3. Chapter Three: Theo

Chapter Three – Theo

A lmost twelve days into their journey, Theo returns to his human form, ignoring Luka's splutters as he doesn't bother with his robes, spinning around with a smile. "That's it!" he declares, and though the nearly two weeks of travel weigh heavy on his limbs, he throws his arms wide as if to embrace the sprawling city below.

And it is it – Hessalar nestles between the scrublands like a slumberer between blankets. The rolling dunes collapse around it almost jealously, as if the amber sands could conceal the glowing capital of Balivartia. Canals ease in from the south side as merchants and travelers depart, passing through gates of varying sizes. Outside the walls, a bustling marketplace flutters about like a disturbed hive.

"Thank Thought," Luka rasps, slumping against Geriin's sweaty back. "I'm so tired of looking at these damned sands." He gapes when he spots the canals. "Theo!" he cries. "Could we… we just have popped into a boat and floated the whole way here?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Theo says, though perhaps he could have done more reading about the Snake of the South before he decided to infiltrate his territory with the man who might be his mate. This is the first he's seen of these canals. Luka doesn't notice his harsh tone – he seems to have adjusted to Theo's prickliness, though Theo still lays awake at night, wondering at himself and his inability to be the slightest bit kind to this man who is his mate.

"I can't believe I forgot!" Luka runs a hand through his hair. "They go all the way to the southern shores –"

" – and there are only a few that reach the Siacchian and Kiteran borders," Theo says. "They're highly guarded to defend against… invasions." He isn't positive about that last part, but it must be true enough, since Luka nods thoughtfully – if tiredly.

"Shouldn't you know this?" Luka shoots him a look. "Didn't you invade Hessalar?"

Theo's cheeks grow hot. "It was the Balivartians who invaded Kitera! They tried to take back our land."

"Ah. Of course. My mistake."

The past week saw them leaving behind the scattered grasses and trees of Siacchi as they crossed the border into the southern lands. Theo, keeping watch long after Luka has fallen into slumber, spots, there, perhaps a dozen or so miles behind them, that same threatening tendril of smoke. Their pursuers have grown no closer – if they can even be called that. Theo decides it best not to share this information with Luka; there is no point in worrying the Siacchian. What good would Luka do, afterall?

Despite winter drawing closer with every nightfall, the days are only growing warmer. Theo wipes a bead of sweat from his face as he pulls his robes over his head and around his body, shielding his sensitive, burnt skin from the sun.

"First, we'll need to deal with Geriin," Theo says as they ascend the dune. His stomach twists at the thought, but he's had days to prepare for this. The marketplace outside Hessalar is smaller than it appeared from afar, the hawkers' voices cawing like gulls. A slender canal boat navigates the waters between the stalls, and merchants call out greetings to the handsome woman and her two menfolk aboard.

The city is gated, though it looks nothing like Cesscounthe or the ice barriers of Akull. The walls are shorter and made of what looks like hard packed sand. Instead of looking towering and intimidating, this city looks almost warm – or maybe that's just the heat exhaustion talking.

"Deal with Geriin?" Luka repeats, aghast. He all but clings to the horse's face, and, to Theo's surprise, Geriin withstands it.

"We need some form of coin, obviously," Theo says, as flippantly as he can manage. "And we have nothing more we can sell."

Luka makes alarmed noises while Theo helps the Siacchian dismount. Before Luka can protest more, Theo holds a finger up. "Don't worry," he says with a smile while Luka reddens. "I'm not technically selling her, I'm just lending her out. We'll have more than enough coin to buy her back when we leave."

"How much would she cost? " Luka says, but Theo pretends not to hear as he grabs Geriin's reins and leads her to the hawker with the horses. He also pretends not to be pleased at the thought of Luka caring so much about Geriin – and her caring so much for him.

Already, the cries of the market and the smells of spices overwhelm, drawing angry rumbles from Theo's near-empty stomach. Rabbits had only grown more and more scarce, and Theo had little appetite for the snakes they ate instead.

The hawker avoids eye contact until Theo stands directly before him. He wears an elaborate draping of fabric over his head, embroidered to look like scales. When he turns to the direction opposite Theo, the beads and pieces of glass catch in the light.

