Page 17 of Heir

“I didn’t have to spy on you. Half the city heard you. Including the Paters of Gens Candela, Duria, and Visselia.”

“We were only talking, Aunt Hel. I didn’t mean—”

“Those men rule their Gens with iron fists. Their heirs don’t so much as sneeze without their permission. Yet here I am, Empress and Mater of my own bleeding family, and I can’t get my nephew to show decorum in public. You cannot act like some ranting revolutionary plotting to bring down the government!”

You used to be that revolutionary, Aunt. You and Mother and Laia and Elias.Twenty years ago, when a jinn known as the Nightbringer tried to wipe out humanity, Aunt Helene defied the powerful families of the Empire and took her troops into battle. Quil wanted to remind her. But that was as wise as flashing a scarlet centurion’s cloak in front of a cranky bull. He kept his mouth shut.

“You are the crown prince. You’re to be Emperor, Zacharias.”

The sound of that name was as pleasant as the shriek of an axe splintering wood. It reminded him of his demon of a father and the twin brother he’d murdered—and then named his son after.

“How could you be so careless?” The Empress stopped pacing. “You know what this throne has cost. You’ll throw it away because you don’t want responsibility?”

“It’s not about responsibility,” Quil said.I don’t want to be like my father. But if I tell you that, you’ll dismiss it because you hate talking about him. So, there’s no bleeding point.“Abdication isn’t unheard of. The crown princess of Sunn—”

“Abdicated because Sunnese rebels threatened regicide,” Aunt Helsaid. “They still killed her, and now the country is starving. They’ve been begging us for grain and could barely muster up a defense force when the Kegari raided them last year.”

“The Ankanese—”

“Have a representative government overseen by a single spiritual leader.”

Though he was nearly a half foot taller than his aunt, Quil felt small suddenly. Cut down to a schoolchild who hasn’t remembered the day’s lesson. This was why he hadn’t spoken to her about abdication. He wanted to research. To come up with legitimate arguments and explanations. He wanted to make a case so effective she’d be forced to consider it.

“I’ve managed to silence any word of your…misstep,” the Empress said. “But that brings me to another matter. Your guard captain said you first ordered him to leave you and then rushed toward an altercation.”

Finally, an opening. “Something awful happened in the square—”

“Yes. A dead child. Before you ask, I won’t discuss the details.”

“Why?” Quil shot back. “Why, when other children have died and you’re doing nothing about it?”

“This is exactly why you need guards,” Aunt Hel said.

Her blatant evasion was so bleeding infuriating that he almost threw something at her head. But she’d only storm off and he’d never get any answers. Quil pitched his voice low, so as not to sound petulant.

“I don’t need guards.”

“Just because you’ve been trained to fight—”

“By the greatest warrior in the Empire.”

The Empress’s lips thinned. “I wouldn’t call himthe greatest—”

Quil snorted. “Every year you and Elias have that ridiculous duel and every year he beats you.”

“I beat him three years ago! And stop changing the subject.” The Empress’s cheeks turned red, and the pale ghosts of two scars appeared on her face.

They were the only remnant of her mask, the liquid metal that once covered her face and marked her as an elite soldier of the Empire—a Mask. Whenever Quil wanted to whine about his duties as heir, he’d remind himself that Aunt Hel trained and suffered for fourteen years at Blackcliff Academy. She’d revered the Holy Augurs who founded the school, and whose predictions had guided the Empire for centuries. She’d knelt as the Augurs had laid the handcrafted mask of living metal upon her face.

Aunt Hel had trusted the Augurs even though they deceived her. Quil was glad he’d never have to meet them. They were dead now. But Blackcliff still trained its recruits rigorously, and the Masks lived on, their face coverings taken from soldiers who had fallen and refashioned for new troops every year.

As Aunt Hel touched her scars, Quil knew she was fighting an urge to bellow at him, even as he suppressed his own glare. His aunt loved him, true. But some days it felt like it was because she had to, and not because she wanted to. Some days, Quil thought Aunt Hel would never stop seeing her dead sister in his face and his father in his eyes.

Deep in Quil’s chest, a familiar sensation. An unfurling—warm, as if he’d taken a draught of hot, spiced cider amid a snowstorm. It was his magic responding to his frustration, eager to be used, to read Aunt Helene’s emotions, her memories, to sway her the way he wished.

Quil shoved the unwanted inclination back into a box. Memories were private, meant to be offered—not taken. Emotions were meant to be experienced or shared—not stolen and manipulated. Quil couldn’t bring himself to sink into someone’s mind without permission. It felt like something his father would do if he had possessed magic. The violation was unconscionable.

The Empress cracked her knuckles and walked to the window. Her gaze roved the balconies and parapets of the royal residence. She was always vigilant; it was a habit that would never die.

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