Something…fuzzy rubbed against Osmund’s bare foot. A stray cat. The familiar sensation brought him back for a moment to the dirt of that borrowed hovel that for a time had been his home. But no—this nasty throbbing in his skull was something new.

Osmund peeled his upper half out of bed with great difficulty. (The cat went darting off.) Memories trickled back in, helped along by the corresponding aches in his body: he’d been riding all day, and drinking with Nienos and the soldiers, and something about wanting to…smell Cemil? That was strange. And wrong. Cemil hated him. But he couldn’t even think about that right now.

There was a person standing in the doorway. It took his sleep- and alcohol-addled brain a moment to remember her as the redheaded mercenary, Gudrun. “Up,” she said, in Meskato. “Your şehzade wants to see you.”

Osmund had a bad feeling that there was something important about last night he ought to be remembering. He stood in a small room alone with Cemil, who was seated behind a narrow wooden desk, among the few furnishings here. The Meskato prince looked very serious. If Osmund’s head hurt slightly less, he would surely be overcome with nerves right about now.

Cemil cleared his throat. With a motion of his hand he offered Osmund a cup of tea from the table before him. “Please have some.” His voice was stiff and businesslike. “For your head. Or I could try my magic, if you prefer.”

Osmund tensed, considering. “Thank you,” he said at last, accepting the tea and beginning to take tiny sips. It had a bitter, but not unpleasant taste.

Cemil watched him drink for a moment. Then his gaze unfocused. He cleared his throat again. “Osmund,” he began. “I brought you here to let you know I am releasing you from my service.”

There was a sound like shattering ceramic. Osmund’s head jerked to trace the noise. The teacup he’d been holding was at his feet in pieces.

Already the şehzade was pouring him another cup before Osmund got out a tiny, “W-what?”

“As appreciation for the care you’ve shown my horses,” Cemil went on, indicating a coinpurse and a rolled-up paper on the desk with him, “I’m providing you with a word of recommendation to any potential employer. And as I don’t want to leave you or my horse stranded, I am entrusting Banu’s care to you. As a gift.”

Osmund’s mouth was hanging all the way open. The beginnings of several different words stopped and started on his tongue.

“B-b-but…” he stammered out, grasping for a foothold, “I thought you brought me along because of Anaya. Isn’t that important? W-w-what if she acts out again?”

“What happens here is no longer your concern. I encourage you to forget about it.” Cemil’s voice was utterly impassive.

Osmund was left speechless. I don’t understand, some part of him screamed. Isn’t this exactly what I wanted yesterday? With shaking fingers, he pulled open the mouth of the leather pouch that Cemil was urging towards him. He couldn’t believe the amount inside. With this, he thought in a daze, I might not even have to work for a long while. I could rent a room and be comfortable. I-I could go anywhere.

“M-my pay.”

“Will it not suffice?”

“I-it’s too generous,” Osmund protested. “B-b-but I—why?”

“I’m a prince. It costs me nothing to be generous to those who have served me well,” Cemil said expressionlessly. “Have you anywhere to go? I can recommend good lodgings, although you’re welcome to remain at the caravansary until you’re ready to move on. My family provides this place with the funds for its upkeep. You’ll be treated well as my guest.”

So strange. It…felt like this was really happening. Osmund had barely gotten down any of that herbal tea, but his mind, instead of pulsing with the hangover, felt completely numb. “I-is this because of the drinking I did last night?” he asked brokenly.

“No.”

“Th-then...” He swallowed. “It’s because of what happened with Anaya back at the house.”

Tense lines appeared around Cemil’s eyes, as if he flinched to recollect the event. “No. I should have thanked you for that. That was my wounded pride at fault. It makes no difference now, but…I apologize.”

“So, w-what have I done wrong?” To Osmund’s great shame, he could feel the familiar prickle of budding tears. “Why won’t you say? …Have I embarrassed you?”

“You don’t embarrass me.”

“Just say it, please,” Osmund begged. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it all back. “You wouldn’t be the first! I would rather you tell me. Please, I just need to hear you say it, and then…I’ll leave.”

Cemil rose from the desk. It was a sudden, impulsive gesture; once he was standing, he looked unsure of what to do with himself. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Osmund,” he insisted at last, not meeting his eye. “Is it not obvious what I’m trying to do?”

“The only thing that’s obvious is that you’re trying to be rid of me!”

