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Evrardin eventually mustered the energy to push open Mara’s door.

“Cold feet?” he teased but instantly regretted his coarse words.

The hour was far too late to be summoning him to her room, but he came regardless. The last thing he wanted was for Cas to be alerted.

“Shut the door,” she commanded before focusing back on her books. He was used to finding her with books spread before her, but this was something else. She looked like a madwoman. There were countless tomes propped open, Mara sat in the middle of them, shifting around on the floor to jump between pages. Her hair was a wreck, pulled back out of her face, wired up so late into the night. A pang of concern bloomed in his chest.

“Care to explain why you’ve called upon me so late?”

She smirked. “And not why I think I have the authority to call upon you at all?” She glanced at him before darting back to her pages.

Was she not going to acknowledge what happened in the halls earlier?

Apparently not.

“Do you know where I can get a draugr flower?”

“Sorry?”

She looked at him. “You have to know where. You’re a florist after all.”

“I resent that title.”

She sighed, irritated. “Evrardin, please.”

He hesitated, her plea tightening his muscles. “What could you possibly need with a draugr flower?”

“I… I can’t tell you.”

“Then I can’t answer your question.”

She let out an aggravated huff. “I can’t tell you because you report to Acastus. I need you to trust me on this. Please,” she begged. She seemed to not care how stupid she sounded, begging on her knees to a man who proved to have little respect for her.

He thought for a moment too long, leaving room for it to click inside Mara’s head.

“You’ve grown some, haven’t you?”

Evrardin shifted his stance. He hated that she managed to get him to squirm from lack of trust rather than anything else.

Her tongue rolled across the front of her teeth, studying him for only a moment longer. “That will be all.”

Evrardin scoffed. “You’re dismissing me?”

She didn’t bother looking up from her book. “I got what I needed from you. And you’re clearly in no position to offer any further assistance. I’d like you to leave my chambers.”

He paused, lost for what to say. And anything he wanted to say, he couldn’t.

“Yes, Princess,” he managed through bared teeth. “I seem to have gotten what I needed from you as well.”

Only ten minutes later did Mara crack open her door. She gasped, her hand gripping the door handle tightly, Evrardin looming over her in the doorway. He traced the tear marks that painted her eyes red, and he flourished with guilt—with hatred. How tough she acted, but he knew he hurt her deep down. She let him get under her skin, and now she was worse off for it.

“What are you still doing here?”

She donned a dark cloak and boots. He knew she was about to sneak out to the gardens, hunting the draugr flower she knew he grew. But she wouldn't find it there.

“Do not say another word,” he said aggressively. His fingers squeezed his sword, itching to grab her hand and drag her along. Instead, he used his words. “Stay close.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond, especially considering her response was likely to be a rebuttal and trailed down the hall.

They walked in uncomfortable silence to the catacombs, and he almost smiled when he heard her soft footsteps begin to follow him. He expected Mara to rattle off a thousand questions as he brought her into the dank room, but she remained quiet. He wondered if she could feel Crowrot’s presence like he did.

He walked over to the wall littered with various tubes and vials, some spilling with glowing liquid. He heard her gasp as she took it all in. “They’re so pretty,” she muttered. How she found such a mundane apothecary pretty was beyond him.

He pulled down a jar on the top shelf with black petals inside. He turned, expecting to find her back at the table set in the middle of the room, but she was right behind him, and he collided with her. His free hand steadied her shoulders, her body flush against his chest for a brief moment before they pulled apart. Her cheeks pinked and he swallowed, his mouth dry.

He held up the vial to distract from their awkwardness. It had taken him years to grow and harvest this much dried draugr flower, so he caught even himself off guard when he handed her the entire thing without a word.

“Will I need this much?” she asked aghast.

“You tell me.”

She crossed her arms. “Right. I think it’s enough.”

He held in his laugh knowing she had no idea what she was talking about. Then his eyes narrowed. “This is dangerous stuff, Mara. You have to be careful.”

