Chapter 19: Plague

Chapter

Nineteen

PLAGUE

Ten Years Ago…

T he heady scent of night-blooming jasmine wraps around me as I lean back against the carved stone railing, watching the sunset paint the lake in shades of gold and crimson. Up here in the hanging gardens, it's easy to forget the weight of duty and expectation pressing down on me.

Easy to pretend I'm just Hamsa.

And not a prince.

Adiir sprawls beside me on the cushioned bench, his long legs stretched out carelessly. The dying sunlight catches on the golden threads woven through his white robes, making him glow like some ancient god. He's the only one who's ever seen past my title to the person beneath.

"You're brooding again," he says, nudging my leg with his bare foot. "I can practically hear the gears grinding in that overactive brain of yours."

I snort, shoving his foot away with a grimace and standing up so he can't do it again. "I'm not brooding . I'm thinking."

"Same thing when it comes to you." He sits up, fixing me with that penetrating stare that always makes me feel like he can see straight through my carefully constructed walls. "What is it this time? More medical texts you're not supposed to be reading?"

Heat floods my cheeks.

Of course he knows.

Adiir always knows.

"I found something interesting in the archives," I admit. "A treatise on battlefield surgery from before the war. The techniques they used... they were revolutionary. If we could adapt them, combine them with our own healing practices?—"

"Hamsa." The gentleness in his voice makes my chest ache. "You know you can't."

"Why not?" The words burst out before I can stop them, sharp with frustration as I look out over the railing that overlooks the sprawling miles upon miles of empty lands. Beyond them, the orange glow of explosions and fires dot the landscape. "Why can't a prince be a healer? What's so wrong with wanting to help people rather than ruling over them?"

Adiir sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. The motion displaces his scarf, revealing the strong line of his jaw for just a moment before he adjusts it. "Nothing's wrong with it. But you have other responsibilities. Sacred duties that?—"

"That's bullshit and you know it." I push away from the railing, too restless to stay still. "What's more sacred than saving lives? Than easing suffering?"

"Your mother?—"

"My mother is wrong." The words taste like ashes on my tongue, but I can't take them back. Don't want to. "All of this—the isolation, the rigid traditions, the walls we've built around ourselves—it's killing us. We're suffocating behind our own perfection."

Adiir watches me pace, his expression unreadable behind his scarf. But I know him well enough to see the concern in his dark eyes.

"Are we?" he asks quietly.

"Are we what?" I mutter.

"Suffocating. Are we suffocating, or are you?"

I shoot him an irritated look, but I know he's right. Instead of arguing, I drop back onto the bench beside him, close enough that our shoulders brush.

"I don't want to be a prince," I whisper, the words barely audible over the gentle splash of the fountains. "I never have. I just... I want to help people. Really help them, not just sit in judgment and issue decrees from on high. Hell, I'm not even next in line to be king. But I wouldn't want that, either."

There something else I want, too.

Something I'll never admit to wanting.

"I know." Adiir's voice is soft, understanding. He's the only one I can be truly honest with, even if there's that one little thing I'll never tell him. "But wanting something doesn't make it possible."

"Why not?" I turn to face him, desperate to make him understand. "Look at what we have here. The finest medical facilities in the known world, centuries of healing knowledge locked away in our archives, techniques that could save countless lives. And what do we do with it? We hoard it. Keep it hidden behind these walls while people suffer and die as the world caves in beyond our walls."

"The laws?—"

"Laws can be changed."

"Not these ones." He catches my wrist as I start to pull away, his grip gentle but firm. "Hamsa, please. I know you want to help. It's one of the things I l—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "It's one of the things that makes you who you are. But there are other ways to serve your people."

I stare down at where his fingers circle my wrist. It takes me a moment to find my voice. "What if I can't? What if I'm not meant for this?"

His thumb strokes over my pulse point, sending electricity through my veins. Why is he doing that? He's an alpha. And a noble, at that. Alphas don't touch other alphas unnecessarily.

