A storm had torn through the forbidden archive.

The storm was Nicholas, and he grew more disruptive by the day.

Four days, now. Not that he was counting or anything.

Four days of tearing books from the shelves, four days of ravaging his carefully-sorted piles until it wasn't clear where one ended and the next began. Four days since he had seen another human being for longer than it took to receive his daily meals or make the chaperoned trip to the bath, where he scrubbed himself raw in his haste to return to his work.

Four days since the dead-silent ride home with the king. Four days since Rayan apparently decided to fuck off into the ether.

Not that Nicholas was counting.

He could barely walk through the archive without stepping on the open pages of some memoir or anthology or history or essay or witchy cookbook or–

He managed, anyway. He tiptoed around with care, because even pissed as hell and invested in his studies to the point of obsession, Nicholas could appreciate that the past was not meant to be trampled. That made him think of Cici and the last book she'd leant him, on the Nazi book burning campaign, sitting half-read and severely overdue on his desk. It pissed him off all over again. He was tempted to stomp on the history at his feet just to spite her, say fuck you for sending him off to another world to get ghosted by an evil king. But the witches who had worked so hard to preserve it didn't deserve that.

The witches. Who were very real, and beautiful in a boorish way, and way too good at keeping secrets. Nicholas groaned from his heart, muffled into pages that had begun to blur together. That was how Mariam found him. Face-down in a craftbook about lacemaking, except maybe it was about centuries of systemic persecution. It was probably about lacemaking.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

The way he was laying, Nicholas imagined he looked like a swimming newt. Mariam's voice lilted on a laugh, so odds were she thought the same.

"My eyes are sore," he said. "How are you so quiet? Did you float down the stairs? Be honest, can you float?"

"I am perfectly loud." She settled beside him to rub his shoulder. "You are just so focused," she said, with a voice like she was cooing at a kitten.

"It's good to see you."

"You haven't quite seen me yet, jewel."

A page stuck briefly to Nicholas' forehead as he turned onto his cheek. It was good to see her. He tried to communicate this with a smile. She rubbed a few extra circles into his shoulder, so it must have looked pretty pathetic.

"Would it help to talk through it?"

"You don't want to hear it. It's all convoluted witch stuff."

"You'd be surprised."

Nicholas hesitated, wary of sounding as crazy as he felt to the only person who seemed to give a damn that he was still breathing. Or that he ate, if the bowl by his face was any indicator. He had left his untouched dinner upstairs, but here it was, subtly inching closer to his nose every time she nudged the tray with her toe.

"You can talk into the book, if that's easier."

Nicholas slotted his nose into the spine and gave it his best shot. He told Mariam about the Muck Moth, and the small weird somethings he had observed there. 

From brief glimpses of the ladies' hidden jewelry, he gathered that their magic was a system unto itself. Any individual witch only seemed to use two or three stones herself, but he had seen many different colors – many different stones. Definitely more than the five used by the rest of Caldora. The witches shared fewer in common, though; rarely had Nicholas seen the same stone twice.

The only exception was the yellow gem. That one had been there every time, always the largest.

One woman's stone was clear and smooth; the other, foggy and cracked. With the way they had spoken about replacing it, that was a regular thing. Like changing an old tire, or a dirty AC filter. So that yellow stone degraded, either with damage or use, and presumably lost its function.

And then there was that mysterious name, Red. Whoever it belonged to lived far enough away to warrant complaining about the journey. Red was someone – the only one, it seemed – who could provide a new yellow stone. And someone who, according to the drunken witch, might know how to help Nicholas.

"Help you with what?"

"...Doesn't matter."

"It sounds like it ma–"

"Anyways."

Nicholas deflected by telling her about how information was kept under tight lock, even between the witches themselves. We only know what we're told, and we're only told what we need to know. He had a feeling this Red guarded the knowledge vault.

So his next goal was to track down an all-knowing, zem-dealing, faraway witch.

"Hm. Yes," said Mariam. "That all sounds very...likely."

"Right?" said Nicholas, sitting up with the imprint of the book on his forehead. Mariam flinched away from his crazy eyes.

