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L arylis Alante never would have believed there was anything lonelier than being a bastard. Now that he was king, he knew it to be a far lonelier endeavor. He had guards. A bevy of attendants. His late father’s councilmen. But being surrounded by all these people, most of whom were no better than strangers to him, made him feel even more alone than if he were in an empty room. Empty rooms, in fact, held a certain comfort no space filled with strangers could have.

He felt this now as he sat in King Arlous’ place at his council table in his council room with his councilmen. As the king’s bastard son, he’d never been allowed to attend such meetings before. Now, with his father gone and Teryn having abdicated, he had no choice but to attend them. He sat in his father’s mahogany chair, wore his royal coat and crown of gold, yet he struggled to reconcile his change of station. The same doubt shone in the eyes of at least half of the councilmen who sat around the long oak table. They may address him as Your Majesty and pay him the outward respects required, but how many of them wished to see Teryn sitting in Larylis’ place?

Larylis certainly did.

Or that Teryn was there, at least. Not that he had any intention of admitting as much to his brother. It wasn’t pride that drove his silence but sympathy. He knew Teryn would come home at once if Larylis confessed just how much he could use Teryn’s lifetime of knowledge as future-king-in-training. But Larylis was willing to suffer—willing to pretend he felt an ounce of confidence when he passed laws, made judgments on petitions, or sent correspondences marked with Menah’s royal seal—if it meant Teryn had all the time he needed with Cora.

His own relationship may be temporarily stunted by distance, but that didn’t mean Teryn’s should be too.

Besides, Larylis had the means to adapt to his current struggles. He didn’t have Teryn’s lifetime of royal tutelage, but he had one reliable resource that had never let him down—books. Every night, he read about the kings of history. Great kings to emulate. Terrible kings to learn from their mistakes. During the day in his father’s study, he learned from another form of the written word—his father’s. He read over Arlous’ correspondences, studied his diary, memorized the names of his allies, spies, and other important contacts.

He hadn’t learned much to instill confidence in his capabilities, but facts, stories, and histories had always made him feel at least somewhat secure. They helped him pretend. If he could step into a role from fiction or history, he could separate himself from all his worries.

Right now, he was pretending to be Marsov, Fifth King of Rezkos, crowned Year 87 of the Sheep. Like Larylis, Marsov had been born a bastard. He, however, had claimed the throne without being legitimized and kept his crown despite many other contenders. It would have been an inspiring tale, were it not for the sixty years of war King Marsov put the Kingdom of Rezkos through, but that wasn’t the part Larylis was emulating. Instead, he was mimicking the confidence he’d read about, the way King Marsov always sat with his chin held high, refusing to acknowledge any slight against his lesser birth.

Larylis wasn’t sure if it helped or just made him look like an ass, but either way, his council continued to defer to him in every decision as the meeting continued. He wondered if King Dimetreus was receiving the same respect from his council. What was it like being served by a council made up of men from another kingdom? Larylis had that to be grateful for. Had it not been for Verdian’s wariness of Dimetreus, the king may have tried to position his brothers at Dermaine instead.

Larylis’ Head of Council, Lord Tolbrook, brought up the next subject for their discussion. “Are you certain you want to grant the Kingdom of Tomas inclusion into our trade with Brushwold?”

Larylis met the man’s shrewd eyes and saw disapproval in them. His councilmen may have deferred to Larylis, but that didn’t mean they ceased questioning some of his stances. Still, this was something he wouldn’t budge on.

Sitting tall, he addressed the table in his best King Marsov voice. Or what he imagined his voice might have sounded like. Confident. Steady. “Prince Lexington came to our aid when my brother was captured by Duke Morkai. He fought at our side at Centerpointe Rock. His kingdom deserves to be rewarded for their prince’s valiant efforts.”

He didn’t add that Teryn had promised the prince as much when they’d made a secret alliance during the Heart’s Hunt, though he would if it came down to it. He’d learned that declaring something as supported by Teryn had its merits, for it proved that a change of heir would have made no difference.

Silence echoed over the table, and he felt his confidence waver. Then his eyes met those of Lord Hardingham, the councilman who had supported Larylis the most since he’d taken the throne. Hardingham had been his father’s most trusted advisor, and unlike most of the others, he respected Arlous’ dying wish to see his bastard son legitimized. Hardingham gave a subtle nod of encouragement.

With his confidence bolstered, he met Tolbrook’s gaze without falter. “I will not yield on this.”

“Very well,” Lord Tolbrook said, tone grudging. “For the first time in forty years, we relinquish our exclusive rights to Aromir wool.”

Evening had fully fallen by the time the meeting came to its much-welcome close. His feet felt as heavy as bricks as he climbed the stairs to his sleeping quarters—chambers that once belonged to his father. Four guards followed in his wake, but he dismissed them once he reached his bedroom, along with his valet and other attendants who were ready to prepare him for bath and bed. Despite his fatigue, he wasn’t ready for bed. His mind was simply set on being alone for the first time all damn day.

