It had been two days.

Greif pressed over the tavern, smothering everyone.

In the dark, Gray blinked.

Gray didn’t know how late it was. Early morning, he guessed.

He lay still on his bed, carefully curled on his left side, so he wouldn’t see Alistair’s stripped mattress on his right.

He tore back his covers. Grabbed up his crumpled notepad and charcoal stick.

He tiptoed down into the tavern, uncaring of how cold the ground was underneath his bare feet. Crossed the kitchen. He stood outside the kitchen service door, breathing in night air, and turning his back on Chester Close.

Kraus watched him wordlessly, as she’d done every night. She’d been wary of Gray since that night.

Gray knew he shouldn’t have yelled at her.

He shouldn’t have lit the place up.

But he’d figured Kraus had to know something.

She was right there. Outside Chester Close.

But Kraus was damned crazy and she never talked sense, and in the end he’d left her, and torn through the town looking for Barin.

Barin had taken one look at Gray, at his sweaty forehead, at his too-bright skin, and Barin had known, instantly. He’d said, ‘It’s Alistair, isn’t it?’

Gray had never seen him so angry.

Bairn had torn the town apart.

Everyone had.

They’d found nothing.

Gray flickered his gaze down, clutching the charcoal stick between his teeth, yanking his notebook open to a new page.

It was tradition to bury the dead with letters of farewell from their loved ones. To not do so was the greatest of insults.

And Gray was trying, even though he was shit with words, and even though his mind had turned into a burnt wasteland that refused to do anything but reread his old favourite books from childhood.

He’d started Alistair’s letter a dozen times and thrown each start away.

He had nothing.

Everything he wrote was bitter and angry, and he knew he couldn’t leave Alistair with a scribbled letter that talked about how pissed off he was, and how, actually, they weren’t mates. Because, apparently, he didn’t know Alistair well enough to know when he truly felt like running away.

That Gray was furious he hadn’t bothered to tell him before he left.

Not even to say good-bye.

That Gray was desperately arguing against all the people who said he’d hung himself.

That - that pissed Gray off.

He’d been killed.

Murdered.

Gray would find out who did it if it was the last thing he ever did.

The funeral was this afternoon. Gray had to write something before three pm.

Alistair …

His fingers pinched the charcoal.

Pretend he’s standing next to you, Gray urged himself. Talk to him. What would you say?

But when Gray pictured Alistair leaning against the wall next to him, his curly hair ruffling in the wind, there was nothing Gray could say.

-

Gray’s fingers were smudged with grey. His head was beginning to nod over the blank page.

Kraus cleared her throat.

Gray jolted upright, his eyes snapping open.

Her chin rested on her knees.

Gray stretched out his cramped hand, gazing at her. ‘You going to tell me what happened to Alistair?’

She stretched her legs out like she was going to stand, her lips pressed together.

‘Tell?’ said Kraus. ‘There should be no telling here. Especially with one such as you.’

Gray shoved his notebook into his pocket and wiped his charcoal-y hands against his thighs.

‘Right.’ He paused. ‘You want to come into the kitchen? It’s not safe out here. Just, leave before Barin gets up.’

‘Boy, if I wanted to go into your kitchen,’ she said, ‘I’d let myself in.’

For a moment, Gray thought she’d follow him inside the kitchen anyway, but she veered off, lumbering like her muscles were stiff. She disappeared into the darkness, and Gray locked himself back into the kitchen.

He leant his shoulders against the closed door. For a long time he stayed there, too tired to move, his eyes shut. The tavern and the apartments above were silent. Everyone had gone to sleep hours ago, and the air was still. No creaking of the shop shingles outside, no sounds from any stray revellers walking the alley from the alehouse, no scurrying of mice in the kitchen.

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Gray opened his eyes, holding himself very still.

Something prickled his skin.

Then, a sound.

Something walked in the alley outside. It wasn’t the lumbering stride of Kraus. Something stepped, quick and light and careful, and it had enough magic for Gray to feel it inside the kitchen.

There was the snickering click and creak of the stable door opening and shutting.

Gray slid his gaze to the prep bench beside him. Slowly, and with precision, he picked up the largest meat mallet.

He left the warm kitchen once again and stole into the alleyway. It was empty, with the shops and homes closed. Lamps made little pools of light.

His breath steamed as he walked over to the stables.

The horses whinnied inside. Something else moved inside, too. Their shoes scuffed against the hay on the floor, and they cursed at the horses in a low voice.

Human, then.

Gray tightened his grip on the meat mallet.

The rage that had pulsed through his blood, the anger that so easily came to the surface now, was rapidly being replaced with something else.

Gray hesitated. He turned on his heel, to go wake Barin.

But his hand was slippery from charcoal, and he dropped the meat mallet.

It clanged onto the cobblestones with the same sound and force as a stray firework.

Hooves clattered against cobblestone, and the stable door burst open. Out flew a stranger on one of the horses, his dark cloak billowing out behind him.

Gray recognised the horse instantly. It was worth more than their town mayor made in a year.

He snatched up the meat mallet and flung it hard. It flew towards the stranger, spinning handle over hammer. It collided with the thief’s back and he grunted and fell.

He lay prone on the ground, and the horse snorted and danced away.

He was tangled in his huge cloak, buried in it. He didn’t move. His face was concealed. Gray couldn’t be sure if he was faking unconsciousness.

