Shadow Cursed by May Sage Page 0,23

I don’t want to speak to her. I can’t leave her alone either, though.

When I finish reading the book, it’s too bright out; the sunlight prickles my eyes, nearly blinding me.

“That’s it.” I yawn and stretch my arms over my head.

In a week, my anger has receded. I’ve taken in what she revealed about herself, accepting it—even the parts I loathe to consider.

She used to be alone. She used to feel hopeless, maybe even depressed.

Never again.

Now, I’m desperate to see her again.

I give in, my hand closing over Vlari’s. “Any requests for tomorrow?”

She doesn’t pull me into one of her visions this time, but I hear her loud and clear in my mind. “More of the same would be great. Lessons in magic may be boring, but they’re useful. Thank you, Drusk.”

It has always been strange to hear her call me Drusk. Unfamiliar. It’s the name I used at school and in the armies, but to my friends and family, I’ve always been Rystan. Yet I’ve never asked her to call me that. I suppose I want her to come to the decision on her own.

“You’re welcome.”

I return to my parents’. My life has begun and ended with Vlari for weeks. I’ve barely seen my family. I make a mental note to spend the morning with them, before collapsing.

My sister stumbles in my room at twilight. I blink the moment she advances, my instincts alerting me of a potential threat.

She's changed in ten years, even I know that. She's strong enough to do damage when she aims to.

I can't say I like it.

"The queen sent two pages! She wants you."

I suppose I’ll have to spend time with my family another day.

I groan, sitting up. I've survived on a few hours of sleep here and there for years, but I've been exhausted on twice as much of late. My body is reaching limits I didn't know it had. Mental exhaustion.

"Can I come with?"

A rebuttal is ready on my lips. Nebula asks this very question every other day, and the answer is always no. She can't join raids outside Whitecroft. She can't fight in tournaments. She can't apply to be a palace guard. She can't be in danger.

Not only because I'm worried about her safety—though I am. Our parents already have one child bleeding for Tenebris. The second should get to enjoy some peace.

However I can't imagine that a meeting with the queen would place her in much danger. Like I was when I first enrolled at Whitecroft, and even later, she's fascinated by gentries. Their bright armor, clothes stitched with gold, and pointed shoes embroidered with hexes blind her. In time, she'll learn what I did. They're the best and the worst of us, stronger and weaker all at once. A prince of the lower court may raze an entire city in a fit of wrath, but they'd be hard-pressed to manage one day of hard work like our parents do. Accidents of birth may make them richer, indolent, but the common folk are the heart of Tenebris.

For now, Neb is still captivated, and I can't find a reason to deny her this one indulgence. "Sure."

She gasps, flabbergasted, then squeals. "I need to get changed!"

I laugh at her candor, dragging myself out of bed. I wash and get dressed in one of my ten near-identical black tunics and breeches, fitting my sword in a leather baldric I seldom wear. It’s less practical than my other belts, hindering my movements as it does. Again, I’m assuming there’ll be no fighting near the queen. I may have grown more trusting than is wise. By the time I leave the room I claimed—the smallest in my parents' quarters—I find the two pages seated in the living area, munching on fresh buckwheat rolls.

I eye my father, rolling my eyes. I favor my mother, save for the dark blue hair. Both of my parents are several inches shorter than Nebula, and she only reaches my shoulders.

That there’s gentry blood in our veins is obvious—my power cannot come from the lines of the little folk. We don’t know whose, because we haven’t asked. Neb is too nice to bring up the subject. I simply don’t care.

Da's rules of hospitality are so well engrained in his psyche, he’d invite the usurper for tea, if she ever dropped by. Those who knock at his door are his guests, and guests must be fed. The pages eat gratefully. No one starves at Whitecroft, but the rationing has been hard on