I would know.

I think about it all the goddamn time.

"You learn how to be," he continues. "You adapt. You find ways to help within the constraints of your position."

"Like you did?"

The words slip out before I can stop them. Adiir goes very still, his grip tightening fractionally before he forces himself to relax.

"That was different," he says quietly.

"Was it?" I twist my wrist in his grip until I can lace our fingers together. "You wanted to be a scholar. To study the old texts, preserve our history. But your family needed you to take your father's place as Commander of the Royal Guard instead."

"And I adapted." His voice is rough. "Like you will."

"But you're not happy."

He's silent for a long moment, staring out at the darkening sky. The first stars are appearing, diamond-bright against deepening indigo.

"Happiness isn't always possible," he says finally. "Sometimes duty has to be enough."

The resignation in his voice breaks something inside me. Without thinking, I reach up and hook my finger in the edge of his scarf, tugging it down. He lets me, though his eyes widen in surprise.

"What if I don't want it to be enough?" I whisper.

His breath catches. "Hamsa?—"

"What if I want more?"

We're too close now, the air between us charged with possibility. I can see the moment his control starts to crack, desire darkening his hazel eyes.

"We can't," he breathes, but he doesn't pull away.

"Why not?"

"Because you're the prince."

"I don't want to be."

His free hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. I freeze at his touch even though I'm the one who pulled his scarf down. Then he surges forward, crushing his mouth to mine.

The kiss is desperate, hungry, years of unspoken longing poured into a single point of contact. I grip his shoulders, pulling him closer as his tongue sweeps into my mouth.

His lips are impossibly soft against mine, nothing like I imagined during all those stolen glances and lingering touches. I melt into the kiss, my fingers tangling in his dark hair as he pulls me closer. The scent of jasmine mingles with his own warm, spicy fragrance, making my head spin.

We shouldn't be doing this.

Can't be doing this.

But I've wanted it for so long.

A soft growl escapes me as his teeth graze my lower lip. The sound seems to break something loose in him. His grip tightens, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck while the other settles possessively on my hip. The touch sends electricity through my veins.

"Hamsa," he breathes against my mouth. The way he says my name, rough with need, makes me shiver. "We have to stop."

But he doesn't pull away. Instead, his lips trail along my jaw, down the column of my throat. I tilt my head back, giving him better access. My pulse thunders beneath his mouth.

"Why?" I manage, though my voice comes out embarrassingly breathless. "Why do we have to stop?"

He nips at my throat, drawing a gasp from me. "Because you're a prince," he murmurs against my skin. "Alphas don't do this. It would be a scandal like the royal family has never seen before. Your father--"

"I don't care." My fingers dig into his shoulders as he finds a particularly sensitive spot. "Fuck my father."

And right now, I don't care.

I should.

But I don't.

His laugh is dark. "That's why you're so dangerous." He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, and the hunger I see in his eyes makes my breath catch. "You make me want impossible things."

The golden ibis brooch on his shirt catches the dying sunlight, drawing my attention for just a moment. Something glints within its eye. Something that shouldn't be there.

My heart stops.

A lens.

He's recording this?

Terror claws up my throat, choking me.

"Adiir…" I choke out.

He pauses and glances down at his pin, following my gaze. "You always were observant," he says quietly, sounding almost disappointed as he reaches up and caresses our goddess's gilded wing.

"You betrayed me," I whisper.

How could he?

We grew up together.

We were practically brothers.

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine. For a moment, guilt flashes in those depths, but it's gone as soon as it appears, and his lips curve into a smirk. "What? You thought I actually wanted you?" He chuckles darkly. "You may be observant, but you're still an idiot."

My hands move before I can think.

I grab his throat, fingers finding those precise pressure points that will cut off blood flow to his brain. His eyes widen in shock and betrayal—so convincing, even now—as I squeeze.

