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b-a-pigeon · 1 year

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What From the Water Rises #1

Check out yesterday's intro post if you missed it—but tl;dr, @fellamarsh and I have a new project consisting of interconnected shorts taking place in the same fantasy world, and we're planning on releasing them for free on a biweekly basis!

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That night, Phaeon guarded the prince in silence.

For any other monarch, this was the norm; royals inevitably came to ignore the constant presence of their guard, and Phaeon’s training had emphasized the importance of disappearing into the background. In the prince’s antechamber, especially, he could’ve vanished among the clutter with little effort. The narrow space was almost overwhelmingly ornate, its walls crowded with ancient tapestries, paintings, and mirrors in gold-lacquered frames all the way up to the high, curved ceiling, which was itself inlaid with bright patterns of tilework.

It would have been easy for him to press his back against the wall and pretend he did not exist.

But the prince, unlike his relatives, always wanted to speak with Phaeon when he stood guard—sharing something he’d read, asking about what happened outside of the palace walls, inquiring about Phaeon himself. It was one of his little quirks, his quiet rejections of etiquette, like the way he insisted upon oiling his own hair, and demanded the royal guard sit while watching over him.

That night, though, he had yet to say a word after they greeted each other. He wasn’t ignoring Phaeon, which would have been easy enough to accept—but instead staring unsettlingly at him through his reflection in the vanity mirror, working a thin oil into his dark, wavy hair from the roots.

Phaeon recognized the silent demand to meet his eyes and did so, though he secretly wished the prince would turn away. It was inappropriate for someone of his station to look so directly at a royal, even through the barrier, even on the prince’s orders. It felt wrong, just as it felt wrong to sit on a cushioned stool with his sword leaning against the wall, rather than standing with the weapon heavy and secure on his hip. He’d learned to cope with that by reaching out to touch his sword every few minutes—and now he was coping with the prince’s scrutiny by occasionally letting his attention drift upward to the line of portraits depicting his ancestors above.

Circled by the gold frame of his mirror, the prince struck Phaeon as the most beautiful and most intense of them all. His features were so soft, so delicate—but his eyes were keen and piercing.

He was studying the prince’s face, running an absent finger along the curve of the pommel, when he finally spoke.

“You talked to the king about me today.”

Phaeon could not decipher the tone of his silky voice beyond recognizing that this was not a question. “I did, your highness.”

“What about?”

He hesitated, glancing up at the portraits again, weighing the expectation of confidentiality with the king against refusing the prince’s request. Certainly it was worse, in theory, to defy the king—but the prince was the one here to witness him, and Phaeon had to admit he was curious. “The king asked if I, or any other member of the guard, might teach you swordsmanship. He didn’t say why.”

At this, the prince’s sharp eyes fluttered shut; his fingers stilled where they ran through his hair and dropped to his lap. He breathed out a slow sigh. “He’s putting me on display, then,” he murmured.

“I’m not sure—”

“What’s the point of swordsmanship?” the prince asked derisively—though his glare softened as soon as the words left his mouth. “I mean no offense. It’s a noble art, and it would be an honor to learn from you.”

“The honor would be mine.”

The prince ignored this obligatory show of deference and said, “If he wants me to learn, it’s for ceremonial purposes. Staging a public victory as a show of strength, or something.” He reached up to braid his hair, his nimble fingers working slower than usual. “A few days ago, one of the kitchen servants told me I’m expected to attend a dinner with some envoy next week; someone came up to my room to measure me for new clothes, but refused to tell me what they were for; my tutor has suddenly become much more concerned with my elocution. You know what all of that means.”

Phaeon did not, in fact, know what any of it meant, nor how to respond. The prince had slipped into the candid tone that subtly prompted his audience to do the same, but their conversation felt too strange for Phaeon to abandon the comforts of formality.

The prince half-turned, catching Phaeon’s eye from the corner of his; though Phaeon, on instinct, lowered his gaze to the floor, the prince must’ve recognized his ignorance in that glance alone.

“He wants to prepare me for the throne.” His lips pressed together in a bitter smile; the motions of his fingers, as he braided his hair, grew quicker and more aggressive. “It’s incredible that I made it almost to twenty-two without even a hint of my public debut—but my time is up. He wants me to be visible now, and he’s preparing to introduce me to the populace as the next king. It’s all happening soon.” The thin smile twisted into a grimace. “It won’t be long before he starts searching for a suitable wife so I can produce an heir of my own.”

