Shoestring Theory

EIGHT

Cyril could feel that Tigris wanted to trust her brother. She would ask about him, sometimes, under the guise of making sure he was doing a good job keeping a secret. Or merely because she concerned herself on whether he was worried about her.

She swore she trusted everything Cyril had told him about the future, but the part of it where Eufrates had turned into a despot, a tyrant, a monster , she could not believe.

Cyril just hoped she would not have to see it for it to sink in.

Tigris would not dare come to him with the suggestion to reveal everything to her brother. Cyril wouldn’t abide by it. They were fighting against each other. Their last encounter in the gardens had made this very clear (though he hadn’t told a soul about what happened, not even after he arrived back at the tower frazzled and distinctly lacking any cream). But still, he saw how not being able to trust him was weighing on her.

He hoped, for her sake as well as his own, that these next few months passed quickly.

There was a two-week lull: a grace period where Farsala was being run by a council of talking heads and the fact that most of its people weren’t too concerned about politics to care that there was no instated ruler. But as it became clearer that Tigris could not be found, neither would she reveal herself, anytime soon, the time eventually came for the court to turn to her handsome, well-spoken younger brother.

Just like Eufrates had promised, he was nominated temporary regent until the Tigris situation resolved itself (one way or another). The power vacuum could not sit out in the open much longer without causing some damage.

From what Cyril had heard through the courtier grapevine, Eufrates had been surprised at the proposition. Humbled, awkward, ill-at-ease with taking his beloved sister’s place.

When he walked down the halls, he heard murmurs of how the palace dwellers found the new regent-incumbent so charming.

Cyril found him a son of a bitch.

One would think that, leading up to his own crowning, to the sole event that would forever change the course of his life, Eufrates would finally ease up on his newfound penchant for mage hunting. This could not be farther from the truth. Cyril felt himself stalked everywhere he went. Just now he was realising exactly how many watchful eyes Eufrates Margrave, with all the resources at his disposal, was able to set upon him. His saving grace was that it was easy to avoid the rest of the palace when one was so deeply ensconced within a mage’s tower, protected by Heléne’s reputation of aloofness.

What Cyril did not expect in these volatile times (though he was sure if Tigris could’ve bore witness to it, she would have scolded him endlessly on how he should’ve known better) was that, being the prince’s ostensible dearest friend , he would soon be sought after, just as fervently as Eufrates himself.

The crescendo, which would culminate in the upcoming coronation, weighing on all of Farsala like a leaden anchor, had bolstered Cyril’s modest popularity from “pleasant curio” to “much-procured cog”. He made himself even more scarce as he travelled his own home, having on occasion to resort to spells of concealment or invisibility simply to wander out into town in search of an ingredient for Heléne (who, no matter how dire the situation surrounding them, made sure Cyril did not lack on his duties as the grand mage’s ward).

It was the first time in this reality that when he overheard someone ask for “the mage” they meant him and not his aunt.

Still, given how recent the development, he did not think himself particularly rude if he chose to feign ignorance, just as two unsuspecting nobles were about to gesture in his direction.

“Laverre! Oh, Laverre!”

Cyril did not have the deepest friendship with any of the Farsalan courtiers. If anything, he got along better, felt more of a kinship, with the serving class, sharing in their warmth and commiserating against the more difficult nobles within the palace. After years of snubbing lordlings and ladies alike, as well as being snubbed in return, he thought he would not be bothered by any of them unless it was very important business.

Clearly, this was business, though there remained some doubt on how “very important” it could be classified as.

Cyril braced and plastered on his most patient smile. He never should have wandered outside the tower in the first place, even if Tigris was growing quite annoying in insisting he procure some of her books from within her chambers so she could while away her confinement. This had the makings of his cream incident all over again, though hopefully these particular nobles would not prove themselves so brutish.

“Yes?” he said in lieu of a proper greeting, because he truly could not remember the names of the two young men who had approached him. Especially not after twenty years and some change.

