Climbing a set of stairs has never felt like such a struggle. My boots have become leaden weights, protesting as I drag them up each step. I wince at the wood's disconcerting creak. Every nerve in my body twinges, a multitude of hooks latched under my skin and tugging me back to the safety of the floor below.

It's crowded down there. Noisy. But at least I would be free to hide.

Dalton's guiding hand on my shoulder is a lifeline. I use the contact to ground me, steadying myself as we reach the upper floor and begin down the hallway. The journey is an anxious eternity and yet not nearly long enough. My thoughts still scramble over one another, tangled and squirming and impossible to pin into an ordered line, as Oscensi's king slides a key into the gap beneath the handle of a door up ahead. One twist, and he's vanishing into the room. Sarielle and her father duck in after him with rapid fervour.

"Trust us," Dalton murmurs, quiet enough that only my ears must catch it. With a parting nudge, he releases me. I summon all my willpower and step into the room.

I've stayed in two or three tavern rooms along with the regiment, and this place is little different. A shabby bed takes up much of the space, the table beside it littered with implements I haven't the mental stability to identify, with a door curving off to the right that must lead to a washroom. Nothing worth studying, and yet I'd rather examine every inch of it than meet the eyes of a king who locked me in his deepest cell.

My gaze has the treachery to wander to him regardless. As Dalton clicks the door closed behind us, he suddenly seems to grow several inches, back arched and head tilted as if it bears the invisible weight of a crown. Reverence twines a thin thread over my fear. If I'd had any doubts over his status before, they are all tossed away now.

Beside me, Dalton drops to his knees. Sarielle is lowering as well, her head dipping in an odd sort of servitude that doesn't suit the warrior I know her to be. I scramble to mirror the action. The faint idea of royal respect, bowing to our ruler, flits between my shredded thoughts, yet that isn't the reason I press my knees into the coarse floorboards and hunch over, staring at the ground. I'm simply glad for an excuse to turn my eyes downward.

Perhaps the cold was a blessing. Fiesi's cloak has become a second skin, a form of camouflage that I cling to.

A laugh splits the silence, low and rumbling. "Get up off the floor, Sarielle. You've no place down there."

I twist my head to see her spring to her feet, every detail of her expression gilded with sunshine. With a grin wider than any I've seen her wear before, she launches herself into her father's arms, burying herself in his embrace. Tears sparkle in her eyes, shining with such intense happiness that I can't help the smile that turns my lips. Whatever his face might mean to my darkened memories, he is her family, one she feared was dead. I can't begin to imagine what a relief it must feel to be in his arms again.

I glance at Dalton, expecting to see a similar smile reflected back. Instead his jaw is clenched, shoulders tense, his gaze a blade that impales the floor beneath him. He catches me watching and softens the look, although I'm sure his ears have flushed red. In fury or shame, I can't tell.

He clears his throat and any trace of it vanishes. "King Cyneric. Lord Diraldi. It's an honour to have finally found you."

"The honour is mine." This is the king's voice, gentler than that of his advisor, not at all dissimilar to the floating drift of birdsong. It is armoured with command nonetheless. Perhaps Sarielle's pattern of speaking stems from royalty. "Rise, both of you."

Seamlessly, Dalton obeys, although his spine doesn't straighten fully. I struggle not to trip over my own feet as I stagger upright. Fighting to remain steady, I lift my head.

Cyneric's lips twitch with the edge of amusement. "Are you alright there, soldier?"

So my shaking is that obvious. I clasp my hands behind my back, hoping that if I grip them together hard enough, they will form a larger fist to hold me still. "Fine," I say. Dalton shoots a pointed glance, and I hurriedly add, "Your Majesty."

The amused smile solidifies. "Hood off, if you will? No need for that indoors."

I freeze. Is he checking my face? Does he know? There's nothing but passive humour in his eyes, but I saw how easily he schooled away emotion earlier. Yet I can't exactly disobey the direct order of a king. The clunky weight of my bind seems to scream its presence at my wrist as I carefully peel back the hood, gaze already sinking to the floor.

He hums in place of a laugh. "You sure you're good, boy? You look like death."

He might as well have slapped me for the flinch that jolts me back. The comment is meaningless. Joking. Why must these things worm under my skin every time?

Subconsciously, I must be drawn to look at Sarielle, for I see her unfurl carefully from her father's hug. A brilliant smile continues to illuminate her eyes, although a shadow passes over them as she meets mine. I swallow, guilt balling in my stomach. I'm ruining this moment for her. It's selfish of me. Why can't I share her joy, relish in the completion of our mission, without tearing myself apart with blind terror?

One hand clasping her father's arm, she slides out a step back towards us. "Father. My king," she begins, offering a dip of her chin to each of them, "these are my friends. Captain Dalton Heathe has led us through many a trial in order to cross the border safely and arrive here. And this..." She falters, lingering on me, before flicking to Dalton for aid.

"Nathaniel Aspen," I say hurriedly to fill her silence, trying not to stumble over the false name. "Just... just a soldier."

"No." Dalton's voice strikes me like a blow. I meet his eyes to find them gentle, reassuring. Trust us, he said at the doorway. They never planned to hide who I am. My heart thrashes in my chest.

