When she's gone, I lock the doors back and pull off the shirt stained with Ressa's blood. One of our field healers has experience with magic-related illnesses. She examined Ressa and got her to sleep. Physically, she'll be fine.

We'll have to wait to see if she comes through it mentally.

I lie shirtless down on my bed, habit be confounded. If an emergency comes before the morning, whoever it is will just have to deal well enough with my impropriety. I'm not wrinkling tomorrow's shirt by sleeping in it or wasting another one just in case someone needs me within the next four hours.

I'm tired.

I watch my ceiling. We should have made them pull back sooner. Then again, there's no telling how long the Kadranians were waiting for our retreat. In the morning, Averí will start trying to scry people to see if anyone survived.

Ten days. It's only been ten days since I returned.

I should get to sleep. I don't have much time left to, and not resting isn't an option. I won't function tomorrow, not with everything else that's going on, not with the fact that I've been staying up in order to practice. I force my eyes closed.

We have seventy-five fewer soldiers now. Twenty-five fewer wizards. I can't escape the feeling this is going to end with all my family's blood poured out on the flagstones.

I shift and pull the blankets over me. Despite knowing the room is usually cold, it feels fairly warm compared to my hour and a half of being slammed with frozen wind. Even so, I tug the duvet tight around me. I know I stopped shivering a good half-hour ago, but now tension grips my muscles, and I curl up.

The darkness is too quiet. I shouldn't have run Leavi off like that. We had tea in Niv. The memory feels ridiculous and unreal, like nonsense from a dream. I hold onto it. We were friends.

I pull the blanket tighter. Go to sleep.

Instead, my mind seems to grab for every other possible topic. Wondering how little Zena is doing at the Kitten. Hoping the reinforcements arrive soon. Wishing my castle didn't seem out to kill Leavi. Eventually, it hits me the one thing I'm not thinking about.

What made us choose those men? What made them any more deserving of a funeral pyre than the other soldiers? We handpicked men to die.

My chest aches, and I pull my pillow over my head. Sleep overtakes me while I beg myself to stop picturing the barbarians slay my people. My dreams pay no more heed than my conscious mind did.

In the morning, my neck is sore from not sleeping on my pillow, which seems to have found its way to the floor. More exhausted than when I went to bed, I drag myself up and dress for the day. I'm forced to wear my least comfortable shirt; the rest are all dirty.

I scoop the pile up. After depositing it in the corner of my living room, I wander down the halls toward the Mage Room. Any mage not on the wall is in here, and they all look up as I enter. Even Solus respectfully raises his head from his work. I freeze in the doorway, unsure why they're all here and watching me.

It clicks, and I come in the rest of the way. Yesterday, I told them to come here to hear the results of the battle. "Continue as you were for now. Averí?" I gesture to the office. She nods, and we both enter. I pull the door shut.

I round the desk and watch her, waiting, hoping. She looks tired. Perhaps it's simply from the long night casting. Perhaps she hasn't had one hundred backlashed scries this morning, snapped from the target being dead. Perhaps some of them are still alive.

Finally, she says, "There were two survivors."

My head bows at the weight of it. It's one thing to know that destruction is inevitable; it's another to see the tragedy realized.

"Who?" I meet her gaze again.

"A soldier, Civat. Atione Civat. He was directly under Officer D'lace." She shifts her feet, eyes to the flagstones. Her voice drops. "And another soldier, Garriel Lavesse. Judging by how far out of the city he was, I'd guess he deserted before the fight even began."

My eyes close. Twenty-five wizards killed. Seventy-three soldiers killed, one stranded, and one deserter.

Only one person in that fight made it out.

I don't understand how the Kadranians had time to build that sort of force up behind our men without Averí seeing them. I try to palm the weariness and despair out of my eyes.

"Thank you for the report and for your work last night. You did well."

She ducks something between a nod and an uncomfortable curtsy. She glances at the door. I nod, and she leaves, pulling it to behind her. I sit in Agraund's chair and lean back. How do I go tell them that the wizards they've worked with, that have taken their orders, that have shared their barracks, that these twenty-five we sent out are all dead?

