marek sets out glasses. Then Marek pours the wine, and Julien selects his glass first. The tradition isn’t a failsafe against poisoning—but that’s what the enchanted charm sitting on the tray of glasses is for.
The charm remains dormant, and everyone is cordial on the surface. Tension still sharpens every word and movement, especially from Lucien Vaire. Marek hardly expects Lucien to be friendly, but the edge of personal animosity still takes Marek aback.
Marek has never met the man before, but he knows Lucien well by reputation. Lucien appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the Long Summer War, bursting onto the scene in the first of many deadly conflagrations. The young mage wrote his name in fire across the latter half of the conflict. Perhaps the second most dangerous Silaisan mage, after Prince Audric Sandry himself.
That was only the beginning of Lucien’s military career. He’s now the commander of the new Silaisan dragon corps—Marek’s direct military counterpart. Just like Julien is Marek’s counterpart as second prince of Silaise.
No. Marek is the first prince now. He keeps forgetting that.
Marek has another concern as they move to the sitting area. A few sofas and chairs surround the low table, and everyone is waiting for Marek to sit first.
First Prince Vana would know the diplomatically optimal seating arrangement. Marek has no idea, so he may as well just do what he wants: pull Sei onto the sofa next to him.
Sei presses against Marek’s side, close enough that the rose and amber of his soap fills Marek’s lungs. The soft curve of Sei’s lips begs to be touched. Before Marek can move, Sei leans up and presses a gentle kiss to Marek’s cheek.
Marek hasn’t even tasted the wine, and his head’s already spinning.
“Congratulations again on your happy betrothal,” Julien says, his amusement clear.
Right. The Silaisans exist.
Lucien has taken a chair across the table from Marek, and Whisper perches on the arm of Julien’s chair. Whisper’s attention wanders the entire room, his wine glass untouched. Even without sitting too close, he and Julien occupy each other’s space with obvious ease.
“Thank you again for the wine,” Marek says in lieu of the traditional salute, lifting his glass.
He may not have Vana’s sense of tact, but he knowsclear skies for us and terrible storms for our enemieswon’t play well with this room.
The wine is strong and smooth. Marek pauses after his first sip. “Let’s save the small talk for the banquet hall.”
“Gladly,” Julien says. “What do you actually want?”
“I want to know how Vana and Daromir are doing.”
Julien tilts his head. “Who’s asking? Prince Marek or King Imrik?”
The king had asked. But in a small act of family treason, Marek doesn’t intend to relay the answer. “Neither. Just Vana’s brother.”
Sei shifts a bit closer to Marek. The subtle comfort is both welcome and terrifying. Since when has Sei been able to read him so clearly?
