4

Greyson carefully wrote a letter. Each time he wet the quill's nib, he placed his opposite hand next to the inkwell before dipping it into the black ink. He did not know if his friend could help, but this was the sole chance he had to find out why Cyrus traveled north from the capital. Frederick worked in the palace as a royal mage for Emperor Caspian. Hopefully, he would know something about Cyrus and this unexpected trip.

The quill scraped across the paper, then he dipped it into the ink and glanced up. Cyrus watched him with a slight smile on his full lips. Greyson shifted in his seat, chair rocking slightly beneath him, and went back to the matter at hand.

He continued to write and tried to ignore Cyrus' presence, which was more difficult than it should have been. Cyrus, for once, remained silent, but Greyson felt his eyes boring into him. Shifting, he refused to check.

Sealing the letter with a bit of wax, he finally looked up. Cyrus still stared at him. Greyson frowned and cleared his throat. "I will send this with the messenger who takes the letters to Woodhurst."

"Woodhurst?" Cyrus asked, head tilting to the side.

With a deep scowl, he stowed the letter in his satchel. "It's where the representative for the emperor, Lord Darius, lives."

"Why does the emperor have a representative?"

It took everything Greyson possessed not to snarl. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It was the outcome of the rebellion. The best possible option to be honest."

"I don't understand."

"I told you about it. You remember?"

"Yes, but you didn't explain much besides that we fought the emperor's forces for mining rights."

"Yes," Greyson said. "The emperor didn't want to pay us market value for the gemstones we mined because he owned the land. He set a quota we had to meet quarterly. Everything we mined over that we could sell to others, yet every quarter he raised the quota to how much we mined the quarter before. The emperor wanted to control all of the venetus without paying us much.

"We were dying." Greyson could not believe he had to explain this to Cyrus, who'd sat in every meeting and played an integral part against the rebellion. "To meet the quota, my people were dying of exhaustion. We had no money. The emperor threatened to charge us every time we did not meet it.

"So to try and enact change, the different villages of the Griseo Mountains sent a spokesperson, Charlotte Williams, to meet with the emperor. I traveled with her. We went every summer for three years to propose changes. Some we were successful with, others not so much. After three years of negotiations, the emperor decided to stop paying us entirely, and my people spent the next year planning a rebellion before we acted.

"Long story short, after we lost the rebellion, the emperor dropped the quotas to a reasonable amount and agreed to pay us for the venetus, not market value, but more than previously. Also, we have the chance to appeal for raises each year. We sell the extra for a higher price. To ensure his gems reached him, the emperor elected a lord to watch over the main mining village, Woodhurst.

"I'm sending the letter to Woodhurst, so it can be sent on to the capital. Do you understand now?" Greyson finished tersely.

"I understand," Cyrus said, expression downcast.

An odd stabbing sensation started in his gut. He cleared his throat. Cyrus and his emotions should in no way affect Greyson, yet he felt guilty for upsetting him. Though, he absolutely refused to apologize to the warrior that had ended the rebellion his people had needed to win.

Cyrus met his gaze and smiled, albeit sadly, then bit his lip. Greyson could not help but stare. He'd never seen Cyrus anything but confident. The nervous movement completely transfixed him. When Cyrus finally let go of his lip, Greyson averted his gaze.

"How long will it take for it to reach the capital?"

"It depends on the weather, but a month, maybe more."

Nodding, Cyrus bit his lip yet again. Greyson locked on to the motion. He didn't know what about the movement captivated him so much, but he could not look away. Cyrus let his lip go and asked, "What do we do now?"

"That is the question."

Expression lightening, Cyrus said, "You could tell me more about myself."

He swallowed. Greyson knew next to nothing about Cyrus. What exactly would he say? "Maybe," he said, not meeting Cyrus' earnest gaze, "you can discover what you like and think for yourself?"

"But we're friends, you can just tell me."

"I could," Greyson lied, "but it might help you remember to figure it out by yourself."

"Are you sure?" Cyrus asked with a furrowed brow.

"Yes," he replied firmly.

"Okay. You're my friend, and you know me best after all."

The stabbing sensation returned, more powerfully this time. It twisted his stomach. Greyson shoved the feeling aside and answered, "Yes, I do."

