Alucard’s smile tilted. “I suppose it will do.”

Rhy let the crown fall to the sofa as he came forward, and his fingers, now freed from their burden, traced Alucard’s jaw, as if assuring himself that Alucard was here, was real.

Alucard’s own heart was racing, even now threatening to run away. But there was no need. Nowhere to go. No place he’d rather be.

He had dreamed of this, every time the storms raged at sea. Every time a sword was drawn against him. Every time life showed its frailty, its fickleness. He had dreamed of this, as he stood on the bow of the Ghost, facing death in a line of ships.

Now he reached to draw Rhy in against him, only to be rebuffed.

“It is not right for you to do that,” he reprimanded softly, “now that I am king.”

Alucard withdrew, trying to keep hurt and confusion from his face. But then Rhy’s dark lashes sank over his eyes, and his lips slid into a coy smile. “A king should be allowed to lead.”

Relief flooded through him, followed by a wave of heat as Rhy’s hand tangled in his hair, mussing the silver clasps. Lips brushed his throat, warmth grazed his jaw.

“Don’t you agree?” breathed the king, nipping at Alucard’s collarbone in a way that stole the air from his chest.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he managed, and then Rhy was kissing him, long and slow and savoring. The room moved beneath his tripping feet, the buttons of his shirt coming undone. By the time Rhy drew back, Alucard was against the bedpost, his shirt open. He let out a small, dazed laugh, resisting the urge to drag Rhy toward him, to press him down into the sheets.

The longing left him breathless.

“Is this how it’s to be now?” he asked. “Am I to be your bedmate as well as your guard?”

Rhy’s lips split into a dazzling smile. “So you admit it, then,” he said, closing the last of the distance to whisper in Alucard’s ear, “that you are mine.”

And with that, the king dragged him down onto the bed.

VII

Arnesians had a dozen ways to say hello, but no word for good-bye.

When it came to parting ways, they sometimes said vas ir, which meant in peace, but more often they chose to say anoshe—until another day.

Anoshe was a word for strangers in the street, and lovers between meetings, for parents and children, friends and family. It softened the blow of leaving. Eased the strain of parting. A careful nod to the certainty of today, the mystery of tomorrow. When a friend left, with little chance of seeing home, they said anoshe. When a loved one was dying, they said anoshe. When corpses were burned, bodies given back to the earth and souls to the stream, those left grieving said anoshe.

Anoshe brought solace. And hope. And the strength to let go.

When Kell Maresh and Lila Bard had first parted ways, he’d whispered the word in her wake, beneath his breath, full of the certainty—the hope—they’d meet again. He’d known it wasn’t an end. And this wasn’t an end, either, or if it was, then simply the end of a chapter, an interlude between two meetings, the beginning of something new.

And so Kell made his way up to his brother’s chambers—not the rooms he’d kept beside Kell’s own (though he still insisted on sleeping there), but the ones that had belonged to his mother and father.

Without Maxim and Emira, there were so few people for Kell to say good-bye to. Not the vestra or the ostra, not the servants or the guards who remained. He would have said farewell to Hastra, but Hastra, too, was dead.

Kell had already gone to the Basin that morning, and come across the flower the young guard had coaxed to life that day, withering in its pot. He’d carried it up to the orchard, where Tieren stood between the rows of winter and spring.

“Can you fix it?” asked Kell.

The priest’s eyes went to the shriveled little flower. “No,” he said gently, but when Kell started to protest, Tieren held up a gnarled hand. “There’s nothing to fix. That is an acina. They aren’t meant to last. They bloom a single time, and then they’re gone.”

Kell looked down helplessly at the withered white blossom. “What do I do?” he asked, the question so much bigger than the words.

Tieren smiled a soft, inward smile and shrugged in his usual way. “Leave it be. The blossom will crumble, the stem and leaves, too. That’s what they’re for. Acina strengthen the soil, so that other things can grow.”

* * *

Kell reached the top of the stairs, and slowed his step.

Royal guards lined the hall to the king’s chamber, and Alucard stood outside the doors, leaning back against the wood and flipping through the pages of a book.

“This is your idea of guarding him?” said Kell.

The man pointedly turned a page. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

Kell took a steadying breath. “Get out of my way, Emery.”

Alucard’s storm-dark eyes flicked up from the book. “And what is your business with the king?”

“Personal.”

Alucard held up a hand. “Perhaps I should have you searched for weapo—”

“Touch me and I’ll break your fingers.”

“Who says I have to touch you?” His hand twitched, and Kell felt the knife on his sleeve shudder before he shoved the man back against the wood.

“Alucard!” called Rhy through the door. “Let my brother in before I have to find another guard.”

Alucard smirked, and gave a sweeping bow, and stepped aside.