With each word, Phaeon’s uncertainty mounted. Why would discussing his duty to continue the royal bloodline make the prince frown like this—make his voice sound almost hollow, as if in despair? The prince so rarely brought up his future, and on those infrequent occasions when he addressed it, Phaeon politely pretended not to notice his hesitance or insecurity. This resentment was something else altogether, and the only answer that came to mind was uselessly vague. “As is your birthright.”

The prince sighed with displeasure and lapsed back into quiet. After finishing his braid and tying off the end with a ribbon, he opened the top drawer of the vanity to return the crystal vial of oil. Phaeon watched, as still and silent as he was meant to be, while the prince examined the contents of his drawer and began to halfheartedly rearrange them, pulling out little pots of kohl and multicolored glass containers of powders and oils.

It was almost like he was stalling, Phaeon thought, reaching out to run a finger along the carvings on his sword’s hilt for reassurance; for a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the clinking of glass and the crackling of the fireplace on the wall between them.

Then the prince abruptly broke the silence. “Phaeon, what do you know about Ezu-anvashe’s island?”

Phaeon’s hand froze on his sword, startled by the drastic change of subject. “I know it’s a dangerous place,” he said, barely managing to keep his voice even, “full of criminals and wizards—”

“I’ve been doing some research,” the prince interrupted, “and I’m starting to doubt the narrative we’ve heard.” He slammed the drawer of his vanity shut and met Phaeon’s eyes through the mirror again, his jaw set. “Would you check the hallway for me? I’d prefer our conversation remain private from here.”

Phaeon’s training overtook his blank confusion. He stood, lifting his sword and clipping its scabbard to his belt in one fluid, practiced motion, and crossed the room to its sole exit. There was no one in the hall, as he expected; nobody came to the prince’s private chambers except to guard him. Still, he lingered in the doorway, taking in a slow breath to steady his heart. Something strange was happening; the prince was up to something, and not one of his typical schemes, either. He was being too vague, his choice of topics oddly disjointed, leaving Phaeon no room to glean what he was after.

When he shut the door and returned to his post, he found the prince leaning forward on his elbows, narrowed eyes searching Phaeon’s face through the mirror.

“The records from the earliest explorations of the island still exist in the archives of the imperial college,” he said, as if there had been no interruption. “I bribed someone to hunt them down a few months ago, and now I have everything—all of the reports sent from those first settlers to my grandfather before they declared their independence from Sehmera. Since then, I’ve had a courier intercept letters to the king on my behalf—and I caught a few from some distant cousin of mine, an ex-viceroy from one of those expeditions who never left.”

The prince’s eyes were bright with excitement as he spoke, but Phaeon was too wary to find his intellectual curiosity as charming as usual. “His descriptions of life there have been very… illuminating. It’s not half as violent as we’ve been told.”

An expectant pause followed, like the prince wanted Phaeon to express his curiosity—but, still nervous in unfamiliar territory, he was careful to keep his interest purely practical. “May I ask why the king is corresponding with a resident of Isle Ezu?”

“Oh, it’s not a correspondence, as far as I’m aware. I doubt any of those letters even make it to the king. They’re all about trying to convince him to open trade, which is too absurd to acknowledge. Even if he wanted to legitimize it as a state by trading with them, Ezu-anvashe would never allow it.”

“I’ve heard the sea god is volatile.”

The prince frowned, drumming his fingers on the surface of the vanity—impatient as he always was when he recognized the way his servants were trained to speak to him, repeating and lightly elaborating on his points rather than truly responding to them. But Phaeon could not guess what conclusion the prince was angling toward with enough accuracy for a meaningful reply, anyway.

“Not volatile, I don’t think,” the prince said. His frown had vanished—but enthusiasm no longer shone in his eyes, either, leaving him expressionless. “I’ve read enough by now to understand that his motives are consistent. It offends him when we travel through his domain for what he considers petty human desires—conquest, profit. As long as our causes are pure, and we play by his rules, he’s perfectly accepting.”

“I see,” Phaeon said, failing to glean any insight from the prince’s impassive face. He would have to guess where this was headed. “Are you suggesting, your highness, that you might delay your debut by… visiting this place?”