She surveyed the jar like it was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen. She nodded.

Evrardin moved closer, his hand grasping the side of her neck and letting his fingers lock in her hair, affection he had no right confusing her with. She yelped in surprise at his touch, not expecting the harsh way he forced her attention. He tilted her face to look at him. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“What does it matter? I'll be dead soon anyway.”

His eyes darkened in the torchlight. “I won’t let that happen.”

She laughed boisterously. “You can’t promise me that.”

He knew he couldn’t, but it didn’t hurt any less when she said it. He opened his mouth, his lips curling, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat. “I wish I could promise you so much.”

“Don’t,” she whispered.

She leaned marginally into his hold before realization made her stiffen.

His eyes danced between hers before begrudgingly letting his hand fall from her curls. “Mara, I didn’t mean to?—”

She cut him off, shaking her head. “You wanted me to learn how the real world works for myself. To see how things truly are and not just pleasantries dotted on noble ladies. Isn’t that what you wanted, Evrardin? For me to see the grit and grime of the realm?”

He remained silent as she moved closer to the door, casting her in shadows. He couldn’t make out her face clearly enough to read her expression in the soft candlelight. She tucked wild strands of hair behind her ear, her fist clutching the draugr flower close. “You should be glad I see you for what you are.”

“And how’s that, Princess?”

“Unworthy.”

She wasn’t the damsel getting her delicate ego wounded like he once thought.

And yet, he hoped she might argue with him—to tell her he may have been shitty before, but he wanted her, at least as a friend. That he was remorseful in any semblance. That he didn’t mean the foul words he spat at her.

Her gaze traced the expanse of his throat as he swallowed. He tilted his head, speaking solemnly. “Took you long enough.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “Thank you. For this.” She held up the small jar in her hand. “I should get back.”

He didn’t move or acknowledge her, only traced her movements as she scurried out of the catacombs and back from where they came. He almost stayed down in the dark tunnels, but he followed her up the stairs soon after, not able to resist trailing her. And he lingered behind her without her notice, making sure she made it to her rooms without running into trouble—gods knew she was a magnet for that.

The summer sunlight poured in through the cathedral's rose and gold windows as dawn broke. Acastus was painted in an array of warm colors as he adjusted his jacket on the dais. The holy room was empty save for the prince, and now Evrardin as he made his way farther into the space.

Acastus’ eyes met Evrardin’s and he swore he spotted a tinge of remorse in them before splitting back to their usual vengeful darkness.

“This is it,” Acastus boasted as Evrardin ascended the short staircase of the dais.

Evrardin hoped Acastus would rant about his final moments as a bachelor, but he was always sorely disappointed. Instead, Cas said the words he had been fearing most.

“Such a shame I’ll have to kill my poor wife so soon after marrying her. Quite the unexpected wedding gift, I suppose.”

Fury laced all of Evrardin’s muscles in a burning rope of jute. “She is only to glassfaire today.”

Acastus gave Evrardin a condescending smirk. “That’s how it started, yes. But the late king’s heart won’t be sufficient.” Acastus seemed peeved, like his father’s death, and now his aim to murder his wife, was an inconvenience. “She failed to enlighten me that a heart of a monarch and the thrum of new love referred to one, singular person. Knowing that would have saved me an insurmountable amount of trouble.”

“Cas, there has to be another way to do this. You don’t need more blood on your hands,” Evrardin pleaded. He was tied between wanting to fall to his knees and beg for Mara’s life and wanting to wrap his hands tightly around Acastus’ neck—neither of which he could do.

Acastus tsked, tugging his black gloves on tighter. Even with his conservative attire, the dark, smokey trellis peeked beyond the hem of his collar. His eyes washed over black. “This won’t be on my hands.”

Evrardin shuddered to think he once considered the prince his friend.

“It will be on yours .” Acastus’ words ripped through the warm air of the cathedral, reaching Evrardin’s ears like a curse.