As it turned out, the servants were all too happy to recount the tantalizing details of their master’s love life if you gave them the gentlest nudge. Osmund learned a lot about this long-lost soulmate of Cemil’s around the dining table, each detail cutting deeper than the last. By the meal’s end, it felt like he’d hollowed himself out taking it all in.

Basically, if Osmund were to compile a list containing everything he’d learned about this mysterious lover, it would go like this:

He was a rare genius—with a demonstrated excellence in all disciplines—and an even rarer beauty. Women and men alike swooned after his youthful looks.

He was a powerful mage who controlled complex light constructs. Sometimes he used them in his demonstrations, being also a mathematician of some renown.

He was a philanthropist, donating his wealth to charitable foundations that benefitted the poor in the empire.

He was Cemil’s childhood friend. They’d been inseparable companions.

He’d come to Şebyan to be with him.

He was loved by Cemil’s mother, and a noted favorite of the emperor himself.

He could sing.

He could dance.

He knew how to kill quickly.

He knew how to spare mercifully.

The poor revered him.

The rich celebrated him.

Cemil…had cherished him.

In short—Osmund had never heard of a more perfect person. To call himself inadequate next to even this hurried portrait painted by the chatter of servants—it went without saying. 

And of course, the cruelest detail of all—this perfect person had, for reasons unknown, left Cemil behind. He’d disappeared into the night without a word, taking nothing with him but his horse and a homing pigeon from the aviary. His perfection was preserved in memory like a pinned insect. He’d ensured that no living person would ever compare. And of course no one ever could, because surely, Osmund thought, this was the only person alive capable of being called Cemil’s equal.

It was like a story straight out of a book. The kind that would make its reader swoon and believe in the existence of divine love.

Osmund realized he wasn’t sad. No. What he felt could only be described as relief.

Here it was—exactly what’d he’d been waiting for. The other shoe had dropped. His delusions were revealed starkly for what they were. Sure, it hurt, but he’d been braced for this pain ever since he’d started getting close to Cemil. It was waiting for a blow to land that was the hardest part. And now the wait was over.

Finally.

The news about the sudden campaign unfolded just as in the dinner table gossip. The very next night, Cemil called a general gathering of all the civil servants in the house’s extended wings.

(His personal household staff hadn’t been formally invited, but Osmund had sneaked a glance anyway.)

“Kaliany’s need is great,” Cemil was saying, his mentor at his side, as Osmund poked his head into the room. “This is a village that has not yet witnessed the full might of the Meskato Empire moving in defense of its subjects. If my brother Bayram cannot be moved to spare his own armies, then in our father the emperor’s name I will rise to the call, with my most trusted cavalrymen at my command.”

A woman in scholarly dress stepped out of the assembled crowd. Cemil nodded to acknowledge her. “Has there been any indication, şehzade, of the reason behind the attacks?” she asked with an academic’s pointed curiosity. “The Anshan of Kaliany have lived harmoniously with the ████ colonies for hundreds of years.” What was that missing word? Osmund wished he had his dictionary. “The cause for this aggression is still unknown,” Cemil said, unflinching, “but because of the village’s unique relationship with the ████, it is hoped we might obtain valuable information about the creatures’ recent change in behavior. That knowledge could help us predict, or even stop, other attacks in Meskato territory.”

It was fascinating, Osmund thought in spite of the ache in his chest, watching Cemil interact with the people under his command, so different from the one-sided nature of Father’s royal court. He also thought it impressive that the Meskato prince could be so eloquent with that tense muscle in his jaw. It looked as though Cemil was barely holding himself together. Why did no one else seem to see it?

“Those who remain, resume your normal duties and defer to Taranuz in my absence,” the prince continued as if nothing were amiss. He nodded to his lieutenant governor on Lala Muharrem’s other side, a short, stocky, strong woman with a piercing stare, who nodded. “The safety of all gathered here is my top priority. I aim to ensure those who go with me return home under their own power, and are rewarded finely for their heroism. Anyone whose arrow fells a ████ will earn themselves and their families a handsome bounty!”

A roar of approval rippled through the assembled crowd. Osmund didn’t watch any more.

So the “soulmate” must have written to Cemil on behalf of the village, Osmund thought as he shuffled back to his room. Maybe this perfect, long-lost lover was in Kaliany Village himself. He didn’t doubt this was the real reason Cemil was so desperate to go. He was probably itching to saddle Anaya right now and ride off into the night on an impulsive rescue like a hero from the stories. It would suit him, Osmund thought with no small amount of self-pity.

Once back in his room, he lit his bedside candles and scooped up his dictionary, trying his best to remember the shape of that word he’d kept hearing. He could tell from context it had been some kind of magical creature. Flipping through the pages, he stopped at a particular entry. He didn’t need to read very far; there was a picture.

Gryphon.

He slammed the book shut in disbelief. Visions of Cemil and his party getting torn apart by marauding beasts from the sky swam through his head.

