Osmund’s eyelids fluttered. His body felt light and comfortable, like he was back in the bath. He didn’t want to return to the waking world yet. There was a strange, warm presence around his hand, like the touch of another’s skin.

But he was a grown man, and besides, his mother had died when he was six. Who would be here, holding his hand?

And wait a moment—whose bed was this?!

Curiosity swayed him to open his eyes, although the lids felt like lead. The handsome man from his impossible dream sat before him, in fresh, rich clothes unmarked by bloodstains, pleasing features illuminated by candlelight.

“You’re awake,” he said simply, in Tolmish.

Osmund’s body jolted upright. (Distantly, he lamented how greatly he would have preferred to continue lying there.) “U-uhm—” he stammered. “S…Shehzadeh…Jemy?”

His attempt was, apparently, amusing. “My name is Cemil,” the man—Cemil—said. Then he repeated his own name, slower. There was in fact an “L” sound at the end.

Osmund’s mind was buzzing with questions, and unfortunately, the memory of Cemil cutting a man down right there on the front lawn chose that moment to return in vivid color. With a rush of frightened animal instinct, he yanked his hand away.

His host didn’t react, except to track the gesture with his eyes. “I’m sorry to startle you,” he said, faultlessly polite, in spite of Osmund’s incredible rudeness. “You needed help to recover.”

This was a strange thing to say, but Osmund didn’t stop and examine it. “Who was that man back there?!” he demanded, and no, what was he doing, what was he saying?! In 22 years, hadn’t he learned that he’d be best served keeping his mouth shut?!

Cemil darkened. He rose from the chair which he’d evidently brought to Osmund’s bedside and started to slowly pace. Osmund finally spared a glance around the windowless room—it wasn’t much besides said chair, a small table with a candelabra, and a single solitary cot. “An assassin,” Cemil said at last, after a brief circuit. “He was here for me.”

“Assassin?!” Osmund’s voice rose to an even shriller pitch than before. “You get assassins?!”

“Sent from one of my brothers, is most likely,” Cemil added, as if that resolved anything.

What kind of country had he ended up in!? Even his elder sister Evanor, who he was pretty sure had never loved him very much on account of his being a male (and thus, legitimate) heir to the throne, never once (to his knowledge) tried to assassinate him. And Cemil was only a provincial governor!

Or…was he?

“What does your title mean?” Osmund asked faintly. “‘Shehzadeh’.”

Cemil turned to face him, obviously skeptical. “So you truly know nothing of our land?” he asked, as if such ignorance were impossible, and really, Osmund could have gone backwards in time and apologized to his tutor for being the densest, most airheaded princeling he’d ever had to teach.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could disappear. “I’m sorry.”

He heard steps coming closer, then the light protest of wood bending as Cemil re-took his seat beside him. “You aren’t to blame.” The words were said with surprising patience. “It wasn’t your choice to come to the Empire. You were forced from your home, I assume. By the…” Here Cemil paused, apparently grasping for words, “…death…magic…queen?”

“Lady Renova, the necromancer,” Osmund agreed in a small voice.

“Necromancer.” Cemil repeated the Tolmish word slowly, as if committing it to memory. “Bad neighbor for us Meskato to have.”

Osmund choked on an unexpected laugh. It was a nice bit of levity. It only lasted a moment. “‘Şehzade’ means prince of the blood,” Cemil explained. “My father is the Meskato Emperor.”

Prince. “…The…emperor?”

Prince. “Yes.”

Prince! “And you’re…you’re a…”

Osmund could have screamed.

Of course he was a prince, a real prince. He was everything Osmund wasn’t: strong, handsome, charming, feared, competent. Probably heterosexual too, just to rub salt in the wound. Of course, even if he wasn’t, he would have his pick of strapping young warriors to entertain him when he wasn’t doing his royal duties with some perfect wife.

“Oh,” was all Osmund said. And then, as the reality sunk even deeper: “If you’re the future emperor, wh-what are you doing all the way out here? Shouldn’t you be further south, in the capital?”

“I’m fourth of many. Any of my father’s sons could rise to the throne. Each of us has our own place until that time comes, and mine is here.”

How different Osmund’s life might have been with three—no, more?!—brothers. He had no doubt Father would’ve gladly picked any other son to succeed him. Maybe he wouldn’t have needed to notice Osmund at all.

