Kazia nibbles his pastry, then brushes a few flakes from his shirt. He’s perched on poor unhinged Buthel’s pedestal, enjoying breakfast as his new prisoner scrubs the floor. Lucien will have worn holes in the knees of his clean new trousers by the time he’s done with the gallery.
“What does it look like?” Kazia answers, then notices Lucien pausing. “Keep scrubbing,Commander.”
With a complicated look at Lucien, Marek sweeps past the drasgard at the door. Those are the king’s drasgard, because the gallery is outside Kazia’s wing of the palace. Kazia’s own servants relax by the small breakfast buffet they’ve set up on one of the empty pedestals, enjoying—or at least observing—the show along with Kazia.
“We need to talk,” Marek says.
Regrettably, Kazia agrees. He abandons his breakfast plate with Buthel and follows Marek across the gallery.
Kazia was six years old when House Dire adopted Marek. Old enough to know that, like Vana, Marek was a rival for their father’s attention. Still too young to understand what that meant.
Aliza ensured Kazia was never alone with his new brothers, at least until Kazia understood how dangerous they were. Marek and Vana are mages with claims to the throne. If they learnKazia’s nature, they might use him just as Imrik does. Kazia has to keep them at a distance.
Leaning against a statue of Queen Eliska the Second, Kazia asks quietly, “What’s your problem this time?”
“You need to return Lucien to Father’s custody,” Marek says, just as quietly. He looms over Kazia, who tries not to hold that against him—Marek is even more stupidly tall than most people. “Whatever you’re planning isn’t worth the potential disaster.”
“I’m not planning anything.” Kazia hops up on Eliska’s pedestal. His feet dangle above the floor. “I’ve been bored. Everyone’s busy with this little Winter War, and I need something to keep myself occupied.”
A year ago, that would have pissed Marek off. But Marek’s gotten more difficult to provoke since he married Sei. “This isn’t like Gabra. If you’re trying to—”
Fear pounding his ribs, Kazia raises his voice. “Everyone out. Except you, Vaire. Keep scrubbing.”
Marek is probably quiet enough, but Kazia can’t risk being overheard. Saving Gabra was a moment of weakness, driven more by guilt than Kazia’s usual selfish chaos.
Last autumn, General Gabra made the mistake of mentioning Vana at a royal banquet. Imrik might have slain her right then and there, had Kazia not humiliated her first. Imrik enjoys consequences, and he enjoys pageantry. Everything went well—except for fucking Marek noticing.
Striving for calm, Kazia waits until the servants file out. The king’s drasgard remain at the door, but they’re farther away. They’re probably fine.
Kazia still lowers his voice to a quiet, furious hiss. “Donotmention Gabra again. Whatever you think happened, forget it.I’m not nice. I didn’t help her. I dropped a salad bowl on her because it was funny. There’s no other reason.”
Marek’s frown is far too thoughtful for Kazia’s liking. “You still need to give Lucien back.”
Kazia swings his legs. “No.”
Again, none of the expected anger. “Figured you’d refuse. This is serious, Kazia. He’s not an ordinary prisoner. Whatever you do to him will be a factor in eventual negotiations.”
“How sordid,” Kazia drawls. He rolls his eyes when Marek’s scowl deepens. “I’m probably not going to mutilate him, okay?”
“Good enough.” Marek hesitates, with that weird look he’s been getting more and more recently. Something horrible like concern. “Be careful of yourself, too. He’s dangerous.”
“So am I.” Kazia jumps from Eliska’s pedestal and heads back towards Buthel. Grudgingly, he adds, “Say farewell to Sei for me if you’re flying out today.”
“I will,” Marek says, and thankfully leaves without another word.
Lucien still scrubs the floor. Soapy water soaks through his knees, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His arm moves with powerful, steady strokes, seemingly inexhaustible after the hour-long effort. As Kazia watches, Lucien shifts the brush from his right hand to his left.
Painful, red abrasions are clear on both hands.
Guilt twists inside Kazia. He’s never scrubbed floors himself, and he didn’t expect that. Kazia doesn’t want tohurtLucien—he knows too well what it’s like to be hurt by someone he can’t fight. But he catches himself before ordering Lucien to stop.
This show is for the drasgard at the door. They’ll report to Imrik that Kazia spent the morning having frivolous, sadistic fun with his new prisoner. Venting his stress, toying with theSilaisan dog, just like Kazia promised. That report will become fact in Imrik’s perception, along with the rest of Ostomar.
Anything else Kazia does with Lucien will be seen through that established context.
So, Kazia takes his time. Fills his plate with more dried fruit, then returns to his seat at Buthel’s marble feet. Only then does he order, “Stop scrubbing. Stand up.”
Lucien moves slowly, whether from resistance or aching knees. The brush clatters away in the soap suds. Lucien’s face shows no sign of discomfort, though. “Are you enjoying this?Your Highness.”
