Heedless of Nuray’s assurances, Osmund scarfed his breakfast as fast as he could. All the while, his heart raced. He hated to imagine Cemil standing there waiting for him, wasting his precious time as an imperial prince, wondering what was taking his ungrateful new stablehand so long…

Stop! he told himself, straining with the effort of holding back his own catastrophic thoughts. (He was new to this.) He won’t even be there yet. Nuray said so. If you eat too fast, you’ll be sick, and if you don’t eat enough you’ll be too hungry to work, and what good will you be to anyone then?!

But to his immense horror, after he’d finished breakfast (during which he’d convinced himself to go back for a grapefruit and chew, slowly) he turned the corner to the stables and saw that he’d been late to arrive after all. A million apologies flew to the tip of his tongue, but Cemil cut him off.

“Good morning,” the prince greeted him, smiling effortlessly as if to give the impression that he’d only just arrived himself. There wasn’t a trace of awkwardness about him; maybe last night had been a dream after all. “How did you sleep? I trust that Nuray delivered my message.”

Beside him was an old man, stooped as if from a lifetime bent over books. Osmund had seen him plodding around the house. “Osmund, this is Lala Muharrem, my mentor from the palace,” Cemil said by introduction, realizing the two weren’t acquainted.

Lala Muharrem was small and bald. In spite of his advanced age, he reminded Osmund somewhat of a new baby bird. The Tolmishman rushed to bow his respects. “I-it’s nice to meet you, sir,” he stammered in Meskato.

The old man gave him a quirky, lopsided grin. “Quick study,” he remarked. “How long?”

“H-how long what?”

“I believe he wants to know how long you’ve been learning Meskato,” Cemil said. To his mentor he said, “Osmund’s been here a month. About five weeks in total.”

Osmund was surprised to learn that Cemil had known the exact measure. “I borrowed a dictionary from the library,” he murmured. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Ah, a book in the hands of its perfect reader,” said Muharrem in Tolmish. “Cemil was a quick study too. Ever since he was a boy.”

Osmund peered at them curiously. He tried to imagine a younger Cemil together with his (younger, but probably still very bald) mentor, learning the languages of nearby lands. It was a delightful picture. “I’ll be back to help with the correspondence this afternoon,” Cemil promised, and the old man, with a graceful nod, sauntered away.

“I, um—” Osmund wasn’t which question to ask first. The one that came out first was, “Are you still feeling better?”

“Look for yourself.” And oh, Osmund was looking. Cemil’s skin was a healthy color, his hair tied back in its usual style, a little messily but in a sort of purposeful way that the Tolmishman had never quite mastered. His amber eyes were bright and clear, nothing like how murky they’d been a few short hours ago. “I wanted to thank you, and this seemed the perfect way. It’s a fine morning for riding.”

“For…?” Osmund looked from Cemil, to the horses, to himself. He thought he picked up on Cemil’s meaning, but—it didn’t make any sense. “You mean…with me?”

“What do you think?” Cemil looked skyward. “The clouds are good. The weather should hold until our return.”

Osmund peered over again at the stables. Banu was twitching excitedly in her pen, like she knew she was potentially moments away from getting to run with her two favorite humans. (Anaya, on the other hand, looked annoyed as usual.)

“Don’t you have work?” Osmund ventured timidly, then wished he hadn’t. It made him sound ungrateful. But Cemil merely shrugged him off.

“Others will handle the requests in my absence. I think it’s time Anaya stretched her legs.”

To that, Osmund could only nod. “It’ll be good for her,” he said, contemplative. He looked out towards the distant greenery visible over the hills beyond. “She’s got a wild spirit. She really belongs out there, not in a pen.”

Cemil didn’t respond right away. Osmund realized what he’d said in a panic. He hadn’t meant to sound like he was casting judgment. “I—didn’t mean to say…”

“I’m not offended,” Cemil said simply. “You’re right. Anaya is nothing like Banu. She really is special.”

