Chapter 38

Chapter 38

A ndrian had always prided himself on being emotionless. On locking everything away so squarely behind a block of ice, leaving only his rage and apathy free.

Then, a dark-haired woman had stepped into his life, melting that ice and uprooting everything about himself he’d held dear. She had become the thing he valued most. It didn’t matter what he felt, or what he did, or who he was. As long as it was all for her.

But he’d seen those scars on her back. Once smooth, glowing skin, now marred with deep rivets of torn flesh. Only a wicked weapon could cause those—an iron-tipped whip, wielded with the intent to cause maximum pain and destruction.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” He could still hear the anger and rage and fear ringing in his voice, like a nightmare he couldn’t shake.

But it wasn’t nearly as awful as her answer.

“You did.”

He hadn’t thought it possible to hate himself more than he did.

He was so very, very wrong.

Three days had passed since those simple words drifted through the air back to him, falling from Mariah’s lips like shards of ice. Three days, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept or bathed. He was still in those secluded rooms, far away in a seldom-used guest wing of the palace, a forced isolation that had quickly become self-imposed.

At least he’d had time to grab the most important of his belongings. Which, of course, meant he’d been able to snag his stash of liquor from his rooms.

Andrian’s head thumped against the wall behind him as he swirled the glass of whiskey. He tracked the streaks left on the cloudy glass before lifting it to his mouth, dumping the contents down his throat. It burned, and he grimaced, but he reveled in the pain and the immediate numbness that followed.

The whiskey was a peaty blend, aged and distilled in Sacale, just south of Verith and nestled in the Attlehon Mountains on the coast. It was his favorite, and he’d been hoarding bottles of it each time he saw a new shipment arriving in the market district.

He was a miserable fucking idiot most of the time, but at least he was smart enough for that. Leaning forward on the couch, he refilled his glass from the half-empty bottle on the table, vision swimming slightly.

His world was blurred, fuzzy, dulled. It was the only way he could tolerate … everything.

He was sure he’d eaten. He must have—too many days had passed, and he wasn’t dead yet.

He just didn’t remember. Just as he couldn’t remember his hands lifting that whip, couldn’t remember the way he’d scourged her back. He couldn’t remember any of the pain he knew she’d suffered at his unworthy hands. All he remembered was unending darkness, flashes of malevolent nightmares bursting through his mind each time he closed his eyes.

Andrian tried to recover those lost memories. Every night, he would lie awake, peeling back the layers of his subconscious, trying desperately to see through his eyes while he’d been locked away. But it was as if they simply didn’t exist; his memories were only of that lightless prison, the occasional flash of color peppering his dreams.

It was like the events happening in this world were done by another entity, someone whose memories Andrian had no access to because they never belonged to him.

He didn’t know if he should be thankful … or terrified.

A part of him wished he could go back to forgetting, to fall back into the void of despair he didn’t deserve to be rescued from.

Andrian raised the now-full glass back to his lips, movement a little jilted, and was about to take a sip when a booming knock rattled the door to the quaint room.

His eyes narrowed on the door. He sat still for five, ten heartbeats. Maybe he’d imagined it.

When there was only silence, he shrugged and lifted his glass again.

The knock rang out a second time.

Andrian let loose a low growl. “Go away.”

Someone shuffled on the other side of the door, and the handle twisted. The door swung wide, and Drystan spilled into the space, his golden shoulder-length hair slightly rumpled. His aureate eyes blazed as he took in Andrian and the room, nose wrinkling in disgust.

Honestly, he was being dramatic. Andrian didn’t think it was that bad in here. The asshole needed to keep his judgment to himself.

“Good to see you’re still alive.” Drystan’s voice was dry and flat, carrying no traces of amusement.

Andrian grunted. “I said,” he growled before taking another sip of the fiery liquor. “Go the fuck away.”

“No. I don’t think I will.” Drystan closed the door behind him with a soft click. He tapped the lunestair panel on the wall, the shimmering stone illuminating faintly before the lights set into recessed alcoves in the ceiling blazed to life.

The light fucking burned . Andrian hissed, eyes flickering closed as he threw his free hand over his face.

“Turn those fucking lights back off.”

