Page 33 of Eyes of Kings

They’re packing up the camp. While they occupied this temporary base inEigi, they have collected an amalgamation of volunteer soldiers and nobles who fled looking for safety. Now they must diverge: one camp who is continuing the fight with August and another to be stored elsewhere, simply to not bother August.

“August,” the voice comes again.

He tips his head back, pressing into the hard edge of his plastic chair. Resists the urge to groan, because this is one piece he has never fully accounted for.

“Enter,” he relents.

Galipei shoves the door aside. He looms at the threshold, dressed in borrowed cottons, a plain blue color outfitted around his shoulders, matched to gray slacks. Through all the years August has known Galipei Weisanna, he’s worn training gear. Palace-approved uniform in its varying states, as black as the crown prince’s gaze.

“I’m glad to see you embracing your entrance into civilian life,” August remarks, tapping his fingers on his makeshift desk.

Galipei frowns. He sniffs once at the remark, and a second time when he turns to inspect the door latch, still swinging from the disturbance of his entrance. His brow furrows, as though it is an offense that August dared keep the door closed to him. What a peculiar concept it is—August Shenzhi stationed amid the mess in the war room, but his closest guard left outside.

“They burned my clothes,” Galipei says dully.

“Most of it was singed already,” August returns.

Galipei steps into the room properly, sliding the door closed after himself. He takes inventory of the war room. The maps pinned to the board, the papers stacked in the corner, barely keeping track of which nobles pledged which assets. This is a far cry from August’s office in the turret. Beyond the light raindrops splattering on the window, the only view is the sloping plains of Eigi, and the busy guards outside.

“Can I offer a word?” Galipei asks. “Or are you going to threaten my job again?”

August stops tapping his fingers. A nerve twitches in the center of his palm.

“I thought,” he says softly, “I was very clear yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, August.” Galipei props his hands on the other side of the desk. He nudges it forward a small fraction. The room shrinks. “But your ask was nonsensical.”

“My ask is not voluntary.”

“Neither is my devotion. I swore into this job. You can’t release me from it with the snap of a finger.”

August doesn’t quite understand this resistance. Or—he does. He wishes not to. His palm twitches again, and he has half a mind to lance a dagger through his hand, kill the muscle and eliminate whichever signal has gone awry in his body. He can’t help but wonder if this is some byproduct of being invaded, as though Anton Makusa left behind a pathogen festering in August’s bloodstream. He imagines silent buboes opening in his chest, threatening to burst, and what develops in their wake is beyond illness. It’s Anton’s wildness. Anton’s obsessions.

“I can,” August says. “I am your king, am I not?”

“If you’re asking San-Er and Talin at large,” Galipei sneers, pressing harder on the desk, “they may answer you are not.”

This menacing act does not suit him. Neither does civilian gear, so at least Galipei is departing from convention across the board.

“Decry me, then.” August does not let his tone change. “You are allowed.”

Galipei’s jaw tightens. “You will not win your war like this.”

“I didn’t ask for your take.”

“What hasOttabeen suggesting, then?” Galipei demands. “Bide your time? Await the capital?”

The rest of their camp do not know who Otta Avia is, but they suspect there is something amiss. They see the sigils she’s drawing over herself. August senses their judgment, then their irritation after Otta issues instructions.Who is she totell us what to do? She will not disclose her identity because that will press into August’s authority, and she is still trying to play nice. This, he knows. August is familiar with what it looks like when his sister has decided she won’t play nice anymore.

“Those suggestions are from me, actually,” August says.

Galipei drops his head, letting it hang past the line of his wide shoulders. This conversation tires him, but he will not show it. Just as he has never shown August any bruise or ache, feigning flawless condition until he can manage it no longer. He would incinerate himself while insisting August needed to stay warm.

“I heard what Naov was saying when he took the telephone,” Galipei says. “If the councilmember of Pashe is stumbling over his own words, I suspect you have very little support behind you.”

“It doesn’t matter whether mycouncilmemberssupport me or not,” August returns. “They fled to my camp. They listen.”

When Galipei looks up, his silver eyes lift behind August. He’s glaring at someone who is not there, invisible and intangible.