"Why?" I ask roughly, my voice raw. "Was it worth it?"

He claws at my hands, but I've got the leverage. His mouth works, trying to form words, but no sound comes out. I can feel his pulse racing beneath my palms, feel the exact moment his struggles start to weaken.

I know exactly how long it takes to die this way.

Know exactly what's happening inside his body as I slowly, methodically, squeeze the life from him.

The knowledge makes bile rise in my throat.

His eyes stay locked on mine until the very end. Even as awareness fades from them, that look of betrayal never leaves.

Like somehow I'm the one who betrayed him .

When he finally goes limp in my grasp, I hold on for another thirty seconds. Just to be sure. Just like I learned from my texts, studying the delicate structures of the human throat. Knowledge meant to heal transformed into violence.

My hands shake as I lower his body to the cushioned bench. He looks peaceful, like he's sleeping. Like any moment he'll open his eyes and smile at me, tease me about brooding again, touch my hand when he doesn't need to.

But he won't.

I killed him.

I killed the man I...

No.

Can't think about that.

Have to move.

Have to run.

I'm sure someone is watching through the ibis's lens.

Soon, they'll know everything.

Unless I'm already gone.

Tears stinging my eyes, I wrench the false brooch from his shirt, tearing it free. Just in case. Not that it matters. I can't stay here. Can't take the chance.

I take one last look at Adiir's body, sprawled gracefully across the bench where we shared so many secrets.

So many dreams.

All lies, in the end.

The sunset paints his skin in shades of gold and crimson as I turn and flee into the gathering darkness, leaving behind everything I've ever known.

Everything I've ever loved.

Everything I've ever been.

"Welcome home, Prince Hamsa."

My mother's words shatter the carefully constructed walls I've spent a decade building. The marble beneath my knees feels like it's spinning. Like I'm caught in one of those fever dreams that used to plague me after I fled, where I'd wake up gasping, convinced I was back in the hanging gardens with Adiir's blood on my hands.

But this is real. The cold stone under my knees, the whispers of silk and chiming of golden beads, the familiar scent of lotus and jasmine—it's all real.

The weight of the queen's gaze pins me in place as surely as any physical restraint. I can't look up. Can't bear to see the mix of emotions I know must be warring in those pale blue eyes so like my own. Eyes that used to look at me with such pride before I threw it all away.

Behind me, I hear Whiskey's sharp intake of breath. "Holy shit," he mutters. A dull thud follows—probably Thane elbowing him into silence.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the world to stop tilting on its axis. A decade of careful control threatens to crumble. The detached mask I crafted to hide behind—to keep everyone at arm's length—feels paper-thin.

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.

But I can't hide anymore.

Not here.

Not now.

"Stand up, my son."

My mother's voice is softer now, though it still carries the weight of command. Her fingers remain gentle on my chin, thumb stroking my cheek like she used to do when I was small and scared of thunder. The familiar gesture nearly breaks me.

I force myself to rise on legs that feel like water, still unable to meet her gaze. The gilded beads on her veil chime softly as she moves closer. Her familiar scent—jasmine perfume and lotus—wraps around me, threatening to drag me back to that night in the gardens.

To everything I lost.

Everything I destroyed.

"Look at me, Hamsa."

I do.

And nearly drown in the love I see there, tempered by old hurt but no less fierce for it. The years have painted silver through her dark hair, added fine lines around her eyes that weren't there before. But she's still as regal as ever in her flowing white robes, still every inch the queen I remember.

How can she still look at me like that?

After what I did?

After I ran like a coward and let her think...

"Your Majesty." Thane's voice cuts through my spiral. The scrape of boots on marble tells me he's dropped into a formal bow. "We didn't know?—"

"Of course you didn't." My mother's tone carries a hint of steel now. She releases my chin but doesn't step back. "My son has always been... creative in his methods of hiding."

"That's putting it fucking mildly," Whiskey mutters.