The prince laughed humorlessly. “I’m not suggesting anything. Certainly the king would never permit me to vacation there, and we couldn’t exactly send an envoy. It’s just interesting to learn about the roles the gods play. Did you know, on the island, there aren’t any real leaders other than their patron god? They have elections, but their positions only last three years. They have no kings—and no money, and no wars.”

“No laws, either.”

“There are laws! Fewer than we have, but there are some, both divine and human. I don’t mean to suggest it’s perfect. It’s a flawed place—but so is this one.” With that, the prince finally broke eye contact, studying the hands he’d interlaced on top of the vanity; Phaeon, unable to hide his confusion now, was grateful for the reprieve. “It would be unwise of me to critique the empire my ancestors have built, wouldn’t it?”

Phaeon chose his words with great care. “To critique without purpose, perhaps, but using those critiques to improve—”

“If I’m going to become king, I have to first accept that I have no freedom here. Do you understand?” He grew softer, quieter as he spoke. “I can talk about change all I want, but my future is set in stone: the king will find me a suitable wife so I can have a son, and abdicate the throne as soon as I am eligible. I’m not ready. Not now—and I don’t think I ever will be.”

“I’m sure it’s frightening to have so much responsibility.” Phaeon’s head spun; none of this made sense, and he knew his words were useless, but he kept stammering them out. “The burden—your sacrifice—”

“It’s not about that. I’ve studied statecraft long enough to recognize that I cannot rule over this empire. I’m no warrior—or maybe I’m just a coward. But there is no empire without war; we’ve pushed too far, too hard, and now if we relent on the borders we’ll be swallowed up, colony by colony, until Sehmera is destroyed and I’m killed along with it. I can’t preside over that bloodshed, and I can’t accept my death knowing how many others would first die in my name.”

“You’ll make an excellent king,” Phaeon said, because he had to.

“I won’t.” The prince spat out the words, but his tone softened when he said, “There is no need to lie to me. Please, Phaeon, forget your duty to defend the empire for one moment and listen to what I’m telling you. I cannot and will not be king; after all these years, you know me well enough to understand why. I’ve made the decision to reject it.”

Phaeon’s lips parted, but he could not manage even the most banal of polite responses. What other option had the prince imagined? To continue the bloodline was his obligation; as the king’s firstborn son, he was the true and only successor. His anxieties were understandable, but rejecting his responsibility could only mean one thing.

The horror of this realization must have shown on his face, because the prince’s expression tightened with anticipation.

He meant to abandon the throne, ending a dynasty spanning centuries out of childish fear.

“This is high treason,” Phaeon breathed.

The prince sighed and shook his head, looking almost disappointed. “Yes, it is. You can tell the king if you’re so concerned with my defying him. I might do it now, if I were you. Stay too long and they’ll consider you complicit, won’t they?”

Phaeon suspected this to be true—but he remained firmly in his seat, despite the consequences. He wasn’t sure why. A decade of training in the royal guard and a lifetime of loyalty to Sehmera screamed at him to run straight to the king, throw himself to his knees, and confess everything he’d heard, begging mercy for them both. At the very least, he should have implored the prince to swallow his misgivings and take the secrets he’d revealed to his grave.

Surely, though he’d sworn an oath to protect all three, his loyalties to king and country should outweigh his commitment to the prince—

But Phaeon stayed, and could not imagine doing anything else. He stayed, knowing his presence here for the death sentence it was, letting his personal feelings cloud his judgment and not caring.

“You mean to abandon your destiny,” he said quietly.

The prince spun around on his stool to face Phaeon—who froze under the blazing intensity of the eye contact, of the starkness of his fierce beauty seen directly, his conflicted mind going blank with shock. “I mean,” he snapped, “I believe my destiny lies elsewhere.”

“Where? Ezu?”

“Anywhere. Not here. I can’t do it, Phaeon, and if I want to live, my one chance at freedom is running away before it’s too late.”

“Your highness, if you want to change the empire, you can do that by becoming king,” Phaeon urged, almost dizzy with desperation to change his mind. “You can reshape the empire to your desire. That’s what it means to be king! You have responsibilities, but you also have ultimate power.”

With a bitter laugh, the prince said, “It’s truly not possible, I promise you. I’ll spare you a lecture on statecraft, but there will be no more empire for me to rule if we stop waging war. I could handle responsibility, Phaeon, but I can’t live with being at the helm of a machine that runs on blood.”

