Page 4 of Essence of the Throne

His dark hair is disheveled and clunky, as if he hasn’t washed it in the time I’ve been gone, while also running his hands through it a hundred times a day. Dark purple shadows line the spaces under his eyes, and his lids look as if they’re struggling to remain open, even in their alarmed state. His mouth—tense and dry—is surrounded by ashen skin. I’ve the sudden urge to pinch his cheeks and ensure blood still runs through his veins.

He looks…bad. Worse than I’ve been feeling. What the fuck happened?

I grunt and clench my teeth when I release his wrist without thought to feel the temperature of his face.

Right. He stabbed me.

My eyes find the wound and roll hard. “Why must blood always be spilled on my freshly cleaned clothes? Have you any idea how long it took me to rid these leathers of Desmond’s blood?” Until this last week, I’d never spoken to Desmond at the guild before. He must be just a year or so younger than me, but Isaiah was the one person I was ever willing to give my attention to.

Unfortunate really, because Desmond is a decent fighter and made a good opponent these last few days. I’m not sure he reciprocates the feelings as it was his blood soaking the ground each time we sparred, but I do not care, nor am I surprised. No one faces me and turns away with a pleased smile on their face.

I refuse to acknowledge the one exception to that standing in front of me.

The prince didn’t seem to hear my question, as he just stares at me as if he’s seeing a spirit. I don’t have time for this. I sigh, grasping his wrist once more and rip it back before I allow myself to think twice about the decision. My breathing stalls and the prince begins to speak frantically, but I do not notice either as I tug on my vital strand and coax the essence to the oozing cut. I cover the area with a hand to dim the light beneath my skin; it’s dark enough in here that anyone would notice the healing essence before realizing there is not a healer present.

The skin stitches together and a breathy sigh escapes my mouth as the worst of the pain dissipates, along with my already lacking energy. My head tilts. I must not have noticed, but I’ve been unusually fatigued since arriving at the guild. There is no reason I should feel this tired; I’m aware of all that has happened in these last weeks, but trauma and exhaustion are two things I refuse to let coexist together.

So I ignore the dull heaviness in my muscles, and shake off the thoughts as I focus on Caspian. “You look like shit,” I mutter, crossing my arms to remove his attention from my wound, but he only rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“Yeah, so do you.” He spins to trudge back to his table without another word, or even the smile that never seems to leave his face around me. There must be something wrong. I stride forward, stopping when I reach the chair opposite the prince, yanking it in a rough manner. His forehead creases while his eyes scrunch closed, and he takes a few deep breaths before focusing on his work once more.

Interesting.

“Has Gavriel finally decided to stop worshiping you, or is your crappy mood related to your father?” It’s a genuine question. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was both the guard and king upsetting Caspian; their single talent is pissing everyone else off.

The prince’s exhausted eyes drag up my chest to my waiting glare. “And who’s to say it isn’t your presence souring mymood?” I swallow at the sting of his words, but my face gives away nothing but amusement as I raise a brow and allow my lips to curve.

But something about the question doesn’t settle right within me. What if he’s being truthful? Has this week apart allowed him to see that I am the monster everyone believes me to be? Perhaps he no longer wants anything to do with me. I wouldn’t blame him…though that doesn’t mean I will allow it to happen.

Angel save him from me, because I am no hero. I will be his undoing and gladly introduce my blade to any who thinks they can stop me.

I do not wish to fight right now, though. I’m too tired to keep this unfeeling facade going. “Okay. Let me know when you’ve grown tired of being a dick.” I shift to march from the library like a fucking child, pausing when the prince speaks again.

“Wait—” he says in a frantic tone, reaching a hand across the table as if to stop me, though he makes no real effort to do so. “I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m being a dick. It’s not you, I…I just haven’t been feeling like myself the last few days.”

I shrug and cross my arms, frowning at the still-wet blood that seeps through my sleeve. “Don’t apologize. It’s not as if I’ve ever treated you,” I pause, pursing my lips before continuing, “or anyone really, with kindness before.”

Instead of moving back to the chair across from him, I pull at the one to his right, spinning it backward and straddling its base. His truth snags my interest. I will find whoever has made him feel this way. I am his guard, after all—so of course I must ask, “You said you’re not feeling like yourself. What happened?” His hand drags through his hair, tugging at the ends before dropping to his lap.

“I don’t know. I just feel so empty and tired. And yet I can’t sleep, or focus, and it’s just—fuck. I don’t know.”

His feelings are familiar, though I press in a different direction. “What are you working on?” I take notice of the books and stacks of paper chaotically organized across the table. Trade agreements with Meridian and Lumarna sit off to the side, along with what looks to be residential plans and a budget for the upcoming bi-annual Frostwell competition. Oneluckycitizen will reign champion and be afforded the opportunity to serve as a royal sentry.

I’d offer up my position, but no one would find themselves worthy of protecting the man in front of me. Not even Gavriel is suitable, regardless that he’s been Caspian’s guard for years. I chuckle before yawning behind my hand—I truly look forward to the day I can end his miserable existence. I do not care for the laws prohibiting murder—I’m a fucking assassin, why would I?—so the one thing stopping me ishim.

They’refriends. Or so the prince claims.

“I have been sitting in on my father’s council and shadowing his activities, looking for…things.” I’ve also been in search of thesethings.Answers to my father’s journal, my mother’s letter. Everything I’m tired of thinking about. Something heavy settles in my gut—the prince is more likely to find what we need, but his current state tells me his efforts have been just as fruitless. “I haven’t gathered anything I believe will help” —of course—“but there are some interesting things I’ve picked up on. I don’t know,maybe they’ll be a start and this will just take much longer than we anticipated."

"He wasn’t thrilled when I told him you’d were my new guard, by the way—not that you’d know, considering you ran off for a week. He’s probably off brooding somewhere, cursing my name for defying his orders again to remove you from the castle."

I nod as my finger taps against my other arm. I rest my chin on their crossing, ignoring the way Caspian drinks in my presence. I may have missed his lack of subtlety. It’s refreshing—not suppressing everything I am and endlessly wondering what those around me are also hiding.

My world is exhausting.

Wholly opposite of the prince’s; and yet here we sit, exchanging secrets and both looking as if the Angel itself is draining our inner essence.

“And what are theseinteresting thingsyou mentioned?” I press when he doesn’t continue, choosing instead to watch me. I'm sure he's looking for a reaction about his father's displeasure at my presence in the castle, but he will not get a response.

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