"Afternoon," Theo says.

The exchange that follows is brief and brutal. Theo strains to understand the Balivartian's rolling dialect, and Luka does little to help, having wandered away to eye a stall overflowing with lovely jewel-toned garments. After haggling with the hawker beneath the blaze of the sun, sweat rolling down his temple, Theo finally parts with Geriin for seventy-five sheens. He had been hoping for at least a hundred – a small fortune to most; Geriin is a fine steed – so when he joins Luka before the clothing stalls, he is scowling, hand tight on the pouch carrying the dull golden coins.

He makes sure to bid farewell to Geriin, pressing a kiss to the velvety expanse of her nose. She wickers softly, ears flickering toward him as he whispers, "This is only temporary. We'll be back for you."

She will be here when they're finished. He is certain of it. Geriin is far too fine for any common man to be able to afford her.

At least, he prays as much.

Theo's heart twists as he stands at Luka's side, Luka's words with the shopkeeper hardly registering as Theo tries not to look over his shoulder. Geriin will surely be watching him, waiting for him to return. She has no idea why he is leaving her.

"And these are free samples?" Luka is saying, holding up a few scraps of fabric.

The woman, whose eyes are darkened with kohl, smiles, baring the bone extensions to her canines that give her an almost feline appearance. "For you," she muses, tapping her chin, before again baring her teeth in a broad grin, "yes, you may have those for free. But only if you promise to return."

Luka inclines his head as he replaces the rags he used to shield himself from the day with the cowl-like collection of fabric. The deep blue brings out his eyes and makes his skin, now darkened from the sun, appear to glow. "I'll be sure to come back." He looks to Theo, extending the other cowl. It's a burnt orange color and will surely look ridiculous on Theo.

"I'm not wearing that."

Luka glances at the woman from the corner of his eye. "Put it on. We'll look less like vagabonds this way."

Theo grits his teeth before he accepts the fabric. It's surprisingly light – linen, likely – and smells faintly of incense.

"Coins received," Theo says after the head covering is in place. He shows Luka the bulging pouch. "We're ready to enter."

"Let me look at those," Luka says. Theo obliges him as they approach the gates at the entrance of the city.

"The dialect is a fair bit different from Kiteran or Siacchian," Theo explains, trying not to look back at Geriin as they pass her by. "There's a lot more emphasis on the r 's and a little less on the vowels."

"I know," Luka replies, shooting Theo a look that he has learned to interpret as don't patronize me, you big oaf. Theo has yet to decide if that look amuses or annoys him. "And he didn't give you enough money."

"I guessed that much," Theo growls. "But we didn't have much choice."

Now is not the time to think such things though – now, when he draws close to the very place where the Snake of the South rests his head. Even with a decade of time between him and his defeat, the scent of smoke still lingers in his nostrils. The sight of his family – the people he was meant to protect – gone because of his mistakes. Because of his hesitations.

Unwillingly, Theo's pace slows as he adjusts his robes and the silly cowl Luka purchased for him. He glances at Luka. Even with the head coverings, their clothing looks painfully Kiteran.

Theo pulls his hood a little closer around his face. His cheeks have become ragged with sunburn and beard. It should be enough to act as a disguise, should they need it.

A wooden gate bars the ground entrance of the humble walls surrounding Hessalar. Across from it, a much grander door marks the entry for those coming into the city via canal, the wood carved with images of snakes curling across great plains.

At the ground entrance, two guards sit at a three-legged table, playing cards. One holds a pipe made of finely oiled blackwood, and thin tendrils of sweet smoke escapes his lips when he speaks. They wear the snakeskin armor common in the South – the plates are light but effective, perfect to block glancing blows from a blade while keeping the wearer cool in the overbearing sun. Not at all useful against a direct attack, as Theo has learned from experience.

The two guards look up as Theo and Luka approach, glancing toward the guard tower above them. They exchange words in the local dialect – too quick for Theo to pick up.

Theo squares his shoulders, mouth parting as a story coils on his tongue –

"W-warm skies, good sirs," Luka says. Theo's brows raise when he hears the Balivartian burr rolling from the man's lips. He glances at Luka, and his brows climb even higher when he finds the man has mostly covered his face. Only his pale blue eyes and freckled cheeks shine through – an uncommon trait in Balivartia, but not unheard of.