Osmund was once again so glad Banu couldn’t understand she’d been replaced in the prince’s heart. He knew what it felt like to be simple and normal, overlooked easily if someone more exceptional was around. And she was such a sweet horse! She deserved every little treat Osmund was going to give her and more.

“Go get Banu ready,” Cemil directed. “I’ll handle Anaya.”

“Oh, but, I can—!”

“You aren’t working right now. Let me saddle my own horse.”

Well, he couldn’t exactly argue against a command like that. Osmund fetched the good-natured chestnut mare from her pen, and the four of them went together riding down the road.

Cemil was right—the weather was indeed spectacular.

The wind was brisk in their faces, and a slight chill brushed pleasantly up against Osmund’s skin through his thick sleeves and heavy cotton pants. It really was the perfect day for riding. He took deep breaths just to hold them a while in his lungs. A day like this made a person feel strong.

They slipped from one hill to the next, first against the wind, then cresting its wave. Osmund’s hair whipped in his face; distantly a part of him wished he’d tied it back after all, while another reveled in the feeling. It was comforting, being held totally in nature’s grasp, letting it make its mark on its errant little humans.

It was such a thrilling sensation that Osmund managed to forget that Cemil was riding beside him. No—it wasn’t that he’d forgotten, exactly. It had just felt so natural. Like they’d been riding together all their lives.

It was nearly noon when they reached a pebbled stream. The horses trotted to a stop by the water’s edge, and Osmund felt as breathless as if he’d been the one running. He’d never been this far on Banu alone—he hadn’t wanted to abuse his riding privileges by staying out too late—but now that he’d seen this peaceful haven, it was going to be hard to stay away.

Birds called out, unseen, from treetops above. Not a single human sound greeted them. Only the chirping insects and flowing water.

“You’re a very skilled rider,” Cemil said from somewhere beside him.

Osmund turned in the saddle. Cemil was smiling at him in that way that Osmund had proved himself very weak to. He attempted one back.

“You mean for a Tolmishman,” he corrected.

“I meant what I said.”

They ambled on horseback along the stony shore until they spotted a tidy outcropping of rock a ways above the water’s flow. Cemil surprised him by casually dismounting.

“Why don’t we rest for a while?” he proposed, guiding Anaya with the reins in one hand. “That seems a good place to sit.”

“I-if you want to.”

“Do you?”

Osmund blinked. He turned towards the little creek again, babbling musically beneath the sun. It was going to be difficult to refuse such a pleasing idea. Maybe it was okay to say yes to something he wanted.

He got down off Banu and looked for a place to tie her. Cemil shrugged. “Let them graze.”

“If something spooks them off, we’ll be walking five hours back on foot,” Osmund pointed out, quite practically, he thought. Anaya didn’t like it, but she too eventually allowed Osmund to secure her to a hanging pine branch. Maybe she wasn’t putting up much of a fight because of Banu’s good influence.

They settled in on the gentle slab of rock, which was warm with the sun, if a little damp. Cemil had a pack with him. He pulled out some kind of jerky, which he offered to share. Osmund took some gratefully, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know which animal he was tasting. He’d started having troubling thoughts like that recently.

“I wasn’t flattering you before,” Cemil began again. “You’re a fine rider. Have you any interest in archery?”

The ridiculousness of the idea—him, with a bow!—had Osmund chortling before he realized the question was in earnest. “I’m, um, no good with weapons of any kind,” he demurred. And that was an understatement. “I don’t even like hunting. Not even when dogs do all the work.”

“So you’ve hunted before?” Cemil seemed intrigued. Osmund winced. Hunting was a nobleman’s pastime—he shouldn’t have spoken so carelessly. “What displeases you about it?”

“I…I suppose I don’t like the sight of animals in pain.”

“You haven’t ridden with good hunters, then. We don’t make the creature suffer.” Cemil watched him. “And what about meat?”

Osmund continued chewing his jerky very hypocritically. “I do like meat,” he admitted. “I suppose I ought to grow the stomach for it. Hunting, I mean. If I’m going to eat animals.”

“There are plenty who love the hunt. There’s no need for anyone to force themselves in that circumstance.”