“No,” Drystan repeated. Andrian cracked open an eye as Drystan sniffed a tray of half-forgotten food left on the dining table before pulling out a chair, swinging it around to sit facing Andrian.

He guessed he had eaten, after all.

Drystan clasped his hands, watching Andrian.

“You look terrible.”

Andrian grumbled. “I honestly couldn’t give two shits what I look like.”

“Oh, trust me. That much is apparent.” Drystan’s golden eyes surveyed him uncomfortably close, as if peeling back the layers Andrian would rather keep buried beneath his skin and his whiskey. “What I’m not getting is what changed.”

Andrian glowered at him. “What do you mean, ‘what changed?’”

“When we first told you to move into these rooms, you were resigned, but you were accepting of it. You understood. You were hardly distraught. This, though …” Drystan tsked. “Something else caused this .”

“Nothing happened.” Andrian glared. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Nothing happened, or you don’t want to talk about it?”

Andrian groaned. His head hurt. He closed his eyes and rested his hand back over his lids to block out the light.

He heard Drystan shift. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You come with me, get out of this disgusting room, let the staff do some basic cleaning, and I won’t take your entire stash of whiskey and leave you empty.”

Andrian’s eyes snapped open, the light burning. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

Except it seemed Drystan really would fucking dare. Because the noise Andrian had heard wasn’t Drystan shifting in his chair; it was Drystan standing from his seat, inching to the coffee table, and snatching up Andrian’s bottle of Sacalan whiskey. He clutched it to his chest like one of the hide balls they used to play with in the clearing as boys.

Andrian’s voice was low, a warning. “Give that back.”

Drystan dangled it in the air. “Come with me and bring your glass, and I’ll pour you another.”

It was a clash of wills: eyes of bleary, dulled tanzanite battling with blazing gold.

The pounding in Andrian’s head pushed him to relent. He dropped his hands into his lap, slumping forward with a groan.

“Fine,” he said. “But bring food, too. I’m hungry.”

They sat in a quiet glade in the game park. Not the training clearing, but one just a little smaller, a little more open, a little less familiar.

And as promised, Drystan had brought the decanter of whiskey. Andrian swirled it again in his refilled glass, smiling slightly before tossing it down his throat.

Gods, he was drunk. But that was how he preferred to spend his days now, anyway.

Drystan had also somehow secured several loaves of freshly baked bread, cheeses, and a roast. Andrian was annoyed at how good it all looked. He grew even more annoyed as he devoured it, knowing it would likely reduce the happy lightness from the whiskey he’d only just started feeling.

On his third slice of bread, Drystan cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, perched atop a boulder a few paces from where Andrian rested against a stump of his own. “You going to tell me what the fuck is going on with you? Other than the usual, of course?”

Andrian glowered up at him, still chewing. He washed it down with another deep sip of whiskey, grimacing against the burn.

“I told you. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s too bad. There’s too much going on for us to be constantly worried about if you’re taking care of yourself. So, we’re going to sit here until you tell me what’s bothering you, or else you’re going to find it very difficult to find a refill of that whiskey bottle once you finish it.”

Andrian seethed, the world swirling around him. Fuck , Drystan was clever.

The threat of losing his whiskey was, in all truth, the only thing that would’ve ever gotten him to open up. From anyone else, that threat would’ve been meaningless. But from Drystan …

From Drystan, Andrian knew to take it seriously. Too many blurry memories swam through his mind; memories of Drystan besting him in every sparring match, winning at too many games of chess played on bored nights around a fire.

If any of the Armature could follow through on a threat, it was Drystan.

Andrian dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair. He needed a haircut. It was too long and too thick, too messy, and in his eyes.

The thought of a haircut cracked something in his chest. Loosened the ice that had formed, allowed sadness and grief and anger and rage to spill into its spaces. His mother and Mariah were nothing alike, but in a way, he’d been the one to hurt them both.

The first woman he’d loved and the last. Bound by a common thread: him and the way he’d hurt them.

He would never, never let Mariah suffer the same fate his mother had.

He lifted his head from his hands, meeting Drystan’s stare, and knew that tears lined his eyes.

“I hurt her.” His voice was so quiet, he wasn’t sure it would be heard.

Drystan leaned forward. “What? I can’t hear you. It’s just me here; no one else has to know.”

