‘Killian,’ whispered Gray.

Nothing.

Nothing from Killian or the mage on the bed.

Killian continued breathing in and out, his expression more relaxed and open than Gray had ever seen it. He looked younger. Younger than Barin. Older than Alistair. Somewhere in between.

Gray tried to stand. Couldn’t. His body shook.

His voice and his throat were in bad condition. Gray forced himself to raise his voice.

‘Killian?’

Killian bolted upright, a paper fluttering down from the table. His gaze was immediately alert. ‘Gods, kid, don’t - what is it?’

‘Someone’s here,’ said Gray. His voice broke.

Killian frowned, and then peered out the black window, brushing his hair back from his face. He glanced back at Gray.

‘What?’ Killian said.

‘A mage just arrived,’ Gray breathed, pressing his hands over his eyes. The light from the fire was too bright.

Killian stood, and there was a rustle and clang as Killian snatched up his jacket and sword. ‘A mage fahrened here, you mean?’

‘Yes,’ said Gray. ‘It - I think it’s Sorena.’

Killian halted in the middle of shrugging into his jacket. ‘Sorena?’

Gray nodded.

Killian was in front of Gray, saying something, it might’ve been ‘where in town is she?’ or ‘why is she in town?’ but Gray’s mind was blurring and turning dark.

-

Someone rattled the doorknob.

Gray curled his fingers into his blanket, frowning against the persistent rattle and the headache that drummed against his skull.

Waking was always hard.

Waking meant an onslaught of realisations and crystal clear memories about what had happened to Alistair - since Alistair.

Gray fought his way to consciousness. He couldn’t afford to sleep right now.

It left him too vulnerable.

Then Gray remembered the feeling of Sorena’s magic waking him earlier.

Sorena was rattling the doorknob?

Gray wrenched his dry eyes open. Red light from the sunrise stabbed his eyes, his skin, his head.

The rattling stopped.

For a moment.

Then started again, harder.

A voice cursed in Lismerian. Too masculine to be Sorena. Too young to be Killian.

Gray peered against the vicious dawn light.

The double doors were yawning wide open, revealing the corridor beyond.

The room was empty. Still.

Save for the mage deeply asleep on the bed, and the rookie kneeling at the locked bathroom door. He had a bunch of keys clamped in his fist, sweat beading the back of his flushed neck. A bucket of cleaning supplies was placed haphazardly at his heels.

Fleeting, a thought whipped through Gray’s mind.

Killian’s left me unguarded.

Had Gray just missed his opportunity to leave?

But, he couldn’t.

He couldn’t leave Krydon without taking the cursed soldiers with him, and he didn’t have the strength to stand, let alone flee.

Gray’s heart sank.

‘Crap,’ the rookie muttered, banging his open palm against the locked bathroom door, and shoving the keys into his pocket. He kicked the door for good measure, and spun around, his rabbit-fast gaze locking onto Gray.

‘Oh, gods,’ said the rookie.

Silently, Gray pushed himself up. And almost hurled as his head throbbed hard. Exhaustion clawed at Gray, pulling him back towards darkness.

‘Do you,’ said the rookie, edging forward, ‘know where the keys are to his ensuite? I have to …’ he faded out, his cheeks fire-red.

He has to clean Killian’s toilet. Or, Gray thought, sifting through his hazy memory of last night, perhaps the bathroom was still a mess. If Gray’s blood wasn’t busy pounding a tattoo inside his skull, it would have lit up his cheeks as red as the rookie’s, for sure.

Yesterday, he’d been cleaned up like a child.

He could not - would not - repeat this in front of anyone, let alone an Auguste soldier. Ever again.

Gray swallowed over his aching throat. Shook his head.

The rookie cursed again.

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‘I’ll tell him you tried,’ said Gray hoarsely.

‘Nah.’ The rookie pressed his lips tight together. ‘He’s a mercurial prick. That might make things worse, I dunno. I’ll … come back later.’

Gray’s vision was blackening around the edges, and his arm was starting to shake at keeping him propped up, so he was glad to see the rookie gather his cleaning supplies and head towards the open door.

Only, there was a question burning within him.

Gray cleared his throat. ‘Sorena is here?’

Why is Sorena here? is what he wanted to ask. He could feel her. She was here, and she wasn’t masking her magic.

Sorena being here was dangerous. It would draw more soldiers. It would draw northern rebels.

It would draw her father.

The rookie glanced at him, juggling his bucket of cleaning supplies. ‘Sorena?’ he said, frowning. ‘Sorena … Auguste, you mean?’

When Gray opened his mouth, a movement by the door caught his eye.

He clamped his mouth shut.

Two soldiers leant against the doorframe.

They framed the rookie’s path out of there. One was very tall, and the other was small and compact.

There was a quality to how they both stood that radiated trouble. It was in the confidence in their shoulders, and the angle of their chins. One hadn’t bothered to finish doing up the buttons on his uniform, and the other had his sword belt slung much too low on his hips. They both watched the rookie like he was lunch.

Gray’s chest constricted.

The tall soldier adjusted his shoulders, languid and utterly at-ease, and his polished boots crossed at the ankles. He swept the room with his gaze.

‘I came looking for the Major. This,’ drawled the tall soldier, ‘is much better. Huh, Russet?’

