Page 32 of The Prince's Mage

MARCELLA

Blessedly, Gavril gave her space over the next few days. Although that might have been in part because every night she scraped together enough vitae to cast a rune that would keep any sound within her room from escaping. When she woke up screaming, he couldn’t hear it. Using just that little bit of magic left her reeling, but it was worth it.

Of course, he still attended to her like a servant—she imagined none of the actual servants would be willing to do it, or maybe he didn’t want to find out and just decided to do it himself—he brought her meals and helped her up to get her shaking legs beneath her. Maybe he was doing it to try to win her over. Her recovery was slower than she wished, but Gavril just softly murmured she had gone through a lot and even magical healing couldn’t do everything. Rest would take care of it all in the end.

He always said that with a strange look in his eye that had her doubting if she was ever going to fully recover. If even he didn’t fully believe what he was saying… She hadn’t been strong before this. Was she going to be condemned to be even weaker and more pathetic than she’d been before?

Half a week after she’d agreed to help Gavril with his theory, he rushed into her room one morning, a light in his eyes and a hopeful smile that immediately had her defenses rising. She would not let herself get swept away this time like she had before.

He stretched his hands out to her and said, “Come, Marcella, there is something you need to see.”

She took his hands and let him pull her to her feet and off the bed. She had been getting around her room fairly well, but never for long periods of time. She wasn’t certain yet how she would fare when walking through the palace. She spent most of her days sleeping or trying not to retch up what Gavril nagged her into eating.

No one had ever survived the table as long as she had. They were in uncharted territory for what recovery looked like. If true recovery was even achievable.

Gavril was one step ahead of her as he looped an arm around her waist and took on her weight as they started walking. He didn’t seem to care about her tangled curls and her wrinkled peplos.

He rushed her through the halls—a little more careful when they went down the stairs—but eventually he led her out into the main courtyard. She hadn’t been here since he’d taken her to the academy.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

That had been one of the few good days she’d had since setting foot in Areator.

When they walked out into the bright sunlight, she blinked a few times until she spotted something that had her spine going rigid and sending her stumbling back. Gavril caught her and steadied her, murmuring, “Breathe. It is alright. I am with you.”

She clutched at his sleeve, but her breathing still came out ragged as all she could see was the same table from the nightmares that she woke up from screaming every night. He wrapped his arm around her waist tighter, pulling her into his side. He murmured, “Trust me.”

No.

Not again.

Last time she’d trusted him she’d still ended up on that table.

But before she could shove him away, the sound of doors slamming open had her startling into his embrace further. Two more operating tables were being carried out by several servants and over to the other one.

As a fourth was carried out, Prince Nikias was following them, snapping orders in their language and looking absolutely waspish. He was wearing white and had a red and gold cloak again. Curiously, his arm was still in a sling and it seemed like his injuries hadn’t been touched by an Inimicus heretic—healer. When the four tables, straps and all, were gathered in the middle of the courtyard, Nikias looked over and spotted them.

Marcella shifted back into Gavril further and cursed her weakness.

Better Gavril than Nikias.

Nikias called out in their language, “—all of them—four—healers—supplies—left behind that wasn’t destroyed.”

And even though she couldn’t see Gavril’s face because she would not take her eyes off Nikias and the tables that tormented her, she could feel him preen a little behind her. He called out, “—they and their supplies—stay out of the palace and away frommea uxorem—my hands to myself.”

Nikias’ eyes skimmed over the way Marcella was curled into Gavril, half hiding in him. He raised an eyebrow. “—doesn’t look like—hands to yourself.”

“—get back—catch you in it.”

The servants all scurried away and Nikias shook his head and backed up. Before she could ask, Gavril was shifting forward in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to speak in her ear. He said in her language, “Go ahead. Destroy them.”

What?

As she turned her head back to gape at him, he said, “There will be no more of them in the palace. Ever again. They are yours to destroy.”

Marcella’s breath caught in her throat. “How?”

Gavril looked past to where Nikias was watching them intently. “Nikias owes you his life. This does not even come close, but I told him we would not continue with my work until not even so much as a splinter of these things is left in the palace.”

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