Chapter 42

Kosha had fallen violently ill.

Following his dramatic and chaotic reunion with Eydric, the mage had been making his way back to the west wing when his body simply gave out.

There had been no warning.

He collapsed without so much as a gasp, and had Eydric not possessed the reflexes to catch him, Kosha would undoubtedly have cracked his fragile skull against the stone floor and died on the spot.

After being carried back and deposited in bed, he spent the next several days hovering on the agonizing brink of death. His frail body burned and shuddered through relentless waves of fever, leaving him delirious and nearly paralyzed by aches that rattled deep within his bones.

Through the fever haze, he vaguely remembered Mailot visiting to question him about something. Kosha had tried to answer truthfully, but his memories fractured like broken glass whenever he reached for them, leaving him uncertain of what he might have confessed.

He also retained a fleeting, surreal image of Lucien standing over his bed. The prince had looked so genuinely troubled, even distressed, that Kosha desperately hoped it had been nothing more than a fever dream.

Isolated within the fortress, there was no master present to diagnose his condition as an acute mana-deficiency disorder, nor any kin capable of providing the matching mana wavelength required for first aid. Ignorant of the true cause of his suffering, the unfortunate mage assumed that his perpetually frail constitution had finally succumbed to a vicious chill, leaving him no choice but to endure the agony alone.

When consciousness finally returned, sluggish and uncertain, Kosha had lost all sense of time. His body felt marginally lighter, although his thoughts remained wrapped in a dense fog.

Testing his stiff limbs, he slowly shifted his arms beneath the heavy covers, only to freeze when something damp and solid wriggled against his leg.

Kosha rubbed the crust from his eyes, praying that the sensation was another lingering hallucination.

It was not.

Scuttle. Scuttle.

A gleaming emerald-green lizard crawled from the depths of the blankets, climbed onto his chest, and stared at him with an expressionless, unblinking gaze.

“You’re still here?” Kosha whispered, his voice cracking from disuse. Unsure how else to address a reptile, he continued, “Why did you abandon me halfway through the passage? I almost got lost in the dark, and then I ended up in terrible trouble.”

The lizard offered no explanation. It merely flicked its tongue.

“What exactly are you?” Kosha squinted at its radiant scales. “A magical beast? Did you live inside that forbidden library?”

The very idea was absurd.

Magical creatures surviving in modern-day Izeland, directly in the heart of the fortified capital, defied all reason. Before Kosha could determine how one interrogated a reptile, a booming voice shattered the silence.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The voice thundered from directly above his pillow. It was gruff and unfamiliar, yet something about it tugged at a distant, buried memory.

Kosha tipped his head back against the sweat-drenched pillow and found himself staring up at a man built like a fortress gate. The man’s unruly blond hair remained as wild as ever, although his thick beard was considerably neater than it had been during their last encounter.

“Sir Gosrick!” A reflexive smile of recognition tugged at Kosha’s cracked lips.

Gosrick did not return the sentiment. He recoiled in visible disgust, waving one massive hand as though warding off a foul odor, then dragged a wooden chair to the bedside and dropped into it with a heavy thud.

“What were you muttering about all by yourself?” the knight demanded.

By myself?

Startled, Kosha snapped his gaze down to his chest.

The glowing green lizard had vanished.

He searched the blankets in bewilderment, unable to imagine where the magical creature could have gone.

“It… it was nothing.” Kosha’s voice emerged in a dazed mumble. “I think I was seeing things.”

Gosrick frowned fiercely, leaned forward, and pressed a palm as broad and calloused as an iron pan against the mage’s pale forehead. Muttering that the fever had finally broken, the giant knight roughly examined him for any lingering symptoms.

Uncomfortable with being inspected like a prized horse, Kosha squirmed and weakly pushed himself upright, settling against the headboard. Gosrick clicked his tongue, though a flicker of unmistakable relief passed through his eyes.

“Do us all a favor and stop muttering to yourself.” Gosrick settled back in the chair with a grunt. “You’re already suspicious enough without adding ‘insane’ to the list.”

“Yes, Sir Gosrick.” Lacking the strength to argue, Kosha nodded obediently.

“How does your body feel? Does anything still hurt?”

“I’m fine now. I think I’ve fully recovered.”

In truth, he felt completely drained, but that was only to be expected after surviving on a few scraps of broth for several days. Even now, his stomach felt shrunken and utterly devoid of appetite.

Ignoring the hollowness in his gut, Kosha regarded the towering knight with genuine curiosity. “But Sir Gosrick, what brings you here today?”

Gosrick released a dry, humorless bark of laughter. “That’s the real question, isn’t it? Why the hell am I playing nursemaid?”

The cryptic reply drove a spike of anxiety through Kosha’s chest. Guarding the mage was strictly Eydric’s responsibility. If Gosrick had taken over the duty, then perhaps the worst had happened.

“Is Eydric…” Kosha began, his voice trembling. “Has something terrible happened to Sir Eydric?”

Gosrick stared at him with an unreadable mixture of disbelief and pity. “You really are something else, aren’t you?”

Kosha blinked, thoroughly confused.

“Forget it.” Gosrick sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Eydric? Yes, something definitely happened to the poor bastard.”

Before Kosha could panic, the enormous knight rose abruptly, sending the legs of his chair scraping across the stone.

“Wait here and keep quiet. I’ll bring him in.”

Kosha waited with bated breath, desperately praying that Eydric had not fallen gravely ill after carrying him through the cold corridors.

A few minutes later, the heavy oak door swung open.

The man who entered was most certainly not the stoic knight.

Feeling utterly detached from reality, Kosha watched Lucien sweep into the room and claim the chair Gosrick had vacated. The prince was always strikingly handsome, but after days of feverish isolation, his sharp features and piercing blue-gray eyes seemed to blaze with a terrifying intensity.