"No, dear."

"I didn't buy it either at first, okay, but get this." Nicholas crawled like a newt on land toward three books laid out in an ominous triangle. Moving back-and-forth between them, he read aloud from marked pages, offloading a brief history of the kova zem used in witchcraft. They were notoriously hard to find, harder still to extract, but a massive stash had been locked away in the Halcifer vaults. After the war that split Maesia into Caldora and Interra, the stones were divided between the two kingdoms to be kept under high security.

The Caldoran stash had been kept at al-Narin. But it wasn't there anymore. Figuring out why had been like attempting a word search with half of the letters crossed out. Blocks of text were missing from nearly every book that mentioned the witches' zem. Despite the censorship, and despite his raging migraine, Nicholas had found it, the truth Caldora wanted to hide: the cellar which stored the stones had been robbed long ago.

"Chances are they're all still in one place," said Nicholas. "Hence the zem dealer, Red."

He could see Mariam begin to come around. "Wouldn't she be long dead?"

"What if she passed down her, uh, hustle? Or maybe, I don't know. Maybe she's crazy old. If a charm could tie Dalisay's soul down for centuries, then maybe she's survived by...by..."

"It isn't impossible. Think about Delilah."

"I keep hearing that name. Who is she?"

Mariam's eyebrows rose in surprise, but she told him: "She existed long before Caldora and Interra, even before Halcifer. Sorceresses were distrusted then, certainly – I cannot imagine a time when the world did not suspect a powerful woman – but at least they were not feared. They lived as what they were: humans. And then came Delilah, a woman with too much power for her own good."

"They killed her."

"They tried. She sat above even life and death. She lived for centuries. Not much is known about her magic – the fearful have made sure of that. Only that which will keep the fear alive has been passed down. Ask any child his favorite scary story, and you will hear of the death-defying witch and her ghost lover."

"Ghost lover?"

Mariam smiled. "His true name hasn't survived, but he was known as the Charlatan, an infamous fraud. The only thing he never lied about was his love for her. He was a sickly man, destined to die young, but it's said her magic kept him going. He remained faithfully by her even when death seemed the kinder fate. Delilah was pursued night after night. When no lodging would take them, he chose to starve at her side. They were chased out of Maesia and beyond it. An arrow finally struck home on the shore of a lake; not in Delilah's neck, but his. An accident, probably, but the soldier was hailed a hero. Delilah watched her lover's blood soak the water–"

"Lake Charlatan," Nicholas realized on a gasp.

"Clever boy."

"Sorry, what– what happened next?"

"As much as Delilah could provide life, she could not reverse death. She latched onto his soul and tried to force it back into his body. But his body was only a husk. All that remained was the mindless urge to protect her. It stood between Delilah and her attackers until it was hardly a body at all. In her despair, she didn't fight when the fire finally reached her, but she could not be killed. She even turned her hand and her magic on herself, desperate to join her lover. Still, she lived. As the story goes, she murdered her lover's murderers and vanished with the fragments of his soul to rest for eternity. Many believe her body might one day be found, deep in slumber, buried near the waters of Lake Charlatan."

Nicholas gently kicked aside the closest book, having lost his appetite for reading. "How do you know all that?"

"I said every child grows knowing the tale."

"That doesn't sound like the version they'd tell every child."

Mariam smirked. "Told you I'm interested in 'convoluted witch stuff.' Say, isn't it strange, Nicky, that you should have gone so many years in this country without knowing her story? You have many secrets."

"Another time," Nicholas dodged. "I'm exhausted from all that talking. And you must be tired from..." he waved his hand at her general appearance and regretted saying anything. Now, he had to acknowledge the tells: the plum-colored robe and disheveled hair, the marks along her collar.

"Tired?" Mariam laughed. "I rather think I'll treat him to another round once I take my leave of you."

"So he's not, um. He's not all that busy, I guess."

"He does his work during the day, certainly. But he's bursting at night."