“So glad to have caught up with you!” one of the men said.

It was the second time he had been stopped just this morning. The first had been by a gaggle of baronesses (sisters, whose names he faintly recalled all began with the same letter) who giggled and batted their eyes and pleaded sweetly with Cyril to put in a good word for them with the prince, as they were such good friends. Cyril would have gladly done this if he thought it would help even minutely to get Eufrates off his back.

In another lifetime, the beseeching would have irked him for a much worse, more virulently jealous reason. Now, he pitied the girls who were so enthralled by his husband’s performance.

Cyril squinted. These men did not seem the sort to be lovesick over their bard prince. He could not fathom what they wanted, and he would not find out and be on his merry way unless he asked .

“What can I do for you? Is my aunt indisposed?” he said, as this was the first way he tended to interact with nobility. Pretend they were in great need of his magical abilities.

“Oh, no. We’ve no business with her,” the first noble, shorter of the two with a pencil moustache Cyril had once been rather jealous of when faced with his own smoothness, assured. By now, the two men were flanking him, one on each side, with a heavy wall behind Cyril’s back. It meant he would have difficulty extricating himself from the interaction.

“We’ve been looking all over for her ward,” said the second. This one was taller and had a strong jaw.

“That’s me.”

“That’s you!” He nodded, pleased. “You’ve been quite difficult to track down.”

Cyril raised a brow. “Is it very important?”

The first man – pencil moustache – waved a hand in front of his face. “Oh, no.”

Mystery solved, then.

“What he means,” Strongjaw re-joined before Cyril could make his daring escape. “Is that there is no urgency . But I happen to think it quite important, actually.”

Pencil frowned, as though he’d been one-upped.

“See,” Strongjaw continued. “We two found that, save for the prince and our dear missing princess, you tend to be very alone quite often.”

Cyril made no move to speak, so Pencil continued. It was like they had practiced this.

“It feels a great folly on our part, to have overlooked you this long.”

“I can assure you I’ve taken no offense–”

“But we have! How many times have you, Laverre, the ward of the grand mage, dined alone up in that tower, because the Margraves had been otherwise engaged? If you are introverted, it is because we have enabled your seclusion.”

Cyril blinked, slowly. “Beg pardon. Who is ‘we’?”

“All of us courtiers, of course.” Strongjaw this time. “But only a select few were wise enough to realise the mistake. I, for one, aim to rectify this.” He proffered a gloved hand. “It would delight me to have you as a friend from now on.”

Cyril’s eyes darted to Pencil, who nodded. They had practiced this.

He supposed it made some sense. If they had been unsuccessful this far getting into the future regent’s good graces, his best friend was a decent consolation. He wanted to laugh.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Cyril said jovially, letting Strongjaw clasp their hands together. “I had been wondering if the two of you also wanted me to put in a good word with Eufrates about your marital prospects.”

Pencil gave Cyril a strange sort of look and huffed a breath of laughter. “Why bother? It’s you he takes to bed, isn’t it?”

“Come now, Laslo. There’s a difference between wedding and bedding .”

They had momentarily forgotten Cyril was there, laughing quite gaily at the shared and, apparently, not unexpected joke. Which was good because he needed the moment desperately to compose himself.

Slowly, he drew his hand away from Strongjaw (the one who wasn’t , apparently, Laslo). “I… am not sure what you mean?” he lied.

Cyril knew of his own reputation. He had become cognisant of it at the tender (but slightly embarrassing) age of three-and-twenty, immediately after Eufrates’s rushed first coronation, as Farsalan nobility vied for a chance to become the kingdom’s next consort. The reasons it had taken him so long to puzzle this out were twofold. For one, he was very stupid. This stupidity had been strongly enabled.

Cyril was used to being spoiled and coddled and protected. By Heléne, by the king and queen, by Tigris and most especially by Eufrates. None would allow the kind of gossip that had been brewing between the two young lovebirds since he returned home from the Academy to reach his sensitive ears, and Cyril thought too little of himself to reach such an outlandish conclusion on his own.

