3. Hector

CHAPTER THREE

HECTOR

I t was a reasonable request, though an amusing one. When had my flighty brother become a man to inspire fear in the likes of Killian?

It was hard to imagine, but then again, I'd held him when he was a baby, watched him grow and discover the world. He could never frighten me.

I found him draped across his husband's lap, his arms slung around Brett's shoulders, and didn't allow myself even a moment's pang of jealousy. I was nothing but happy for my brother. He deserved love, not just because he'd saved us all, but simply because there was no greater joy in the world than seeing him smile.

"Hector," Paris said, turning toward me with his cheek awfully close to Brett's. "Have a drink. It's a celebration. I'm married ."

You are , I thought, full of pride and loss and a thousand different feelings I couldn't put a name to. I didn't dare try.

But in this moment, it wasn't about my feelings.

"I'm very happy for both of you," I agreed, ducking my head. "But I was talking to that fellow from the Falcon Clan."

Brett's brows furrowed, and Paris's scowl made a pinched mirror of his concern.

"He asked me when Paris was going to spend his year on the wall," I said. "So I asked Killian what he meant, and he told me everyone is required to spend a year on the wall, defending Nemeda from the southlands."

Paris cocked his head, then turned to Brett. "You've mentioned that before, people's ‘year on the wall.' I remember. Do I need to spend a year on the wall?"

Brett was just shaking his head when I jumped in.

"No. Because I told Killian I'm going to do everyone's year on the wall. Yours, mine, and Helena's. I'll purchase what I need, and go right away."

Paris's brows shot up toward his hairline. "Excuse me?"

Killian had only asked one thing of me, and it was so very reasonable, but I still hesitated to give Paris an out of all this. He... sometimes saw the world as if it was covered in a field of flowers—that Tybalt was a dashing prince and Urial was glorious and fruitful and our Father had nary a single imperfection. He would not see the necessity of it.

But I knew the world for what it was, the ways that people built walls and held others apart.

My nose flared, and I nodded. "Three years. One each for Helena, for you, and for me. Killian said—" I blew out a breath but forced myself onward. "Killian said that it was unnecessary, but I think you know better." Now, I was looking at Brett, trusting him to know his own people and to hold Paris's best interests at heart just as I meant to. "My family is going to rely on the acceptance of the Nemedan people—not only your clan, but all of them, particularly if relations with Urial remain tense. It would be all too easy to turn us out as strangers to avoid further conflict, and that would go poorly for us."

Brett's frown deepened. "I would never allow that to happen."

His arm tightened around Paris's waist, and I sighed.

"I know. But I would not have you risk conflict with your own people for our sake when there's such a simple solution right here in front of you. Three years of my service will prove us Nemedan. Already, the Falcon has tried to expose our lack as a weak point and press on it. I'd nip that line of thinking in the bud before it can spread."

I saw resignation fall over Brett's features with and felt a thrill of victory. He knew I made sense, that this was the best way to protect my— our —family.

Only Paris was not yet convinced. He sat up straighter and clapped his hands on the table in front of him, still perched on Brett's lap. "Then we will each serve."

I liked Brett all the more when he winced at the idea of it.

"Absolutely not," I snapped.

Paris stuck out his chin. "I'm not sending you down there alone."

"You are." I leaned in across the table, holding his eye in that way that'd always trapped him. "You are, because you have a life here already, and I do not. You have a husband to care for, a people to look after, and moreover, you wouldn't know what the hell you're doing on a battlefield."

Paris's laugh was sharp. "And you would?"

"I've held a sword," I snipped defensively.

"That's not the same and you know it."

"Perhaps not, but I'm Father's firstborn son, and I've trained in all the ways a firstborn son of Urial ought to. I'm prepared to fight."

This time, he scoffed. "Please. You've prepared for every despairing eventuality that you can concoct. That hardly makes you a warrior."

I reached across the table, taking his hand and squeezing it. "No, you're right. But I'm closer than you are, and no one has ever expected Helena to fight with anything more than a sharp word. And—and please, Paris. You know that I'll be useless at this if I'm worrying about you all the while."

He sucked in his cheeks, looking for just a moment like my little kid brother rather than a man full grown. "But I don't want you to go."

"Three years," I whispered. "That's nothing. You'll go home, enjoy the first blooms of marital bliss, and then we'll—we'll be settled. Nemedan in truth. This is how we earn a place here on our own right."

"You already have a place here," Brett offered, voice quiet and serious.

I sat back, letting go of Paris's hand and staring straight at his husband. "Tell me my brother did nothing to earn his place here," I pressed.

Brett gave no response.

