Page 19 of A Storm in Every Heart
I shrug. I remember the event he’s talking about in principle. I was perhaps seventeen or eighteen when the then-Prince Thorne began his tour of Ellender searching for a royal bride. He’d set his sights on my oldest sister, Serena, looking for a similar alliance between the kingdoms as Magnus is looking to create using Odessa. Thorne brought a large group of courtiers with him, including Daemon and his mother, but it’s been so long that I hardly remember the details. “A lot of the years before Dyaspora are a blur. I remember only flashes from before the coup. I think I must have blocked it out.”
Daemon’s eyes flash with understanding, and he clears his throat. “Right, of course. Sorry, mate.”
I shrug and take a sip of my drink before clearing my throat uncomfortably.
Every part of that meeting seemed designed especially to torment me. First, talking about my family, whose memory I go out of my way not to dwell on. Then, Magnus, the fucking bastard who betrayed all of us and murdered them. And finally, there’s Odessa…who I really shouldn’t be thinking about at all.
“Magnus makes me fucking nervous,” Daemon muses, clearly following his own train of thought. “He’s calculating, and it’s not as if he hasn’t gone out of his way to conquer a kingdom before.”
My stomach lurches unpleasantly. “You think that’s what he’s doing?”
“Do you?” he asks, turning the question back on me. “You actually know him.”
I take a long sip of my drink and actually think about it, because I know Daemon wouldn’t ask unless he was seriously concerned.
Daemon and I have never spoken at length about my family or my past. Even in Dyaspora we didn’t talk much about how or why we’d gotten there. At the time, we both knew with absolute certainty that we’d never be leaving the prison. Who we were before Dyaspora didn’t matter anymore.
Even when we escaped a year ago, it still didn’t feel as if it mattered much. The Crown Prince of Hydratta isn’t who I am anymore, and looking back on my life feels like half-remembering a story I heard once. Like my memories belong to someone else.
Before today, only Daemon and Odessa knew for sure who I used to be.
Daemon knew because we’d met once or twice in my previous life. I don’t know how Odessa knows, only that she’s from Hydratta and not much younger than me. I always assumed she’d seen me at a parade or something as a child and remembered. She obviously didn’t care for royalty because she’d disliked me from the moment we met in Alix’s room, and honestly that was part of the reason I never wanted to claim my original identity. If Odessa’s reaction was anything to go by, I was far better off starting over.
“No,” I say after a few minutes. “I don’t think Magnus would start a war with you. From what I remember of him, he was always calculating. A war wouldn’t make financial or political sense, so he’s unlikely to start anything.”
“I hope you’re right,” Daemon replies. “We’re weak right now. Fox is doing a damn good job with the army, but it will take years before I believe we could actually win any battles.”
I nod. “You’re right.”
“I fucking hate this,” he growls, taking another sip of his drink. “I never wanted to be responsible for anyone else.”
I grin and clink my glass against his. “Likewise.”
Daemon frowns. “Is that why you said you don’t want to go back to Hydratta?”
“Yes,” I reply flatly. “I don’t want to be king. I never did.”
He laughs harshly. “And you think I do?”
“No, I know you don’t, but you’re actually good at it. You delegate well, and the people like you.”
“The people like Alix,” he argues. “They’re afraid of me.”
I shake my head, hiding a smile. This is an argument we’ve had countless times.
Daemon is wrong. The citizens aren’t afraid of him; they respect him. And whatever he believes, he’s a good king. Anyone who was there when Thorne died and he was forced to take up the mantle would say the same thing. “In my experience, bad rulers don’t worry that they’re bad rulers.”
“Then why are you worried?” he grumbles. “You should go take back your own crown. We could control half the continent, and then we wouldn’t have to worry about any wars.”
His eyes glint with excitement as he contemplates it. I need to head this off now. “No, it wouldn’t work. I don’t delegate well.”
“You could get over that.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I say flatly. “I could never entrust work to anyone else, unless maybe it was you or Fox or Jett.”
“Maybe—”
“No, I’m serious. The ability to delegate is an essential quality for a king. I would know; I watched my father run himself into the ground for years trying to do everything himself until he was so exhausted he didn’t even notice that his own advisor was plotting against him.” My voice has turned bitter by the end of my sentence and I take another long drink, composing myself.
