Page 52 of The King's Man 2

My old friend.Someone I played drakopagon with. Talked to about my frustrations with Father. Secretly practiced vitalian spells on...

Once such a pivotal part of my life. A thought of her would refill me with energy, would add a bounce to my step.

My feet drag as I cross the room.

Too much has happened, and I haven’t been a part of it. Too much has happened, and she hasn’t been a part of it.

Even in this royal city, even after the shock of seeing her the first time during the wyvern attack, she’s only been vaguely in my mind. An afterthought. Behind massive tomes of vitalian knowledge. Behind daydreams of a future life with Nicostratus. Behind Quin’s annoyed and annoying quirked brows.

What a friend I am.

She smiles, lips lifting, like she doesn’t share this guilt.

Tea streams neatly into a cup and she slides it to the space next to her. Even surrounded by regal splendour, her eyes sparkle. The warmth in her eyes has me swallowing.

“Forgive me,” I say, and embrace her. “It’s taken me too long.”

She laughs and hugs me back. “Sit, sit. Tell me everything. How you got here, how you came to be close to the prince. To my husband. How is your family doing? Oh, I have things to tell you, too. It’s all quite startling. How have so many years passed so quickly?” She sighs and urges me into the seat beside her. “What’s wrong with your legs? The aklas are whispering.”

“Whispering?”

“I’ve been beside myself with anticipation. Why haven’t you healed yourself?”

I stare at my knees. “To reflect on my actions.”

“Remember to forgive yourself, too,” she says, and I wonder if this is blanket forgiveness, like she’s discerned my guilt and wants me to lay it aside. What a friend she is. “This is your favourite, I had it brought from Hinsard. Drink up. Keep talking.”

Over the delicate tea, I find tendrils of our old ‘us’ and grab on to them. We share the highs and lows of the last years and drink tea in awkward spaces of silence.

He has a wife.

After another silence, aklos inform Veronica dinner will soon be arriving, and her son is brought to her.

A smartly dressed four-year-old enters, following an akla obediently. The fear the boy had during the wyvern attack is masked under polite smiles and good manners—I can’t help but see a young version of the king.

He has a son.

I abruptly stand, wish them a lovely family dinner, and despite stiff and aching legs charge into the courtyard. It’s quiet today. So quiet, memories fill the spaces between shivering plum leaves. Screeching wyverns, blood.

Two brothers fighting to protect their people. One another.

My legs give way and I plonk onto a bench under a tree. I close my eyes briefly on a shudder and reopen them, thankful for a squabbling rustle above. A flash of movement amidst foliage. A golden dove.

It flaps its wings frantically, squawking as it struggles to free itself.

I spring to my feet, swallowing a wince of pain, and climb the tree towards the molten gold plumage. Its wings are caught in a web of thin branches.

I slip, palms grazing the bark to find purchase. I hiss at the pain and jerk my head around at a gentle tutting. Prince Nicostratus, arms folded, looking up at me. “I have to be the envy of all.” He leaps into the tree with easy, lazy grace, until his face is level with mine. “I’ve won the biggest heart in the kingdom.”

I stare. How sincere he is. How kind. How gentle. There couldn’t be a single female or other-oriented soul in the land who would not see what a wonderful man this is. He has to be the epitome of what one desires. There’s no sharpness here, no cutting edge. No gaze that dissects me, no words that leave me reeling. Nicostratus is soft, and safe, and everything I deserve.

This is what true romance feels like. This is why I’ve held on so tightly to my heart—so I can give it away to whom I choose. A man who took in a struggling young vespertine; who stayed by his mother’s side in her last days. A man who has always smiled at me.

My limbs are trembling and I lean into a forked branch, extending a hand towards the stuck bird. “Free it for me?”

The dove flaps wildly as Nicostratus’s hands work to free it. For a moment, I envy its simplicity—it knows what it wants, fights against the branches holding it back. I force my hands to steady and grip the branch. I know what I want too. Don’t I?

The dove whooshes through the air, two of its loosened feathers fluttering to the courtyard.

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