Sometime in the course of their exchange, Osmund had bridged the distance. The desk itself was forgotten; little stood between them but a few breaths of morning air and the sweet smells of dough from the kitchens nearby. It was a cozy setting for a world-ending conversation. “I might be approaching this incorrectly,” the Meskato prince admitted quietly. “Perhaps it would be better to be honest.”

Scrubbing his eyes, Osmund let him know what he thought about that with an enthusiastic nod.

“Osmund,” Cemil began, “I…haven’t been good for you.”

…What?

Acting oblivious to his surprise, Cemil took a deep, bracing inhale. “You…are a very tender-hearted man,” he said evenly. “And now, you suffer because of me. When I forget myself, when I’m lost and unkind, it grieves you. You won’t deny that?”

Well…he couldn’t.

“You made me a promise. Do you remember? That if I caused you pain again, you would leave.”

This time, the words jumped straight to Osmund’s throat. “You made me promise that,” he accused, defensive all of a sudden. “I don’t want to go. I like my life at the house with everyone. It isn’t fair to force me to leave because you feel sorry on my behalf!”

“You want something simple,” Cemil returned, holding his ground as his volume steadily rose, “and so long as you serve me, your life will never be simple. You deserve that life. That is why I’m giving it to you.”

Osmund thought of his favorite novel, the nobleman’s son and the humble woodcutter and their smutty bliss out in the woods. It was a lovely little tale, a fantasy that could reliably replace every sorry thought in his head with pure, heated yearning. It was also a work of utter fiction.

“If I’ve done nothing wrong,” Osmund managed to say, “then can’t you give me the chance to choose for myself?”

“You don’t understand the circumstances. Not fully.”

This was the last straw. It was with frustration that the welled-up tears finally flowed. “I understand what a gryphon is!” the Tolmishman exclaimed. “I know you’re throwing yourself into danger for someone you haven’t even seen in years! I know you’re treating me like a child because you don’t want to hurt me, even after you spent weeks acting like we were friends!”

Cemil stayed silent. Osmund went on.

“It’s going to hurt no matter what you do,” he said, ignoring the sting. “I just want to know what you’re thinking. I want to know you’ll be okay. And I…I think you need someone to talk to, who will look out for you when you’re in pain. Maybe the person you’re meeting in the village will be that for you, b-but I haven’t seen that for myself yet. I-I don’t actually want to leave you. Not like this.”

There was another long, drawn pause. At last Cemil said,

“I shouldn’t have this sort of relationship with my servant.” He’ll hardly believe me now if I claim to be a foreign prince, Osmund thought bitterly. But Cemil wasn’t finished. “If you stay by my side, it must be something you choose…as my companion. Not because you take my commands.”

Osmund’s head shot up. Cemil was studying him carefully.

“I won’t expel you from your job,” the Meskato prince said. “You’re well-suited to the work, and…you’re entirely right. It’s unfair of me to punish you for my shortcomings. It’s not an act of kindness to you. Not when you’ve found people there to care about.”

“So you,” Osmund started, then flushed, hating himself for the vulnerable question he was about to ask. He was trying to convince Cemil he wasn’t a child, after all. “You do want me around?”

A very small smile crept its way over Cemil’s face. Oh—and it was one of the nice ones.

“Osmund,” he said, “I want to give you the choice you asked for. But consider it carefully. So long as you’re my stablehand, people in my life will look down on you. They’ll see you as unworthy of my regard.”

“That’s fine, I don’t care! Unless you do.”

“Let me finish,” Cemil urged. “I…have treated you as a friend. Someone I could be more, or perhaps less, than a prince with. But, it isn’t my desire to hold a master’s power over you, while all you can do is trust me not to abuse it.”

It was tempting to point out that, as a prince, Cemil held power over just about anyone in Meskat, whether they worked for him directly or not. He held his tongue. “For instance,” continued Cemil, “it was a mistake to order you to come with us. You aren’t a soldier. So here is another choice. This one you must make now.”

Osmund met his eye, forcing himself not to get flustered and look away. “Kaliany Village will be dangerous,” Cemil told him. “You would likely see many things to upset you. In truth, I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety, not yours, not even my own. You may take Banu and ride back to the house. Or, you can stay here to wait for news of our return. The decision is yours.”

Carefully, Osmund asked, “Mine?”

“That’s right. I won’t tell you what you must do.”

He didn’t need any time to consider. Useless saber or no, Osmund felt in this moment that he could take on a gryphon himself. “I’m going with you,” he announced. He saw Cemil’s face change. In spite of his words, Osmund had still expected the Meskato prince to argue. Instead, he looked almost…relieved.

And that was that. He was going.