"He saved a woman's life," I reminded them both. "That was his service, and it won him the acceptance of the Hawk. This will be mine, and not only will it make us more secure in our place, but I will feel less like a burden once I've paid my dues."

Brett's gaze drifted up. It seemed that Minerva of the Raven Clan had stood and was preparing to make a toast. "Perhaps we should discuss this more tomorrow?"

"There's nothing to discuss," I said, snatching Paris's hand and kissing the back of it. "You need not worry. I will be safe."

Paris's lips parted, like he wanted to protest further, but Minerva began to speak, and he fell silent. I slipped out of my seat before we could gripe at each other anymore, certain all the while that we'd both dig deeper into our positions overnight.

After Minerva's toast, there was more feasting, drinking, and dancing, but I stayed largely out of it, nursing cup after cup of sweet wine. In time, people began to tire, settling around tables or at the high bar where drinks were being served.

And there, a shimmer of white behind a man who stood above all the rest. Killian had not yet retired for the night, and I drifted to his side.

"I've told him," I muttered once I got there.

He glanced at me, silvery eyes shining with mirth. "And he took it well?"

"Oh, not at all. I fled while Chief Minerva made her speech, but Paris knows the weight of this decision rests entirely on my shoulders."

Killian turned my way, resting his elbow on the bar beside us. "And why are you making it?"

I tilted my head at him, raising a brow. "Why?"

"Mmm, yes. I don't know many wise men who'd seek out a war, and you don't strike me as either ignorant or bloodthirsty."

I took a moment to wave down the man serving drinks and got myself another while I mulled it over. In the end, I could come up with no better excuse than the truth.

"This is the best way I can think of to protect my family." I took a sip of wine, allowing myself a moment to enjoy the buzzy, lightheaded feeling I'd been building all night. "We cannot rely exclusively on Brett's good will?—"

"Brett has a number of significant friends in Nemeda."

I glanced at him, unconvinced. "Yes, and how will those friends feel if King Albany decides our escape was too great a slight to ignore any longer? What if he spins a tale that your people kidnapped Prince Tybalt's intended? The story of a damsel in distress goes quite a long way in Urial. I would have us more firmly established, more firmly Nemedan, before anyone else is called upon to decide if we're worth the trouble."

Killian hummed. "Quite the pragmatist."

"I like to be prepared." I took another sip, hissing at the burn in my throat when I drank too much at once. "In that spirit, perhaps you could tell me more about the southlands. What can I expect on the wall?"

Even when he went quiet, I didn't realize my misstep until a muscle flexed in his jaw.

"Do you see a wall here?"

I raised a brow. "Any wall?"

Killian scowled. The effect was... jarring. Killian had an otherworldly kind of beauty—strong and handsome, yes, but also light and graceful, as if he could swing his sword through the air and summon not violence, but a glorious gust of wind.

It was hard to take him seriously when I was so awestricken, no matter that I knew he was a better warrior than me, a better man. But even when he was annoyed, all I could do was appreciate the silvery blue of his eyes and the long, silky white hair that hung to his waist, weighed down with so many feathers.

A feather for everyone he'd lost, Paris had said.

My brother had feathers now too—one each for Mother and Father. Had he, Brett, and Killian come any later, my little brother might be wearing one for me as well.

Another reason for me to serve on the wall—the Nemedans had saved me. I owed them my life, and I wanted my family's position here to be unassailable.

What else was I to do in Nemeda?

"Don't be a contrarian," Killian said, turning away to take another sip from his mug of mead. "You know what I mean."

"Then no, I don't see the wall."

"So don't borrow trouble from tomorrow. Don't bring the wall here, to my friend's, your brother's, wedding."

Thoroughly chastened, I bit the inside of my cheek and looked down at Killian's mug. For a moment, I considered slinking away, but if I truly meant to do this, I would need to be able to look him in the eye tomorrow.

Summoning what courage I had, I looked up. "I apologize. Perhaps this is as good a moment as any to tell you that small talk is not my forte. I do, however, have other talents."

"Do you?" He grinned. "Please, illuminate me."

I waved a hand at the boards set out on flattened sand for dancing. "I dance. Quite well, actually. Part of our education in Urial, you understand. There's very little to do during the long winters and I was never much for escaping to nature. While I don't know all the steps to Nemedan dances, I'm a quick study and follow instruction well."

"Is that so?"

"Hmm, yes. Particularly with the right partner." I glanced at the dance floor, the strangest feeling tickling up my spine, urging me to impress Killian, though I wasn't sure if it was simply because I wanted him or because I'd soon have to prove myself to him. "You seem like a fine leader," I mused, glancing up at him. "We could dance, if you'd like."