A sudden wave of mortifying self-consciousness crashed over Kosha.

He had not cared about his appearance in front of Gosrick, but Lucien’s presence made him painfully aware of his wretched condition. He had not bathed properly in days, his hair was plastered to his scalp with dried fever sweat, and he knew he must reek of sickness.

Knowing Lucien’s absolute abhorrence of anything unclean, Kosha instinctively shrank deeper into the pillows.

His humiliation was interrupted by a silent procession of servants.

They filed into the room with practiced, almost military efficiency, unfolded a sturdy wooden tray across Kosha’s lap, and began unloading a culinary masterpiece. Bowls of thick cream soup and clear beef consommé appeared beside chilled vegetables tossed in vinaigrette, tender white fish grilled in herb butter, and a steaming meat stew glazed with a rich fruit reduction. Within seconds, the modest bedside table seemed ready to buckle beneath the extravagant feast.

“Eat first.”

Lucien gestured casually toward the mountain of food.

Kosha stared blankly at the spread before casting a desperate glance toward the doorway. Standing guard outside, Gosrick immediately lifted his eyes to the ceiling and pretended to find the stonework fascinating.

“Am I…” Kosha hesitated, and the most useless question imaginable escaped before he could stop it. “Am I expected to eat all of this?”

It was a logistical impossibility. The food before him amounted to at least three of his usual daily rations combined.

Lucien clicked his tongue, his irritation flaring. “You were unconscious and burning with fever for three straight days. You couldn’t swallow solid food, which means the medicine I had poured down your throat accomplished almost nothing.”

Kosha blinked in astonishment.

He personally made sure I took medicine?

“Eat whatever you can manage.” Lucien waved one hand dismissively. “I didn’t know what sort of garbage you prefer while knocking on death’s door, so I brought a little of everything.”

To Kosha’s impoverished ears, it was the most absurdly aristocratic statement he had ever heard.

Whenever he fell ill in the slums, he survived by throwing whatever stale scraps he possessed into boiling water and drinking the resulting slop. Luxury and choice had never played any part in his survival.

Yet beneath Lucien’s biting condescension lay an undeniable and startling gesture of kindness. Despite the weakness of his shrunken stomach, the rich, savory aromas rising from the dishes made his mouth water uncontrollably.

Kosha bowed his head in hesitant gratitude and picked up a silver spoon.

The clear meat consommé, expertly skimmed of every trace of heavy grease, slipped smoothly down his raw throat. It was the most soothing and restorative thing he had tasted since arriving in the capital. His usual meals from the servants’ kitchen had never been poor, but they consisted primarily of ordinary bread, thin soup, and hard cheese. The sheer artistry of the prince’s personal kitchen was a revelation.

Once the broth had eased the violent cramps in his empty stomach, Kosha moved on to the vegetables. Steamed until perfectly tender, mixed with soft grains, and dressed in a tangy vinaigrette, the greens quickly awakened his dormant appetite. Every dish had clearly been designed by the head chef for a patient in a severely weakened condition.

Soup, vegetables, then the flaky white fish. Kosha ate slowly and with deliberate concentration.

Even so, he could feel the oppressive weight of Lucien’s stare.

Those piercing blue-gray eyes tracked the movement of his hand, scrutinizing each journey toward the porcelain dishes and following every morsel that passed his lips. Kosha shifted uneasily beneath the prince’s intense attention, but whenever he tried to stop, Lucien gave a sharp, authoritative nod that silently ordered him to continue.

Lacking the courage to defy him, Kosha lowered his face and obediently returned to his bowl.

So pitifully easy to influence, yet forever shrouded in suspicion.

Lucien’s brow tightened almost imperceptibly.

Setting aside his decision to confine Mailot to his quarters, the events of that night demanded careful examination. The scrawny mage not only knew of Ostrabache’s most fiercely guarded secret passages, an absurdity in itself, but had successfully navigated a sector the military had sealed because its ancient traps were considered too lethal to dismantle.

The impossible reality was maddening.

Kosha had not simply appeared from nowhere. He had physically traversed impenetrable barriers, bypassed elite patrols, and somehow ended up near Prince Bastian’s private chambers well past curfew. Then, by collapsing dramatically at their feet, he had deprived Lucien of the opportunity to drag him into the dungeons for a proper, violent interrogation.

“I… I’m completely full now, so no more, please.”

Kosha finally lowered his silver spoon onto the tray as though it weighed a hundred pounds.

Lucien watched him in tense silence, his cold gaze examining the mage’s pale face. Finding no hint of deception in his illness, he gave a sharp, dissatisfied nod.

The servants materialized at once, clearing away the precarious mountain of food with the same silent, ghostlike efficiency they had shown while arranging it.

As the tray disappeared, Lucien’s brow furrowed in genuine displeasure.

He had never expected the mage to finish the entire feast, not after a brutal three-day struggle with mana deficiency, but the amount Kosha had managed was pitiful. The loose sleeves of his nightshirt had fallen back, revealing wrists so thin and emaciated that they looked liable to snap beneath a firm grip.

It was no wonder his recovery had dragged on so miserably. A constitution this wretched would crumble into dust if subjected to even mild physical training.

Lucien released a long, frustrated sigh.

Misreading the sound, Kosha flinched violently and lunged for a nonexistent fork on the now-empty tray, looking fully prepared to force-feed himself until he vomited if the prince demanded it.

So blindly obedient.

A dark knot of confusion tightened in Lucien’s chest.

Could this profound terror truly be an act? Is it even possible to imitate such pathetic submission?

Deciding not to inflict severe indigestion on a man who could barely sit upright, Lucien abandoned the subject of food. After a moment of heavy deliberation, he finally addressed the matter hanging between them.

“I have the book.”