47. Cicatrix

cicātrix ~īcis, f.

1. a mark of an old wound; a scar, incision

Rax Istra-Velrayd looks up at the withered trees hiding the windows of the Lithroi manor. His crimson hovercarriage hums behind him, and his empty stomach roils; he couldn’t eat anything at the marriage discussion table with all those Hauteclares staring at him. Mother laughed too sweet even as her hand gripped his knee under the table, and Father made promises and more promises, but he hadn’t cared one bit. All he could think about was a pair of sky-blue eyes going soft for once.

Smiling, for once.

He can’t shake it—he didn’t know Synali could smile. The way her cheeks brightened, the way her lips moved…lips smeared with blood, lips devoured by some dust-sucking assholes in the club crowd. Lips that bit his forearm. He rubs the bandage gingerly—it would’ve been easy enough to call it a training injury if he hadn’t stopped getting those at ten. His parents had been suspicious, but Mirelle covered for him, and they did nothing if not soak up everything that fell out of her high-blooded mouth.

Mirelle’s words in the hovercarriage back from the marriage discussions echo around his head. “If you like her so much, then bed her and be done with it.”

“It’s not that simple, actually,” he’d said.

“It must be.” She’d inspected her nails lightly. “She’s not sane, Rax. She’s as unstable and dangerous as a dying star; everyone sees that. So go on—have your fun. And when you’re done, stand back and let me end her on the tilt.”

Rax should care about anything else: the fact he hasn’t been able to get ahold of Yavn in four days, the fact his parents auctioned him off to House Hauteclare and his marriage to Mirelle is in six months now. But he just didn’t get it… The former prince wouldn’t kill her, would he? She’s his rider. She’s not in danger, right?

Her words sounded so hopeless, so small and alone. As defensive and thorny as she is, she would never tell him those things sober; she’d clearly been drugged. She’d been so touchy-feely, so different, so raw and real where her kiss had been timid and scared. Her hands had moved in his clothes so bravely—her hands in his clothes, tugging at his seams with a keen in her voice that wrought every muscle in his body rigid.

“Please, just once.”

“Can I help you, Sir Istra-Velrayd?”

He starts—the prince stands in the front door, a little golden sentry dog poking its nose around his legs. The man is shorter than Rax and far reedier than a once-future king should be, and he wears no blacklight halo. His wispy brown hair pulled into a short ponytail draws no special attention, and he keeps an innocuous smile on his long, calm face. He’s Synali’s mentor—not her father, because according to Mirelle she murdered her own father. Rax hadn’t been shocked by this, only sad, because the idea was once close to him, too. In his youngest, darkest days trapped inside Sunscreamer, he also thought about murdering his parents for what they were doing to him.

If he had taken the opportunity, he would’ve been Synali.

“Yeah, sorry. I just wanted to know if— Is Synali all right? I saw her at Atteint and got her in the carriage, but she didn’t seem well—”

The prince smiles bigger. “Ah. You were the one who sent the flowers to the hospital, then.”

“Flowers? No, I—I mean, I tried to visit, but they had her room made private. Or I guess…you had her room made private.”

“I did indeed.”

Years of tiptoeing around court politics lets Rax feel the bitterness in the man’s smile, even if there’s none on the outside. The sapphires in the man’s cane watch Rax like a dozen blue eyes—sharp, unwelcoming. Still, his mind clutches at Synali’s voice. If Lithroi is hurting her, forcing her to ride like Rax’s mother forced him… The bite wound on his arm throbs as he takes a step forward, and the sentry dog starts growling lowly.

“I just wanna see her, Your Highness. Make sure she’s okay.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Sir Istra-Velrayd.”

Rax pushes into the doorway, too close to the prince to be considered decorous anymore. “One minute. That’s all I’m asking.”

It’s so fast he doesn’t feel it at first—so fast it reminds him of impact—and then comes the hot opening, the telltale molten ooze down his cheek. Blood. The Lithroi prince holds a projection sword flush beneath Rax’s chin—the contained orange heat of it scorching and the sapphire handle gleaming as he smiles brilliantly.

“I think you will be leaving now, Sir Istra-Velrayd.”