“Who taught you all this?”

“I concluded it myself from everything I’ve learned. Nobody could’ve taught me; questioning the empire would be treason. Do you see my problem here? What does it say if the second most powerful man in this nation doesn’t have the freedom to interrogate the necessity of bloodshed? I can’t stand it—any of it. Setting aside my moral objections, I’m a captive here. If I want my freedom, I have to let them put me on display, like an object—and get some poor stranger pregnant before she has the chance to decide if she wants to. It’s all so horrible. It’s suffocating.”

“I hear you, your highness,” Phaeon said, his voice shaking, “and I understand your discomfort, but please consider everything you would have to give up. Even if you were allowed to live, after defying the king—once you leave here, you’ll have nothing.”

“Of course I understand,” the prince said coolly, gesturing at their surroundings with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “The entire problem is that all of this is the spoils of war. Do you want me to tell you what I’ve learned in the dispatches from the frontlines? Do you want to know what our army is doing to civilians in the colonies?”

Phaeon did not need to be told; he already knew. When he thought of the sweet, sheltered prince learning the realities of war, of conquest, his breath caught in his chest. There would be no changing his mind. “Your highness—”

“Should I read you the reports from the viceroys, out in the borderlands, bragging about impoverishing and enslaving people on their own land?” Below the prince’s practiced calm was an unmistakable fury; his dark eyes blazed, their unobstructed intensity as overwhelming as looking into the sun.

“To be frank—if I’m entertaining the idea of you leaving—I’m not sure you do understand all it would entail,” Phaeon said, a harsh edge to his tight voice, all his courtesy stripped away under the prince’s radiance. “Never mind wealth, you would have to work to survive for the first time in your life. You’re guaranteed nothing in this world if you aren’t a prince. Not food. Not shelter.”

“In Sehmera, perhaps, I would die in the streets and no one would care—but that’s not how things work on Ezu.”

“Ezu!” Phaeon groaned, screwing his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. He let out a shaky breath; the prince said nothing, but Phaeon could feel the sharpness of his gaze as he attempted to collect himself. “You know nothing of that place beyond fifty-year-old dispatches and letters from some mad viceroy, correct?”

“I know about their patron god.”

“But their god isn’t always watching! Would he be able to stop them from kidnapping you for ransom? Killing you on sight?” He dared to drop his hand from his face, to look up at the prince again—and found his eyebrows raised in surprise at Phaeon’s vehemence.

“I’ll disguise myself.” His tone was gentler now; Phaeon felt a flash of guilt for letting his emotion overwhelm him. “I can abandon my identity. Nobody outside of the walls of this palace has seen me in over a decade. They haven’t even learned my name.”

Perhaps—but the prince looked royal, his skin the pale color of sand, flawless and uncalloused. Everything about him was soft and youthful in a way that spoke to his isolation as well as his station. “They might guess. You don’t look like a commoner.”

“Well, viceroys are living happily on the island, so as long as I’m not taken for a crown prince, I assume it won’t be a problem.” The prince’s brow knitted as he studied Phaeon’s face, so far beyond the point of polite composure that he could not imagine how distressed he looked. “I’ve done my research and thought this through. I understand you think I’m being foolish, but—but could you give me a moment to explain myself?” When Phaeon gave a weak nod, he said, “Come here, please.”

Without thought, Phaeon obeyed, lifting his sword and approaching the prince to kneel before him, face pointed toward the floor. The prince dragged his chair toward him, leaning forward—coming close enough that Phaeon could’ve reached out and touched him. Close enough that, when the prince leaned forward and his long braid fell over his shoulder, Phaeon could smell the lightly floral scent of the oil in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” the prince whispered. “I don’t want to frighten you. Please look at me.”

Phaeon could not—but the prince’s soft hand cupped his jaw, lifted his chin so their faces were impossibly close. Those eyes were now more imploring than intense.

“Listen. I’ve thought about this for so many years, and the island presents my best option for escape. As soon as I swear my allegiance to Ezu-anvashe and commit to living on his land, according to his law, I belong to him. If the king were to send men to claim me—to attempt to take ownership of Anvashe’s possession, one of his precious few worshippers—he would retaliate. He’ll capsize ships to protect his land, his people. He always has.”

Phaeon swallowed hard. It was never easy to argue with the prince when he was so sincere, but he had little recourse. “Your ancestors conquered gods before.”

