Kazia blinks at the plate, then at Lucien. It’s the first time he’s looked at Lucien in days, which shouldn’t feel like a victory. The wine hasn’t brought any color to his face, but his eyes are dark and dilated.
“What took you so long?” he demands, taking a pastry.
Lucien doesn’t have to answer. He stands holding the plate and wine, relieved that Kazia went along with his lie. Or maybe Kazia just forgot he hadn’t asked for food.
Everyone around is distracted by the atonal music. Nobody notices when Kazia attempts to set the half-eaten pastry down—and Lucien lifts the plate higher to avoid him.
“You should finish that,” Lucien says. “Then you can take your wine back to your room.”
Kazia glares, unfocused. “Fuck you.”
Rude—but quiet, not causing a scene. Lucien can work with that. “This party is terrible, isn’t it? You can go as soon as you finish that pastry.”
“Itisterrible.” Kazia takes a bite, swallows. “You’re still going to regret this tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it,” Lucien says.
When Kazia finishes the pastry, Lucien lets him take the wine—but shoves a second pastry into his free hand. Either the food or the pause in drinking seems to sharpen Kazia’s thoughts. He eats the second pastry without protest, then wipes his fingers off on Lucien’s shirt, leaving greasy flakes.
“Thank you, Commander,” Kazia says brightly. “Let’s go.”
Stifling his laughter, Lucien is grateful to abandon the plate and follow Kazia from the stone garden. By the time the prince’s drasgard fall in behind them, Kazia appears to be his normal self. Minus the occasional stumble.
As they approach Kazia’s favorite parlor, Lucien falls back enough to speak to Drasgard Salarin. “His Highness ordered me to ask for a fresh pitcher of water.”
“Did he now?” Salarin says skeptically. But when they reach the parlor, she rings a servant bell regardless.
Kazia doesn’t protest the water’s arrival, just orders his drasgard and servants out again once it’s delivered. Then Lucien is alone with him again.
“Stay,” Kazia orders, so Lucien stays in the center of the room as Kazia pours himself a glass. His throat bobs with each swallow. Fine hairs stick to the back of his neck, brushing the edge of lace.
Lucien dislikes the shift in his own awareness. Kazia is a person, with a real, physical body containing the shadows of his secrets. He’s more complicated than simply a prince, or Lucien’s captor.
“What are you looking at?” Kazia asks from across the room.
Lucien can’t tell the truth. “The dragon statues.”
By Kazia’s glare, it’s the wrong answer. “What about them?”
Lucien shrugs. “They’re really cool.”
Kazia blinks, then pours himself another glass of water. “You’re joking.”
“No, they’re really fucking cool.” Yearning tugs at Lucien. A wistful memory of sky. “They capture what dragons feel like, to me.”
Kazia waits, as if expecting a punchline. Then he sips his water. “I commissioned them from the same artisan who made my aerie set. He works with hand and tool, no magic.” Kazia takes another sip of water. “Most people think the statues are ugly.”
The statues have a raw, rough energy. Their shapes aren’t precisely realistic, and they’re a different style compared to the gargoyles infesting Ostomar. Lucien can see how people without taste might think they were ugly.
“Most people’s opinions don’t matter,” Lucien says.
“Right?” Kazia’s mood brightens, so much that Lucien almost regrets complimenting the statues. Kazia is the enemy, no matter how captivating his slight smile is. “I’ll tell you something funny, though. Last year, Mother forgot to buy a gift for Vana’s birthday, so she took the statues to give him. I got them back, though.”
Lucien fails to control his expression. “Is the queen always that cruel?”
Kazia’s smile falters, as if realizing the story wasn’t so funny after all. “It doesn’t matter.” Kazia rubs his thumb over the rim of his glass, then sets it down. Touches the pitcher, but doesn’t lift it. “I got them back.”
Lucien’s mind sways like he’s the drunk tonight. Half a room stretches between them, but somehow this wine-softened Kaziaseems even closer than in the linen closet. A truth shifts in the darkness, just out of reach.