The guards' shoulders relax marginally. "And heavy rains," one replies. He tips a bottle in Luka's direction. "What business do you have in Hessalar?"

"My mother has sent me," Luka says, and it is all Theo can do to not turn to stare at him again.

"Your mother? What – does she want to warm my bed again?" The guards share a laugh.

Luka stiffens… though his calm scent does not change. Mock outrage wrinkles his forehead. "Linne Lockehart sent me," he says again, the Southern dialect slick as ice as it falls from his lips.

"One of the Cesscounthe politicians? What business does she have with us?"

Luka pauses. Theo shares his surprise – these people have not yet heard about Linne's takeover in the West. They don't know that she is now ruler of Siacchi's capital.

Luka manages to recover quickly, saying, "I am to speak to your rulers and continue our peace talks. Perhaps you have not been on the wall guard long enough to remember our last treaty discussion, over a decade before?"

"And how old would you have been then? Five?" a younger guard sneers, but quickly falls silent when her older counterpart shoots her a look. The man strokes his mustache, taking another long pull from his pipe. As smoke escapes his nostrils in a deep exhale, he looks at the guards in the tower above. One nods.

"Do you have any manner of identification? You must understand that two bedraggled strangers can hardly be allowed entrance, no matter who they claim to be."

Luka dips his head, and now it is shame that crosses his face. "Ah, yes, I do realize that – it's just that… Well, obviously you can see our state. We had an unfortunate run-in with the Kiterans on the road. I'm sure you have heard how they have been terrorizing our country. That is why we were sent here – to request aid."

The guards exchange another look. The man shakes his head. "If you have no way to prove yourself," he begins, and Theo grinds his teeth.

"Cathalan," Luka says. The guards blink. Theo's wolf roars at the name – the name of the one who defeated him and took everything – "Bring him. He will recognize me and prove our identity."

"The Third Blessed Prince?" the woman splutters. "What – do you think his schedule is so empty, he can simply drop everything and –"

"Mika." The guard raises his hand. "Surely you understand this is an impossible request. It would take days for us to be able to call the Third Blessed Prince to the Western Gates –"

"And then you will have to explain to him why you have made his guests wait all that time, yes, I do understand." Though the lower half of his face is covered, Theo can practically hear Luka's smile. "I expect we will all be reprimanded for it then – you more so than us, of course."

"And who is this man?" the man asks, eyes darting from Luka to Theo. His eyes roam Theo's form – dusty and sunburned from travel. Theo resists the urge to bare his teeth.

"The remainder of my guards," Luka says, though his voice catches on the last word.

"He looks rather Kiteran himself," Mika mutters. "Familiar, oddly."

Luka chuckles humorlessly. "Yes, perhaps that is why he fights so well."

"One of your beast people? Is that why he wields a sword?" the man asks.

Theo's lips fly open to reply, but Luka dips his head, casting Theo a warning glance. "You are correct," Luka says. "He unfortunately had his tongue cut out in the fight, so he can no longer speak."

Theo cannot help the glare on his face now.

Mika laughs. "Look at him! He is very fierce. I'm not surprised he was able to help you escape."

The male guard narrows his eyes. "But his face… there is something familiar about him…"

"Will you let us pass?" Luka says before the man can complete his thought. "We have urgent business with Cath – er, your Third Blessed Prince."

The two guards look to Luka again – Luka, who despite the stink of travel, somehow glows with charisma. Had he done this to Theo when he was captured? Simply charmed his way into Theo's heart?

But no – he hasn't charmed his way into anywhere. My wolf wants to be with him, nothing more .

This is why Luka is a good tool. This is why Theo should keep using him, why he should keep Luka close.

The male guard presses his lips together and finally says in a low voice, "Will you put in a word for Mika Alberk and Cleony Riggs?"

Luka smiles. "The Third Blessed Prince will know of your kindness and loyalty," he replies in the same serious tone.