An image from my dreams floats up to haunt me—bodies, hundreds of bodies piling around the castle, around me, until I'm suffocated beneath the weight of them. The nightmare slowly comes back to me. I shoved and pushed and clawed to get out from under them, but I never accomplished anything but revealing the glassy-eyed stares of my people.

I can try as hard as I want to, but that doesn't mean I'll succeed in keeping people alive. A bitter scoff escapes me. The world is a disaster, and then we die.

I straighten in my seat, angry with myself. When it comes down to it, all there is to do is my job, the best I can.

I push out of the chair, and a rough spot scratches my finger. I look down at the arm. Not seeing anything, I prod the surface, searching for what caught on my skin.

There. A v-shaped splinter in the arm, really in an awkward spot—pointing away from the chair. The grain of the wood moves across the arm, so the splinter is somehow perpendicular to it.

I crouch to examine it further. I know it's unreasonable because there's no sense in incorporating a secret into a chair, but my years of hunting hidden passages scream that this is a sign of something. I prod the splinter more, realizing that it's more of a 'u' than a 'v.' It's not sharp enough to draw blood. I trace around the edge of it, noticing a very thin shadow in the grain that runs the length of the arm. A shadow, or an expert seam?

I remember Uncle's insistence that no one but the carpenter know the designs for the chair. Certainty fills me, and I try to dig my fingernails into the seam, but it's far too thin. Pulling up on the splinter leads nowhere as well.

Not sharp enough to draw blood... No, but it might still react to it. This is a wizard's chair after all.

I pull my casting knife and dig it into my thumb just enough to draw a bead. I press the blood to the splinter.

The top of the arm springs open, and for what feels like the first time since I got here, I smile. Inside the long, thin compartment lies a rolled paper. Sucking my thumb, I gingerly draw it out and unroll it.

Aster,

I probably ought to write your regnal name, but since you are still so young at the time I write this, it seems odd to. As you know, I wasn't crowned until shortly before you were born, so it's hard to imagine something happening to warrant your reading this letter.

I sink into the chair.

Yesterday, you had your seventeenth birthday. It surprised me how solemn you were, though I suppose it shouldn't have. You've always been a very studious boy, except, possibly, when you were very little. I had thought you would be more excited to be welcomed as an adult, but perhaps you were and I simply couldn't tell.

I was scared to death. Seventeen meant I should be prepared, a shining example of a Second, but I didn't feel like it. Don't feel like it.

But you no doubt wonder about the point of this letter and of the chair. Congratulations, boy—you've passed your final test. Whatever reason you had for investigating the compartment, it would have been slight enough that you could have easily ignored it. Instead, you spent the time and effort to understand the inconsistency. You noticed, pursued, and successfully concluded what needed done.

You may not be the strongest magician the court has ever seen, but you are a sharp thinker. You're a determined man. Don't let them shame you—some of the greatest figures in the Corps's history have been men, the great Xíeme among them. I know I have always pushed spellcasting with you, but it is because you did not need so much motivation in other parts of your study. With your attention to detail and analytical mind, you will forge your way in this castle.

I'm sure with you being so young at the time of your ascension, the Ladies are giving you some trouble. Hold your head high. If you hold strong and steady in these first few months, you will earn their respect. They may not like you, but that does not matter. Affection, with them, is either pity, amusement, or born out of respect. Making them like you will not make them respect you. It is not your job to appease them. Do not make enemies, but do not be afraid of wielding your power. You are their prince. Act like it.

Do not be afraid to argue with your mother. Yes, she has far more experience than you, but she does not run the Corps. You do, and I have taught you to know what is best for it.

If you have questions, though, Solus will be a good resource to you. He may not be as confident in you as I am, but once you earn his respect, he will be fiercely loyal. Like you and me, he considers his first loyalty to be to Morineaux and what she needs. He will be a strong resource for you, both as you start trying to get your foot in this court and later on. I trust him with my life.

Whatever the circumstances of my death were, I know this will be a dark time for you. I will tell you what my uncle told me, and his uncle before: Love Morineaux, never stop learning, and trust your instinct. It's what you've been bred for.

You've done well, boy. I trust that you'll continue to excel.

With respect and pride,

Your Uncle, Prince Agraund