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Ever proper, the wee arsehole.
Still, it rankled, Pet’s hackles rising with his own, but Fern beat him to a response.
“Hmm.” She handed a folded parchment to Lyriat and crossed her arms, seeming to consider it before she finally shrugged. “Nah. Doesn’t feel right.”
If he wasn’t so miserable, Magnus might’ve laughed at Araxis’s obvious surprise. His exposure to the Fae was limited, and he was unused to her strange feelings, but what else did any of them have to go on? The poor lass didn’t even know her own name.
—Nothing ‘poor’ about her, Maggie—
Mag’s pulse spiked at Pet’s comment, pointedly ignoring Fern side-eyeing him from across the room. Thank the Sisters she didn’t comment.
You could at least try to refrain from talking about her when she’s right fucking there and can hear you.
—Language. And not likely—
Her knowing smirk made him want to burn the entire castle down just to get away.
Lyriat tucked the missive into the waist of his trousers with a sigh. “Your parents will arrive at nightfall.”
The king glanced down at himself with a scowl. Shirtless, he was covered in blood and grime from the ongoing battle in the Westglen, where he’d still been fighting a barrage of dreadbeasts with the Wolflords a mere hour ago.
Until they called him back with news of Brand.
“I loathe this diplomatic shite,” Lyriat said. “Entertaining the Emperor and Empress of Bordoroth should be the least of my worries right now, and yet…”
Well, that explained why Vann and Amun departed without so much as a wave goodbye. It had been a circus trying to keep their collective presence a secret when his entire family gathered to watch over Lunara after Brand’s disappearance. At least with the two of them gone, a visit from their Imperial parents would be viewed as somewhat more acceptable.
Diplomatic shite, indeed.
“They aren’t expecting entertaining,” Magnus replied. “They just want to lay eyes on their son.”
Lyriat’s half smile was sad. Exhausted. “You have much to learn, my friend.”
The Imperial Sovereigns of Bordoroth and the Five Realms, Emperor Alwyn aht Bordoroth and Fionerys o Koha, fell upon their fourth son with a wail that echoed the one Magnus had been choking back for most of the day, ripping his heart right down the middle.
He tried to warn them it wouldn’t be the joyous reunion they hoped for, but it didn’t matter.
“Tell us everything,” his mam demanded. “Down to the second.”
And so Mag did, with help from Fern and Araxis, then Hedda and Faldir once they were called in. His parents left no stone unturned, no question unasked.
By the time they finished, every last one of them had paced to a new corner, or settee, or spot on the wall. For his part, Magnus almost immediately strayed to the foot of the bed and stayed there, unable to stomach being too far away. Fern was perched on a chair by the cold fireplace, the twins had taken a defensive stance near the washroom door, Araxis was doing his best impression of a statue next to the dresser, and his parents looked on from the open balcony doors.
His mam seemed even smaller than usual standing there tucked into his da’s side. They both did, actually. Alwyn’s cropped evergreen waves were dull and mussed, his wings drooping. Fionerys was ashen, icicle tears caught in her dark lashes.
Aye, in fact, it made Mag wonder if they might be less formidable, less fierce, than he’d always thought them to be.
“I can’t believe he would—” Snowflakes landed in his mam’s midnight curls and around her shoulders as she stared and stared at Brand. “That he tried to—”
“He wasn’t trying to do anything,” Magnus interrupted.
“No,” Faldir agreed. “That wasn’t Brand.”
“But will it be him who wakes up?” Alwyn asked, not really looking for an answer.
A good thing, since none of them had one.
“I can sense him,” Araxis said. “He’s there, but something else is as well. Though elusive, it feels like a simple illness. Nothing shocking. I’ve healed worse coughs in happy children.”