By the time he caught hold of the flourishing grapevine entangled around Eufrates and himself, the two were already a week into their short engagement and, truly, it was hard to be offended by a rumour that ended up being true.

The second reason why Cyril was able to live in blissful ignorance for so long was because, in all his days in court, even after the wedding, even during all those balls and functions and galas and councils and state meetings, no one had ever had the gall to say something so brazen directly to his face.

Perhaps the title of king’s consort earned him more respect than that of grand mage ever could. Perhaps everyone inherently knew if a single word was breathed publicly against the king’s favourite pet, the accuser would find themselves suddenly missing a tongue. Either way, Cyril was ill-equipped for dealing with malice so brazenly spoken.

He was so taken aback, he wasn’t even sure it was malicious.

“Please,” Pencil drawled. “We’re among friends. And court affairs, as I’m sure you know, can be an awful breeding ground for the most horrible gossip, but it is obvious to anyone with a decent pair of eyes to see our dear prince is taken with you.”

Cyril thought very carefully on how he should play this. Firstly, he would have to start telling Tigris to run her own damn errands.

“If he is… taken with me, as you say, he has not made it known to me . I’ve not seen him since the ball.”

Strongjaw spoke this time, giving him an incredulous look. “He asks after you at every gathering we have attended. It has actually started to grate.”

“If he wants me, he can come and find me. My question is why do you want me?” A redirect, gods willing, would help his predicament.

“You are not so naive as that. The ear of the king is just as precious as the king himself.”

Cyril flashed a thin smile. “The king is dead.”

Pencil let out an exasperated sigh, running quickly out of goodwill. “We are trying to help you, Laverre. In plain, as you’ve proven incapable of grasping the subtleties of court, we are here with a deal that can prove mutually beneficial.”

“Oh.” Cyril made his eyes wide as saucers and hit a balled fist dramatically against his open palm. “My apologies. You should have said something sooner.” Then, he slunk himself against the wall and made to escape. “I’m not interested.”

Before he could successfully leave, Strongjaw caught him by the arm with deceptive forcefulness. It was at this point that Cyril had to keenly remind himself that attacking a member of the court with magic so close to an impending coronation, in a period of so much political instability, would not only be a horrendously bad idea, but it would also thrust him directly into Eufrates’s arms to be “dealt with” accordingly.

Knowing this, Cyril breathed slowly through his nose and turned once again to look at the pair of nobles still dogged on his tail.

“I’m not sure you–”

“He won’t marry you, you know?” Pencil said abruptly.

Cyril blinked. It was such an outlandish thing to say all he could do was let the man carry on.

“Perhaps as the second son the pair of you would make a lovely couple, but the future king can’t just propose to the court mage just because he’s got pretty eyes and an open pair of legs. Be reasonable.”

Cyril scrunched his brow and inhaled sharply. “You think I’ve got pretty eyes?”

“ Laverre ,” Pencil snapped.

“No,” Cyril said. “You listen. I have entertained you long enough, I think. The king died at sea not even a month ago. There are plans, from what I’ve heard, to instate a temporary regent in the absence of our rightful queen, Tigris Margrave. Any talk on the contrary flirts with treason.”

Strongjaw, seeming to be the more relaxed of the two, loosened his grip on Cyril’s arm to wind it up to his shoulder, grabbing him just under the throat. It was too intimate and too threatening all at once. Cyril felt himself swallow convulsively, the muscles working against Strongjaw’s palm.

“We understand you care for the princess,” he said in a measured, appeasing tone. “But if you bothered to attend court as we feel you ought, you would know what is said within these halls. Someone who disappears like that, Laverre, either does not care to be found or will not be found alive.”

He could think of nothing to say to this. It felt, in retrospect, like such a singularly stupid oversight, borne of his years of eschewing nobility for the comfort and familiarity of magic and a selective inner circle. Tigris would know how to quell these whisperings. Eufrates would know to put an end to this.