Cleony's mustache crinkles as he grins and he waves a hand at the guards in the watch tower. At the gesture, the humble wooden gates creak open. The gap between them shimmers with color as the inner marketplace unspools before them, some people pausing, their brilliant sky- and rose-colored robes swirling as they glance up from their baskets and their bartering, watching to see who these strangers entering their city are. The canal at the entryway weaves through the heart of the city, sandstone bridges crisscrossing pale waters.

Theo's heart squeezes with anticipation as he follows Luka through the gap, a quiet triumph building in his stomach –

"Now, wait there," calls the male guard – Cleony Riggs. "We can't just allow you entry. I'll escort you to the palace."

"That won't be necessary – we've already taken so much of your time –"

Cleony pats Mika on the back as he takes another long pull from his pipe, belching out a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. "I insist."

"O-of course." Luka bows his head. His eyes shift to something just beyond Theo's shoulder. The color drains from his face. "Theo," Luka whispers, urgently, reverting to the Siacchian dialect. "What is that?"

Theo follows the darting motion of Luka's pale blue eyes toward a lovely mural painted inside of the walls. Brushstrokes depict a familiar snow-dusted mountain range; the Kiteran border melting into Balivartia. A hideous man wielding a sword, dressed in exaggerated Kiteran furs rears up, face monstrous and distorted with wolf-like teeth, only to be faced down by a lovely and composed Balivartian soldier, her dagger already planted in the Kiteran's chest.

The mural stretches along the interior of the wall as far as Theo can see. It's ridiculous. But that's not where Luka is staring, eyes wide. Theo squints.

And there, depicted in bright paint, is a familiar face. A sharp, pointed jaw, a glower that Theo knows because he's met with it every time he looks in the mirror –

Oh, shit.

"Why do they have a massive painting of you attempting to skewer a Balivartian on their entry walls?" Luka whispers, casting his voice low so the guard behind them won't notice. He adjusts his hood. "Hide your face better. I thought you said the battle between you and Cathalan took place years ago?"

"Over a decade ago. The bastard must hold a grudge." Theo tries to casually cover his face as one of the guards in the watchtower squints down, fuzzy brows tight with suspicion. "And why do you keep calling him Cathalan? "

"You really want to ask that now? "

"It just makes it sound like you've met him before –"

"Wait a moment," Cleony says as he takes a step closer to Theo – Theo who has only made the importance of his face more obvious by burying his head into the rags hanging around his neck.

"That face – that's the Kiteran!" Cleony looks between Theo and the painting and then back again. Theo must admit the likeness is good, though he looks far more regal in fits of rage. "That's the Kiteran that the Third Blessed Prince wants!" Cleony flails about in alarm. "Wanted dead or alive!"

Luka freezes like a mouse before a hawk. The bustling marketplace turns to stare at the commotion.

Damn that Snake of the South .

"Time to go," Theo says as all color drains from Luka's face. He snatches the man's arm and yanks him clear of the closing gates, which now creak shut at alarming speed. They dart toward the marketplace, the forefront of which has now drawn to a halt so the people can stop and stare. Cleony is close behind them, face red with exertion. "Stop!" he shouts.

"Go where? " Luka says, breathlessly, as they charge through the crowd. Theo shoves one woman out of the way, and she goes flying, spilling a basket of multi-colored beans and tumbling into the man next to her. They collapse like an avalanche, one bumping into the next, until the whole marketplace is in chaos. One woman shrieks as she tumbles into the canal, and the enormous splash only serves to draw more attention.

A nearby guard – one who must have been standing on the inside of the gate – fumbles with her spear and approaches, her eyes darting about. But Theo yanks Luka clear, pulling him deeper into the chaos.

"We just need to find a place to hide," Theo says. The dusty cobblestone stings against his worn boots, the scents of spice and sweat and sweet fruit filling his nostrils as he searches. They have to escape. There is no other option.

They shove past a wide-eyed merchant, a tiny sagging market stall, a tired saddled donkey –

Ah.

Deeper into the heart of Balivartia, the marketplace eases into sandstone buildings, worn against the winds, long tarps stretched before entrances and over alleyways to provide extra protection from the sun. The crowd thins here, the people pausing to stare as Theo drags Luka through the streets – and the shouts of the guards, lost to the snarl of the crowd and the chaos of the marketplace, echo behind them.