So while Nicholas worked his ass off down here, Rayan had been getting his rocks off with probably the prettiest girl Nicholas had ever known. Cool. Cool, cool, coolcoolcool–

"Well that's a new face," observed Mariam. "Why so angry?"

"I'm glad you're having fun," Nicholas said through gritted teeth. "I only wish the king would use his time more wisely–" his composure slipped "–and put his work before his dick–"

"Nicholas!" chided Mariam, scandalized and delighted. "Wait. The king?"

"...You know. Rayan?"

"Certainly not as well as you think I do." She was giggling now, trying to hide it. "Nicky, I serve the chamberlain."

"Cairo?"

She fell back into the scattered books and laughed with her hands over her belly.

"Nicky, so possessive! I knew something was there."

"I can assure you, there's nothing there."

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

She scurried toward him on her hands and knees. "What happened?"

"We hooked up!" blurted Nicholas. "Which means, like–"

"I can gather."

"Great. Awesome. So that happened, and then he left. And I haven't seen him since."

"Do you want to?"

Nicholas sputtered, "Wuh– no! I can't...Can I?"

"He and Cairo sleep in the same wing. I'm going that way regardless. Come with me."

"I'm not allowed to leave this place."

"I can be quite sneaky. Something tells me you'll be forgiven."

Nicholas hesitated. Then he remembered his dignity.

"I don't even want to see him. He's a jerk–" and an evil villain, and my hero's archenemy, and determined to incite a war– "and I have work to do."

"You said he's helping with your research, right?"

"He's supposed to."

"So go tell him that! Yell for a while, until you're all worked up. I've always preferred sex that way."

"That's not–!"

"Lie to the books, Nicholas."

She stood, offering her hand. She wore no rings, but she must have had stones hidden on her somewhere, to have gotten this far. Before Nicholas could take it, she withdrew her hand and sat right back down.

"Wait," she said. "First, eat."

♛ ♛ ♛

Mariam was scary sneaky.

Nicholas doubted her at first, when he heard someone coming down the hall and she continued unperturbed with her confident stride. The housemaid ignored them, discarding a vase of wilting flowers while Nicholas ducked his head and sweat from his palms. There were footsteps again on the second floor; Nicholas had hardly noticed them when he was suddenly pulled into the wall. As in, inside the wall.

"Shurta," Mariam whispered in the complete blackness, and didn't explain how she could tell.

They made it to the third floor before Nicholas realized what felt so eerie about the whole thing. He couldn't hear their own footsteps at all.

"How are you doing that?" he started to say, but Mariam pressed a finger to her smiling lips.

In the Royal Wing of the fourth floor, the pair of shurta standing guard nodded at Mariam like she was a regular at a restaurant, but eyed Nicholas warily.

"House of Jasmine royalty," she said with a wink. "A treat from Madam Bashar to show her gratitude for the chamberlain's patronage."

Nicholas squirmed as the shurta patted over his clothing. Mariam hummed a tune as her "clothes" were checked, shaking her hips like she and the guard were dancing together. The shurta nodded them along. Mariam held Nicholas' hand until they reached a fork in the hallway.

"This is where we part."

Nicholas asked for guidance. Mariam gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek instead, and walked the left fork like she owned it.

It wasn't hard to identify the large door at the end of the hall as Rayan's. Approaching that door, though, with its daunting dark wood and armed guard – Nicholas wiped his palms against his pants.

"State your business," said the guard while Nicholas was still out of comfortable talking distance, so his response was an awkward half-shout.

He tried to channel Mariam. "I'm here in–" his voice cracked – "in service to the king."

It was a terrible feeling, shouting that.

Nicholas bowed. The guard was unimpressed.

"The king has not called upon a guest tonight."

"You, uh, you sure about that?"

The shurta was so disgusted by the question, he took a moment to respond. Nicholas seized the opportunity now that he was closer to the door to yell, as loud as he could stomach and with no shortage of scorn, "Comfy in there, Your Majesty?"

The guard's face turned red. His hands twitched with awful intentions. Nicholas thought he'd really done it this time.

The door flew open.

"In," Rayan growled, and disappeared from the doorway.

