Zander
Romeria storms away, her back rigid as she crashes through the gate, likely waking half the Legion—though they’re never fully asleep, ready to spring into action at a second’s notice.
Moments later, my ears catch the first sob as it escapes from her throat.
My molars grind. Pacifying others with lies has never been my strength, but it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. She is weighing the same sorts of decisions I must. She just doesn’t have all the necessary information.
Standing in that arena, facing Atticus’s accusations, I chose Romeria over my crown. There is no other way to explain it. And if I had to do it again, I would choose the same. But how can I choose a key caster, regardless of what I feel for the woman who wields that power, when I know the cost could be catastrophic?
I am a king. I do not have that luxury.
Tonight, with her staring up at me through those alluring blue eyes, I wanted to dismiss every doubt, every fear, every worry, just to feel her warm body and soft lips again. I wanted to tell her that I abhorred my time with that tributary, that I didn’t take a drop more of her blood than needed, and nothing else.
I wanted to tell her that my feelings for her are still very much in the present.
But is that by my will, or Aoife’s?
It’s infuriating to not trust my own heart.
And the day may come where I’m forced to ask her to open the nymphaeum door, knowing she may die. Ask her to trust these nymphs, knowing they may demand her life. If I had to risk her like that today, I wouldn’t have it in me.
For all that Gesine laid before me, I cannot be sure of any path forward.
And what if the day comes when it is not me but Romeria making the impossible decision? Would she be willing to sacrifice me to see peace restored? Would her gentle and welcoming heart allow her to do that? To put Islor ahead of me? Of us?
I fear I already know that answer.
This is why I should keep my distance and allow her feelings to harden toward me. I know where her thoughts were going just now. Maybe it’s best they remain there to rot until hatred breeds.
The crunch of an apple beneath a boot warns me of Abarrane’s approach, though I sensed her there, lurking in the shadows. “What have you learned?”
“That she’s too emotional.”
I roll my eyes. “About Freywich.”
“It is as you suspected. Many keepers have cellars full of food and wine and stables full of hungry servants.”
A vast expanse of trees stretches into the darkness. Lord Danthrin has spent years nurturing the idea of a simple, struggling domain. Given Freywich’s location off the king’s road, it is removed from common travel and therefore not visited. No one would have suspected he’s been cultivating far more than lies with the lands given to him by my father, being this close to Cirilea.
“She’s right. All I’ve done so far is talk,” I murmur, more to myself. Talk and strategize and arm myself with information about the atrocities Islorians commit every day.
Talk, but no action.
“What do you know of this Romeria?” Abarrane asks quietly to avoid nearby ears. Though, they wouldn’t be foolish enough to eavesdrop on their king and commander.
“She was a jewel thief.” One with a relentless—and endearing—need to help those less fortunate.
Abarrane snorts. “A thief who cannot wield a weapon?”
Who cannot even seem to figure out how to affix one to her hip. “That is why you will train her how to fight.”
“Not this again.”
“Yes, Commander. This again. She must be able to stand up for herself in every way, in every situation.”
“So she can be more dangerous to us than she already is?”
“As long as we can keep her reined in, she will be an asset to us.”
“And what of after? Once you are back on your throne?” Abarrane doesn’t waver in that goal, does not doubt the outcome. Her resolve is admirable.
But I know what she’s asking. It’s the exact thing Romeria just implied. “I will make the right choice for the future of Islor.” I study the scattered fruit on the ground and the full basket nearby. It’s time I spoke in the only language these keepers seem to understand.
“Wake the Legion.”