There were six kinds of magic in this world, each in opposition to its natural twin. By virtue of sheer repetition, Osmund remembered them well from his lessons:

To wound, there was fire magic—the domain of the demons—and frost magic, the domain of the giants.

To gain advantage, there was light magic—the language of constructs—and dark magic, the language of illusions.

And finally, to oppose the natural order, there was necromancy—that which gives the illusion of life—and rarest of all, life magic itself. Healing.

Any magic at all would have been a blessing; he could’ve run away to swear himself to the Order of the Holy Enchanters, and not even Father would’ve been able to refuse him his calling. Healing, however, was the only magical discipline Osmund had ever truly wanted for its own sake. No matter how incompetent a healer was, no matter how bumbling, they could only do good with their powers. What an immense gift for a person to be born with.

He gaped at Cemil openly for a moment. Cemil averted his eyes again, as if Osmund’s stare somehow disquieted him. Which was a ridiculous notion!

“It runs in my mother’s line,” Cemil said. Then he cleared his throat. “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful,” Osmund breathed, and it wasn’t a lie. He’d been on the receiving end (double meaning unintended) plenty of times—the old palace healer never said anything when Valcrest’s royal heir turned up sporting bruises in the same places as the week before, just fixed him up quick and businesslike. But Cemil’s magic was different. He really is the whole package, Osmund thought dreamily, though it was laced again with something else. Something he might call envy, though he didn’t like to name it.

Cemil ran a hand through his own loose dark hair. It fell in still-sweaty cascades over his face. Then he said, looking very distraught,

“I don’t want you to have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Osmund said at once.

“…I don’t understand why not.”

“B-but…I thought you said you didn’t want me to be?”

“I don’t,” Cemil confirmed. They were going in circles. “But…what I did. How I treated you. There can be no excuse for it.”

“I excused you for it already!”

Cemil turned on him. He was fervent. “People should not hurt or threaten you. No one has that right.”

Osmund didn’t understand what Cemil wanted. Osmund had already forgiven him, so why were they still talking about it? It was his turn to angle his head away. “Okay.”

“Why did you forgive me for it so quickly?”

Why did it feel like he was being interrogated? Like he’d done something wrong? This time, he truly hadn’t! “Because you’re a good man,” Osmund said meekly.

“How would you know that?”

“I-I can tell! You’ve been so kind to me.”

“I could have slit your throat just then, Osmund!”

This encounter was starting to feel very not pleasant again. Osmund wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t just get up and leave—or could he? Without wanting to examine it too closely, he realized Cemil questioning him like this was possibly unsettling him more than the event itself. After all, when he’d been threatening him, Cemil had quite reasonably been sick and fearful for his own life!

What did he care if his stablehand respected himself or not?!

“At least you apologized,” Osmund muttered. “No one else ever did.”

Father hadn’t. Nor had Evanor, anytime she pinched him hard enough to make him bleed. Certainly none of his erstwhile lovers had, transparently hating him for the combination of his status and his weakness, and making that bitterness known upon him any way they could.

Cemil heaved a deep breath. The seconds ticked by until he spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. It seemed like he was forcing the words. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

This was the best thing he’d said in a while. Osmund’s shoulders sagged with relief and gratitude, and he smiled, only a little wearily. “Are you still feeling better?” he asked, eagerly seeking a change in topic.

Cemil nodded earnestly. “Much better,” he confirmed, his face changing like he was realizing the extent for the first time. “The nightroot is powerful. I can’t believe this property was not known to us.”

“You have to be very careful of the petals,” Osmund supplied. He was so grateful that they could talk about his triumph now. About how he’d been useful. “I-I’ll show the others how to do it. Or, I can do it. I’ll do it whenever you need.”

“You have hidden talents,” Cemil said with a small, tired smile. With apparent effort, he lifted himself up and eased himself back onto the low bed.

Osmund wondered if he should leave. Then the Meskato prince continued,

“My condition has gotten worse. And my brothers know it. That I might be vulnerable.”