“One god,” the prince corrected him. “One god, whose domain was limited to the original Sehmeri territory—not the entire ocean. I am going to take refuge with Ezu-anvashe, and I’ll find my freedom there.”

“But if any of the people on the island who are hostile to the empire—and there are many, displaced by our imperial efforts, exiled by your father, forced to flee to continue practicing their cultist rituals or magic—”

The prince’s eyebrows shot up. “You know a lot more about the world than you’ve let on.”

“It’s my job to know your enemies.”

Though he looked thoroughly pleased by this, the prince shook his head. “They won’t find out.”

“What if they did? I’ve sworn to protect you, your highness—and in the interest of keeping you safe, I cannot allow you to run away to some lawless place to seek the mercy of a mad god.”

“So come with me.”

How difficult it was to suppress the first instinct to obey—to swear he would follow the prince and keep him safe no matter where he went.

“You can come with me,” the prince added when Phaeon said nothing, “or you can flee elsewhere, but you can’t stop me—and either way, you shouldn’t stay here. You’re a traitor now.” The prince straightened in his seat, averting his attention to the fireplace. “I haven’t just told you this because I trust you, but also because I don’t want to betray you. I knew you wouldn’t defy me—”

“Did you?” Phaeon murmured.

“Of course.” He looked back at Phaeon, his head tilting to one side. “I was certain you’d listen; I suspected you might even help me—but in telling you, I have sealed your fate. You will be the last person to see me before my disappearance. If they don’t kill you outright for letting me leave, they’ll torture you into confessing all that you’ve heard, and then they’ll kill you for withholding it.” The prince’s jaw tightened; his pale hands seized the loose fabric of his pants, clenching into fists. “You can refuse my request to join me. I’m not your prince anymore��or, if I am, it’s just for the night. But please, take my advice and run. If not with me, then anywhere else.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“I know.” A faint note of desperation crept into his voice and shone openly across his eyes when he said, “So tell me you’ll come.”

Phaeon’s breath caught in his chest. Never before had he felt so conflicted. Logic and emotion struggled within him; the instinctive loyalty instilled by years of service would not allow him to accept, but when the prince looked at him with such hope, it was impossible to imagine doing what his duty demanded.

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his defenses wane. How typical for the prince to cling so stubbornly to an idea that sounded good in theory, and carefully construct his arguments to dismiss all criticism. How utterly unsurprising that this boy, hidden behind lock and key with little company but his books and teachers, was so naive and yet so capable of arguing his position with ironclad confidence.

“Your father always said you were overeducated,” Phaeon murmured, partly to himself. “Now I see what he meant.”

The prince let out a startled laugh. “How can he complain when he chose my tutors?” he asked, flashing a slight, nervous smile. “He could’ve curated my books better.”

“Not with you bribing servants to raid the college’s library on your behalf.”

“I never bribed, I just asked,” the prince objected, as if his favor was not a reward in itself. “To the point, though—I notice you have not yet said no or run for help. Should I take this as acceptance of my offer? Will you come?”

“It’s… it’s a lot to consider,” Phaeon said, though he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. No amount of stalling would coerce the prince to abandon his grand plan—and he, himself, had already made his decision by staying. “You are asking me to choose between my sworn loyalties.”

“It would be wise to choose your country over me.”

“I know that, but I still can’t.”

“No?” Some of the tension melted from the prince’s body. “Well, I’ll tell you my plan, at least. I already stole some peasant’s clothes from the servant’s quarters and planned to cut my hair; maybe you could do that for me. We might consider cutting yours, too—if you decide to come, that is. Obviously, you won’t be marked as royal, but it might draw attention.” He reached out to tap one of Phaeon’s coiled red-brown curls; his touch was so gentle, so tentative, it made Phaeon hold his breath until his hand withdrew.

“Tonight,” the prince continued, “I’ve arranged a disturbance to draw the guards from their posts on the eastern side of the building, about an hour before dawn. The people responsible for that distraction don’t know who requested it, or why, by the way—just that they’ll receive their payment only if they succeed. I can slip out then; it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve snuck past the guard, so I’m not worried.”

“Tonight?” Phaeon echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes—I’m sorry. I really couldn’t risk telling you until the last minute. Do you have anything you need to take care of before we go?”

