talk about everything that has happened.”
“You didn’t need to come and speak to me,” Wesley said, clearing his throat to counteract the tense atmosphere. It was odd how unsettled he felt, being alone with this strange woman who shouldn’t have been strange to him at all. “I’m not sure there’s much for us to say.”
“I disagree,” Amja said. “I want you to know that I’m sorry for all I’ve done to wrong you, but I’m here for you now, Malik. As I always should have been.”
Wesley couldn’t help but wince at the use of his old name. It didn’t feel like his—the life that Malik had before Creije didn’t feel like his—and though the Uncharted Forest had carried a sense of home while Wesley was there, it still wasn’t quite Creije enough for him.
Wesley knew who he was and who he wasn’t.
And he wasn’t Malik Akintola.
He had been once, a lifetime ago, but not now. Despite the fact that he could see that Saxony and Amja so desperately wanted him to return to that boy, Wesley knew it wasn’t possible.
He could do a great many things, but not that.
There wasn’t enough magic in him for that miracle.
“I will do my best to watch out for you,” Amja said. “Like a real family would.”
Wesley swallowed. He didn’t know how to react to that.
Nobody had ever promised to watch out for him before.
“I’ve never much liked families,” he said, leaning against the wall as indifferently as he could. “Bad experience and all.”
“That’s fair,” Amja said. “I’ve not had the best experience with grandsons.”
Wesley couldn’t help but laugh at that.
“You mean that time you cursed your entire Kin to send your illegitimate grandchild across the realm to live with strangers?”
Amja let out a large sigh. “Yes. Though you could have said it with less of an attitude.”
“Sorry,” Wesley said, with a shrug. “I’m from Creije. Attitude is a requirement for survival.”
“Tact, then.”
“What’s that?”
Amja shook her head, though there was the spirit of a smile on her stern mouth. “We need to speak about your future, Malik.”
Wesley wished she would stop calling him that. He wished everyone would stop trying to mold him into who they wanted him to be, because he finally liked who he was.
“I already know my future,” Wesley said.
It was behind that door and in the city they would travel to tomorrow.
“What about your destiny?” Amja asked. “You were supposed to be our Liege.”
“Saxony is your Liege and she’s earned it.”
“And you should rule by her side once this war is all over,” Amja said. “That’s who you are.”
Except it wasn’t. So many people thought they knew Wesley, when he had been careful to spend a lifetime making sure the exact opposite was true.
“You might see me as a prodigy for your Kin,” he said. “But when this is all over, I’m going to stay in Creije, because that’s where I know I belong.”
“Vea didn’t intend for you to stay there forever,” Amja said. “She sacrificed her life to keep you safe, hoping one day you’d return to us. You can’t know what it’s like to care for somebody that much. To a love person so much that you would give up the world for them.”
But Wesley did know.
He’d known for a while.
“Does that busker girl mean more to you than your family?” Amja asked.
Wesley’s jaw ticked.
“Watch yourself,” he said. “Tavia is my family.”
Amja sighed again. “Perhaps I’m selfish wanting to keep you after this is over,” she said. “I just don’t want to lose my grandson so soon after getting him back. My dream would be for you and your sisters to be by my side forever.”
“I’ll get Zekia back,” Wesley said. “I swear it.”
“And then you’ll leave.”
Wesley hated the softness in her voice. This woman who had lived through wars and led a Kin, and Wesley was somehow making her feel fragile.
“I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you want,” Wesley said. “But that’s not what’s important right now.”
“Then what is?” Amja asked. “What do you want, Malik?”
Wesley ran his hand across his wrist, over his scars and up the lines of his tattoos, meeting the first of his staves. So many parts of his life now intertwined across his skin.
A past forgotten, a present lived, a future promised.
“What do you need?” Amja asked him.
Wesley’s fingers traced over the stave and he breathed, like he was breathing in the magic.
“To win,” he said.
Wesley would end the battle for Uskhanya and for Creije.
He would return home and fight