CHAPTER FOUR
Luka stared at Maya; almost sure she was a dream. Her hair was longer, and she’d taken to wearing trousers instead of the dresses she’d once worn when she’d been living at the Imperial Castle in the capital, but it was her, all the same, as if she’d stepped out of his memories and into his life.
But he’d written to her, telling her not to come, he remembered handing his steward Stoffel the letter—
Stoffel, who was conveniently out on an errand at this very moment. Luka nearly groaned at his steward’s meddling. More friend to him than employee, Stoffel had obviously extended an invitation to Maya on his behalf.
It was his own fault, he knew. Luka had gotten very drunk at dinner that night when Maya had written to him, and the combination of nostalgia and self-pity had made him maudlin. Something in his inebriated reminiscing must have struck a chord with Stoffel—or worse, perhaps Luka had even drunkenly confessed a desire to see Maya—and it had led to this.
Maya on his doorstep, in his house, in his study, standing there like she was meant to be here.
Neither of them noticed as the butler bowed and closed the door behind him, leaving them alone again.
“You cut your hair,” she said absently, sounding almost stunned.
Luka blinked. Whenever he’d thought about what would be the first words they shared after their separation, he’d never expected it to be about his hair. He’d cut it short after his first battle in Bigu, sick of the way it had stuck to his forehead with his sweat, getting in his mouth and his eyes, despite his best efforts.
As he lay in the field hospital, recovering from his injury, he’d let it grow out again, knowing bitterly that he would never be able to return to battle. Now, as he ran a hand over the nape of his neck, his blonde hair fell past his shoulders in locks that had grown longer than he was accustomed to.
But the length was still shorter than his hair had been when he had seen her last, back then, it had been long enough for Maya to fist her hands in it and use it to tug him closer to her lips—
Luka frowned, dismissing the memories. That had been a lifetime ago, he was no longer that naïve boy.
Now, all he wanted was for Maya to leave him in peace.
“Go back to the capital,” he snapped at her. “You can avoid your father just as well if you hide behind my mother’s skirts. The Baron would never disregard the Second Queen’s request for you to remain in your lab at Rurik Castle.”
Maya narrowed her eyes. “I have no lab at Rurik Castle.”
“Of course you do,” Luka snapped, and in his mind’s eye, he recalled squinting as he walked deeper into her darkened lab, grumbling at her, ‘Can you light another candle, for the love of God?’ as he stumbled over a footstool he had missed in the darkness, while Maya ignored him to grab his hand absentmindedly and tug him closer to her notes, talking excitedly about her latest idea.
“It’s powered by steam, I need to refuel it every fifteen minutes with hot water, but I’m thinking magic users can reheat the same water and keep it working. Right?”
Luka blinked, and the memory dispelled itself.
“I have no lab at Rurik Castle,” Maya repeated calmly, though her eyes flashed. “Lord Yarek disbanded my team last year. Said we’d nearly won the war against the Tellurians, and the Imperial Army didn’t need any more magical armaments.”
His previous irritation forgotten, Luka stared at her, anger for his uncle taking its place.
When he’d been a naive little boy, he’d thought his uncle was a great man. A brave, strong warrior, who stood up for Drakkan pride and fought for their honor against the Tellurians.
Now that he’d led his regiment into real battle, Luka knew the truth.
War wasn’t great. It wasn’t noble. And dying on the battlefield wasn’t the most glorious death a warrior could hope for.
They had lied.
War wasn’t glory and valor and heroism. It was not the stuff of songs and ballads, as the minstrels would have them believe.
War was pain and weariness and agonized screams and the sound of metal clashing against metal and the taste of blood in the mouth. It was watching; watching as his brothers fell beside him and knowing that he could not stop to mourn them; he had to go on to fight, to always fight, if he wanted to live.
There was no such thing as glory in death on a battlefield.
There was only death.
Luka shook his head. Starting a war against their neighbor was madness, no matter the provocation. Some of the other lords on the War Council had advised Yarek to try diplomatic avenues first, before attacking Telluria, but Yarek had only derided the man as a coward, pressing forward with his plans for outright war.
Now after having seen war himself, Luka knew that if it was inhispower, he would also advise his royal father to take a more diplomatic approach to deal with things, but no, Yarek was in charge.