Of course, his answer was no; Phaeon’s highest priority was the prince, and even if he cared to say goodbye to his colleagues and mentors in the guard, he could not tell them where he was going or why. But his hand, out of habit, went to the iron hilt of his sword as he considered—and he ran his fingertip over the inlaid jewel shining from the pommel, remembering with a shock of disappointment that it was not his to take. “I can’t leave with a sword of the royal guard. I’ll have to exchange it for another from the armory.”

The prince nodded, but his brow knitted with uncertainty. “Phaeon, I know we’re talking about our plans, but—but you haven’t said yes yet. Would you tell me, for my sake?”

“Yes.”

Just saying the word filled him with relief and terror in equal measure; it brought his entire future into sharp clarity. No longer one of many guards serving a future king in this palace for the rest of his life, but the prince’s sole protector elsewhere—and an enemy of the state, besides, a traitor with no choice but to die or flee.

He said it again, stronger: “Yes. Of course. If I may be honest with you, your highness, I am still not convinced this is wise—but I’m sure it’s too late for me to change your mind, and I will not allow you to leave without me.”

“You have my eternal permission to be honest with me,” the prince said, half-smiling, “but my final order to you will be to never call me ‘your highness’ again. We’re equals now.” His eyes brimmed with such shining gratitude that Phaeon could hardly bear to hold them; it would take some time for him to accept the prince as an equal, as a vulnerable human like himself. “I’m sure you’d like to prepare, but could I have another minute of your time before you go?”

“Of course, Azarion.”

His eyes widened for a moment at hearing his own name, but he grinned before turning back to the vanity and searching through one of its drawers. Phaeon watched him, unguarded and shameless, trying to wrap his head around the reality that they were going to run away together—that he would see this angelic face up close, without a barrier, every day, and keep the prince all to himself. Was this, he wondered distantly, the selfish desire that made him stay?

The prince—Azarion—made a triumphant little noise and whirled back to face Phaeon, a thin pair of scissors dangling from one extended finger. “Will you think I’m childish if I ask you for this? Will you humor me anyway?”

“I’m sorry—what are you asking for?”

“Oh, do you not remember?” Azarion frowned, lowering the scissors. “When I was young—young enough that I could play with other children, I mean—we’d exchange locks of hair when we made promises.”

“Really?” Phaeon tried to mask his distaste at the faint whiff of magic in the ritual. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“Yes, really! I’m not sure if it’s true, but they say that’s how we used to make oaths, back when Sehmera had gods and magic. I’m not saying this is a spell, but—but it’s something sort of mystical, and it feels right, if we’re putting our fates in the hands of a god.” He glanced down at the scissors as he ran a finger along the parted blades. “And I don’t mean to imply I don’t trust you, but if we’re letting each other out of our sights…”

He trailed off—and, without waiting for Phaeon’s answer, pulled a perfect lock from the ribbon binding his braid and snipped off the tip. He extended it toward Phaeon, who gingerly accepted, holding the loose curl between two fingers. “What do I do with this?”

“Hold on to it for now—and give me some of yours, too. Maybe we’ll throw them into the ocean once we’re on the island.” He shrugged, holding out the scissors. “I don’t know if it matters; I think it’s the symbolism that’s important.”

Phaeon just stared for a moment, then tucked the prince’s hair into the pouch on his sword belt and accepted the scissors for himself. Absurd as it was, he kept his expression solemn as he cut off a coil of auburn hair from behind his ear, then dropped it into the prince’s expectant palm. Azarion wrapped his fingers gently around it and nodded, equally serious.

“Now you can go exchange your sword. Make sure nobody follows you—but of course, I don’t have to tell you that. Remember, our opportunity to escape will come an hour before dawn.” He glanced up at the enormous wooden clock on the mantel, frowning. “We have a few hours, I suppose—but return soon. We’ll need to disguise ourselves, and I need your help finding something valuable enough to bribe a sailor to drop us at Ezu.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Phaeon promised, and turned to leave.

Part of him had wondered whether some sort of spell would be broken along with their eye contact—if, when he wasn’t looking directly at the prince, the commitment to abandoning his life, his king, his country, might waver.

But he found his conviction growing stronger as he crossed the room and reality began to descend over him. The faint twinge of sadness that he would have to persist without his favorite sword was his only regret as he pushed out of the room, heading down the hall and sealing his own fate.

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