Alone yet far less lonely.

Part of his motivation was tucked in his waistcoat pocket, inaccessible beneath the royal coat he’d worn to the council meeting. As soon as his guards and attendants exited the room and closed the doors behind them, he stripped off his jacket and extracted the piece of parchment that had been nestled against his heart all day. It was a letter from his wife. He’d gotten one almost daily since she’d left for Ridine, and they were the highlights of his days. This one, even before reading a single letter of her elegant, achingly familiar script, was no exception.

With a heavy sigh, he broke the seal and sank onto the bed. It was twice as large as the bed he’d had in his old chambers, which only made it feel emptier without Mareleau. But as he unfolded the letter and took in her words, a smile curled his lips. He could almost hear her voice, could almost pretend she was relaying her day’s woes from beside him.

Ridine is a dark cruel place, my love. Is this a prison or a castle? I insist it’s the former because they are highly lacking in sweet treats.

Larylis snorted a laugh at that. He’d have to send his reply first thing in the morning along with a jar of the finest cocoa. He knew how much she liked chocolate. With the speed a messenger horse could travel, she’d have her sweet treat in less than three days. His heart ached with envy. What he wouldn’t give to travel by messenger horse himself. At least he didn’t have to wait much longer to depart for Ridine; in two days, he’d start his journey north for the peace pact signing. But with the size of his retinue and the ridiculously slow agenda his council had planned for him, he wouldn’t arrive until at least a week later.

He finished reading Mareleau’s letter, then started over at the beginning, once again imagining every word in her sometimes playful, sometimes haughty voice.

My dearest Larylis ? —

A shuffling sound drew his attention from the letter. Sitting upright, he glanced around the room, seeking its source. The room still felt alien to him with its ample space, luxurious rugs, and elegant tapestries. Sound didn’t travel the same way it had in his former bedroom. There could be a servants’ passage behind one of the walls, for all he knew.

He heard the sound again, but this time he knew it was coming from his balcony. Frowning, he set down Mareleau’s letter and approached the doors. The curtains were drawn shut, so he couldn’t see the balcony beyond. He set his fingers on the handle, pausing to consider if he should call one of his guards inside instead…

Another sound, and this time it carried a note of familiarity. It was the telltale flap of…wings.

Larylis pushed the door open and found Berol staring up at him with what was undoubtedly an impatient look. Her wings were splayed, beak open, and before he could step out onto the balcony with her, she darted inside. She launched from the floor to one of his towering bedposts, then to his desk.

Larylis approached her, noting something tucked inside one of her talons. “Did Teryn send you?” From the agitated splay of her wings, he guessed she’d struggled to find him. It made sense considering she was used to the location of his former chambers. But why did Teryn send her? She could travel far faster than a messenger horse, and he was known to utilize her to send messages now and then. Regardless, her flustered state unsettled him.

He extended his hand and took the missive from Berol’s talon.

Only it wasn’t a missive at all.

Larylis stared at the piece of torn fabric, at the rust-colored splatter that looked an awful lot like blood.

His throat went dry as he was forced into a memory from not long ago.

It reminded him of…

Gods, he didn’t want to think it.

But it was impossible not to see that scrap of fabric, the frantic splay of her wings, and not recall what had happened the last time she’d brought Larylis something while Teryn was at Ridine.

Why did she bring a scrap of cloth? Was this a piece of Teryn’s shirt? Someone else’s? Was he in trouble?

He sat at his desk and took out a quill and sheet of paper. He hadn’t intended to write any letters until the morrow, but this one couldn’t wait. Not with the dread sinking his heart.

It’s nothing, it’s nothing , he told himself again and again as he penned his inquiry to Teryn, asking if he was all right. If it truly was nothing, then he’d receive confirmation in less than three days’ time. Sooner, actually, for he’d send a copy with Berol. There was a chance he’d get a reply as early as tomorrow evening.

It’s nothing. Teryn’s fine .

He rolled up the first letter and handed it to Berol. “To Teryn,” he said aloud. She clutched it in her talons and set off at once. That was a good sign, right? She wouldn’t have flown off if she didn’t know where he was.

He tried to let that comfort him as he finished the second letter and handed it to one of his guards, insisting a messenger leave with it tonight. Then he returned to his desk and examined the torn strip of cloth Berol had brought him. He tried not to panic at the spatter of blood.

Yet try as he might, his mind kept wandering to the worst-case scenario. Teryn injured. Teryn hurt. Teryn… no . That was as dark as he’d let his thoughts get. Whatever was happening, he’d sort it out soon enough.

In the meantime, he could only wonder…what the seven devils was happening at Ridine?