“But, never mind,” Cemil said at last. “You aren’t here to learn about me.”

Truth be told, Osmund wasn’t sure why he was here. He’d calmed one horse, made an idiot of himself, fainted, and now the emperor’s son was here opening up to him. Ridiculous. It reminded him of the unlikely setups found in those tawdry romance novels he used to sneak from town, the kind with lots of passionate coupling and not much else.

Oh, that was not a safe thought. Time to regroup.

“Thank you for—” he began, head hanging, but nothing he could say would really encompass it. For letting him sleep in an actual bed? For giving him fresh clothing? (He wondered if Cemil had re-dressed him while he slept, and burned, although it was an unlikely scenario.) For speaking in Tolmish to him and listening to what he had to say? “For, all this,” he finished meekly. “But…I’m not sure someone like me can be of any use to you.”

“Your accent,” Cemil said, unexpectedly. “You were a nobleman’s servant in your home country.”

Osmund’s head snapped up. It took him a moment to latch onto the convenient story. “Y-yes,” he said. “I…was.”

“Where is your master?”

Osmund thought of his father, King Valen Haldebard, dead on the floor of a palatial estate, wine pooled around his open mouth, his unseeing eyes forever beyond knowing. “Dead,” Osmund said in a hollowed-out voice.

“Have you any family?”

“I’m the only one left.”

“I’m sorry,” Cemil said earnestly. There was another wooden groan as he shifted his weight in the little chair. “Your body was at its limit. There are free kitchens and free baths in town, open to all. Have you not used them?”

“A little,” Osmund said, the shame burning. How could he admit that, as low as he was, he was still too proud to line up with the poorest and most destitute of the city?

No…proud wasn’t the right word. He’d imagined Father looming over his shoulder. Mocking him for his weakness, his dependence. And so Osmund had worked. Maybe the citizens of the empire deserved free services, but he was Tolmish, and the Tolmish believed in working for your bread. Or being born into the nobility, if you could manage it.

“If you don’t want a place with me,” Cemil began, “there is another Tolmish man in town. I can send you to him. He’s very rich, and might help you. His name is Pravin.”

“No!” Osmund cried.

He hadn’t meant to protest like that—loud, desperate, pleading. Cemil’s expression at once changed. “You know him.”

“I—” Oh, how could he explain?! “I went to him once before,” Osmund said in a small voice. “I…I don’t wish to go back. Please.”

Cemil nodded. His gaze was fixed directly on Osmund, and try as he might, the former prince of Valcrest couldn’t look away.

“If you take a position in my house,” Cemil began, stressing each word, “I promise none, including myself, shall lay a hand on you. Do your work, and you will always have food to eat and a place to sleep, and an income to live on and to spend as you wish. I swear it.”

Osmund’s every sense screamed at him to look away. That in spite of Cemil’s kind words, Osmund would bleed if he were foolish enough to believe him. That had been the way of things all his life: kind words were a weapon meant to inflict greater suffering later.

Yet, to his own surprise, something deep within himself fought back. He studied Şehzade Cemil, his steady gaze, his serious expression, and made his choice.

“I want to stay here with you.” Any other option had vanished from his mind.

Cemil nodded curtly, and stood. It felt like a spell being lifted, and Osmund was dizzy with it.

“I accept your decision,” said the Meskato prince. “Welcome. Eat, and rest for the night. Tomorrow, when you’re ready, you may begin caring for Anaya and the other horses.” He paused at the door. “Shall I send someone for your belongings?”

Osmund felt a dazed laugh emerge from his throat. “I have nothing to bring.” But before Cemil could go, he added in haste, “Th-thank you again for your…for your kindness. I…I hope not to disappoint you.”

Even if he were to somehow die tomorrow, it would be worth it, just for how good it felt to believe that such a man could look at him that way and mean it. Better than spending the rest of his life being raided by cats, anyway.

Cemil waved away his sentiments. “Look healthy next time I see you,” he said. Then, he was gone.

The silence that followed the closed door felt enormous. Osmund supposed this humble room was meant for him. He sat on his bed and stared at his wall. This was a broom closet compared to his old room in the castle, but somehow he liked it better all the same.

Cemil had promised never to lay a hand on him.

I’d like it very much if he did, he couldn’t help thinking.

Only a man, after all.