Neither of them were here.

“I…” He wet his suddenly chapped lips, nervous, and noticed how Pencil’s eyes followed the motion. “I am admittedly unfamiliar with the workings of our court. My duty is to provide whoever sits the throne with magical aid under guidance of my aunt. I am not comfortable speculating on the order of succession.”

“We are not asking you to do anything untoward ,” said Strongjaw. “Right now, the pendulum swings in favour of Prince Eufrates inheriting the crown. We know how… precious you are – you have been, always – to him and we think you deserve your seat upon the court, instead of sneaking around into his bed like a common courtesan.”

No one had ever called him a courtesan to his face before. At this point, he was bracing for ‘ whore ’.

“A seat upon the court,” Cyril repeated, stupid with the sudden heat of embarrassment.

“If it is amenable to you, you’re welcome to marry one of us. The Laverres are petty nobility, are they not? Certainly not enough for a legitimate claim to be palace courtier. I am a baron.” He motioned vaguely to Pencil, who seemed to have stepped even closer. “If you’ve greater ambitions and worse taste” – this earned him a playful shove on the ribs – “my friend here has claims to a duchy once his mother passes.”

“You rise in rank,” Pencil continued. “You’ll be able to escape your aunt’s shadow. The gods know how many more years that woman will serve the Margraves before she relinquishes power. Do you not tire of pretending to be content slumming it with scullery maids and cook staff?”

“This is,” Cyril spoke very slowly, suddenly acutely aware that he was being flanked by two outranking nobles, who, by the looks of it, had a combined fifty kilos on him as well as a distinct lordlike inability to gracefully accept rejection. At the same time, the ring on his breast made itself known by flaring red hot against his skin. As though he was even considering either man. “A very unusual marriage proposal. I am not sure I am sufficiently flattered.”

“If it helps.” Strongjaw’s thumb brushed against his skin where the collar of his shirt began. “You do have very pretty eyes.”

“Doesn’t he just?”

Years of gruelling, immersive experience meant that if Eufrates Margrave chose to make himself a commanding presence, he was able to do it as easily as taking a breath. Very like him, too, was the way he materialised around the corner of the hall, projecting his voice all the way down the corridor so three heads snapped in his direction immediately, like in a pantomime.

Pencil took a long step away from Cyril and, at the same time, Strongjaw took his hands off him as though his skin now seared on contact. Cyril, for his part, was torn between the gratitude of relief and deep resentment that he had once again been caught by a much worse predator than a pair of power-hungry young nobles.

When seconds passed without a word from any man, Eufrates walked towards them and gregariously held out his arms. “Lord Laslo. Lord Bayard. I did not realise you were so familiar with my Cyril. I have been looking everywhere for him.”

Cyril cringed visibly, avoiding eye contact as soon as the words “ my Cyril ” left the prince’s lips. Still, he made himself as pleasant and obsequious as polite company called for.

“Eufrates. I am allowed to have friends.”

Eufrates raised a brow. After the first acknowledgement of Laslo and Bayard, it was as though they had melted into the walls. “Indeed. Are these friends the reason I’ve not seen you in days?”

Cyril flashed a small, ingenue smile. “I did not realise you were looking for me. My apologies.”

Eufrates’s expression darkened for a fraction of a second before he brazenly stepped into the triangle that had naturally been created by Cyril and the nobles, putting himself firmly as a barrier between them.

“Thank you for tracking him down,” he said to Strongjaw ( Baron Bayard, it seemed). “If you would give us a moment in private.”

Laslo, of the thin moustache, shot Cyril a knowing glance instead of facing his prince directly. It seemed to carry with it the reminder that, whatever contempt Cyril felt for him or his friend, Eufrates held similar feelings towards Cyril himself.

It was part beseeching and part warning. It would have been impactful, had it not been entirely redundant. Cyril hardly needed a third party to know exactly how his husband felt about him.

