Page 26 of The Prince's Mage

Chapter10

GAVRIL

Gavril leaned back against the door connecting his room to Marcella’s the second he closed it. The set of gold lily pins and clasps that lived in his pocket grew even heavier. It wasn’t the right time to tell her despite the soft hope he was nursing in his chest.

At least she was sleeping peacefully, although Gavril didn’t know how he was going to.

She needed the rest. It was going to take a while for her to finish recovering from her ordeal, physically at least.

She didn’t remember that her heart had stopped. That she’d died.

No one survived the table. No one survived their heart stopping for several minutes. Not in recorded history. And he might have more faith in Asentai and miracles now, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t also realistic. There was no telling how long—if ever—it would take for Marcella to fully recover.

He didn’t know if this was something someone could ever truly recover from.

He didn’t know if this was something anyone could be forgiven for.

At least, Gavril had no intentions of ever forgiving Nikias for what he’d done.

But he would use it for all it was worth.

* * *

Gavril shoved Nikias down the hallway until he was certain they were far enough away from Marcella’s room that they wouldn’t disturb her if she did try to sleep. Nikias was hissing in pain the whole way as Gavril had grabbed him by his bad arm. Intentionally.

Gavril shelved his surprise and confusion that Nikias hadn’t seen the healers already to fix his arm and all his other injuries. It didn’t make sense, but his brother deserved to heal the slow, painful way. He deserved far worse.

And the fact that Nikias was wearing white for the first time in four years was completely incomprehensible.

“You have five seconds to convince me that I shouldn’t reconsider sparing your life and end it right now,” Gavril snapped.

Nikias stumbled but managed to get his legs under him and straighten up as Gavril finally let go of his bad arm. But he kept his gaze on the floor, and his voice was low, like every word was being dragged out of him. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. I might be an idealist, but I’m not a fool. Goodbye,” Gavril scoffed, turning on his heel.

“Wait! Gavril—” Nikias grabbed Gavril with his good arm and swung him back around, this time looking Gavril in the eyes. This time Gavril was taken aback by the desperation in them. “Just hear me out. I am sorry. I mean it. I’m not just saying that.”

“Why should I believe you? You lied to my face before I left. You promised Marcella would be left alone. And then you turned around and tortured her. Your words mean nothing,” Gavril spat, but he stayed where he was.

“I won’t deny what I’ve done. But I will say, I let my emotions cloud my judgment. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but what I did, I didn’t just do for me. I was trying to protect you,” Nikias said.

“You don’t seriously expect me to believe that? That is such—”

“I have always been trying to protect you. But as I should have learned years ago, I… I am a failure at that. At protecting anyone.”

Nikias lowered his gaze, stuttering as his fingers brushed his red cloak. “Or maybe I should have realized I’m the thing everyone needs to be protected from. I thought by handling the she—Sordes girl—while you were away, I would be sparing you in the long run. When the anniversary comes… I—ever since you brought the Desero demon’s lookalike into the palace… Even her voice, it’s the same. I—” Nikias shook his head, a haunted look in his eyes.

Gavril shifted back, still ready to leave, but…

Nikias didn’t talk about Faustina. Not unless he was forced to. And Nikias never said her name or brought her up of his own volition.

Gavril eyed Nikias’ white chiton and red cloak. He wouldn’t… After the first year had passed and Nikias continued to wear his mourning clothes, Gavril had asked about it, and Nikias had told him he had no intention of stopping. He was going to mourn her death the rest of his life.

“It’s a reminder of how I failed her. I can’t ever let myself forget that.”

Nikias, even at his worst, wouldn’t have stopped wearing his mourning clothes just to fake an apology.

Maybe… he was being genuine.

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