Page 48 of Blinding Light

“I take it we’re talking of your prisoner, uhm…Royal Consort?” Aviel smirked.

Moargan flipped him off. “Vandor and his guys have been following him. They should have fucking stopped him from going. Yure! Let’s go.”

They left the houseboat and hopped onto the wharf to where the hovercar already stood, parked. Aviel jumped behind the wheel, eyes flashing with excitement.

“Moargan, relax.” Yure looked up from his multi-slate, voice filled with his usual patience. “Vandor knows what he’s doing. They’re heading back as we speak.”

Moargan kicked the dashboard in frustration. “What the fuck’s he doing there? How the hell could he have gotten out?” He grumbled.

“You mean the mansion in which you have him locked up?”

“I haven’t locked him up. He’s free to move around.” Moargan looked outside at darkening, emptying streets. People had been following the Imperial’s instructions.

Aviel snorted. “Which is why we’re driving around like madmen.”

“I mean that he’s free to move around within distance.”

“I get it. Woof.”

Moargan bristled, ignoring Aviel’s delighted chortle. The guy was a master at provoking him. Always had been. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“They’ve just returned home,” Yure read from his muti-slate. He clasped a comforting hand on Moargan’s shoulder. “You can stop worrying now. Aviel, drive him home first.”

His friend was right. And it made his chest growl with annoyance at his own emotions. What the fuck was happening to him? This wholesearchfor Cyprian, him overreacting like this. It was a goddamn nuisance, that’s what it was.

The house was empty aside from its usual presence—three Luminary guards hung about in the kitchen, and two lingered in the gardens.

Ignoring Vandor and Yure entering the house behind him, Moargan headed straight for the guestroom.

Cyprian hadn’t switched on the lights, leaving the room to be bathed in candlelight. Soft music played from his multi-slate, a melancholic melody that made Moargan halt on the threshold. A strange tightening tugged at his chest.

Cyprian stood in front of the canvas Moargan had gotten him, facing a large sheet of paper. He was drawing a house, the contrast between black, white, and grey giving the building more depth than it undoubtedly had in real life.

“Where were you?” Moargan’s voice sounded unnaturally grave and he swallowed, watching as Cyprian’s shoulders tensed.

“Here,” hisaeonlied and continued bruising his pencil over the dark lines of the roof.

“For how long?”

The pencil paused mid-air. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Moargan crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It fucking matters.”

This time Cyprian turned over his shoulder, his yellow eyes finding his. “Why?”

“Why,” Moargan huffed. “Because I don’t want you visiting unsafe neighborhoods, that’s why.”

“The guards told you,” Cyprian sighed.

Moargan stepped inside the room. “Of course they fucking did. Have you not seen my father’s statement? There’s a madman running around.”

“I did see your father’s statement. Heard how he named me as your…claim.” The word came out in a whisper, and Cyprian dipped his chin in defeat.

Moargan’s chest tightened. He wanted to ask why Cyprian seemed sad but hesitated. This, in its entirety, was unchartered territory. “So, what were you doing there?” He asked instead.

Looking at the way Cyprian stood facing his canvas, shoulders tense, wearing a pair of silk pants and a tight-fitted shirt that Moargan had purchased for him, he didn’t look likesomeone who had just traveled to one of the most dangerous neighborhoods of Zephyr. He shrugged. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

“I’d like to know anyway.”

---