Bayard, the bolder of the two, finally spoke. “Forgive me, Your Highness. We were not finished speaking. If you could wait but a moment.”

Eufrates shifted his weight towards Cyril and threw an arm around his shoulder in a boyish display of possessiveness. Today at least, Cyril was not beating any rumours.

“Cyril isn’t going anywhere! I am sure you can ambush him later. You know where to find him better than I do, that’s for sure.”

“But–”

“Leave.” Cyril looked up and saw the rigid set of Eufrates’s jaw, so unfamiliar in his youthful form it nearly made him shudder. And as Eufrates’s shoulders relaxed, his grip on Cyril tightened, vicelike. “Consider it an order. Or am I not still your prince?”

Laslo was the first to step away, bowing deep as he retreated. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Bayard left in very much the same frightened rush, until just the two of them remained. For lack of a better subject, Cyril took to staring directly at the tiled pattern on the floor.

“I ought to go.” He broke the silence, just as Eufrates dug his nails into his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks.

“You were not content with stealing my sister’s happiness? Now you expect proposals from my courtiers as well?” His tone was dripping revulsion and his countenance was so dark that Cyril feared, ring-bound or not, if he tried to escape now, he would be found dead in the morning, beaten senseless.

Despite this – or, perhaps, knowing Cyril’s thoughts – Eufrates deigned to let go of his arm, and Cyril, in turn, did not run (yet).

“Stealing your sister’s happiness,” Cyril repeated, unsure what to make of it.

Eufrates groaned. “Atticus. Do not think I’ve not seen the connection between your very public flirtation at her dinner and her instant, mysterious disappearance. Isn’t he a bit young for you, my love?”

“Gods.” Cyril ran a hand through his hair. “You think I want her gone.”

“I know you’re behind her disappearance. This is the only reason I could think of for it happening in the first place. Well.” He paused. “That and you wish to torment me.”

“I don’t recall obsessively stalking your every move through the halls of the palace,” Cyril said.

“‘Keep your enemies close’ is a perfectly good adage.”

“We are enemies, then.” This was a stupid, senseless thing to say, and it somehow still hurt to verbalize.

“I don’t know, Cyril. I am not the one who tried to lure you out into the woods to slit your throat.”

“You have had me choking against a wall twice ,” he hissed, suddenly impatient. How many more times were they to have this confrontation?

Eufrates stepped towards him so Cyril’s back hit the stonework. Cyril flinched when he raised a single gloved hand just at chest level. “If I recall correctly, you did not use to shy away from my touch.”

“You did not use to be such a prick. ”

Full of surprises, Eufrates caught him by the chin to tilt his head up instead of grabbing at him roughly. Here, in one of the many public halls of Farsala’s palace, in broad daylight, the implications were endless.

“They’re right, you know? You do have the most striking eyes.” He glanced down, peering at Cyril’s body through his lashes. “The legs aren’t bad either.”

“You were listening ,” Cyril exclaimed, trying his very best to keep the violent flush on his cheeks at bay by concentrating on more important matters than the predatory way his husband leered at him.

“I wanted to see where it went. I did not expect a proposal . The courts have truly fallen on desperate times.”

“Because marrying me is an act of desperation.”

Something inscrutable shone in Eufrates’s eyes, so quick it was gone in an instant.

“ You are the desperate one if you think it wise to accept. Do you think any of those men care for you?”

“I don’t think any man cares for me, but it would certainly help smother some baseless accusations I’ve just heard.”

Eufrates showed him a mean smile. He was so close Cyril could feel his breath on his face. Knew Eufrates felt his quickening pulse on his fingers. “Baseless? Truly?”

“We are not married here. We never will be,” Cyril managed to grit out.

“Ah. I don’t recall them mentioning our happy betrothal.”

Cyril scrunched his brows into a frown that dissolved to horror when he grasped Eufrates’s meaning.

“You are not so much of a pig–” he started.

