Page 39 of King's Warrior

What could he want? Well, when Draylon called, Rufe answered, hurriedly dressing and wending his way through the castle to the room indicated.

He settled in an opulent sitting room two floors below the room where Niam likely still lay sleeping. Rufe imagined Niam’s pale skin contrasted with his own as they writhed together… No. He’d not lose himself in fantasies of his lover while waiting to speak with Draylon.

Rufe focused his attention on the room instead—a room far too good for anyone like Rufe, with a brocade sofa and matching armchair in shades of cream and gold. Maybe he should check his clothes once more for dirt. Every part of the room screamed of privilege. An equally ornate low table showed the hand of a master craftsman who’d left no surface but the top uncarved. These pieces must’ve come from Cormir, for he’d seen nothing so fine elsewhere in Renvalle.

The twisted, inner part of him that reviled the show of wealth urged him to deface the carvings with a sharp knife. Another part of him admired the beauty too much to cause such damage.

Rufe sometimes confused even himself.

Someone appeared to have cleaned the faded wall tapestries since his last stay. They depicted peaceful times in Renvalle’s history, even a royal wedding. However, the castle’s escape routes and battlements told of the structure’s warlike origins before the empire, when neighboring kingdoms or factions within the country fought over land, gold, or even an imagined slight.

And Renvallians called Cormirans barbaric. A fire in the hearth at least drove back the late autumn chill.

A glint of steel caught his eye. Rufe ventured toward the far wall where several weapons hung. Someone must’ve sent Draylon’s personal belongings to the castle, for Rufe recognized one particular blade. He swallowed a lump in his throat and slipped his hand into the hilt of the sword that had once saved his life through mistaken identity. The familiar grip brought a rush of memories, both good and bad—memories best left in the past.

He released the sword he’d refused to carry after his abduction and returned to his seat. Although Rufe hadn't killed them, the blood of slaughtered innocents stained the blade. How fitting for such a relic to hang on the walls in this chilly, drafty castle, which likely housed plenty of ghosts.

His Majesty King Draylon Aravaid of Renvalle strode into the room, knuckling one dark eye and looking far more disheveled than a man with his lofty title should. “Ah, Rufe. Good morn to you. I apologize for being late.”

“It’s unseemly for a man of your station to apologize to one of mine.” Rufe didn’t rise and adopted the haughty official voice he’dlearned from his father, which he only used on his friend in jest. Well, mostly in jest. No one was here to witness his insubordination, and Draylon wouldn’t stand on ceremony with a friend. He might even land a blow if Rufe went all formal on him.

Draylon’s brows beetled over his somewhat largish nose. He ran a hand over his close-cropped dark hair, a critical glint in his nearly black eyes. The shortness of his hair further accentuated a rather pronounced scar across one cheek. “To the commander of the entire Cormiran Empire’s military, by my brother’s decree?”

Rufe rolled his eyes. Would he ever get used to his new title, offered to him only the previous day? “A fatherless bastard. And the title is honorary.” Like Draylon needed reminding of Rufe’s station. Dray’s odious father had probably reminded him daily. Good morn, son. Your friend is a worthless bastard. Stop associating with him immediately,only without the pleasantry ofgood morn.

Those dark brows wrinkled further in confusion. “But you aren’t fatherless. Your parents later married and raised you in a loving household.”

A household where servants hissed “bastard” behind Rufe's back while doting on his younger brother, born on the right side of the blanket to be the legitimate heir. A fact the servants and the brother wouldn’t let Rufe forget.

The reason he’d left home at the first opportunity.

“I’m sure you’ve already figured out that Soland’s heart didn’t kill him.”

“I suspected.”

Draylon connected his brown-eyed gaze to Rufe’s. “He tried to kill Avestan.”

“What!” That made no sense.

“Soland’s mind has been going for quite some time. Facing abdicating in favor of Avi was more than he could bear.”

Soland finally snapped. “Avestan didn’t appear injured.”

“He wasn’t, thanks to another’s fast actions.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Draylon shook his head. “It’s best you don’t know.”

But Rufe knew Draylon well enough to rule him out, and Avestan wasn’t a fighter. A guard, maybe, but then Draylon would’ve just said so.

Which left… Yarif. Yes, better not to speak the name out loud. But…. “You won’t let them tattoo Yarif?” Rufe held up his hand, showing his own mark of shame.

“No. And the new emperor just outlawed the practice.”

Good.

“Avestan was quite impressed by Niam. Especially when I told him I sent a message to Niam, apprising him of the situation, but he came to offer support on his own, even without my bidding.” Draylon paused a moment, looking thoughtful. “Rufe, I do believe you finally found someone worthy of you.”

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