2

As light brushed his face, he woke up. He glanced around with a frown. Where am I? The home was empty with very little furniture or clutter. There didn't appear to be anything personal that spoke to the owner's taste. From the red rug to the chairs and table, nothing matched. Everything looked neat and orderly with nothing out of place. He clutched the soft, blue blanket draped over him. The last thing, well the only thing, he remembered was the woods.

The mage.

He knew him. His eyes wandered around the room again, searching for the black-haired man, but he was alone.

He swallowed as a prickling sensation started at the base of his skull and settled deep within his gut. A black void devoured his mind. Empty. He had nothing. A buzzing sound, almost like a hive of bees, filled his ears. The mage's face floated across his thoughts, and his pulse slowed.

Not nothing. I have him.

When he'd relaxed, a sudden remembrance flashed in his mind. He'd been injured. Lifting the blanket, he examined the wound on his side. It had scabbed and only bore a tinge of redness. It didn't even hurt. He couldn't say the same thing about his head. It relentlessly pounded. Even as he rubbed his temples, the pain didn't lessen.

The door creaked, and the tall mage strode in. He didn't wear a cloak this time, but he did carry the staff. The sides of his hair were twisted back while the remainder hung to his shoulders. The light blue shirt he wore was faded, and the brown trousers were sturdy, though patched at the knees.

He hadn't gotten a chance to study the mage's appearance. But as the other man came closer, he examined him closely, trying to spark something in his mind. The mage's deep-set eyes stared back at him, his hollow cheeks appearing gaunt in the morning light. He crossed his arms, drawing Cyrus' attention to his lean, solid form.

"So," the mage drawled, "you're finally awake."

A wide smile crossed his face as Cyrus stared at the mage. The mage jerked back, brow furrowing.

"I know you," Cyrus said.

"Yes," he said in an exasperated tone. "You know me. We know each other. I saved your worthless life."

The mage's tone didn't dampen the warmth blooming in his chest. This person knew him. "Thank you."

With a scoff, he replied, "I'm already regretting my decision."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

"Typical."

"No," he said, sitting up with a slight grunt. "I don't remember my name either. I don't remember anything."

"But you know me?"

"Yes," he answered. "I have this…" He shook his head. "I don't know, feeling that I know you."

He sighed, only through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Just so I understand. You don't remember your name. You don't know who you are or where you're from. You don't know my name, but somehow you know that you know me. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Right," the mage said.

"What's my name?"

A deep frown formed on his face. "Cyrus. Your name is Cyrus."

"Cyrus," he repeated in the hope that it would stir something. His eyes closed as he absorbed the name, focusing. "Cyrus," he said again. Nothing happened. "It doesn't mean anything to me."

"So sad," the mage said, not sounding the least bit upset.

"What's your name?" Cyrus asked, tilting his head to the side in an attempt to catch his gaze.

The black-haired man didn't even glance in his direction; instead, he remained focused on the fireplace. "Greyson."

Cyrus nodded in approval. It fit him. His pale skin bore a grayish tinge to it, and his left eye was gray. "Greyson," he said slowly. Greyson tensed. "Greyson," he repeated, brow furrowing. A spark flashed in the chasm of his mind. The name meant something—something important. Whatever he'd been doing before he lost his memory had to do with Greyson.

"What?" Greyson snapped.

"Your name means something to me."

Greyson's lip curled. "I have no idea why it would."

"Well, we know each other, right?"

"Yes."

"How?" Cyrus asked.

"What?"

"How do we know each other? What's our relationship?" he asked again.

Greyson tried not to gape at Cyrus who stared innocently at him, not at all like the Cyrus he'd met across the negotiation table or on the battlefield. Not like his worst enemy. Honestly, Cyrus resembled a lost puppy, and it made Greyson want to punch him in the gut.

What should he tell him? That they hated each other? That he was the golden boy of the Zaesian Empire, the same empire Greyson had rebelled against years earlier? Only three or so years ago, his people had tried to claw their way to freedom from the Zaesian Empire, but they lost. The empire was too vast and powerful to escape from. They wanted the mountains for the venetus gemstones that resided deep within them and the mages born here.