Yes! The way a smile played at the very corner of his lips made my blood rush through my veins. He didn't find me entirely loathsome! What did it say about me, that I'd fully expected him to?

"All right," he agreed, setting his mug down. "We can hardly let the musicians play on for nothing."

We weren't the only ones on the dance floor, but I was glad for the sparse and drunken attention, because I really didn't know the steps. I didn't want anyone noticing if I made a mistake, and to my Urialian sentiments, it seemed impossible that the gathered crowd wouldn't watch two men dancing together, even though we were at a wedding for, well, two men.

My nervousness hardly seemed to matter. When the next song began, Killian stepped close, and his hand pressed firmly into the small of my back.

He began the steps, his legs sliding against mine with such casual confidence that I hardly realized we were dancing. Each step was perfect, the fluidity of his movements making it so easy for me to follow along, dazed as I was to look into his shining eyes.

Gods, I wanted to touch his hair—feel it between my fingers, mixed in with so many beautiful feathers. I wanted to count each one while he?—

I caught myself on a gasp when he spun, and he smiled at me.

"I've been unfair," he said.

"Oh?" Wonderful, that I couldn't come up with anything cleverer than that to say.

"You like to be prepared. It's only fair that I prepare you."

I blinked. Prepare me? It was an inadvertent innuendo, obviously. And yet...

"I'd hardly be opposed to that."

"I could tell you what I know of swordplay," Killian offered, white brow perfectly arched. Creatures like him didn't exist in Urial—shouldn't exist anywhere. He was too beautiful. "We Nemedans prefer the spear, but I imagine being from Urial, you've learned the sword."

Breathlessly, I nodded.

His hand swept across my arm like he hardly even thought of it—it'd simply happened by rote as he spun me away.

"It takes a strong arm," he murmured in my ear as he drew me back, my shoulders briefly against his front before he turned around me. "And a limber wrist."

The way his thumb grazed the inside of my write made my breath catch in my chest, but it didn't matter. I didn't need air. Breathing was superfluous.

What I needed, well?—

I pressed forward, pushing up on my toes to catch his lips. They were perfect and smooth against mine, pleasantly firm.

But then firmer.

Killian froze in front of me, no longer winding us through a dance. He wasn't—he wasn't kissing me back.

My shoulders stiffened, rising toward my ears, even as I fell back on my heels, blinking up at him. He touched his lips, concern twisting his features.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry. I misread?—"

He dropped his hand. "You didn't."

"Then—why?" I didn't understand. If he'd been flirting, and I'd been swept up in the moment, why not follow through? Was it that I was drunk? Nemedans were more careful to be decent than anyone I'd met in Urial.

Killian's smile turned sad. "Avianitis."

Avianitis?

A little laugh bubbled out of me, and I stepped back just a few inches before moving close again. "Don't tell me you've already caught feelings for me?"

Despite myself, a little spark of hope lit in my chest. Was it really so absurd?

He'd come to Urial with Paris last winter, had worked to save my family. He'd even ridden in the carriage with Helena and me, a protector and company all at once.

And when I'd lain in bed, certain I would die, his assurance of my value had been a balm, easing the fear that I was nothing but a failure.

Only a few seconds after that spark lit, however, it died on a downturn of Killian's handsome mouth.

"No, Hector."

I stood there now, arms empty, heavy at my sides, gladder than ever that most of the guests had left already. This was a horror, and I couldn't keep myself from making it worse.

"Then I don't understand."

"Forgive me, but I simply think the idea that love is tied to illness isn't real at all. It's simply that our people are insular and don't risk getting close to others without the illusion of?—"

"Of genuine feeling?"

Killian breathed out slow, almost a sigh, but he didn't seem sad. "Of love. The stories people tell themselves to make living easier, to make each other feel better."

"So you think love is... a story? A fiction?"

He shrugged. "A comforting one, but yes."

I turned half away. Why did that sting? It wasn't as if I cared that a Nemedan didn't believe in love. I wasn't any kind of romantic myself.

And still, his words scraped like pumice over my heart.

"Anyone could pass on Avianitis," Killian said, reaching out to touch my arm. "I wouldn't risk you."

Was that supposed to be a comfort? I jerked away.

"Oh, come on. Don't be upset."

"I'm not upset," I snapped back, sounding thoroughly, well, upset. "I simply don't understand why you bothered staying for my brother, your friend's, wedding if you don't believe in the very concept it was built upon."

And like a man mastered by emotion rather than logic, I stamped my feet across the wooden boards of the dance floor as I marched myself to bed.