Page 4 of The King's Man 3

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, in and out, and again. He drops my hand.

“You should remove yourself from this particular weakness entirely,” I murmur, “I can’t have anything happen to you because of me.”

Once the duke has been dealt with, when Nicostratus is a prince without troubles and my troubles are solely related to medicine... Perhaps then there could be a chance for us.

I breathe deeply on the dream.I’ll do everything to work towards it.

But I can’t promise him more until it’s reached.

“You’re ending things between us?”

I say nothing, but my silence is its own answer. His gaze holds mine, and for a moment, I think he might spill a tear.

“I just want to be your hope,” he whispers.

I briefly shut my eyes. “You coming here before anything else,” I murmur. “It’s already made me lighter.”

His breath hitches. He shakes his head over and over.

I tug the golden feather from my belt and hold it out to him, but he closes his hand around mine and pushes it back towards me.

“Nicostratus . . .”

“I’ll keep my distance. But . . . keep this.”

When he’s gone, I take water from the canal and pour it gently over the planting. It forms a smooth layer of pale mud. Murky. A stagnant pool in the darkness.

I glance through the mist toward the crumbling ruins.

What kind of light survives a place like this?

I find Casimiria meditating alone in the courtyard.

As if sensing me, she opens her eyes. “One thing to know about me.” She rises in a single, graceful motion and dusts off her robe. “I’m quite meddlesome. I listened in on you and Nicostratus.”

I blink at her. Then, unexpectedly, a short laugh escapes. “You are certainly his mother.”

She lifts her chin with quiet pride and a dry, unapologetic smile, and beckons me forward.

We descend into the ruins, deeper than I’ve gone before. A small orb of light flickers in her palm, casting long shadows that stretch along moss-eaten stone.

“Would you have shown me this,” I ask, “if Nicostratus hadn’t said something?”

“I’m still not sure I should.”

I glance at her sharply.

She stops at a wall overgrown with ivy and parts the veil with one hand to reveal a weathered door. “He called it light. Others call it hope.” Her voice turns cool. “I call it stagnation.”

The hinges creak as the door swings open; behind it, stacks of tomes on sagging shelves, every surface bulging with a forgotten time. A library, swallowed by dust and silence.

I step inside, heart lifting as I run my fingers along the spines. “This is history.”

Casimiria’s voice is flat. “History is written by victors. This is folklore.”

I flip through a book at random. Ancient scriptions, ones I’ve never seen before. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “This is a vault of wisdom.”

Her gaze sharpens. “It’s the past, Cael. Not the now. Not the future.”

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