The rookie - Russet - stood stock still, face drained of colour, the cleaning supplies clasped in his hands. The compact soldier dragged a lazy gaze over him, slouching on the threshold.

Gray controlled his breath.

‘Griffin,’ said the tall soldier, locking his gaze onto Gray, ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘Killian’s due back any minute,’ said Gray.

Gray wished he could say more. Wished he could stand to his full height, on both legs. Darkness was crowding his vision.

‘Killian?’ The compact soldier raised an eyebrow. ‘On first name terms with the sadistic bastard, are we, Griffin?’

Stay awake.

If there was ever the worst time to fall unconscious, it was now.

The two soldiers considered him.

‘You think the bastard’s training him up?’ the tall soldier said to his comrade. ‘He’s desperate for a decent mage.’

‘More like he’s slowly poisoning the kid and enjoying watching. He hates sorcerers.’

‘Half sorcerer, though,’ said the tall soldier.

‘It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Oh, and you know how it works?’ said the tall soldier, casually finishing up the buttons on his uniform.

Russet was murmuring something, but Gray’s mind was drifting.

Gray’s eyes were impossibly heavy.

Don’t fall asleep.

Not yet.

There was movement in the hallway, behind the soldiers. One of the Major’s lieutenants stalled behind them, stress etched onto his face. His grey uniform was soaked with sweat.

‘Smith,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Wood. Thank Clochaint.’

The change in the soldiers was instant.

Within a blink, the two soldiers went from slouching on the doorframe to standing to attention.

The lieutenant glanced past the soldiers, to Russet. ’Don’t you have toilets to clean, rookie?’

Russet rushed out of there, his cheeks flushed.

Gray fought against sleep with everything he had.

‘Smith, Wood, with me. Major’s been asking for you. He needs his trackers …’

Silence encroached.

-

A murmur of voices woke Gray.

For a long moment, Gray stayed stock still and focused on keeping his breathing the same.

He listened hard.

He only heard a woman saying, ‘we find the mages, then at least we give the king answers, instead of a huge fucking problem,’ before it was interrupted by -

‘Excuse me,’ said a controlled voice. Killian. ‘He’s awake.’

The murmur of voices silenced.

Gray pushed himself up, rubbing grit from his eyes.

He took in the sunlit room - it had to be midmorning - and he took in the art on the walls, the plush carpet, the large windows. There was a small crowd gathered around Killian’s dining table.

The group was paused there, their shoulders and jaws tense, heads bent together over a map.

The group was mostly Killian’s men. There were a few women there, also, wearing the same grey uniform. One was the officer who’d taken Sorena away. Her lapel glinted with half a dozen gold star pins.

But, her mage wasn't there.

No mages at all, aside from ...

Gray glanced around for the princess, and then laid eyes on Sorena’s prone form, right next to Killian’s sleeping mage on the bed.

Sorena looked like she hadn’t changed - hadn’t bathed - since her stint in the prison cell. Kohl smeared around her closed eyes, and her platinum hair was a twisted mess. Her threadbare clothes were covered in grime, and her trousers were ripped.

Gray flinched as Killian crouched in front of him.

There was no fatigue on Killian’s scarred face and no hint of what had brought Sorena back in Killian’s dark eyes. No urgency, no fear.

But, something had happened.

The group gathered around the dining table were haphazardly dressed, and all bore weapons.

‘You look like shit, kid.’ Killian pressed a vial into Gray’s sleep-warm hand.

It was a type of calming draught.

Gray recognised it as the same type of calming draughts Alistair used to take when he was a kid. Alistair used to have angry outbursts out of nowhere - cat turned vicious lion at the slightest trigger. Eventually, he’d grown out of them.

‘Why is Sorena here?’ Gray’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper. He could barely hear himself. There should’ve been no way Killian could’ve heard him.

But, he did.

Killian’s bearing went from casual to immobile. ‘You really think I’m going to answer that?’

Gray lowered his gaze, his lips clamped.

Killian tapped the vial in Gray’s hand. ‘One every morning,’ said Killian tightly. ‘Understood?’

Gray glanced up at Killian, hesitating.

Last time he’d taken something out of a vial, it hadn’t gone well for him.

Killian seemed to sense this, because he said, ‘It won’t make you sick.’

Still, Gray hesitated.

‘Half the men in my league are on some variation of this,’ said Killian. ‘Just take it.’

Gray eyed him, curling his fingers around the glass vial.

‘Kid, do you want to feel like you did yesterday?’

Yesterday, when he’d almost split apart at the seams from his magic.

‘No,’ said Gray. His face flushed.

‘So,’ said Killian. ‘One every morning.’

Gray uncorked the vial and downed it.

Killian jerked his chin at a small pile of clothes at Gray’s feet. It was his black sweater and pants. ‘Get dressed. I’ve got a job for you.’

Killian’s tone held something within it.

It took Gray a moment to realise it was restrained anger.

Gray thought of the phoenix feather, the shard of pottery stashed under the bedroll, and the pouch of salt in the bathroom - a half-baked, half-formed plan to draw the soldiers away from Krydon - and one he couldn’t do if he was locked down in the prison.

For now, he’d do whatever he needed to stay in Killian’s good graces.