Killian dragged Gray down a side alley, away from the main crush of people.

‘I can’t believe,’ said Killian, ‘you’re so stupid as to have said that out loud in the middle of a busy street. I’m going to take my hand off you, and you’re going to shut the hell up. Blink if you understand me.’

Gray blinked. Killian lifted his hand off.

He kept his mouth shut, too furious to talk, and too uncomfortable with the stares and whispers from the people who’d watched them go down this alley to lift his gaze.

It wasn’t only that Gray had had something incredibly dangerous - but probably damn true, honestly - in the middle of that crowded crossroads. They were also splattered in Darcy’s mess, with Killian’s uniform torn and Gray dressed like an Othoan.

Gray was surprised they hadn’t been stopped by city guards yet.

Gray moved away mulishly, further along the alley and away from any lingering curious audience, wiping off the sensation of Killian’s rough hand onto his sleeve.

‘Can you,’ said Killian, his shoulders tense, ‘keep your mouth shut right now? You nod or shake your head. I don’t want to hear your damn voice, kid.’

Gray flexed his fingers, letting out a long breath, glaring at the ground.

Killian rubbed his forehead like he had a bad headache coming on. ‘Is that a yes or a no?’ When Gray didn’t answer immediately, Killian swore. ‘So, it’s a no?’

‘Yeah,’ said Gray, glaring at his feet and wishing he could give a different answer. 'It's a no.'

‘Gods.’

-

Killian led the way to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with no sign out front, peeling wallpaper, and a single rickety table for customers. It also seemed to be some kind of front for smuggled goods judging by the amount of people who came and went furtively with coins but no food.

‘Stay,’ muttered Killian, jabbing Gray towards one of the two only chairs.

He left to speak to the owner and then returned shortly afterwards with a bowl of steaming soup that smelt suspiciously like bitter broccoli.

‘Eat,’ said Killian, nudging the bowl towards Gray.

Killian sat down opposite Gray, his ankle propped up over his knee.

He was all irritation and impatience. He jiggled his foot and glanced compulsively at the clock on the wall every three seconds or so.

‘What is this?’ said Gray.

‘Soup.’

Gray resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He leant forward. ‘Am I going to prison or not?’

‘You want to say that a little louder?’ said Killian. ‘Maybe some people outside could hear you if you projected from the diaphragm.’

‘Are you going to tell me what is this?’ said Gray, pushing the bowl away.

‘It’s a damn prayer,’ said Killian. ‘This soup literally makes your tongue lazy for a couple of hours. It might shut you up and stop you from spouting treason in the damn street.’

‘It won’t stop me thinking it,’ said Gray darkly.

And carelessly.

Gray regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth.

The way he was talking and what he was saying, it was like he was sitting opposite Alistair, not a stiff and pale soldier - ex-soldier? - who seemed to be utterly devoted to a madman king with all of his heart.

The air in the tiny restaurant seemed to drop by twenty degrees.

‘Do you want to be killed?’ said Killian.

Gray fisted his hands in his lap, doing everything in his willpower to bite his tongue.

It was hard.

‘Finish the bowl,’ said Killian. ‘And do it quickly, kid. I don't want you talking like this while I'm with you. Else we'll both be screwed.’ He let out a small breath. 'More screwed. You for being stupid and me for not reporting you.’

Gray knew that he needed to stop talking, he needed to stop calling the Augustes sorcerers.

Gray clumsily snatched up the spoon in his trembling hand and tasted the soup. It tasted worse than it smelt.

‘Gross?’ said Killian.

Gray nodded.

‘Good,’ said Killian, a little too savagely.

Wincing, Gray made himself eat.

‘You’ve been listening to the rumours,’ said Killian.

‘What rumours?’ said Gray.

Killian shook his head, prodding Gray to keep eating.

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Gray, ‘if there are rumours he’s-’

‘You will shut up if you know what’s good for you,’ said Killian. ‘Shut up and listen. If you’re going to be blabbing - and gods help me, you likely will be - at least you can be somewhat informed so you stop talking bullshit.’

Gray lowered his gaze to the spiralling steam from his bowl.

‘Sorcerers kill,’ said Killian. ‘They massacre. And they rarely have a discernible agenda. There’s no way to reason with them, no way to negotiate. And we barely have the power to check them, let alone stop them. That’s not Baldwin. And it’s certainly not Sorena.’

But it was Baldwin Auguste.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

It was exactly Baldwin Auguste.