"Stop – st-stop running!" Luka gasps. "They can't see us – here!" Theo finally spares the man a glance. Luka's cheeks have gone bright red from exertion, his face shiny with sweat.

"We need to get out of view –"

"D-draws too much attention!"

" We draw too much attention," Theo snaps. It's true; their ragged clothes and unwashed stench are near impossible to ignore. People are stopping to stare. "Get it together, Luka," he snarls. Luka shrinks. Theo ignores a bite of guilt. If Luka didn't slow them down, they would be far from the shouts of the guards still pursuing them.

"I am keeping it together," Luka replies between breaths. "But we have – have to stop running."

Theo spares a glance behind them – Luka is right: Theo can't make out the guards. So hopefully they won't be able to see them either. An old woman eyes them as they slow to a stroll. Theo glowers at her until she stops, and then pulls Luka into a nearby alleyway.

The shock of the shade only makes it more apparent how hot the day has become. Both Luka and Theo sigh with relief as they press against the cool walls, sand mixing with their sweat. The drop in temperature only just makes up for the stench of rotting fruit – it looks like someone has upended their garbage at the end of the alleyway.

"What in Thought was that?" Luka says after he's taken a moment.

"Obviously a mural that that damned Demon Prince had commissioned because he can't let grudges go."

"I saw that." Luka shakes his head, falling into a pace. He wrinkles his nose at the sight of the rotting fruit, and immediately turns around, avoiding Theo's gaze as he runs his hands through his hair. "But why did that guard say you are wanted dead or alive? What did you do to deserve that?"

Theo shakes his head. "Nothing more than what I've already told you – we met in battle and he defeated me –"

"Well, obviously something more happened. Cathalan might carry a chip on his shoulder, but it's usually not quite so large and obvious."

" Stop calling him that ." Theo's voice emerges more wolfish growl than it does human speech. Something sour curdles in his gut, and he desperately tries not to think about its source and how it feels like… like… jealousy. It was fine for Luka to refer to the third prince of Balivartia by his first name as if they were close in front of the guards, when this was all pretend. But to continue to do so in front of Theo?

Luka's eyes meet his, lips curled. "Or what? What will you do, Theo? You've trapped us here. Did you think about that when you pulled us through those gates? We aren't safe here – I'm not safe with you . In fact, I'm probably better off if I turn you in now and beg ignorance."

"And what, you think the Snake of the South will simply forgive you for such a slight? Obviously he carries a grudge, especially for those he defeats and takes everything from."

Theo's mouth snaps shut as Luka's eyes narrow. Memories claw at him, and though the pain has weakened with the years, it still aches. The thought of that night, as Theo sat with his "trusted" advisors, flushed with the joy of his first battle, so filled with adolescence's cocksureness.

The thought of the morning that followed – the stench of smoke that clung to his clothes, his hair, his skin. He scrubbed long and hard, but nothing could remove it. Nothing could take back the mistakes he had made in the name of his country.

Mistakes that, if repeated, might result in the death of –

No.

I do not care about him in that way.

I will not care about him in that way.

He cannot let himself care for this man here – the man his beast has chosen. Not now. Maybe never. Not until he is strong enough.

"Perhaps we should find him and just apologize," Luka mutters to himself as he reaches the end of the alleyway and turns. "Weren't you planning on appealing to Cathalan for help? How are we going to turn the man who wants you dead into our ally?"

"He wants me dead or alive."

"Don't mince words with me. Tell me you planned for this, Theo."

Hearing his name on Luka's lips makes Theo straighten. "The Balivartians are not our allies, but with the turnover in Cesscounthe – and Siacchi – they will be desperate for information. We can work that angle."

Luka frowns. "Weak."

"Do better then."

At this, Luka looks away. "I was – that's not –" he splutters. "We can sort out those details when we know we aren't being hunted by the local authorities. We need to get better disguises first." The shadows pool around him and his ragged clothes, and despite the circumstances, despite the threadbare nature of his hood, the dirt on his cheeks, he is breathtaking –

Ah – I can use that . "You've been here before. How many times?"

"Only once," Luka says. When Theo frowns, he adds, "I can also read books . It's not that hard to practice a dialect and learn of the local currency." Luka looks away when he speaks, and though he uses the moment to scan the entrance of the alleyway, stiffening and then relaxing as a distracted pair of Balivartians skip by, suspicion settles over Theo like a too-warm cloak.