Gray stalked over and nudged him cautiously with his boot.

He was definitely human. Not so much larger than Gray, and with enough magic to raise the hairs on his arms.

Gray chewed his lip and reached out and felt for the pulse in his wrist. Gray’s fingertips were warm against his cold skin. A faint throb beat. Gray squinted in the dark. His nails were immaculately manicured and shiny, and he had half a dozen golden, jewelled rings on. One, had a stag symbol. The hand was delicate.

Gray dropped his - er, her - wrist.

‘Oh, no,’ he said.

Gray pushed aside her cloak, the pit of his stomach hollowing, and revealed her face - the lovely face, the platinum hair, the faint freckles - of the booth-brat.

Gray rocked back onto his heels, hands twisting in his hair.

Then, like a lightning bolt, something in Gray’s brain clicked.

Only one family in the kingdom was allowed to bear the stag insignia. The Augustes.

Her face. That face.

Krydon got monthly news scrolls from Dierne, delivered by enchanted crows, that sometimes had illustrations of her. Though, none had quite captured her likeness exactly, nothing like seeing her living, breathing, in person.

She was the princess Sorena.

She was supposed to be in Dierne, at the mage guild. She was supposed to be married to the son of the Othoan Emperor that coming day.

The rumours about the princess had reached even Krydon. She was an ice-cold sadist, and lies dripped freely from her tongue. She was the embarrassment of the royal family, and the kingdom’s biggest liability. She openly hated anyone from the north, because of the assassination of her brother years ago, by a northern rebel.

A coward to her duties as a princess.

She was third in line to inherit the throne when she came of age, despite her illegitimacy, despite her mother just being the King’s favourite consort and not the now-pregnant Queen, due to the high death toll of the Augustes during Krupin, Wilde, and … D’Oncray.

Gray wiped his sweating hands on his pants. ‘Oh, shit.’

She murmured something, her eyelids fluttering, and Gray got a glimpse of bright, hazel eyes.

She twitched, and then started awake. She scrambled to her feet, knocked Gray over, got tangled in her cloak, and then fell hard onto her hands and knees beside Gray.

‘Ow.’ She slowly lifted her hand and pressed it to the small of her back. ‘Curse you.’

Her words rippled with power, and Gray had a moment of panic. The Auguste family was famous for their ability, and their right, to use wandless magic. Static made Gray’s arm hairs stand on end and his flesh broke out into goosebumps. But other than a mild discomfort, nothing.

No curse.

She’d be too young, too powerless, to be able to perform wandless magic. But she’d just damned well tried.

She righted herself, straightening her disordered cloak. ‘You’ll gift me your silence. Agreed?’

She examined her hands, checking her rings, and rolling her silk sleeves.

Then, she glanced at Gray. She stopped dead, her face draining of colour.

‘You’re kidding me,’ she said.

Like a sharp in-breath, she pulled her magic in. Gray felt it go, sucked in like a wave on the ocean shore. The air was empty without it. Gone was the Auguste princess, and back was the asshole who couldn’t hold her alcohol.

Her gaze passed over Gray, her expression unreadable. Gray lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening.

Silence settled over them, loud, and thick, and singing.

‘Sorry,’ muttered Gray, staring hard at his boots. ‘I thought you …’ he faded out. I thought you were the thing that killed Alistair. ‘I thought you were stealing the horse.’

There was a rustle, cloth rubbing on cloth. Then she flung a silk purse onto the ground.

‘To settle my bill,’ she said.

Gray stooped to pick it up, his cheeks flushing. There had to be enough for a month’s accommodation there.

‘This is too much,’ Gray said, because, suddenly, it made sense. Of course this girl needed basic things spelled out for her - she’d probably never done a damn thing for herself, and never once been told no.

‘I don’t care,’ she said.

‘Your rucksack?’ Gray said.

‘Leave it,’ she said, catching her horse. She swung easily up into the saddle.

She rode off without a backward glance.

-

Someone shouted in the street outside in Lismerian. Men with clipped southern accents.

Gray rolled over in his bed and stared at the ceiling, his eyes gritty and sore.

The sun still hadn’t risen properly yet and he struggled to see his room in the semidarkness.

Alistair’s stripped bed to his right. The small desk they’d shared.

Notes stuck to the wall above, from when they’d been studying for their final exams just days ago. They had Alistair’s impossibly neat handwriting. When he looked at them, he could pretend that time hadn’t passed.

Barin thundered around in his room below. Gray numbly checked the clock on the wall. It was before five am.

Gray untangled himself from the sheets, pressing his hand over his eyes. He was so tired he wanted to throw up.

‘Harriette.’ Barin’s voice boomed up through the floor. ‘Harri. Get up. Something’s happened.’

Gray listened to the fox-light sounds of Harriette moving around and a murmured conversation between the two. He stared down at his bare feet, curling his cold toes against the rough timber floor, willing himself not to be sick.

‘Oi. Gray.’ Barin’s voice boomed outside his door.

Gray started.

Barin creaked the door open with one of his wide shoulders. His usually neatly parted auburn hair was tousled from sleep, and his hairy legs poked out from underneath his striped nightshirt. His eyes were red and he smelt like stale whisky. ‘Gray.’

Gray stood, wrapping his arms around his waist.

‘Get dressed,' said Barin. 'Come down to the dining room. Quick.’

‘Why?’

His mouth curled in distaste. ‘Auguste soldiers.’