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Xerxes nearly ran for her—grabbed her, shook her, demanded to know how she was doing it, how her music could bring silence to his mind.

But when she tilted her head ever so slightly to reach the furthest string, Xerxes recoiled into himself, drawing back into the arched frame and slumping against it with his shoulder.

It was Estheryn Electus. The maiden who’d raised a weapon at him.

Her hands glided along the instrument as she offered a tribute to the statues of the Celestial Divinities in the temple. Though, she didn’t cast the statues a single glance.

She must not have noticed he was there.

Xerxes stood straight, eyeing her back. She wore a common shirt, ripped at the side and stained with red where Damon’s blade had found her. Xerxes wondered why she hadn’t changed into her nightdress yet, why she was here instead of sleeping.

His mouth twisted to the side. Why had he chosen to save this woman against Belorme’s wishes at the pool?

Was it because her presence was Xerxes’s choice, not the Intelligentsia’s?

That was motivation enough. But that hadn’t been the only thought in his head when he’d stood against Belorme.

Estheryn had heard his voices, hadn’t she?

She told them to be quiet, and they’d obeyed.

Estheryn paused her playing and lifted her hand, glancing at a chipped nail. The second she did, Xerxes gasped and grabbed the side of his head.

“She must die!”

“Do it now!”

“Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!”

“Don’t stop!” Xerxes called into the temple, and Estheryn spun around on her knees. She stared, looking him over with wide eyes, her gaze snagging on his nightclothes. She didn’t keep playing.

Xerxes became aware of his robe hanging half open, his white knuckles gripping the arch frame, the pleading in his voice.

He shrank back a step. Then he swallowed.

“Never mind.” He swept back out of the temple, back around the bend, back into the hallway.

He kept a steady hand on the wall as he caught his breath.

“Go back in there.”

“Destroy that woman!”

Xerxes pinched his eyes closed. A shameful hunger filled his belly, worse than before. He inhaled, exhaled, stumbling toward his room, the walls tipping left and right as he put one foot in front of the other.

He made it by the grace of the Divinities. He slammed his door behind him as he dragged his feet toward his bed. He should have gone downstairs. He should have found a fruit, but the headache was so terrible he wasn’t sure he’d make it that far.

Xerxes grabbed his bedpost for support. Sweat tickled his hairline, the cold rivers of water brushing over his flesh. He wanted to die.

There was a knock on his door. He ignored it.

When the door creaked opened, Xerxes set his jaw. “I’ll have you executed for entering my chambers without invitation…” His words fell off when he turned back and saw her there.

Estheryn Electus was in his room. Holding her harp.

The door drifted closed behind her.

Xerxes’s lips peeled apart as he faced her fully. “You’re brave,” he remarked, not sure if it was a threat.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

His hands balled into fists. He eyed her most vulnerable places, same as every person’s most vulnerable places, only hers seemed far more delicate and easily breakable to him in this moment.

“Lay down, King,” she said, and that snapped Xerxes out of his trance.

“What?”

What, by the Divinities, was she suggesting?

“I’ll play for you so you can sleep,” she clarified, and the eruption of flutters that had taken over Xerxes’s chest settled—he shook all improper thoughts from his mind, clearing his throat and dragging his fingers through his messy hair as his rational judgements returned to where they were supposed to be. Such as: How dare she come in here?

His hands flexed, tempting him to do something about it.

But when she set the harp down and knelt before it, Xerxes found he couldn’t speak to stop her from playing. He waited, hoping she would. Wishing she would never stop once she started.

“Slay her right now!”

“This is your last chance—"

The tune lifted through his bedroom, and all went quiet. Just the light, soft sound of harp strings remained.

Xerxes’s muscles loosened. But instead of falling onto the bed like she’d suggested, he found himself moving toward the maiden.

His walk was strong now, instead of the clumsy staggering it had been in the hall.

He saw her clearly for the first time since that day he’d helped her escape the palace in the garden.

She’d called him ugly. She’d called him heartless.

And he was.

Heartless, anyway. Not ugly. He was a pretty King.

And truthfully, she was not ugly either. A flutter returned to his chest at the hazardous thought.

Divinities, she was not ugly at all. She was prettier than he’d perhaps let himself notice.

Not in an evident way, not in comparison to the typical fair maidens of the Mother City.

She was a disorderly sort of pretty with her ruffled hair and torn, stained garments.

But seeing how she’d entered his room without his permission, likely knowing the consequences if he decided to inform on her, and how she’d kicked him into a pillar in the yard before witnesses…

It proved she was fearless. And that perhaps was the most attractive thing about her.

“If you’re a witch, I’ll have you hanged,” he warned as she played. It was a lie. He would keep her, no matter what.

But a smile cracked over her mouth. Any rational person would have been afraid at the threat of death. Only a lunatic would smile.

Xerxes smiled too. Just a little.

Then he whirled around before she could see it. “You aren’t, are you?” he asked just to be sure. “A witch?” He should go to bed. He should take this rare opportunity to sleep before it passed him by. Before she left and he’d be disrupted all through the night by voices again.

“How insulting. Are you a witch, Your Majesty?” she asked. He twisted to glance back at her in surprise. “If you are, I’ll have you hanged,” she added.

Xerxes blinked. He turned away from her again, and he bit his lips together. He could not laugh before this maiden. What if someone in the hallway heard? Divinities, she was trouble.

He climbed into his bed without another word. He thought he might have difficulty falling asleep with her there, but his body relaxed against the mattress and his eyes drifted closed almost as soon as his head found his pillow.

Xerxes had hired magicians, a magus, and the best physicians to try and silence his voices. Not even the Intelligentsia who heard from the Celestial Divinities had been able to find a solution. He’d changed his diet, used medicine for sleep, undergone needle therapy. Xerxes had tried everything.

He didn’t care if this maiden was a witch and was lying through her teeth. He didn’t care that she might cast a spell over him. That she might feed him a potion and trick him into making her Queen. That she might try to assassinate him with magic, like Belorme warned.

In this moment, Xerxes didn’t care that she was dangerous.

He would keep her.