Cyrus moved toward Greyson, who scowled when he got close, which made him grin. That scowl. He knew that scowl. Leaning his hip against the table, arms crossed, he asked, "So what do we do until your letter comes back from the capital?"

"I'm not sure."

Greyson wouldn't look at him. Moving even closer, Cyrus tilted his head as he swiveled in front of him, trying to catch his gaze. When Greyson's eyes finally met his, he asked, "What do you usually do?"

"Check my traps, search for herbs, make poultices and potions, and that's about it. I don't farm, though I do help with the planting and harvest, and since the quotas have been dropped, I don't have to work in the mines. Also, this isn't a mining village."

"Then," he said, "we can do that."

"I suppose."

"What should we do first?"

"We can check my traps." Greyson collected his staff, then his bow and arrows before he stalked out of the house, leaving Cyrus to chase him. He expected Greyson to take the path to the village, but he didn't. Instead, Greyson headed in the opposite direction, further north.

He followed Greyson while trying to remain silent. It was difficult. Cyrus wanted to ask more questions, but Greyson became snappy when he spoke. A frown pulled at his lips. How were they friends? Yes, Cyrus didn't know much about himself or Greyson, but they seemed so different. Though, even as he watched him, a feeling of trust swelled in his chest.

Rushing forward, Cyrus reached Greyson's side. "Where are your traps set?"

"I rotate where I place them, so I don't thin out the game too much."

"Do you ever hunt with your bow?"

"Yes, but I do better at short range than anything at a distance."

His brow furrowed as he moved in front of Greyson. "Why?"

Greyson's expression clearly showed he thought Cyrus was an idiot. "My eye."

Unable to stop himself, Cyrus ran his fingers along the scar. Greyson froze, his breath growing jagged before yanking back. Cyrus bit his lip, then whispered, "Sorry."

Shifting away, Greyson scrubbed a hand through his black hair. "It's fine. Let's check the traps."

With a nod, Cyrus followed silently after him, fingertips tingling.

Greyson deftly led them through the forest, making nary a noise. He checked his traps and snares before picking them up. He'd only caught a couple of hares, which he shoved into a sack. The entire time Greyson scoured the ground, head swiveling, and occasionally, he picked some plants and stuck them in his bag. As the sun started to set, Greyson headed back.

When they arrived at the cabin, Cyrus asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, it's fine," Greyson said as he began to clean the hares.

Cyrus didn't know what to do besides watch. Greyson was clearly used to being alone. He didn't need or want any assistance. Once finished, Greyson went inside with nary a word or look in his direction, and Cyrus followed, biting his lip.

When he turned around, Greyson focused on his mouth. Greyson stood there, frozen, for a few moments before clearing his throat and moving to the stove. He started cooking dinner—a simple meal of rabbit and some root vegetables. Cyrus wouldn't have minded helping, but Greyson seemed perfectly fine. Sitting on a chair, he leaned an elbow on the table and rested his head in his palm as he followed Greyson's every movement.

As soon as Greyson finished preparing the meal, he placed the food on the table, gaze averted. Cyrus said, "Thank you."

Greyson glanced up, frowning as usual, and nodded before shifting back to his meal. Staring at his own plate, Cyrus stabbed some of the food with his fork, then put it in his mouth. Flavor exploded on his tongue.

"This is excellent," he said, trying to start a conversation.

Nodding, Greyson ate a vegetable.

The silence unnerved him. It was empty inside of him with very few memories to contemplate. "What's your favorite color?"

"What?" Greyson asked, looking up.

"Your favorite color."

With a sigh, Greyson said, "Orange."

"What's mine?"

His mouth opened for a second, then his eyes slid toward the fireplace. "You will have to find out for yourself."

"That's right," he said. Greyson wanted him to discover everything for himself. "You must miss your friend. I'm sorry."

Brow furrowed, Greyson asked, "What?"

"Your friend, me. You must miss the me that I was."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Greyson muttered, "Serpent below." He took a couple of deep breaths, then said, "You are still you. Don't worry about it."

"I'll try and remember. I promise."

"Fine," Greyson said, then went back to his meal.