Nicholas gave the guard a regrettable little wave and hurried through the door before it could close on him.

Rayan's bedroom wasn't at all like Nicholas had expected. It was surprisingly warm, all dark mahogany wood and golden lamplight. The curtains, the sheets, the seats, the saffron rugs, blended deep oranges and reds and purples, like the sky behind a silhouette at sunset. And Rayan, turned away in dressed-down darks, made a striking silhouette.

"Why– no, how are you here?" he faced Nicholas and glared hard. "What part of 'prisoner' don't you understand?"

"I had to do something." Nicholas glared even harder. He got in Rayan's face. "Where the hell have you been?"

Rayan flinched back a step, eyes darting to the accusing finger Nicholas pointed at his chest. He moved deeper into the room, practically tearing out an upper drawer of his dresser to pull on a pair of gloves. "I had work to do."

He only half-closed the drawer. The hem of some garment hung over the lip. Nicholas felt a thrill as he took in the clothing scattered across the furniture, spots of black against twilight, and filed away yet another unwritten note: messy. But now wasn't the time for that.

"More important than preventing your own death? I've been at it nonstop trying to spin this impossible web alone while you've been hiding in your bedroom."

"I do not have the agency to choose what is most important." Rayan hung back by the dresser, never too close. "In case you have forgotten, a prince from an enemy nation attacked my castle twenty-four days ago, and his accomplice, who should very well live out his life behind bars, instead spends his days comfortably in my library. There are many people, important people, in this castle who question my decisions every day. If you cannot imagine the consequences of your position, you are remarkably self-centered."

"Are we really going to pretend that's what this is about?"

"There is nothing else."

"That doesn't work when I can see your face. I guess that's why you were hiding from me. I know you too well."

"You don't–" Rayan cut himself off and looked away, because he really couldn't lie to Nicholas. "Why are you here?"

"I can't do it alone. Not as fast as you want me to."

"And what else?"

"There's nothing..." Nicholas started, but he lost his steam, knowing it would never sell. The problem went both ways; he wasn't great at lying to Rayan, either.

"That was a drunken mistake."

Nicholas rolled his eyes. They'd had one glass apiece.

"Didn't take you for a lightweight, Your Majesty." He didn't deny the "mistake" part. That much was obvious. But Nicholas' entire presence in this world was a mistake; what was one more? "Come downstairs."

"You are shameless."

"Oh, fuck you."

"Your actions have gravity!" When Rayan gestured – not with his calculated grace, but because he was flustered and angry – his movements were tight, tense, close to his face.

Still not the time.

"So I've got to let the weight crush me?"

"Is it crushing?"

"Isn't it?" Nicholas asked. Rayan swiped a hand over his mouth as if wiping away a days-old feeling. Nicholas could feel it, too. "I'm fully aware of what we did."

"It doesn't appear you are."

"It's not like I'm proud, you know. I betrayed my friends."

"And I betrayed my people!" He raised his voice, palms spreading – explosive. Then he reigned it all back in, speaking low with his hands at his sides. "Curse me all you'd like. In the meantime, I must reckon with the force of your warmongering friend."

"Warmongering?" Nicholas said incredulously. "His only fight is against you and your– weird bloodlust, or whatever!"

"Oh, is that why he stormed my castle?"

"Those would have been peaceful negotiations if not for your..."

"My what? What have I done to convince you of my evil?"

"Aside from holding me prisoner? Twice?"

"You were involved in an attack–" Rayan began angrily, then seemed to deem it a waste of breath. He inhaled deep through his nose. "Rather, tell me, what has he done to earn your unwavering trust?"

"He's the only friend I've got."

"Then you're a terrible judge of character."

"He's my character."

"So am I!" Rayan finally snapped, finally stepped away from the stupid dresser. Nicholas had to tilt his chin to hold eye-contact. He felt a spark down his spine. "One of us dove into a lake to save your sorry life. The other left you behind in enemy territory and took for himself the book you need to get home. Somehow I am the villain."

"Jealous, much?"

"You care for him, don't you?"