“I’m not. I am chivalrous and beloved. I would not aid such gossip, especially not once you’ve behaved and told me exactly what simpleminded, hare-brained plan you’ve concocted that requires Tigris’s disappearance.”

“You know I’m not going to do that. How many times must we have this conversation? You are like a child .”

“Oh, there will not be many more chances for you to surrender to me, my love. I am giving you until tomorrow’s coronation.”

“Generous.”

Eufrates pressed him suddenly against the flat of the wall, so close, a breath away, that for a maddening moment, Cyril thought he was about to be kissed. He felt heady and overwhelmed and his heart thrummed violently in his chest.

“I am done with games , Cyril. I am giving you a chance. I am trying to be civil.”

“Yes,” he croaked. “That’s exactly what this feels li–”

“Shut up ,” Eufrates growled. “You are stupid, and you are reckless, and if I wish it, you are alone in this court. Left to your devices, cut off from your kingdom, your responsibilities, from me . It is, it seems, all you’ve ever worked for, so I am baffled as to why I am being tormented yet again.

“But it’s clear to me I am, and I intend to pay you in kind. All your magic and scheming cannot keep me from you. I am trying to give you a chance to take the reasonable course of action here.”

Cyril was acutely aware that his breathing was coming up short and laboured. That Eufrates could hear and feel the beating of his heart, see the sweat beading on his brow. It would be simple – if he were being honest with himself, it would be good -– to admit defeat and throw himself at the mercy of his husband the way he had done for years and years, unfailing.

But he wasn’t quite as alone as Eufrates thought. He had Heléne and he had Tigris and if he let either one of them down, he would’ve squandered this second life he poured so much blood and magic into carving out for himself.

So, instead of following instinct and leaning forward, closing the distance between them, collapsing into Eufrates’s arms, he curled his lips into a thin smile while threading the first strands of a spell behind his back and said:

“I haven’t been reasonable since I agreed to marry you.”

Then, he receded into the wall, melting backwards against the stonework. The last thing he saw before coming out of the other side of the palace into a small, flowering bush, was the stormy look in Eufrates’s dark eyes. Angry, outraged, and… hurt.

It would be impossible to escape attending Eufrates’s coronation. Heléne was obligated to be there and, as her ward, so was he. Tigris could have stayed in the tower if she wished, but she wished this as fervently as wanting to take a pickaxe to the back of the head. She yowled and hissed and scratched up all of Cyril’s nicer furniture until he relented and took her with them to the ceremony.

They stood in the back, grouped together with some minor nobles who had mercifully left Cyril well enough alone over the past week, while Heléne took her place on the left side of the throne. Atticus, who had not yet given up the search but who had briefly returned to his kingdom, fearful of leaving it unattended too long, was given a seat of honour somewhere in the middle-left of the hall when he came back for the coronation, set on congratulating the new regent. Cyril couldn’t help watching his profile for any clues that he was still upset. He owed the man such an apology once this whole ordeal was over.

And Eufrates, sat upon the throne, looked devastating . His hair was meticulously styled to look easy and carefree. It hung in tight coils over his head until it faded down around his ears and the nape of his neck in an immaculate buzz. The curlicue would not let itself be tamed, but it lent him a boyish charm. He wore tailoring reminiscent of his father’s, but better suited for his own build, broad and lean at once. It was also calculatingly casual in a way Rohan never had been. An asymmetrical collar, a couple of buttons done too low, higher boots. The bard prince in the flesh.

Cyril’s only saving grace was Eufrates’s beard. Neatly trimmed and rugged. It was his least favourite style on his husband, so he refused to be lovestruck. He folded his arms in front of his chest and watched, bracing.

Very evidently, Cyril had not heeded the prince’s increasingly beseeching pleas – threats – to reveal what he had done with Tigris, and what he had been planning altogether. Before the actual ceremony, he had been a bundle of nervous, frightened energy, awaiting from every shadow to be whisked away by newly appointed royal assassins and dealt slow, gruelling retribution for his lack of cooperation.