Andrian drew in a shaky breath before voicing his sins into the glade.

“I hurt her.”

Drystan stilled.

“What do you mean,” he began slowly, “you hurt her? Do you remember something?”

Andrian shook his head, grief tight in his chest. His hands shook as he lifted his glass to his lips, as he forced down another gulp. “I remember nothing, but I … I … I saw her back. Her scars. And when I asked her who did that to her …” Andrian choked on the next words, unable to force them free. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, before turning his head to the sky.

“I asked her who did that to her. And she said me. ”

The clearing was silent, but for the barely there whisper of the spring breeze through the trees. It was a mild day, as was typical for the early vernal season in Verith, the smell of salt on the wind from the bay mingling with the crisp scent of mountain snowdrops.

After several long moments, Andrian opened his eyes and dropped his head, finding Drystan watching him with an expression that shocked him to his core.

The golden-haired man wasn’t angry, or scared, or anything that Andrian might’ve expected.

Instead, he simply looked … sad. Devastated.

“Do you remember?” Drystan asked quietly. “Any of it?”

Again, Andrian shook his head. “Even after she told me, I still remember nothing. It’s all just dark memories and nightmares. Besides,” he said, looking at his whiskey glass, tightening his fingers so his knuckles turned white. “Do you think I would still be here in the palace if I did?”

“No. You wouldn’t be. I think you would have tossed yourself into the Bay of Nria with lead tied to your ankles.”

Andrian grimaced but didn’t respond. They both knew Drystan was right.

They sat like that again, in silence, just the wind around them. With another swallow and a clench of his teeth, Andrian spoke.

“She can hardly look at me.”

Drystan’s brow furrowed in contemplation. “Are you sure of that?”

“Of course, I’m fucking sure. She couldn’t even look me in the eyes.”

“Yes, three days ago. Much can happen in three days.”

Andrian snorted. “I’m not sure those sorts of wounds are going to heal in three days.”

Drystan turned away, looking at the trees. “We all love her. Would fall on our swords and die for her. Would sacrifice ourselves and the entire world for her.” He exhaled heavily through his nose. “But you, Andrian … you love her. More than just an Armature loves his queen. I’ve seen you look at her like she is a moon and you are the sun, chasing each other across the skies.”

“How sentimental of you.” Andrian sloshed another sip of whiskey to drown the burning in his chest.

“Don’t be an ass. You know I’m right.” Drystan turned back to face him. “Aren’t I?”

Andrian blinked once, then deflated. He sagged against the stump, his empty whiskey tumbler hitting the ground.

“Yes. You’re right.” He hung his head. “I love her, and I’ve lost her.”

Drystan shook his head. “See, you believe that, but I don’t think it’s true.”

“Did you not just hear me? I hurt her. I fucking wrecked her. In what realm will she ever be able to trust me again?”

“It wasn’t you, though. I know that and you know that. And, most importantly, she knows that. It was something that wore your skin, that looked like you. But she’s not an idiot, Andrian. Don’t insult her intelligence by claiming she doesn’t know the difference. She just needs time. And she will need you .”

Andrian lifted his chin and snarled. “You don’t have to tell me how smart she is, dickhead.”

Drystan grinned. “That’s more like it.”

Andrian’s anger burned quickly, then ran out. He looked at his hands, the tumbler and bottle of whiskey forgotten.

“I used to believe I could live without her. That I could stumble through this life from afar, could do my duty to this court and kingdom without getting caught up in her. But I was always lying to myself.”

Drystan nodded. “I know you were.”

Andrian clenched his fists. “I need her, Drystan. But she doesn’t need me.”

“I think she does.”

The two men were silent for a long moment, the birds chirping in the trees and the breeze shifting the fresh green leaves. Andrian lost himself in his sorrow and misery, let himself drown in it.

Enough.

He hauled himself to the surface with a shaky breath, his mind gasping as he broke through the onslaught of despair and self-loathing.

He turned to Drystan with determination in his heart.

“How do I get her back?”

Drystan grinned, a spark in his golden eyes.

“You remind her who you are. What it felt like to be loved by you, and how you intend to love her for the rest of your life.”

Andrian let his friend’s words settle over him, and with a gentle, na?ve burse of hope in his chest, he smiled back.