No one knew why, but more people were born with magic in the secluded mountains than anywhere else in the entire empire. Both the gems and mages were the reason the Zaesian Empire conquered the Griseo Mountains several hundred years ago.

Greyson had no idea why Cyrus had traveled to this part of the empire, as he had no business being in the Griseo Mountains. The best option was to tell Cyrus the truth and send him on his way. Something in him rebelled against that plan. Instead, another formed—a far riskier and stupider idea.

I could mess with him for a few weeks while I figure out why he's here. Cyrus might regain his memories at some point, depending on how he lost them in the first place, and this opportunity was too good to pass up.

"We're…friends," Greyson said.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he replied in a tense tone. "We met in the army and became friends."

Cyrus' brow furrowed. "I must've been coming here, to you. That's why your name means something."

"What do you remember?"

"Waking up in a glade, bleeding. I was doing something important," Cyrus said, rubbing his forehead.

"What were you doing?" he asked, interest piqued.

"I don't know." Cyrus kept rubbing his forehead, wincing.

"Does your head hurt?"

"Yeah."

Greyson grabbed Cyrus' chin, lifting his head so he could look into his blue eyes. They were clear. Letting go, Greyson inspected Cyrus' head. There were no bumps or sensitive parts, so he probably hadn't hit his head. If he had, his memory wouldn't have been the first thing to be affected. His speech was sound, his movements steady, so probably not a head injury, but Greyson wasn't a true healer.

"Do you know any mages?"

"Besides you?" he asked with a smile. Greyson frowned. Cyrus grinned wider. "Not that I remember. Why?"

"I think someone scrubbed your mind with magic. Crude but efficient," he answered. An action he wouldn't have chosen to do, even to Cyrus. Why erase someone's mind when it was easier and more permanent to kill them?

"Why would someone do that?"

"No idea," Greyson said with a shrug. "When you're feeling better, we'll go back to the glade and see if I can find anything of use. Though, I doubt it because it rained heavily the night I found you."

Cyrus smiled again, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "Thank you for that."

He grunted. He didn't know if rescuing Cyrus was the best idea he'd ever had. It probably would have saved him a lot of pain and suffering in the future if he'd let Cyrus die. Greyson snorted. It was too late now.

"Are you hungry?" Greyson asked.

"Food sounds amazing."

A frown pulled at his lips. Greyson wasn't used to Cyrus sounding so chipper. It felt unnatural and nauseating. Brushing it off, he made a simple meal of eggs and a slice of bread with a little butter on it.

Cyrus ate with gusto, inhaling the food.

"Easy," Greyson cautioned. "You've been asleep for a couple of days. Your stomach will need time to adjust."

Almost the instant he said it, Cyrus' face clenched as his tan skin paled. Growling, Greyson shoved a bucket at Cyrus, who promptly threw up. The pervasive smell of bile made Greyson's nose wrinkle and churned his own stomach. Cyrus retched again, and Greyson swallowed, eyes darting to the side. When he finally stopped, Greyson whisked the plate and bucket away as Cyrus leaned against the flat headboard, sweat dotting his brow.

"That's why I told you to be careful."

Cyrus did not respond.

Greyson popped the kettle on the flames to make tea. Once it was done, he handed Cyrus the cup and ordered, "Sip it."

Without a single protest, Cyrus did what he was told. Greyson's brow furrowed as worry pricked down his spine; Cyrus always fought. Greyson placed a hand on his forehead. His smooth skin was the same temperature as Greyson's. No fever, which was good. The last thing either of them needed was for him to become sick again.

Leaving Cyrus to his tea, he searched the cabinets, but they held little in the way of food or supplies, as he didn't need much to get by. Unfortunately, Greyson had nothing to make a broth with. He would either have to purchase something from another villager or go hunting.

As he stood there, pinching the bridge of his nose, he knew his purse was emptier than his kitchen. He could always trade for it, but then he would have to make something of value, which would probably take more time. He snagged his bow and quiver of arrows.

"Stay in bed," Greyson ordered. "I will return."

Cyrus stared at the closed door for several long breaths before taking a drink of tea, wincing. It was much too bitter. His stomach gurgled unhappily as the hot liquid started to rise up his throat. Swallowing convulsively, he clutched the mug.

