Page 5 of Between Fear and Favor

I swallowed when I heard Mama’s voice in my mind. Uncrossing my arms, I attempted to control my attitude toward Thyra. She didn’t deserve my ire—only Mama had earned that. Wiping the sour look off my face, I took the scroll, unrolled it to look at the handwriting, and confirmed it was from Mama. When I walked toward the fireplace, I pretended I didn’t hear Thyra’s heavy sigh.

“You will have to read one eventually,” Cyran said, and I almost turned to yell at him. He barely talked to me for weeks, and when he finally shared his thoughts, they were all spent reprimanding me. Perhaps I didn’t miss him after all. Perhaps there was no depth of groveling which would allow me to forgive. Breathing deep, I chose to ignore him instead, tossing the letter into the fire.

“He’s right, you know.”

Stiffening, I slowly turned toward the door. Shivani stood there, casually leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. She wore a simple cotton dress, though it was dyed a rich sapphire. I’d found her to be far more casual since we’d arrived at Crown Cottage, and it was both strange and welcome.

“Even if you don’t want to read them now, you shouldn’t burn them, darling,” she said. Many ill tempered remarks ran through my mind, but I refused to say them. Part of me wanted to accuse her of defending Mama’s bad parenting decisions because they probably paled in comparison to hers. I’d gleaned more than enough about my grandmother to deal a striking blow. But I decided against it.

I wasn’t stupid; I’d noticed how she treated me. Shivani Vestana wanted a second chance, and I was it. Another shot at mothering, at maternal love, I wasn’t sure. But she cared for me—was maybe even fond of me—and I didn’t want to use my coarse words on her.

Mama, though...

“Her words are as good as ash to me,” I retorted. Turning my back on Mama’s smoldering lies, I gave my grandmother a thin-lipped smile. “Is it already time for our lessons?” I ignored the hazel eyes peering up at me from beneath a mop of light-brown hair and pulled at the leather on my wrist. Using it to tie my curls away from my face, I wished for a change in subject.

Before she had a chance to answer, Cyran coughed. Eyes bulging as he choked, his gaze rested firmly on the scar on my throat. I frowned at him, debating offering him water, when he reached for the pitcher himself. It wasn’t as if I hid the evidence of his violence, but it was fair to say he’d been avoiding me. I wondered if it was easy for him to forget what he’d done without seeing it every single day.

My grandmother stepped forward, taking in Cyran who sat at the table between us, before she turned her disdainful attention toward me. Gaze drifting to where my fingertips danced at my skin, she let out a long, suffering sigh.

“You don’t appreciate your handiwork, boy?” she asked, before stepping forward and putting her hand on his wrist. “She seems to manage seeing it every day in the mirror just fine.” Her grip tightened just enough for Cy’s face to screw up in pain, even as a wet cough forced its way past his lips. “There are consequences for your actions. You knew that when you did it.”

He closed his eyes, and my gut lurched as she siphoned his shadows away from him. The only reason I knew she was doing it was because there was a slight shift in the air. When I’d first started my training with her in Astana, I hadn’t been able to notice the subtle change, but now, I could tell. I didn’t have the proper words to describe it, but it was similar to the strange feeling that one had lived through an exact moment before. Like a scenario repeating itself to perfection.

“Grandmother,” I said, uncertain if she might take offense to my warning tone. There was no reason for her to make Cyran feel worse, especially when her hatred loudly and clearly outweighed even Rainier’s—a challenge I wouldn’t have imagined her rising to. She did have a point, though. I’d finally stopped wincing when I looked in the mirror, finally stopped tracing a shaking fingertip across the pale slash. The nightmares had even abated, although I suspectedsomeonemight have been tampering with them.

“Meet us in the courtyard once your divinity has returned,” she told him. “Enough to be worth our time.”

Striding out the door with a haughtiness I found exhausting, Shivani left the library. It was assumed I would follow, and ordinarily I’d be thrilled to work on my divinity. Thyra gave me a pointed look before she went after my grandmother, as if begging me to spare her from the woman’s irritation. But as Cyran’s coughing slowed, and he stared down at the tome in front of him, I was tempted to stay in the stuffy library.

“I...” I didn’t know what to say, and the words didn’t come.

“Reminy, will you give us a moment?” Cyran asked.

My heart jumped into my throat as the small man shuffled out of the room, pressing a hand to Cyran’s shoulder as he passed. The prince—king, now, I supposed—unfolded himself from his seat. I wondered if Reminy had bonded with him. Did he know things about Cy that I didn’t? Something twisted low in my gut.

“I think it best if?—”

“Do you really find privies interesting?” I asked, quickly, fearing the worst from Cy’s somber gaze. He blinked before a smile crept over his face. I could tell he fought against it. I was glad to have his handsome features as a distraction when he rolled up his sleeves. For someone who’d barely held a sword before in his life, his forearms were more muscular than they had any right to be.

“The man held meetings of great importance while...well, I will spare you that odiferous detail,” he said, a single eyebrow raised high. Its appearance was comforting. “It is very possible the Myriad secured their funding while your ancestor relieved himself.”

I made a face, and Cyran allowed himself a brief chuckle before blowing his breath out far too quickly. Preparing for the worst, I realized.

“I do not think I will ever be redeemed,” he began, but I didn’t allow him to finish.

“Fresh start,” I blurted. Clearly surprised into silence, he shoved his hands into his pockets before he leaned back against the table. His confusion likely mirrored my own. I shook my head to clear my mind. “If my parents win this war, we are to be allies. You are the king of Folterra now, crowned or not. I will be queen of Vesta eventually, I suppose.” I didn’t like thinking about that for a few reasons. Starting with it requiring my parents to be dead and ending with my complete lack of desire. “We should be friends—amicable at the very least. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His throat bobbed, and he stood a little straighter. Glancing at the fire, he didn’t reply for long moments.

“If you told me the cost of your kindness was to roast myself alive while singing a bawdy tavern song, I would do it. Whatever fondness you are willing to give me, I will receive it with the knowledge I don’t deserve a second of it. And that at any moment, you will come to your senses and rightfully revoke it.”

“That’s quite enough,” I said, feeling my cheeks heating. “What could I possibly say in response to all that?”

“‘You’re far too handsome to serve as kindling,’ would be quite flattering, I think.”

When my laughter echoed down the corridor, my grandmother started calling my name. Thyra’s harried form rushed around the corner, certainly coming to fetch me.

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Prince.”

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