Cemil’s room was a more welcoming sight than on his last visit. Afternoon was waning into evening, and the rain outside pattered on, but there was cool light streaming through the windows down onto the floor. Osmund noticed for the first time the delicate patterns sewn into the rug beneath his feet, as well as those painted on the tiles lining the walls and its recessed nooks, which displayed mainly books and curiosities. This entire room was a work of art!

The Meskato prince settled onto a cushion beside a low table that Osmund hadn’t seen in the darkness of his first visit. “Sit,” he said evenly, indicating another seat at an adjacent edge. Osmund spotted an empty bottle, similar to the kind he’d contained his nightroot potion in. “Is that…?” he began, seating himself cautiously.

“I pulled up some of the writings about Tolmish plants.” Cemil indicated a stack of books to his left. “I believe I managed to replicate your formula.”

Osmund looked on quietly. “I offered to do that for you.”

“You have enough work to handle. I couldn’t trouble you to brew medicine at my desire as well.”

Even if it wasn’t the intention, Osmund heard the following: that there was no further excuse for him to visit this room. (Yet, here he was anyway.) He shifted uncomfortably. “Have you already needed to take more?”

“I wasn’t planning to, but the creature left me no choice.” Cemil looked loath to continue, eyes hooded. “You’ve seen by now that my headaches are connected with the sword.”

The sword? Osmund’s face nearly betrayed the impact with which that landed. All at once, the troubling conversation he’d had with that illusionist, Emre, came flooding back. What was that he’d said? “Get close to him and take it”? And something about Cemil’s doom?!

Then there was Nuray. He’s been different, since he got the sword.

Oh, heavens. How had he not put the pieces together before this moment?!

Osmund faltered. Maybe it was better not to appear too interested in the subject, but he couldn’t help it. “What is that sword? And why do you use it if it hurts you?”

“I wouldn’t if I had any other choice,” Cemil claimed. His calm words were laced with something like resentment. “As you know, I’m a healer by nature. It’s a fine discipline, but not one that suits a prince.”

All of Osmund’s boyhood fantasies of discovering that he had been blessed with healing magic rippled to the surface; it felt like Cemil had just kicked a stone right into them. “W-why not?” he inquired anxiously. “Healing is wonderful. It’s a gift! A good prince deserves magic like that!”

“Healing is for medics. For those in the back of the army, and those who stay safely behind the walls. Not for a prince or an emperor leading his soldiers into the battle.” Cemil’s speech was well-rehearsed. Except for his tone, it could have been King Valen Haldebard himself saying those things. (Obviously, that was an unhappy thought.)

A chill went through Osmund’s entire body. “And so the sword lets you use fire magic…” Fire was a good, respectable combat magic that anyone could be proud of. “But…if it also gives you those headaches…”

“It’s a necessary suffering,” Cemil said firmly. “And you don’t need to be concerned; I’m fully in control of the sword’s power. Now with your medicine, even those side effects may be resolved.”

“S-So…it isn’t hurting you? Physically, I mean, apart from the pain?”

At first, he worried that he’d pried too much after all. But then Cemil was smiling winsomely at him.

“As I sit before you now, I hope I don’t seem too damaged.”

He was so beautiful. Osmund wanted to switch his brain off and just enjoy the incredible fact that such a smile was being turned on him again, but he couldn’t fight off the unease no matter how hard he tried. He’d never seen a sword do anything like what he’d witnessed today. Nor had he ever heard of a regular enchantment being able to bestow the wielder with a different type of magic altogether. Chroniclers of history, in all its bloody vicissitudes, had a word for weapons like that. A word which neither of them was saying out loud.

With Osmund’s hesitant silence, the atmosphere had turned awkward again. “…Today went very differently than I’d hoped,” Cemil said, changing the subject. (It was at that moment Osmund became aware of their shoulders, so close they were nearly brushing.) “I’m sorry to give you such a frightening experience.”

“It was nice,” Osmund put in, sneaking a look at him, “before…you know.”

Cemil offered him the smallest quirk of his lips again. “It was.”

Where did they stand now? Osmund wasn’t sure. His thoughts were heavy, but he was grateful that Cemil was giving him a chance to unload them. It was so much better than having to bear it all alone. “S-so…it seems wyrms aren’t common in the Empire then?”

“Not on the surface. And they spend much of their time asleep. I’ve never heard of one so aggressive.” Cemil’s brows were drawn. “I wouldn’t have brought you there if I’d suspected any danger, though it’s good we were there to kill it.”

Osmund laughed nervously. “You mean that you were there to kill it.”

“Don’t minimize your own efforts,” Cemil insisted, being rather charitable. “That was quite a rescue on Anaya. I admit, I didn’t know you had such courage in you.” 

“I wasn’t courageous at all! I thought I was being stupid and possibly getting you killed! I just…didn’t know what else to do.”

Cemil just gave him that look again, raising a different cup of—something. It smelled like alcohol of some kind. “To my humble champion, then.” And he actually winked as he threw back the liquor.

Osmund thought back to Nuray’s words. A distraction. That’s what he was meant to be. Was that why Cemil was being so…well…flirtatious?

“Does something still trouble you?” the other cut in, noticing no doubt how Osmund’s rigid posture and taut grimace were laying absolute ruin to the companionable atmosphere he was trying to cultivate.

“I know they’re just horses. I know,” Osmund said suddenly. “But Banu was your horse.”

“The best of all horses,” Cemil agreed, with equal seriousness.

“You didn’t want to let me go back for her.”

“But we did. Thanks to you.”

Osmund came out with it. “Don’t use the sword anymore, not unless you’d die otherwise,” he pleaded. “I…I don’t like the change that comes over you.”

There was an awful pause. “I can’t agree to that,” said Cemil, a hard edge in his voice. Osmund, having long decided that this tone was his cue to leave, rose at once.

“Thank you for this morning,” he rattled off by the door.

“—Osmund, wait!”

He was halfway down the hall before Cemil caught up to him. Osmund was grateful to see that they were truly alone this time, with no lurking mothers about. “You know I have no choice,” Cemil protested, sounding as if he truly cared about convincing him. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my people safe. That includes you. I don’t intend to apologize for that.”

“…I know,” Osmund acknowledged, inspecting the carpet beneath their feet instead of Cemil’s face. “I’m…I’m glad you weren’t hurt. And, that you saved us. I know you did what you had to. I have absolutely no right to judge.”

“I’m only happy to hear you speak your mind,” the Meskato prince asserted. And it sounded like he meant it. Osmund couldn’t help raising his eyes back to those brown ones. “Only recently you were afraid to say anything that might upset me. I prefer things this way.”

The Tolmishman blinked. He hadn’t thought of it like that, but, he had stood up to Cemil. “I don’t want to upset you,” he mumbled, as if that needed clarifying.

“Of course. It just felt as if I’d earned your trust.” Cemil looked almost shy as he crossed his arms, which was so odd. “I admit, I’ve come to trust you as well. It’s refreshing to speak to an outsider, someone not involved in Meskato politics. And you have a good heart. I can’t believe I ever marked you for an assassin.”

Osmund bit his lip. “I’m glad I’ve been able to, um, distract you.” The word choice hadn’t been deliberate.

“Come to me when the work tires you. Perhaps I can offer a distraction or two as well.” To the end of this provocative statement, Cemil added, more sincerely, “And, I have to thank you. Again.”

“F-For what?”

“For going back for her,” Cemil said gently. “Somehow, I feel that if you’re there, you won’t let me slip too far away.”