Lies have never served me before. And I know I can trust both him and Sarielle. Neither of those facts help to quiet the panic stirring in my chest.

"Okay," I somehow manage to say, although it cracks partway through. The shared confusion of the king and his advisor crackles like static amongst my thoughts, their stares piercing me with aching force.

"Sarielle?" Her father frowns down at her, concern creeping into his tone. "What's going on? Is something wrong?" He glances at me, and his brow draws in further, curiosity digging deeper than that of the king's. So he recognises me too. He's simply struggling to place me, the same way I can't slot my broken fragment of memory into any exact space.

"Nothing's wrong." Her smile is properly fading now, uncertainty tugging at his edges. Another guilty spear wrestles in amongst my ribs. "There's just... something you need to know."

She leaves a brief pause, as if waiting for me to interject, but my voice doesn't have the strength. She'll explain it better than I ever could.

"Nathan is..." She hesitates again, shapeless doubt hovering in the quiet, as if she doesn't quite know how to describe me. She refuses to use the term Anathe. In another of our campfire conversations, she told me as much. I snatch that more recent memory, cradle its spark in my chest to thaw the ice threatening to freeze me like a carved statue.

"You've met him before," she says. "Eight years ago."

Now the recognition clicks into her father's expression. His eyes shoot open wide, darting from my head to my feet and back again, as if connecting dots to etch out my form. Exposure crawls under my skin. She might as well have torn off my clothes and inked the twisting tendril of a black flame to my bare chest.

There's no need to step back, but I do. Fear spins in dizzying waves around my mind. I have to focus to prevent my legs from buckling.

"Reuben," Cyneric begins, voice laced with strange hesitancy that clashes with its former soft ease. His eyes pass from me to his advisor and back again. "Does your daughter speak of... that boy?"

"I do." Sarielle reaffirms her stance, the poise of a soldier twined with her high-born roots sewing steel into her bones. I doubt any other in the world could look up to a king in such a way. "He escaped when the castle fell, and now he's with us." She's daring him to challenge her, the spark in her eyes flashing deadly. The curved sword sheath snug at her hip seems to glint in reflection.

I grab for that spark of warmth again, clutch it with all my strength. It grounds me. Nothing can go wrong with her here to so fiercely protect me.

The snap of Cyneric's voice, less a flutter of feathers than the harsh peck of a falcon's beak, sets a crack into that confidence. "Why would you bring him here? Has your time amongst soldiers made your intentions ill?"

He steps back. A purposeful movement, sharpened by the stare he sweeps both Sarielle and I up into. Anger as a mask. I've seen it enough times to know the fear it hides.

Fear. I almost laugh aloud. I've spent a lifetime being feared, and yet it seems such a novel concept now, in my weakened state. A fleeting thought whispers I should steal enjoyment from it while it lasts. Unsease twists in its wake, tugging out a mirrored backstep of my own. My legs bump against the bed.

"Far from it," Sarielle says quickly, forming a barrier between us. "Even if he could kill you, he wouldn't. He's not like that." She glances back at me, a tight-lipped smile fixed on her lips. It loosens a little as we meet eyes. "He's as good as you or I. Perhaps better."

If only the distance wasn't too great. I'd seize her hand again if she were beside me.

Cyneric is struggling for words. His back resting against the wall, he looks first at the door, then sideways to his advisor. Reuben, if I heard correctly. He's the picture of shock, but his focus has slid from me. He's watching his daughter.

"Sarielle," he says, softly, "how do you know of this boy?"

She whips around to face him, and suddenly she's the exposed one, stiff and rigid with her mouth hung open. She closes it deliberately, rubbing at her arm. "I..." With a visible inhale, she lifts her chin, although she's less the flawless soldier than the child caught where she shouldn't be. Another spear grazes my heart.

"I heard you talking about him," she says eventually, unsuccessfully scraping the waver from her voice. "Not long after you found him. I... I visited, and I kept visiting. When you weren't paying me attention." She squares her shoulders. "He's my friend."

It isn't the first time she's said it, and still it's a candle lit in my soul. Its heat pours with newfound courage. Desperate to shield her from anything accusatory that might lurk behind her father's stare, I move to her side. "It was my fault. I made her promise not to leave me alone."

She turns on me. "You didn't make me do anything."

"Never mind that." Cyneric moves another pace towards the door. "Is this not the boy with a fatal touch?"

"The gloves," I say, holding out a hand in his direction, trying not to dwell on his flinch. "They trap my flame."

Sarielle gives a firm nod. "He's safe."

For a moment, he stands stock-still, staring at the silver-lined black leather pinned in place by the shackle circling my wrist. He shakes his head with a further retreat. "I'm going to check on Ela. Reuben, come fetch me when some sense has entered the room."

Spinning on his heel, he grabs the handle and yanks open the door, then stills again. When I peer around him, I catch a glimpse of Fiesi. His fist hovers in the air as if poised to knock.

Fiesi. If Cyneric is searching for sense, we may have just lost all hope of it.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

So, meet Cyneric and Reuben! They're kinda fun lol. And look!! A parent and child with a happy and loving relationship!!! Be proud of me.

And now Fiesi is here to ruin everything :D

- Pup