Osmund shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve never seen headaches as bad as yours.” Seeing Cemil contorted in pain had been awful; he wished he could forget the sight. “Have you…been examined by a doctor?”

“No doctors.” His tone was clipped. “It isn’t a sickness. Rather a…side effect. And treating the cause is not an option.”

This veil of secrecy frustrated Osmund. “Nuray hated to see you in pain,” he said abruptly, the words flying out of his mouth. Distantly, he felt horror at their almost accusatory nature, but he didn’t stop blabbing. “So did the other servants. They hate not knowing how to help you. What if the nightroot stops working? What if you build up a resistance? No one should suffer like you do! I don’t want you to.”

Cemil made a sound under his breath. It was too quiet to decipher its intent, or the emotion behind it. “I can bear it,” the Meskato prince finally said. He repeated, “I can bear it. But I can’t bear the thought of hurting those around me.” His voice wavered then. “If I ever cause you harm like that again, you must leave my service.”

“But—” Osmund objected. Cemil interrupted him. “Promise me.” His tone left no room for argument.

Several words were bitten back on Osmund’s tongue. “I promise.” He prayed he’d never have to make good on his vow; he didn’t want to go and find a whole new home for a second time. He would really rather get the occasional blade shoved up against his throat—honest. But this was clearly important.

Cemil seemed appeased, slumping back into his mattress. “Thank you,” he said. His breathing evened out after that. Osmund at first thought he’d drifted to sleep, but when he leaned over, he saw the prince’s eyes were still open, blinking slowly up into the darkness. As if there were stars there to see if he only looked for them.

That blanket of silence settled over them again. Osmund felt something shifting in the atmosphere, something that made his heart pound in spite of the stillness. With a jolt, he recalled something he’d heard Cemil say:

“I should have known better than to trust a pretty face who turns up at my door!”

Pretty face? And he’d meant me!

His tongue felt very heavy. Cemil—beautiful, flawless, admittedly-kind-of-dangerous Cemil—was attracted to him. It hadn’t merely been charity after all. He supposed there was a chance he’d misheard or misunderstood, but then, why wasn’t the Meskato prince ordering him to leave? Why was he letting the silence drag on, as if waiting for him to act?

Finally he dared to ask. “Should I…go?”

“You don’t have to stay,” Cemil said. Then, more quietly, “But you don’t have to go.” His meaning was clear.

Osmund froze in place. He willed his limbs to move, but they wouldn’t. Am I too afraid? he wondered, but that wasn’t it at all. Osmund wasn’t afraid, and he wanted him. He had from the very beginning, and if anything, his longing was more powerful than ever. His mind swam with erotic images, all of the ways this could go if he only clambered onto the mattress beside him. If he only let himself kiss Cemil’s flawless face and lick into his mouth and all sorts of things he’d done in his life with men far crueler and less beautiful. Every other past temptation in his life seemed comical now, as if he’d been a child sneaking a sweet. This was like asking a man crawling in the desert to forsake a jug of water: Osmund was absolutely dying of thirst!

But he still wasn’t moving.

For the first time in his life, Osmund was at an impasse about his desire. Cemil would regret sleeping with him; people always did. And after people regretted sleeping with him, they wanted nothing more to do with him after that.

That had been the way of things. He’d long accepted it. Why did it feel so intolerable now?

He wanted Cemil to keep looking at him. The way he had been, like someone who was waiting to hear what he had to say. Like someone who cared whether he was hurt, and made sure that he was comfortable.

Oh no.

This was a very, very dangerous feeling to have.

“I had better sleep,” Osmund said, his mouth forming the words while the rest of him writhed in protest. “If you’re ever in pain again…send for me. I-I’ll make some of that potion for you. There are still some nightroot flowers left, but we should get hold of more. I’m sorry if I, um,” he grimaced, embarrassed as he finished saying, “left footprints in your garden.”

Would Cemil try and say something to stop him from leaving? …Osmund wasn’t sure he had it in him to resist if it came to that. “Goodnight, Osmund,” Cemil said, turning over in bed. His voice was absolutely normal, and also like it was coming to him from across a great divide. “Thank you for your help. Rest well.”