But Cyril had been left alone. For one final night, he was left to his own devices, blissful and free to roam around as he pleased with no one on his heels, no indication of stalking or the threat of being cornered, caught and tied to a chair or the walls of a disused dungeon.

Were he a stupider man, he would’ve relaxed. Knowing his husband, he had gooseflesh so intense he wanted to scratch all the way through his skin to the bloodied bones underneath. Every time he started picking at the pathetic nubs that used to be his fingernails, he felt Tigris nudge the side of his leg and stopped, opting instead to chew the inside of his cheek raw and metallic.

He waited, and waited, and finally the man of the hour deigned to sit upon his father’s throne, gingerly as though he was lowering onto a child’s bench, not an ancient stone-wrought seat.

Cyril felt as though he was witnessing high art. Eufrates Margrave was acting his heart out.

The man sat on that throne as though he’d never even seen a chair before. He was awkward and flustered and uncomfortable. When they put the crown on him, he flinched as though it were going to take a bite out of him.

He held his first ( First , Cyril scoffed) court with a humbled grace that instantly ingratiated him to all present. It was no wonder he had managed to invade an entire foreign territory. He gave a brief, unsteady speech on how he was intent on doing right by his sister, and how although he missed her every day, he needed to do right by Farsala as well. Cyril wondered if he had written any of this down or if it was improvisational talent.

Once Cyril heard a baroness standing next to him swoon , he decided perhaps he didn’t actually need to stay for the entire speech. If Eufrates had something planned for him, surely either the moment for action had passed or it would come later, in private, when he could once again be backed against some wall and pressured into capitulation.

But then Eufrates began speaking of the grand mage.

“I have spoken of this to my advisors, and…” He drew out a nervous chuckle. “After quite some needling, I managed to make them see my way of things.

“I am a new ruler. And, gods willing, an exceptionally brief one. I will need many steadying hands, which our esteemed court has pledged to offer as I steady myself upon this dais. However, from all this surrounding experience I have asked for but one single indulgence.”

Cyril could not possibly predict where this was going, but his whole body tensed. It was not going anywhere he would like.

Eufrates stood, suddenly, and they locked eyes for barely a second. He knew instantly he was right. He wanted to dash out of the room, but it was like the soles of his shoes were pitched to the floor.

“Grand Mage Heléne has been a great friend of the family and servant to the crown for many, many years.” He gestured to Heléne, whose face was stone but whose familiar was casting Eufrates a confused look. “I – we – are all in her debt.

“But I am sure the sands of time weigh heavy on her shoulders, and I cannot imagine how true a blow it was for her to lose both my parents, her dear friends, as well as Tigris so close together. I cannot ask any more of her. I can ask but one thing and it is to enjoy a well-deserved retirement.”

Heléne’s stone countenance was quite good, but not against this . She looked completely stunned. She opened her mouth to say something, but Eufrates did not give her the chance. He strode to her side and effusively took her hands in his.

“Dear Auntie, do not think I am casting you out! You may stay in the tower as long as you like. For the rest of your life, if it pleases you, but the world turns, and I have thought it best to select a new grand mage to accompany me. Someone who will grow with me.”

Cyril’s stomach lurched. He was going to throw up on the swooning baroness’s expensive dress.

“Cy, what’s going on?”

Tigris was craning her long neck to see the dais. She asked this of him as though he had any idea what went through the mind of the most Machiavellian man on earth.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “It doesn’t sound–”

“Cyril!”

He snapped his head up and realised all eyes were now on him. This was not only because his name had just been called, it was also because Eufrates was crossing the room (the crowd had parted easily for him), and was already halfway to him.

Cyril shot Tigris a look he hoped conveyed ‘ stay hidden’ as clearly as possible, and then he stepped forward, half of his own volition, half from being pushed on by the courtiers near him.

“Cyril…” Eufrates said again. They were mere feet apart now, and the new regent reached for him. For his hand.