Killian was blind if he couldn’t see this.

And surely Killian wasn’t actually this blind, surely Killian was just … trying to get Gray to see some twisted perspective so that he’d stop calling the Augustes sorcerers.

’To be fair,’ said Gray, ‘I can see Sorena being exactly like that.’

‘To be fair? That’s not Sorena at all. You don’t know her. You’re just mad,’ said Killian, ‘because you got a crush on her and she has zero interest in you. There’s no to be fair about what you just said. That’s a serious and stupid accusation.’

Gray lowered his gaze to avoid Killian’s dark look of disappointment, heat creeping up the back of his neck. Shame flooded him.

‘Sorry,’ said Gray quickly. ‘I don’t know why I said that. I think those words - my words - came out wrong. It’s not what I meant to say. I mean, I meant to say them, but I didn’t mean-‘

’Shut the fuck up and eat your soup.’

Gray stiffly stared at the bowl and grabbed the spoon. His cheeks were unbearably hot.

‘Calm down,’ said Killian. ’Stop - flushing. You’re drawing attention.’

‘Don’t point it out,’ said Gray, his voice low and bowing his face. ‘That makes it worse.’

And it was worse.

Much worse.

‘Gods,’ said Killian, raising an eyebrow, ’calm down.’

‘If you’d not embarrassed me,’ Gray muttered, ‘I wouldn’t be flushing at all.’

’Oh, my apologies,’ said Killian, glaring at the clock and his ankle jiggling so hard it was rattling the table, ‘for pointing out how stupid and careless you’re being.’

‘I’m embarrassed because you’re pointing out I’m embarrassed,’ said Gray, somehow growing even hotter. His whole body was red at this point. ‘Not because you pointed out-’

‘You’re embarrassed because I’m talking about your little crush.’

Gray let out a scoff so loud that a passing customer shot him a startled look. ‘I don’t have a crush on Sorena.’

Killian shot Gray a sidelong glance. ‘Yeah, OK.’

’She’s - you know …’

Killian’s mouth was a hard line. ’Sorena’s like a niece to me, so don’t finish that sentence.’

‘I was going to say terrible, I wasn’t going to talk about her looks, I don't think of her in that way, all right-’

‘You think a man wants you calling his niece terrible?’ said Killian.

‘You brought it up!’

‘You did,’ said Killian. ‘You said something dangerous and untrue about her. I just have to say the word Sorena to you and I know what your … intentions are. You can’t lie to me about this.’

‘We both know you can be very wrong about this stuff.’

‘I can smell it, kid.’

‘OK,’ said Gray, scooting back in his chair. Honestly, there would never be enough distance that Gray could put between them. ‘You are way too up in my business. Stop. Stop smelling.’

‘I can’t stop smelling, I can’t help it.’

‘Holy gods,’ said Gray, burying his face in his hands.

‘I wish I could help it,’ muttered Killian, glancing at the clock again, and then the door. ‘Look, let me help you understand something about the Augustes, OK?’

Gray slowly lowered his hands.

‘But you eat,’ said Killian. ‘Got it?’

Gray nodded and busied himself by eating the scalding soup.

Killian hesitated. ‘You know how bad Wilde is?’ said Killian. ‘And I know you do. Well, Krupin’s much, much worse.’

Gray frowned, uncertain of where Killian was trying to go with this.

‘The last time there was a sorcerer at the mage guild,’ said Killian, ‘it was Wilde. The mage guild massacre. You've heard of it.'

Yeah.

Yeah, Gray had heard of it.

He gave a small nod.

'He killed nearly every mage in the place. He stole from the tombs underneath. Clochaint’s tomb.’ Killian dropped his voice even further. ‘And that was when Wilde was Krupin’s little protege, kid. Nine years have passed. Gods know what he’s like now. Krupin collected that asshole. Does that give you some idea, some teeny tiny grasp, of the power of Krupin?’

Gray didn’t need to be told about the power of Krupin.

He knew this.

‘You’re seeing Baldwin at his absolute worst,’ said Killian, fast and low. ‘You can train a mage to be aggressive and ruthless and powerful. It’s not easy, but with the right mage, you can do it. You better believe the Augustes have all been trained, harder and more than any of the mage soldiers, that’s why they’re …’

Gray raised his eyebrows. ‘They’re acting like sorcerers?’

Killian closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Stop saying that.’

When Gray kept his mouth closed, Killian slowly opened his eyes.