A guard shifts, hand dropping to his sword hilt, but my mother raises one bejeweled hand. The guard freezes mid-motion.

I deserve her anger.

Her contempt.

Instead, she's looking at me like I'm still worth saving.

Does she not know what I did?

She must know.

There's no way she doesn't.

"Mother, I?—"

"Shh. There will be time for you to explain later. For now..." Her gaze drifts to my pack— my pack , when did I start thinking of them that way?—lingering on Ivy. "Let us welcome you and yours properly."

"Well, that explains the fancy fucking train," Whiskey says. "And here I thought we were gonna get executed."

"The day's still young," Valek drawls from somewhere behind me.

Ivy.

Sweet, fierce Ivy who's staring at me with such open relief it makes my chest ache. No judgment in those sea-green eyes. Just acceptance. She stands between Wraith and Thane, her small frame dwarfed by their bulk, but she's watching me with that quiet intensity that always sees straight through my defenses.

Like always.

Even when I don't deserve it.

"I knew you were hiding something good," Ivy says. Then her lips curve into a teasing smile. "Though I have to admit, 'secret prince' wasn't on my list of theories."

A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The sound bounces off the marble columns, startling a nearby courtier who quickly bows and hurries away.

The sound is rusty, unfamiliar.

When was the last time I really laughed?

"Explains why he's such a prissy bitch," Whiskey mutters, but there's no real heat in it. His honey-brown eyes dance with barely suppressed mirth as he rocks back on his heels. "All that fancy vocabulary and obsessive hatred for germs—and everything he thinks is a germ—finally makes sense."

"Indeed." My mother's lips twitch beneath her veil, the gold threads catching the light. "Though he does take our religious disdain for filth further than anyone else here."

A servant scurries past, head bowed, white robes whispering against the marble. The movement draws Wraith's attention, his massive frame tensing as he tracks the potential threat. His borrowed white scarf shifts with the motion, revealing a flash of sharp teeth before he quickly adjusts it.

Whiskey snorts, dragging my attention back. "Of course dirt is against his goddamn religion."

I cringe. "Whiskey?—"

But the queen just laughs musically. "Oh, I like this one. You should keep him around," she says to me before heading deeper into the palace, her royal gown rustling as it brushes the marble atrium. The sound of tinkling beads follows in her wake.

If only she knew the truth about any of them.

About what we've done.

What we are.

The palace halls blur past in a haze of white marble and gold filigree as we follow my mother's graceful form. Every step feels like I'm walking through water, sounds muffled and distant. The soft whispers of fabric, the gentle chiming of beaded veils, the echo of boots on polished stone—it all seems to come from very far away.

Courtiers and servants press themselves against the walls as we pass, bowing deeply. Their whispers follow us like ghosts.

The prince has returned.

After all this time...

But where has he been?

What happened to him?

This can't be real.

But the weight of my pack's presence behind me is undeniable. The heat of their bodies and the familiar mingling of their scents ground me somehow.

I've become reliant on them, it seems.

How terrifying.

"So," Whiskey drawls from somewhere to my left, his voice cutting through the fog in my head. His boots scuff against the polished floor as he sidles closer. "Should we be calling you 'Your Highness' now? Or 'Your Grace'? Or is that only for formal occasions?"

I shoot him a withering glare, but he just grins that insufferable grin of his. "I will dissect you in your sleep," I mutter, but the familiar banter helps, in a strange way. Makes this surreal situation feel slightly more normal.

"Kinky," Whiskey replies with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Valek's silvery laugh drifts from behind us. "It seems my nickname suits him even better than I thought. Princess Plague. It has a ring to it, no?"

Okay.

That familiar banter doesn't fucking help at all.

I clench my jaw, fighting back the urge to snap at them both. But then I catch Ivy watching me, a slight smile on her lips. A smile meant for me and no one else. I wish I could tell what she's thinking. Even after all this time, she's still a mystery to me.

