Page 76 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

The heavy smell of medicinal balms—camphor, mint, and cloves—hit me before I reached the threshold. Even with the persistent chill, a bead of sweat trickled down my back as I faltered before steadying myself in front of my brother’s chamber doors.

The two guards flanking either side were in full armor. That was only worn inside the castle during wartime or when the succession might be tested.

…And I didn’t know.

The guards nodded at my approach.

My stomach climbed up my throat as both bowed to me while opening the doors—a gesture reserved for the reigning monarch.

No… Berian can’t be…

For one suspended moment, I couldn’t make myself look.

Then a blast of air hit me, heavy with hearth smoke and far too warm to be healthy. Before the blazing fireplace sat Berian, wrapped in furs, appearing lost in thought as he stared at the flames. The relief at seeing him alive was only rivaled by the shock at how diminished he appeared. He failed to turn his head or greet me—a courtesy he extended even when angry or heavily inebriated.

Before I could stop it, a part of me felt a glimmer of satisfaction seeing him so small and weak. The way he always tried to make me feel.

One of his white-robed healers was crouched next to him, holding something up to him that buzzed with magic. My stomach only got worse, instantly transforming into a yawning pit, churning with anxiety from the strange sensation it set off.

The healer—Thibault, I saw now—straightened almost immediately. When he looked up, the expression on his face flickered with a hint of something like guilt before hardening into a grim mask of worry.

Evidence he was growing used to failing Berian too?

Perhaps the device increased his healing capabilities somehow. As far as I knew, Thibault could coax bodies to heal at an accelerated rate, though he couldn’t bring people back from the brink of death like Lunette could.

No. I couldn’t think of her now. Couldn’t think about her arms wrapping around me, about how holding and kissing her had been the only time I could remember feeling untarnished joy. Couldn’t fall back into grieving for something that could never be.

Not when my brother needed me.

As I approached, it almost seemed as if Thibault was avoiding getting close, sliding around the far side of the breakfast table between me and Berian. Strange behavior, but not unheard of. I offered the same as him—little more than a curt nod in acknowledgment. With stiff shoulders and whatever enchanted object he’d been using to heal him secreted back into the folds of his robe, he left through the door I’d entered.

Berian employed several mages, handpicked by the Assembly, for various roles inside the keep. Thibault had the most access to the royal body—which meant the Assembly did too. I hated it but the white-clad healer was easily forgotten when I had a bigger problem slumped in front of me.

Only when I crouched, one knee on the fire-warmed stones, did Berian acknowledge me.

“Owain,” he said, voice little more than a whisper. His dark-brown hair was disheveled, clumping to his forehead from the sweat beading on his brow.

It was the first time in ages he’d called me by my given name. And just like that, I felt horrible for all the nasty thoughts I’d had about him lately. Yes, he was hard on me. He could be cruel and manipulative. But he was still my brother.

I’d lost more than I would’ve thought possible when I’d left Lunette behind—her easy laughter, the sanctuary I’d found in her arms, that radiant, almost holy kindness—yet even as I sat in the wreckage, I knew what true contentment felt like. Berian had a marriage he resented, no real friends, no children—only a crown to keep him company.

“Brother.” I wrapped my hands around one of his, hoping for some sort of connection.

He didn’t flex a muscle in return. For a long moment, the only sounds were Berian’s ragged breathing and the low, rolling crackle of the fire. I worried he’d drifted off to sleep.

Then his fingers tightened weakly in mine.

“Theresa is ill. Will remain in Freuxcourt,” he rasped. The words were barely intelligible, like stone dragged over stone.

Gods above and below. The queen was also ailing? More than a day’s ride apart, and both heads of state were sick? I’d be looking into his healers more closely.

No wonder Reina had slapped me out of bed. My mind raced, conjuring a list of the tasks I’d need to juggle, from ruling as regent to commanding the military—a burden my absence had forced Camrick to bear alone.

I was ordering the pieces, calculating how I’d smooth everything over with the court when Berian added, “Can’t get someone else—” He was slumped in his chair now, eyes half-lidded, his face sagging with exhaustion, but there was still venom in him. “—tired of you embarrassing me.”

The words didn’t land like a slap as they would’ve had he been healthy. They settled instead with dull finality, like a judgment being entered into the official record. I’d half-hoped his illness might soften our relationship or simply strip away the performance of it.

Yet now I understood that there was no performance. This was simply Berian, distilled. Behind me, the fire popped, throwing sparks up the chimney, bright and indifferent to the quiet devastation unfolding before it.