I gritted my teeth at the question. Not because I was still uncomfortable talking about Lucidius, but because when speaking with me or even Barrett, Mila always referred to him as that:your father. Like she couldn’t let us forget.
But I shoved aside the grating sensation it dragged through my chest—dug through all the work I’d done to reconcile the truth of Lucidius and the devastation he’d caused with Kakias.
“I think I let a lot of that go on the battlefield.” Her fingers drew aimless circles across my stomach as I spoke, and the gentle touch soothed the agitation of a moment ago. “Or maybe it was after the Engrossians surrendered and the queen was gone.” My muscles tightened as Mila’s nails scratched along my skin at the mention of the queen. “I don’t know when it happened, but fighting in the army actually helped me work through all the pain Lucidius left me with.”
Charging into battle alongside the warriors he tried to ruin, proving to myself that though he wrecked us all, we could still stand.
“I don’t feel as beholden to his mistakes as I once did, because now I’m fighting for myself.” It was an unshackling of the heavy cage around my heart. One that I’d held in for far too long.
But I still didn’t know where that left me moving forward.
Mila seemed to understand, not repeating that initial question but letting the truth of what I’d admitted hang between us. And I swore a bit of pride shone in her eyes.
Her gaze traveled up my bare chest. Though the worst were on my back, she cataloged each scar. She’d done this before. Studied them. Not in judgment or fear or any of the soiled feelings I felt toward them. Just observed.
But then her stare froze on something. My North Star Bind, dark against my tan skin. With her eyes on it, it was a beacon. Slowly, she traced each point.
Mila tilted her head, hair pooling over her shoulder. “How does it feel?”
Mila had the first two Mystique tattoos—the Bond on the back on her neck, and the Band, a recently-inked ring of flowers around her upper arm that declared her rank as general—so she wasn’t asking how it felt to have the ink tether your soul the way only the ritualistic promises could.
“It’s empty most days,” I admitted. “Sometimes, we both feel a pang of emotion, but it’s normally not clear why. I felt it during the battle.”
I’d thought a knife was being driven through my chest, actually. I’d asked Ophelia if she felt anything similar, but if she had, her body had been under too much distress in the Spirit Realm to remember.
Mila’s eyes swam with a mix of worry and something else. Something I thought might be…jealousy?
Tilting her chin up, I said, “It doesn’t mean anything. I’ll get us tea.” Bending to kiss her forehead, I climbed out of bed, but she didn’t follow.
“It might notmeananything to you two, Malakai,” she said, “but those soul bonds don’t go away that easily.”
I nearly shuddered at the weight to her words, searching for that cage in my chest I used to lock all these feelings in. But thedoor had been blown wide open by the woman looking at me with raised brows. So instead, I let the discomfort her statement dragged up find a spot in the back of my mind. One where I wasn’t locking it away, but it waited until I knew what to do with it.
Laughter echoedfrom Mila’s bedchamber before I even stepped foot in the door. It was a laugh I was beginning to recognize anywhere, and my own spirit lifted with the throaty, gleeful sound.
“Must you be so cheerful?” Lyria Vincienzo’s voice echoed as I crossed the threshold, tray in hand.
Mila laughed again, propped against the foot of the bed with her arms crossed. I handed her a steaming cup of tea—the spicy, cinnamon one she loved, with ginger and clove—as she said to her friend, “I don’t believe I’m any more cheerful than yesterday.”
The Master of Weapons and Warfare was sprawled on one of the low settees before the fire, a damp towel spread across her eyes and head. Her long, chocolate brown hair pooled over the black cushion, curls nearly spilling to the floor.
“Lyria,” I greeted, leaning against the bedpost near Mila. “How late did he keep you up then?”
“Until nearly dawn,” she grumbled. “After he returned from visiting Celissia with the proposal”—she pointed a finger in our direction without removing the cloth—“and you two snuck away, there was no chance for me to leave.”
“Like you would have,” Mila snickered.
“His Royal Highness wanted tocelebratehis encroaching partnership, and I am nothing if not a loyal ally,” Lyria drawled, waving a hand.
I stiffened. “How is he?”
At that, Lyria removed the towel and sat up. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting off a wave of dizziness. “He’s furious, asserting he will find a way out of this bonding, but I believe he’s come to terms with the fact that they have to pretend for now.”
“Was she with him?”
“No. He wants us all to meet her tonight, though. A formal introductory dinner, and we are all guests of His Royal Highness himself.” Lyria flopped back onto the settee, the legs creaking.
I smirked at Mila, and she rolled her eyes but shot her friend a wary glance. Lyria had taken up the position of Barrett’s comrade in drink, the two emptying many bottles of rich Engrossian wine in the time that we’d been here. Barrett, because his advisors were driving him to a rage as deep as the Blackfyre. Lyria, because…she hadn’t said. But we supposed it went back to the war. To the pressure she’d had on her shoulders for months—Spirits, for her entire life. To the way it had cracked like a storm cloud when that final battle ended and the enemy surrendered. To the death count of Mystiques and alliance clans that had risen with the white flags.
