Of Whispers and Daggers ✓ [TLRQ #2]

Chapter 63.1 - Aster

Numb, I stare at Solus. The oatmeal in my mouth turns to ash. Downstairs, the ruckus of soldiers and wizards being tended to still clatters, and the lumpy pillow between me and the wall digs into my back.

"I'm sorry, Aster." His hands come off the arms of the chair he's sitting in and into his lap.

I force the mouthful down my throat, the small bowl heavy on my legs. My voice is flat. "You didn't do anything."

His lips twist, and he looks down at his hands.

I wonder who told Agraund about the Liaetta Theater Fire. Did Agraund love his wife? Were his children jealous he spent so much time with me instead of them? Did he rage about what had happened, or did he absorb it silently, painfully, coldly?

I didn't love her. I don't know that I ever would have, not like that. But—

I look away. I argued about Leavi coming, kept thinking about Leavi's safety, but I never thought Riszev would—

Which is ridiculous. Father died in battle. It's shocking I haven't.

His words are soft. "I'm sorry all the same."

My lips tighten, and I look at him again. "I hardly knew her, Solus. Leave it."

Minisculely, he draws back, but he nods.

I set the oatmeal aside.

"Don't you think you sh—"

I raise my hand, and he stops. "Are the Retrans still coming?" I wonder if they would still had I died.

"As far as I know. Mostly, they'll be utilized in clearing out the rest of the country, though. The siege has broken, as you may have guessed."

The good news sounds like the pop of funeral pyres. "Good. I hope that goes well."

He regards me. "I'm sure you'll lead us well."

I nod, unable to muster anything more concrete because I know it would be a lie. I woke less than ten minutes ago, and my bones already feel as if they're shaking. It was only a matter of time before I had to stop pushing myself. I'm surprised I didn't just collapse on the field.

He stands. "I'll let you get back to your rest, Prince."

"When is the funeral?"

He pauses, hand on the chair. "Tomorrow. But they're taking her back to their land for burial."

Confusion creases my face.

"This event will be more of a memorial."

"Oh."

His hand shifts on the back of the chair. "Afterward, there will be one for our fallen wizards and soldiers."

The thought of so many bodies to be burned—so many people that will never rise again, so many faces that will never see their friends, so many hands that will never hold their families'—is a weight like suffocation, and I stare unbreathing at the wall. Then my chest shudders back to life.