But he would live. This time, he would live. Not as some tool of prophecy, but as himself. And all life sprung from survival. Kiran brought the knife up.
It was only when he turned fully from the door that he realized he wasn’t alone. Zofia stood there, twirling a lit match between her fingers and eyeing a table full of treasures. She’d stayed, and he didn’t know what to make of that.
He was a fire, she knew, and it didn’t matter that fire was meant to burn—it didn’t matter that the flames were coarse and imprecise and destructive, because she would step into them every time. As long as it was him, she would let them burn her.
“I will kneel to only one ruler, and I will see only one person crowned this day. The age of the Lantsovs is over.” He sank to one knee. “Let the Nazyalensky dynasty begin. All hail the Dragon Queen.”
“The jasmine is my favorite, too.” He shook his head slightly, in disbelief or dissuasion. Dropping the blossom, he took the sapling into his hands again. “I used to know someone who loved jasmine.”
For whatever blunt words she spoke, Zofia’s lips were soft as snowfall, and the kiss blanketed his thoughts. For a while now, Zofia had unquieted something in him. They understood each other in a way he hadn’t experienced, in a way that made him feel safe and heard.
Hypnos. Séverin scooted forward. The other boy lay utterly still, and for a wild moment Séverin prayed that time itself had stopped because Hypnos lay far too still. He wanted to be like ice, but there were too many cracks in his armor.
Enrique reached up, slowly removing Hypnos’s hand from his face. He held the other boy’s hand, then curled it into a fist, brushing his lips once against Hypnos’s knuckles. “Perhaps we both deserve someone who is not so hard to love,” said Enrique.