Page 2 of The King’s Man #5

My aunt deliberates. “He came here with vast knowledge, but no practical skills to harness it. That was the only limiting factor of his potential. I’ve since shown him the secrets of distillation, fermentation, infusion and decoction, and elixirs and tinctures.

We’ve yet to look at seasonal harvests for potency, or practice with spirit flame. ”

“Arcane Sovereign,” I whimper. “I’m going to be disembowelled.”

My aunt tsks. Then looks over at Prins Lief. “Your highness—”

He looks sharply at her.

My aunt presses her lips together and when she speaks again, it’s a murmur, “Lief. How much time can you buy?”

Prins Lief briefly shuts his eyes and pivots to me. “Father spends part of spring in Ragn. He’ll arrive in less than three weeks.”

A commotion behind me has me glancing over my shoulder. Stormblades swivel at the door and one announces the arrival of Captain Kjartan.

Prins Lief waves his hand to allow him in and the captain marches up to the fire pit, glancing over my veiled face. He takes the prince aside; they speak in low voices, nothing I can discern over the crackle of fire, until Prins Lief raises his voice and urgently dismisses us.

The storyteller’s voice greets me before the scent of grilled fish does, and I sink into my seat with little grace. My head feels heavier than my bag of remedies.

“I’d rather a thousand lines by candlelight. And ghosts,” I say, frowning.

We’re in a private dining room, the balcony overlooking the main parade that winds from the wharfs to the castle. The storyteller’s recounting—of two men who, having inexplicably fallen asleep mid-fight, wake up laughing and leave arm in arm—drifts through the open doors.

At least one thing has gone right tonight.

My aunt raises a brow, watching me with an expression that straddles indulgence and curiosity. Our curacowls rest on the bench beside her, forgotten for the moment.

“This ‘touch’,” I say, raising my glass of wine, “might be the worst act I’ve pulled yet. And I’ve done a few.”

The thought brings an ache. It felt different when Quin was with me—his smirk, his encouragement. Really, it’s his fault for inspiring this in the first place. If he were here... If he were truly here, I’d...

I’d have to ignore him .

I shut my eyes briefly and rip into my skewered fish.

My aunt, so like my mother in looks and so unlike her in temperament, chuckles. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to my sister’s boy.” She points her fork at me. “Tell me, what concoctions did you bring today?”

I push the fish aside and pull my bag onto the table. “As you suggested, I’ve started transposing vitalian spells into their... alchemic counterparts.”

She gives me a pointed look, and I correct myself with a sheepish grin before pulling out small bottles.

“This one manipulates vocal cords—changes your voice. This one changes it back. This one’s for rapid hair growth, and I have to say, I’m proud of it.

I struggled with hair-growth spells, but alchemy unlocked something.

One pill, one inch. No more than two a day, though, or the liver suffers. ”

She takes the hair-growth bottle, her lips curving as she examines it. “I was right. Will you try others?”

“Some are too complex to begin with safely. I need to get these right first.”

“You’re nervous.”

“I have to be precise or risk harming my patients.”

She studies me, then tosses something across the table—a small runestone.

I catch it, frowning. “What’s this?”

She shrugs, still admiring the bottle. “Another reason I’m confident you won’t be disembowelled anytime soon.”

“Very reassuring.”

I turn the runestone over, its carved lines catching the light. “Good luck? ”

She shakes her head.

“Success in my career?”

“Better,” she teases, taking another bite of fish. “You’re fated to meet your other half.”

I immediately toss the stone over the balcony, glaring at her.

“I’ve never known anyone to catch one of these and not meet their soulmate.”

I shake my head. “Pass the potatoes.”

I’m halfway through my plate when a name freezes me. Below, the storyteller introduces himself.

My stomach churns. Rurik.

I grab my curacowl and shove it over my head, slinging my bag across my shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” my aunt asks.

“Precaution,” I mutter, heart pounding. Would others from the ship be here? Anyone who might recognise me as the one with Lindrhalda’s touch?

Rurik’s voice grows louder as he begins his tale. “A month ago, our Prins received a mysterious letter about a peacemaking gift. All we had to do was bring a squadron of stormblades dressed in Lumin cloth to the base of Mount Lysippos.”

Mount Lysippos.

My head swims.

“We arrived cautiously, expecting a trap. And it was” —the audience gasps— “but not for us.”

Quin. Nicostratus.

Blood rushes to my head, ears ringing as I stumble toward the door, pressing myself against the frame.

“Their magic lit up the skies, shook the earth, and summoned a storm of lightning.”

Rurik’s words pound in my chest as he reenacts the scene for his audience. I can see it—their backs pressed together, fighting for survival, for freedom.

“They might’ve won, too, if not for betrayal. A man they fought to protect stabbed them in the back, their meridians blocked, and an abyss opened beneath them. The prince fell unconscious into it—”

I grip the balustrade, a soundless cry tearing from my throat.

“Without hesitation, the runaway king dove after him, roaring with a voice that could’ve deafened Iskaldir.”

My knees buckle.

“He caught his brother by one hand. Even as strike after strike rained down on him, he never let go. He pulled the prince out, threw him onto a horse, and sent him galloping to safety. Then he turned, picked up a fallen comrade’s sword, and fought his way through half the redcloaks before he could be subdued. ”

Quin.

I retch.

“That king was handed over to us in exchange for one hundred days of peace at the border.”

From below, a voice roars: “Cut off his head!”

“Parade it through every city!”

“Too quick. Make him a slave!”

Rurik raises his glass. “The prins will decide. ”

Outside.

I stagger to my feet, my aunt calling after me, but I’m already moving—down the stairs, ignoring the crash of a toppled tray and the startled gasps.

The cold air bites at my lungs as I race past lantern-lit carriages, dodging strollers and slipping on patches of ice. Ahead, the stormblades march, their armour gleaming in the lamplight.

My feet pound against the cobblestones. The wedding party still roars in the square, masks and music blurring as I push through, emerging into quieter streets beyond.

The stormblades press on to the bridge, stopping midway. Prins Lief’s guards approach on horseback, and I duck behind a massive runestone at the bridge’s edge.

Through the iron bars of a cage, I glimpse a figure. Even in shadow, the shape is unmistakable.

I press my veiled forehead to the cold stone, my hollow laugh catching in my throat.

It’s him.