His smile was saccharine, pleading, when he drew Cyril out of the crowd to stand close to him and traced his knuckles with his thumb in a gentle, soothing pattern.

Cyril thought he was meant to say something, but all he could manage was a blank stare.

“I would like you to be my mage… I do not know what my sister would have done, but you have been…” Eufrates spoke carefully, shyly . “…a beloved friend to the both of us for many years. I should like nothing more than to have you take your rightful place by my side, if you accept.”

Cyril could feel rather than see the eyes upon them. Upon their clasped hands. Upon the way Eufrates’s gaze, heart-melting and pure with adoration, was meant for him alone. The word ‘ courtesan ’ jumped to the forefront of his mind, followed immediately by something more insidious.

He wanted to laugh in his face. If he had less self-control than he was exerting right now, he might have. He felt unhinged.

“I…” he began.

Eufrates wasn’t through with his impassioned plea. He wasn’t through with him . He grabbed his other hand and pulled, the picture of feverish desperation.

“ Cyril …” The way he was saying his name was much too casual. Held too much sentiment. “My friend, do not make me beg… I will get on my knees before the entire court if I need to.”

“Of – of course!” Cyril blurted in a tight voice. Then, he added, “It is what I am here for, after all.”

Eufrates’s perfect face split into a troubled frown. “Do not speak like that.”

Before he knew what was happening, Cyril was being tugged towards the throne. Eufrates stood him beside Heléne, who had managed to once again school her expression so it was illegible.

“I am aware it is tradition for the mage to take up the central tower,” Eufrates said.

Oh, no.

“But these are… different times. The circumstances are dire. You are not just a servant to me, Cyril.” He put his hand over his heart . “I need your help, and I would like you close.

“The palace… my chambers are in the east wing, and I hope I do not come across as forward, my friend, but there are empty rooms next to it you could occupy. I would personally make sure you are comfortable. Taken care of.”

Cyril wished someone would take care of him by cleaving a dagger through his eye.

“The tower is…” he said, as though he could say no to Eufrates like this. His palms were slick with sweat. “The tower is perfectly fine, Your Highness.”

Eufrates put a hand on his shoulder. On the crook of his neck, to be specific. Too intimate a gesture.

“I insist. And please , Cyril. Call me by my forename. We should not be so distant.”

Cyril knew what was happening , but he could not, for the life of him, understand why Eufrates was playing the role of the stupid, lovesick fool in front of all and sundry like this.

That is, until he noticed he wasn’t the only one of the two who seemed to have an interest in their captive audience. With a small flicker of his eyes, Eufrates revealed his own investment in the surrounding courtiers.

It hit him like a mallet to the skull that Eufrates Margrave was a genius .

The blow was twofold: first and most obviously, Eufrates was taking him away from his tower and placing him in a room only separated from his own by some stonework and paint. Cyril would be under his watch at all times. Pinned under his thumb like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. He would not be able to breathe without Eufrates being by his side to monitor the airflow from his lungs and count the beating of his heart. He would suffocate. Hiding Tigris as well would become a monumental task unless he left her with Heléne, which would raise suspicion of its own.

Second, though, and something he maybe hadn’t immediately realised was happening because some part of him still didn’t think Eufrates could sink this low, was that he, Cyril Laverre, was now the most hated and maligned man in the palace.

He could hear the threads of gossip echoing along the walls already. A minor noble, wizard or not, enchanting the regent with his wiles. He was being given preferential treatment. He was clearly adored by Eufrates. And ‘adored’ was a term used very generously. Hopeful suitors would despise him for ruining their chances with prince charming before they could even try. Greater nobles would sneer at the nerve of him to be elevated so above his station. Most everyone would think him a foolish choice for grand mage, with his youth and inexperience.

It all felt very familiar. He was once again Farsala’s dancing monkey. Their precious, useless little jester. And he was Eufrates’s favourite pet. His docile plaything to be paraded around, never needing the commitment of a band or a vow.

This time around, though, it felt true.