But that warmth in her eyes…

She trusts me.

Even now.

Even after everything.

The thought sends an ache through my chest that has nothing to do with the suffocating pressure of being back in these halls.

A group of nobles passes us, their white robes rustling. They bow deeply, but I catch the flash of recognition in their eyes. The way they stare. One woman's hand flies to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

They remember me.

Remember the prince who fled in the night, leaving chaos in his wake.

The queen leads us deeper into the palace, past delicate archways and flowing fountains that haven't changed in the decade I've been gone. The same impossibly intricate carvings line the walls, telling ancient stories in gold and mother-of-pearl. The same sweet incense burns in ornate brass censers, filling the air with memories I've spent years trying to forget.

"We have much to discuss," my mother says, her voice carrying that careful neutrality I remember so well. "But first, your pack needs rest. The staff aboard the train informed me you all looked worse for wear, and I'm afraid that was an understatement." Her gaze sweeps over them critically. "Not to mention proper clothes."

Thane glances down at his bare chest, seeming to realize for the first time we're all half naked, our clothes long sacrificed to keep our omega warm.

"Hey, we're soldiers, not royalty," Whiskey mutters, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "We had other shit to worry about."

Thane elbows him in the side. "Show some respect," he growls.

But my mother's laugh just chimes like silver bells. "Oh, I like them very much, Hamsa. They're exactly what you needed."

The use of my real name sends another jolt through me. I haven't heard it spoken aloud in so long, I'd almost forgotten how it sounds. Almost convinced myself I really was just Plague. The cold Ghost I'd crafted myself into.

But here, in these white halls with their impossible beauty and crushing weight of memory, that careful facade is crumbling.

"Your chambers have been maintained," my mother continues as we approach a familiar corridor. The words hit me like a physical blow. "Though you may prefer to stay with your pack in the guest wing?—"

"The guest wing," I say quickly.

Too quickly.

"What's in your 'chambers'?" Whiskey asks immediately, perking up like a hound on a scent. He may be a dumbass, but not a single goddamn thing gets past him. "I wanna see?—"

" No ," I say sharply.

The word echoes off the marble walls, harsher than I intended. Several nearby servants flinch.

Everyone stares at me.

"What are you hiding in there?" Whiskey presses.

He can never fucking stop, can he?

"Nothing," I hiss. "I just don't want your grubby paws all over my things."

Whiskey snorts. "You sure as hell wanted--"

I shoot him a lethal glare. Judging from the way he shuts his mouth for once, he's wondering if I'm going to spill his blood all over these pretty pristine floors.

Good.

"The guest wing will be fine," the queen says smoothly, seeming oblivious as she heads that way. Her robes whisper against the floor as she changes direction.

I walk after her without wasting another moment getting dragged into more bullshit with Whiskey. I still don't know what the fuck to make of everything going on between us, but having him here when every hall feels haunted by the ghost of Adiir isn't doing my nerves any favors.

Not when I know what my father would think.

That's if he's even alive. It's strange that my mother is alone. Our society values and reveres omegas so much, it isn't entirely unusual for her to be away from the king, but if she knew we were coming...

Where is he?

Guilt lances through me when I realize I'm hopeful.

Especially now that I know how it feels to have a mate. The overwhelming terror that sets in at the thought of anything happening to her. My father is not a kind or loving parent in the slightest, but he is my mother's mate, and she loves him despite his shortcomings.

If something happened to him, it happened while I was gone.

Fuck .

My mind works overtime as we keep walking. Every step feels like I'm walking through molasses, my feet impossibly heavy against the polished marble floors. I focus on the steady rhythm of boots behind me. On Ivy's bare feet padding silently across the stone. On anything but the weight of memory pressing down on me.

My pack.

The thought still feels strange, foreign. Like putting on clothes that don't quite fit. I never meant to get attached. Never meant to let anyone close again.

But here we are.

And here I am, leading them straight into the heart of everything I ran from.