Once his stomach settled, he glanced at the door again. So he and Greyson were friends. It makes sense, he supposed. That must be the reason why he was in the area—he'd come to see Greyson. It had to be why Greyson's name resonated with him when his own meant nothing.

However, Greyson didn't seem happy to see him or happy they were friends. That could be his normal personality, but Cyrus had no way of knowing. Greyson had saved his life, though, and Cyrus remembered the relief that surged inside of him when he saw Greyson. They must be close.

After he finished the bitter tea, he sank back on the bed, tired. Even though he'd just woken up, Cyrus was exhausted. He lifted the blanket to his chin. The scent of leaves, bark, and dirt tickled his nose—the smell of the woods. With a smile, Cyrus fell asleep.

The door slammed open, and he shot awake, reaching to his hip as his pulse thundered in his ears. His fingers clasped nothing. Something should rest on that hip. Even as he concentrated, the sensation slid out of reach, and Cyrus was left, yet again, with nothing.

Greyson strode in carrying a large bird—maybe a turkey. He didn't say anything as he cut the cleaned bird into manageable-sized pieces. Then he got the fire going in the kitchen stove, even though the room was uncomfortably warm, before shoving the meat and bones into a large pot. Cyrus watched the precise movements as Greyson peeled and dumped vegetables into the pot before pouring several different spices into the concoction.

"I'm making soup. You should be able to keep the broth down," Greyson said as he sat at the table.

"Thank you."

Greyson nodded.

"You went hunting?" he asked, desperate for conversation to fill the emptiness of his mind.

"Yes."

Apparently, Greyson didn't talk much. Sitting against the headboard, Cyrus tried again. "Tell me about yourself."

"Why?"

"Because I don't remember anything. If you don't want to talk about yourself, tell me about…well, me."

Brow furrowing and jaw tightening, Greyson ground out, "You're an expert swordsman."

"That's something," Cyrus said. He hoped Greyson would say more, but he didn't. Cyrus' eyes gravitated to the scar on the right side of Greyson's face. He wanted to ask about it but didn't know if it would be a welcome question.

"Do you know anything else?" Cyrus asked.

"Like what?"

"My age, my family, anything else about me, please."

Greyson pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a good nose for it, as it was long and thin, starting high on his face. "I don't know your exact age. I believe you"re in your twenties. You never speak of your family. You"re ruthless. Loyal. Dogged. Clever. Excellent schemer."

Nodding, Cyrus watched him closely, longing for any information. He needed something, anything to hold on to, or else he feared the panic would drag him away. When Greyson stopped talking, he asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Do you have any family?"

"No," Greyson said with a shake of his head. "They're all gone."

"I'm sorry."

"It was not your doing." He stood and stirred the soup. The savory scent filled the home and awoke Cyrus' stomach.

"It will be fun to get to know you again. Well, fun for me. Repetitive for you."

Greyson snorted, which made Cyrus smile for some reason. Already that sound had started to become familiar. Something familiar. That thought alone was comforting. He watched Greyson as he continued to make the soup, never turning toward Cyrus.

Eventually, Greyson ladled some into a bowl and brought it over to the bed. "Eat it slowly."

The delicate scent made saliva fill his mouth and his stomach gurgle. Swallowing, he blew on the spoonful before placing it in his mouth. The flavor of the turkey mixed with the taste of herbs and vegetables danced along his tongue. It was delicious. His stomach grumbled in demand for more. He wanted to devour the bowl but held back, not wanting to vomit again. Slowly, he ate spoonful after spoonful.

Returning to the kitchen, Greyson sat at the table to eat. Not once did Greyson look at him. On the other hand, Cyrus couldn't help but stare at him. A niggling sensation started in the back of his mind and told him that Greyson was important. That he had to tell Greyson something. But even as he tried to follow the feeling, it slipped away. Cyrus let it go. It would come to him eventually.

He finished the soup, and his stomach rumbled for more. "Can I have another bowl?"

"No. You need to wait a bit. Give it an hour, and then you can have some more."

"Okay." Cyrus swallowed, staring at him. Needing to fill the silence, he asked, "When can we search for the glade?"

"Not today. You need to heal."

Smiling, he smoothed the dark blue blanket. "Okay."