‘I’m going to give you some leeway,’ said Killian, ‘because you’re drugged. You think you know a sorcerer when you see one? I’ve seen sorcerers. I’ve fought against them. More than anyone. The Augustes don’t have any of the physical markers-'

’Neither did D’Oncray,’ said Gray.

‘D’Oncray did,’ said Killian gruffly. ‘They came in late.’

’Sorcerers don’t always get markers - you said-‘

‘You don’t know what you’re saying,' said Killian, 'and you’re clearly naive as shit-’

‘You’re naive,’ said Gray. ‘I can’t believe how naive you are. I can’t believe I thought you were terrifying and competent. If you genuinely believe that - that family is not-’

‘Enough.’ Killian said. ‘The wrong person overhears you, you will be killed. And it won’t be a swift sword to the neck. There’ll be no last words, aside from you screaming for mercy. You understand me?’

Gray’s world was crumbling, his entire understanding of Lismere and its history, its policies, was shifting fast.

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Gray. ‘I don’t understand you at all. You can stop lying to me about it, stop trying to convince me they’re mages. It’s clear to me what they are, and yet they killed entire family lines because they had sorcerer blood, it’s … it’s … and you’re … you fight for him, defend him …’

Gray trailed off, his voice fading.

The words were too hard to say.

The soup must’ve started working.

An ugly flush of red stained Killian’s cheeks.

‘All right,’ said Killian, his voice low and dark. ‘Let me spell it out for you, you arrogant, idealistic little shit. Baldwin is the way he is for a reason. And he’s king for a reason. Lismere wouldn’t last a second with a king that was all lollipops and rainbows. You take any of those mages from the guild and try to put them on the throne, and the world will burn within minutes. Be grateful it’s Baldwin Auguste on the throne. Because if he wasn’t there, it would be Krupin.’

Gray was frozen, his curled curled tightly around the spoon.

‘Are you telling me we need a sorcerer on the throne?’ said Gray slowly.

‘I’m telling you we need Baldwin on the throne,’ said Killian. ‘And don’t you ever, ever call him sorcerer ever again.'

Gray let out a disbelieving breath. It told Gray damn nothing.

Perhaps Gray had pushed it too far because he’d never seen Killian look so angry.

Killian didn’t talk to him as Gray finished the soup, nor the whole way through the bustling streets as they walked through the city. He didn’t speak when they arrived at the Dierne prison.

He left Gray there without a word.

-

It was cleaner and lighter than the Krydon prison.

It had a military-style organisation to it.

And it was huge.

Gray walked down a thin hallway, flanked by steely-faced prison guards who jangled with keys. There were prison cells either side, filled with prisoners who called out as Gray and the guards walked past.

Until Gray reached his own cell. And the gate was shut behind him, locking him in.

The cell had a small window that faced the ocean, and it prickled with magical wards. There was a small sink to clean up in. A narrow bed and a concrete floor and walls. Gray curled up on the bed. It had a thick blanket, and the prison wasn’t cold, his prison-issue clothes were soft, and the bed smelt industrially clean. They’d left him in the dragon scale vest, with strict instructions never to take it off.

Gray shivered on the bed as the shock wore off.

Hours crept by and the sunlight turned into night.

Night turned into morning.

And that morning turned into days.

Gray refused to leave his cell.

Refused meals.

Refused any attempts from surrounding prisoners - mostly boys his own age or slightly older, Gray figured he was in a youth wing of the prison - to make conversation.

The prisoners were allowed letters and news scrolls.

But, Gray refused any news scroll offered.

He didn’t care what was in it.

Lismere was a lie, the whole system was gamed, and he didn’t care what was happening.

Any time he tried to organise his thoughts they got tangled in a web.

The Augustes were probably sorcerers.

Gray wasn’t Conor Griffin.

He was just Gray.

There might be a death curse in Krydon.

Something huge was going on there. A vampiric sorcerer had killed Alistair, it had killed Rowan, and it had killed a soldier.

Gray paced the length of his cell. He lay on the bed, sleepless. Sat on the floor.

Trying, trying, trying to make sense of everything, trying to unravel what had happened, and why, and how. Why the damn had Alistair been interested in the tombs, why the hell had he left, just packed up and left without saying goodbye, so fast, only to be murdered …

Until, one afternoon, three days after Gray had first entered the prison, he felt something tug at the fringes of his magic.

Gray looked up and saw Baldwin Auguste standing outside his cell.