CYRUS HAD MADE A TERRIBLE mistake.
He stood stock-still in the middle of his private sitting room, his head bowed as if struck down by his own stupidity. He heard a faint ringing in his ears, his body tensing as it absorbed shockwaves of pain. He’d materialized in this room on instinct, for this was where he often retreated when he needed to escape the
performance of his life – but he felt blind just then to its details. Where once the warmth of the space would calm him, now he couldn’t focus on the tangible objects within reach. He was too aware of his clothes, heavy against his body; the collar of his sweater, choking him; the resistance of his bones, straining against skin; the weight of his feet, concrete in boots. His hard teeth, his grainy tongue, the heft of his hair on his head. His heart pounded so hard he wanted to reach inside his chest and rip it out. It was tempting indeed,
he thought, to use magic to spare his mind of such moments.
He shouldn’t have gone.
He’d known better than to try to see her, but in the end he was a disappointment even to himself, only capable of so much self-restraint. Nearly a month he’d been kept from even seeing her face while she suffered, forced to remain at the farthest edge of the Diviners’ property while the others came and went at their leisure. It’d been hard enough to endure this separation when he knew she was safe and healing – but when he’d heard of the attempt on her life he’d nearly lost his head. All he could do was wait – wait for a
signal that she was all right, wait for word that she was leaving the temple, wait at the door for her to arrive –
It was annihilating, the power she held over him.
He finally exhaled, his body shaking slightly. She’d been here once, had broken his door, shattered his things. All this had since been mended, but the echoes of that evening persisted. He blinked as he looked around the room, its details beginning to come into focus. The towering bookcases; the velvet couches; the prodigious fireplace. His desk was a disorganized mess of unbound manuscripts, uncapped wells of ink, and unsorted crystals, the chaos of which only heightened his anxiety. When he wasn’t being tortured by Iblees he often buried himself in work as a means to occupy his mind. Tulan was a small enough empire that he need not rule by committee, but he met weekly with the heads of his noble houses and took his responsibility to the people – from the soldiers to the farmers – very seriously. At the moment, they were all voicing the same concerns about the steadily growing masses, the increase in external threats.
The matter of his impending marriage.
Cyrus sat down blindly on the nearest sofa, disturbing a sheaf of papers as he sank into the cushions.
There was a small, cut crystal bowl of apricots on the low table before him, which he focused his eyes upon now. He’d picked these apricots just this morning; there was a lone tree along the overgrown path that led to the Diviners Quarters; it had been growing there since he was a child, and he’d been pocketing its fruit for
as long as he could remember, for it never stopped blooming.
He reached for one of the apricots now, closing its soft, small shape into his hand as his thoughts raged. His mind kept returning to Alizeh and Kamran, to images of their embrace in the back of the carriage. The way she’d looked at him; the way he’d held her. Cyrus relinquished the apricot, which rolled to the floor, then dropped his head in his hands, his chest caving as he exhaled.
They’d reconciled, then.
Doubtless the Ardunian had told her everything, had talked it all through. Any minute now Alizeh would be along to bring Cyrus the good news that she’d be accepting his offer of marriage. She’d likely spare him the rest – too merciful to announce that she’d be marrying him while being quietly betrothed to another, the two of them conspiring to kill him and combine their empires.
Cyrus knew he was unworthy of her – knew he had no right to hope for more than the terms he’d offered – and yet he could not calm the commotion in his chest, his heart thudding so hard he almost didn’t hear the gentle knock at his door.
He turned toward the sound like a stone unearthed. He stood slowly, as if soaked in water, and moved through room after room in a stupor, reaching the main door without remembering how.
He stood before the closed panel, his hand on the handle. He recoiled slightly when the knock came again.
“Cyrus?” she said softly. “Are you there?”
The sound of her voice nearly unhinged him.
For weeks he’d lived in dreams of her; he’d memorized her laughter, held her naked in his arms, had known her gasps and cries of pleasure. She’d healed him and loved him. Touched him. Tasted him.
Fuck. This was going to kill him.
He took a shaky breath and pulled open the door.