This was, Osmund realized with awe, a really good point. And it had never occurred to him before. Perhaps because Father had constantly impressed upon him what a failure he was for not taking to the sport as a prince should.

As if Cemil had read his mind, he asked next, “I’m sorry if the question is painful, but how recently did you lose your family?”

“My mother when I was a child. My sister a few years ago. And Father…um…recently.” Osmund tilted his head. “Why?”

Cemil didn’t mince words. “I want to know more about you,” he replied. (Osmund couldn’t be blamed for reacting to that as predictably as he did.) “It’s a sad thing for a man to be alone. But you’re fitting in well with the others. You have a home here.”

“I hope so,” Osmund murmured, wistful. Boldly, he inquired, “A-and…what about your family?”

Cemil studied the tree line as it sloped gently across the horizon. “You haven’t met my mother yet,” he said as if he’d only just realized something.

“Your mother? Surely she’s at the palace with your father the emperor?”

This time Osmund’s ignorance only seemed to amuse Cemil. “My mother lives here in Şebyan. In fact, her room is at the governor’s mansion. But she doesn’t spend much time in the main house.”

“What is she like?” Osmund asked, unable to stop from getting carried away. He barely remembered a thing about his own mother, only that he missed her. “Is she kind?”

“Kind? I suppose,” Cemil said. His voice was thoughtful. “She cares deeply for the people important to her, though she isn’t the type to display it often. She’s proud, and has no patience for those she doesn’t respect.”

Osmund had a very particular feeling he would not be making a strong impression on Cemil’s mother anytime soon. “What about your brothers?” he asked cautiously. “They’re really all trying to, well…kill you?”

“Not all,” Cemil assured him. “A good number of my father’s other sons are quite unambitious. Only two, I think, want the throne enough to see me as a threat. My oldest brother Bayram, and a younger, Safet. And you must understand, they are practically strangers to me. We each have different mothers, and haven’t seen each other since we were children. There is only one brother I know well. And,” the pause that followed was almost missable, “…sadly, we don’t see eye-to-eye.”

“So he’s another prince?”

“No. A maternal half-brother.”

This came as a surprise. Osmund wouldn’t have thought an imperial prince’s mother the sort to have, well, previous children. It would certainly be highly-talked about in Valcrest. “W-why were you separated from your other brothers?” he asked, deciding not to press the rest.

“I’ve been Şebyan’s governor since I was barely a young man. This is our culture’s way of training princes to rule.”

“And…your father?”

Cemil’s shoulders arched in just a small shrug, but his unaffectedness seemed to Osmund forced. “I know him as my sovereign above all.”

This struck the Tolmishman as very sad, though he didn’t know why. If he could’ve traded upbringings with Cemil—living with his mother somewhere far, far away from his father and sister—he would. Even if a few murderous brothers had to be thrown in the mix, he thought. Probably.

But for the first time, he appreciated how easy his life could’ve been if he’d shown even the slightest inclination towards being king. As Valen Haldebard’s only son, his destiny was sealed from the moment of his birth. Not even being an idiot crybaby with no magic and horses for friends had taken that from him.

And Cemil? Cemil had to be perfect just for a chance at what Osmund had.

“Do you want to be the next emperor?” Osmund found himself asking.

“It’s my destiny to set the Empire on a new path,” Cemil said resolutely. “It isn’t about what I want.”

“But…well…do you?”

Cemil didn’t get the chance to respond.

A loud sound echoed in the brush. Osmund whipped his head around and froze. The air around them now seemed eerily still. He didn’t see, or hear, anything.

He turned back to Cemil urgently, hoping for reassurance—then shut his mouth. The Meskato prince was tensed and alert, already on his feet and crouching low to the ground. One hand flew to the hilt of the sword sheathed across his hip, embers arcing up his sleeve.

The waiting was the terrible part. Until they heard that noise again. Closer. And much, much louder.

And when the monster emerged from the trees, it was so large that at first Osmund’s eyes couldn’t understand the shape of it.

Wyrm.