Page 21 of Fall of the Ember Throne (Crown and Crest 3)

He chuckles, following me into my bedchamber. “I actually thought it might be nice to have a way to visit each other where people won’t be—”

“Hovering?” I interrupt.

Smiling in a friendly way, he nods. “That’s right.”

“You promise you won’t come in unannounced?” I ask warily, scanning the wall for a lock.

“Only to occasionally stare at you while you sleep,” he says in a deep, teasing voice, stepping close so the words tickle my ear.

I swat him back. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I won’t come in unannounced,” he promises, covering his heart with his hand.

Knowing he’s serious this time, I nod. “I won’t either.”

“You see, that’s the difference between you and me.” Lawrence steps into his room. “I didn’t ask for such a promise.”

I inspect the panel once it’s closed, marveling at how it blends in seamlessly with the rest of the painting.

“Now I’m a bit lonely…” Lawrence calls through the wall.

Laughing, I turn around and head toward my bed. “Go to sleep, Your Majesty.”

7

HENRIK

The court physician studies me as he asks me to do multiple exercises. “Extend your arm—good. Now rotate it, twisting your palm up.”

I grit my teeth, knowing something is wrong even though the injury appears to be healed. The bruise is gone, and a scar is all that remains of the laceration, but my arm feels weak—useless. I can move it for the most part, but I have no strength. Even my bicep looks odd, not as it was before the incident.

“I’ve seen enough,” the physician finally says, taking a seat and inviting me to do the same. “I had hoped for a full recovery, but it seems the damage was too severe.”

Master Calphias is an elderly elf, with long gray hair and small spectacles that sit on the bridge of his nose. He’s a kind man, even to the likes of me, but I’m not sure he was overly invested in my care. I belong to Camellia, after all, and rumors about the night the king died have traveled.

The majority of the High Vale people don’t seem comfortable with the dark magic she wields.

“Do you still experience pain?” Calphias asks.

“Not pain, exactly.”

He frowns at my arm. “We can attempt surgery, but I’m afraid it’s too late.”

When he first examined me, Calphias was hesitant to operate upon my arm, hoping it would heal on its own. Like humans, High Vales rely on surgical procedures, ointments, and bandages to provide aid. Woodmores, they are not.

But I suppose that’s a blessing. Camellia cannot use me like this.

“I’m thankful you’ve done so much,” I say, “but I must ask—is there a chance I will be able to wield a sword again?”

The physician meets my eyes, pressing his thin lips into a grim smile. “Perhaps you should learn to fight with your other hand.”

Resigned, I bow my head in thanks and leave the infirmary.

* * *

The weeks pass,each one a little faster than the last, the days falling into a pattern. Camellia fights with Augmirian, and then she visits me to vent her frustration.

She hasn’t commanded I give her physical comfort, likely because she’s proud enough to assume I’ll come to her eventually.

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