One gryphon on its own was bad enough! As a child, his minders had discouraged him from wandering off on his own by telling him he’d make an easy snack for any of those winged terrors who happened to be flying by overhead. And this wasn’t one creature who had gone mad and started attacking people, no—apparently it was an entire colony. Mothers brooding over nests, territorial families, competitive males, juveniles just learning to fly.

Is Cemil really planning to slaughter them all?

This last caught Osmund by surprise. He certainly felt no love for gryphons, and would probably rest easier at night knowing the world held fewer of them. So why was the thought making him so uneasy?

What kind of prince cowers before the sight of blood? the walls growled in Valen Haldebard’s voice. Even a deer dying to fill his belly makes my useless son whimper! He trembles in pity at the sight of a dead monster, who would rip him limb from limb if it were living!

“Shut up,” Osmund whispered. Yet even this small act of defiance made his head spin. I’m alone, and Father is dead, he told himself. He repeated it inside his mind once more for good measure.

He was alone, and Father was dead.

He was alone.

And Cemil was about to cut a bloody path to get to his one true love.

Osmund rolled over and tried to sleep. Well, tried to try to sleep.

A knock. “Yes?” he called, head lifting tentatively from the pillow. A tiny spark of hope shot through him, and was dashed a second later.

“We rise bright and early tomorrow.” The voice belonged to Lt. Governor Taranuz. “The şehzade wants his party ready to leave before sunrise.”

With the message concluded, Osmund heard footsteps. They were disappearing down the hall, replaced by silence, which meant he was alone again. This time for good.

Bright and early, Osmund rose as he was bid. Mechanically he threw on his clothes, ran an old brush through his hair, and broke his fast in the kitchens.

Today was the day. Cemil would ride off for some distant village and be gone for weeks. He might not ever come home.

And if he did—it would be on the arm of that sad-eyed, perfect lover.

Osmund only allowed himself a small cry. He knew he needed to, but he resented himself for it. This pain was all his own fault. He should have known better. He had known better, once. When had he dared hope for the impossible?

When his eyes were dry, he headed outside to the stables. Already an assembly of the soldiers had started to gather. With a start, Osmund noticed Cemil leaning heavily against the outer walls of the house. His body was rigid and his face was dark. It looked like he hadn’t slept a wink.

Putting his emotions aside, Osmund started to work.

Saddling the horses was mindless, at least. The first early pinks of dawn were starting to peer over the distant mountains by the time Osmund looked around and realized there was nothing left for him to do. His hands were worn, fingertips numb from a morning chill that had gone unnoticed until now. Gooseflesh raised on his arms; he trembled. He watched as Cemil headed to the front of the column. The Meskato prince was the only one who hadn’t mounted yet.

For a moment, it seemed like Cemil was going to address his soldiers. But whatever had animated him the previous evening was gone. In the end, his face closed up once more, and he said nothing. He moved to Anaya, and what happened in the next moment shook Osmund violently from his trance.

The massive horse kicked at the post behind her, whinnying angrily. Then, she ran!

Adrenaline took over. There were only seconds to act. Other horses parted, braying in distress as Anaya bolted past them, but when she approached Osmund’s position he threw himself out in front of her. The furious mare skidded to a halt, but then she reared up her forelegs, crying out. For one brief, terrifying moment, the Tolmishman could only wait helplessly for impact. But when his breath stole away, it was for a different reason.

A blur of motion. Faster than he could think, he went suddenly careening backwards out of the horse’s range. Anaya’s hooves lowered to the ground harmlessly, her rampage interrupted. Cemil—because of course it was Cemil who’d saved him, of course—released Osmund’s middle from the protective circle of his arms, and stepped out in front.

“Calm down, Anaya,” the şehzade said in firm Meskato. Osmund looked on worriedly. The agitated horse backed away from Cemil’s approach, snorting contemptuously. She did not want him.

Osmund swallowed before gathering himself. He owed this, at least, to Cemil.

Emptying his mind of troublesome emotion, he stepped towards Anaya. He got one hand on the reins. Another, cautiously, reached for her nose. He felt her warm breath against his hand. Then, incredibly, he was touching her. She snorted, but this time she was contented, tolerant. Osmund felt bliss. He’d been useful. He turned to see Cemil’s face and—stopped. He didn’t understand.

Cemil was making an expression Osmund had never seen him make before. It wasn’t a kind look. It certainly wasn’t bursting over with pride for his useful stablehand. It was sort of like the look that his sister Evanor had made when she’d hated him for being born. That wasn’t possible. No. He had to be misreading it.

Osmund floundered. He heard whispers and forced his gaze away from that horrible expression on Cemil’s perfect, handsome face. The soldiers had all turned in their saddles to watch the scene, and Osmund forced himself to account for what they’d just witnessed: their respected prince being humiliated, both by his own wayward horse, and by the timid Tolmishman that had so easily heeled her.

His vision was going white. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to be anywhere else.

He felt Cemil’s breath in his ear again, but this time it was anything but pleasant.

“You have ten minutes to prepare,” he heard Cemil growl in a low voice. “You’re coming with us.”