He's lying to me.

But why?

Despite his worry, there is almost something comforting about the deception – like they are slipping into a familiar song and dance. "Keep your information to yourself," Theo says. "I will win it out of you later if I so desire." What matters is Luka will be able to navigate the marketplace better than a first-time tourist.

A tiny smile darts across Luka's face on quick rabbit feet, but it's gone by the time Luka fully faces him. Before the man can speak, Theo continues, "No, apologizing to the Third Blessed Prince or whatever he is called isn't likely to do the trick, but you're right: we do need to get out of these." Theo gestures to his own robes. Though the style is somewhat similar to the Balivartians, the color is anything but – in a land of jewel-tones, the Kiteran's simple brown and black clothing stands out like blood on the ice.

He continues: "You're beautiful –"

Luka splutters.

"– and the Balivartians value that. The money will help, but your face will take you further. Your coloring is a bit odd, but close enough to the locals they probably won't think it suspicious. You already have the dialect down. Simply approach some sad seamstress who has been ignored despite the quality of their wares and offer your services as an… ambassador."

"You want me to request a discount simply because I have good bone structure?"

"Our lives are on the line should you fail."

" Your life is on the line," Luka counters.

Theo smiles. There's his Siacchian. Prickly and wicked smart. A perfect – perfect tool.

"Good, so you've grasped the circumstance. Now, hurry along. The longer we stand hiding here, the higher the odds are they'll find us."

"If good looks matter so much, I suppose it will make it easier to spend this money without drawing the guards' attention," Luka says. Then, frowning, he adds, "How do you even know all this anyways?"

"We study all our enemies before we go to war with them," Theo says, and when Luka only gazes at him, unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest, he begrudgingly adds, "We learned that to interrogate their people, we needed to mimic the glacial and deadly beauty of a snake."

He is grateful that Luka looks away, muffling a snort at this. Better for Luka not to push more, because Theo would hate to admit he was planning on applying that intelligence to the Third Blessed Prince if Theo were to fall into his hands.

Luka scowls at Theo but pulls his hood to cover his face all the same. He pauses at the edge of the alleyway. "In Cesscounthe," he begins, casting the words over his shoulder. "Lawbreakers are punished depending on their level of intelligence. A skilled Cesse player caught stealing might receive a fine. A working impyassus might lose their hand. Do you know what I will face if they find I'm an outsider, breaking Hessalar's laws?"

Theo presses his lips together as he shakes his head. "We don't need to learn laws to invade."

Luka says quietly, "For local Balivartians, they receive a similar fine and then a higher punishment with each repeat offense. If they discover you are an outsider – much less an outsider aiding a criminal like yourself… they will likely put you to death."

Theo sucks in a breath. "So don't get caught."

Something like excitement pounds in Theo's heart, something light and airy and a little maddening to think about. He ignores it until Luka has swept away, hood drawn tight around his face.

Fear .

That's what seizes his lungs and makes every breath a conscious struggle. Fear is what makes him want to run after Luka, to say, no, I'll do this instead. Stay here where you'll be safe.

Stay here where I can protect you.

But Theo can't protect Luka. Theo can't even protect himself. For all his strength, he has only put them both in more danger.

He slinks farther into the alleyway, settling in the deep shadows at the far end, wedged between two buildings and old empty crates and the pile of moldering fruit. As he sinks down into the dust, guilt rises to mix with his terror.

I'm the one that brought us here. I'm the one who insisted this would be the best idea – Luka just followed me because I acted so confident.

And I was wrong.

I endangered us – him.

For an instant, images of Luka caught between the arms of the guards, eyes wild and rolling with fear – Luka behind the bars of a cell, face grown wan and thin – Luka's freckled neck stretched on the executioner's block, dark hair falling to frame his cheeks and accusing gaze –

I did this to him.

But no – now is not the time for regrets. They are here now and they still need help.

And Luka is strong and smart – and a fast talker. He can do this, even without Theo.

He will return safely to me.

My tool will return.

Theo repeats the mantra as his claws dig into his hands, settling into the dark.