Nicholas faltered.

"You're not as smart as you think."

Rayan scoffed and asked, "What are you doing here?"

Nicholas couldn't put it into words. He had never been good at that, at responding on the spot. If he was a good speaker, he never would have needed to become a writer. He hadn't felt this in a while, the frustration of failing to spin his words the way he wanted in the moment. He hadn't needed to, when he and Rayan could communicate without saying anything at all.

"If you care for him, and you think so poorly of me–"

Nicholas walked right past him. He peered into the open drawer. When he turned, Rayan was already facing him, eyes round and startled as Nicholas slipped on a pair of gloves so white, they made his creamy linens look murky.

"Why are you here?" Rayan asked again.

Nicholas took a step. Rayan's tongue darted across his bottom lip. There.

"Why did you let me in?" countered Nicholas.

He twisted fistfuls of Rayan's shirt and answered for the both of them, hauling the king down to his level. Rayan instantly gripped his hips, shoving, forcing Nicholas back against the wall with enough force to rattle the dresser. Would have rattled his brain, too, if not for the hand Rayan smacked to the wall behind his head, cushioning the hit.

Rayan was probably right, Nicholas was shameless, because he moaned at the first taste of Rayan's tongue, pulling at him harder like he wanted to be crushed. It felt like a confession. That he had drowned himself in work for four days to fend off heated memories. That the memories had found him anyway, in his dreams. That he woke up sweating every time. That just thinking about Rayan with Mariam earlier had made him all hot inside, and not only with anger.

And Rayan, with the way he moved, the way he kissed, seemed to confess to coming alive. To waking up for the first time in four days. Nicholas moved down to his neck, none too gentle.

He was grabbed one-handed by the cheeks and forced to meet dark eyes. Rayan said, very seriously, "You will not mark my skin."

Nicholas grinned. "Kay. I won't." He got back to work, and he pulled Rayan's hips against his, and he felt against his lips the low vibration in Rayan's throat.

"You are, ah– you're right. I shouldn't have..." Rayan extracted himself from Nicholas' hold. He took a step back and blinked until his eyes cleared. "I allowed myself to fall behind. We must get back to work."

Nicholas gaped at him from against the wall, all panting and disheveled. "Like. Right now?"

"What I mean to say is." Rayan backed all the way to the bed. He sat down, scooted back against his many sunset pillows. Patted his thigh. "Make haste, Nico."

Nicholas honestly impressed himself with how quickly he made it onto Rayan's bed, onto his lap. Rayan kissed him senseless and Nicholas clutched his shirt again, afraid, even with the gloves, to go too far. Then there were fingers around his wrists, prying his hands away – and settling them at the sides of Rayan's neck, at the intersection of his jaw.

And this– oh, this was so much worse.

His warmth and his pulse were muted through the fabric. Nicholas slid both hands back into Rayan's hair and felt a little desperate, because he could discern the weight slipping through his fingers but it only made him want to really feel it. Against his skin, down to the strand.

Nicholas eased back, electric when Rayan followed him. "You've been thinking about me."

He pushed his thumb against Rayan's mouth. Rayan opened up just enough to bite down reproachfully, and even that wasn't enough. Nicholas wanted to feel those sharp teeth close over his flesh; he wanted to see the indent they'd leave behind.

"You are," Rayan said, guiding the slow movement of Nicholas's hips with a tight grip, "ruinous."

He rucked up Nicholas' shirt to drag wide hands over his back. And Nicholas wanted the gloves off, off, off – he wanted Rayan's nails dragging down his spine. Instead, it was smooth silk digging a trail from his shoulder blades down to his lower back, then lower still, beneath his pants.

For all the fuss Rayan had made about marks, he seemed to relish in leaving them as far down Nicholas' neck and collar as the shirt allowed. Nicholas tightened his fist in Rayan's hair in warning, but Rayan didn't back off, and if that didn't send some very confusing heat straight south–

Rayan pushed down Nicholas' pants just far enough to get a hand on him.

Ruinous. Nicholas could get behind that. It had a nice ring to it.