“Why were you upset at the party?” Lucien asks.
“Because I find grails repulsive.” Kazia smirks, his mask falling into place. “What else? Any more prying questions, taking advantage of my inebriation?”
“Just one.” Lucien’s asked this question before. “Why did you take me?”
“Because something has to change,” Kazia answers this time. He points to the door. “Go back to your cell. Salarin will lock you up.”
Lucien’s almost relieved to return to the cell. Uneasiness wars with guilt. Picking apart Kazia’s moods isn’t useful. Lucien shouldn’t be prying, like Kazia accused, except to find a way out.
Maybe he should piss Kazia off tomorrow. The enmity is easier to remember when the petty brat is being a petty brat.
The door locks behind Lucien, leaving him in darkness. He stands still, savoring the quiet, until a shadow moves.
Combat reflex drives Lucien backwards—but his reflexes include magic he can’t call now. He only moves a step before a blade presses to his throat.
A low voice murmurs, “Don’t cause a scene.”
Through his adrenaline, Lucien recognizes the voice. Even though it shouldn’t be possible. “Whisper?”
The blade falls away. “I’ll turn on a lamp.”
Lucien stands stunned as Whisper moves in the darkness. The slight sound of his footfalls must be deliberate, meant to reassure Lucien. Fabric rustles from the direction of the bed, then the door.
“How are you here?” Lucien asks, mindful of the guards in the hall outside.
“Fun fact,” Whisper says, just as quietly. “Nobody ever guards prison cells properly when they’re empty.”
Light flares from the bedside lamp, revealing Whisper’s familiar form near the door—not as familiar as usual. He’s dressed in an Ostomar servant’s uniform, and instead of blond, his hair is honey-brown streaked with red. With his deep violet eyes, Whisper fits perfectly in Draskora.
The knife sheaths hidden under his sleeves are only noticeable because Lucien is looking for them. A rolled-up blanket sits wedged against the base of the door, muffling light and sound.
Lucien would be the first to admit he was suspicious when Whisper moved into Greenhaven Castle. Especially after the whole royal assassination attempt—which Julien forgave far too quickly. Now, Whisper is a wonderful sight for sore eyes.
Whisper looks Lucien over too. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” The ways in which heisn’tdon’t matter right now.
Whisper nods, sharp. His next question is what really matters: “What have they learned from you?”
“Nothing important,” Lucien answers. “The enchantment worked.”
“Even with that collar?” Whisper asks.
Lucien tenses. Faced with someone he knows, every humiliation stings fresh. He had to kneel to Imrik Dire. He had to act like a footstool. He had to fold that fucking pillowcase fifteen fucking times.
But Whisper’s regard is purely professional.
“The collar didn’t affect the enchantment,” Lucien confirms. “Kazia can order me to shut up, but he can’t use the collar as a truth spell.”
“Anything else I should know about the collar?” Whisper asks.
Lucien’s stomach sinks, like he’s sky high and Whisper’s question cuts the wind from under him. A hope he hadn’t fully processed—escape, freedom—darkens.
Kazia repeated the usual orders three times today.
“It’s really fucking effective. This Radovan is a genius, wherever he is now, and Kazia’s smarter than most people give him credit for.” Lucien forces a smile. “Kazia ordered me not to touch the collar, or let anyone else touch it either. He’s also forbidden me from escaping. I can’t even touch the runes on the walls.”
Frowning, Whisper fishes a pair of gloves from his pocket. “That’s troublesome.”
