The sun beat down on the back of Dorian’s neck, and though his palms were slick with sweat, his grip on his sword remained steady. Even with only one functioning eye, he could see the crowd forming along the edges of the courtyard. He hadn’t been alone at the start of his training session—he was never alone in Avalon, not truly, as there was always at least one Avicen watching his every move—but the small cluster of Warhawks had grown over the course of the past hour. Their rapt attention was focused on him as he sliced open yet another training dummy, its burlap stomach spilling hay like intestines from a gutted corpse. At its wooden feet lay the remains of two other dummies, both in equal states of disrepair. Someone had attached a soccer ball to the neck of one and drawn a crude smiley face on it; a swing of Dorian’s sword had decapitated the dummy, and its dead eyes seemed to stare at him in judgment.
Rending the dummies limb by limb had done little to quell the storm in Dorian’s heart, but it made him feel marginally less awful. His default state of being since Caius’s abduction vacillated between abject agony and bone-crushing guilt. Right now, with his muscles aching after the first good workout he’d had in weeks, his mood hovered near simmering despair. An improvement, however slight.
He lowered his sword as he gazed upon the destruction his frustration had wrought. Sweat glued his shirt to his back, and he was thankful that the afternoon had brought with it a brisk wind, even if there was no reprieve from the heat of the sun.
Behind him, a familiar voice tutted in disapproval.
“What on earth did that poor, defenseless dummy do to you?”
The sound of Jasper’s voice teased an involuntary smile from Dorian’s lips as he turned. It vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, though Dorian had no doubt the change in his expression had not gone unnoticed. Jasper was far too perceptive for his own good, and most certainly too perceptive for Dorian’s good.
Dorian wiped the sweat from his brow with his free hand as he sheathed his sword. It felt good to have the sword back. It would be folly to say that the Avicen of Avalon trusted him—centuries of war and hate would take longer than a few weeks to unravel—but he had worked tirelessly beside them in the wake of Tanith’s attack on the island, bloodying his hands as he dug through the rubble to reach survivors. Although they would never forget years of Drakharin savagery, they remembered that Dorian had helped them in their darkest moment.
Dorian was an oddity to them, and they watched him with a mixture of fascination and fear. Few of the Avicen at Avalon had ever seen a Drakharin fight, and the ones who still held him in contempt for being who and what he was could not resist the opportunity to watch one train. The Warhawks had been devastated by the disasters that had befallen them—the ku?edra had attacked their home in the heart of New York City, then Tanith had wreaked havoc on their refuge at Avalon—and the ones who remained standing took a perverse amount of pleasure in critiquing Dorian’s form. He didn’t mind. So long as he had a sword in his hand, they could disparage him all they wanted. He was confident in his skills, and nothing anyone said would convince him that his swordsmanship was anything less than impeccable. And while it felt strange to have an audience as he violently worked out his frustrations, there was the possibility they might learn something by watching him. He had noticed more than a little sloppy sparring when he observed the surviving Warhawks in the training yard.
One of those Warhawks—Sage, an incongruous name for one so perpetually surly—had pushed the sword into Dorian’s hand a few days after the attack. “You’re no good to us defenseless,” she had said, “and I cannot be bothered to defend you.”
Not that Dorian needed defending, especially from a soldier less than half his age, but it was the closest to approval he was likely to get from one of the few Avicen of rank left standing.
As he faced Jasper, he schooled his expression into something he hoped was neutral.
“I didn’t like the way it was looking at me,” Dorian said.
“I can see that.” Jasper laughed, and though the mirth didn’t quite reach his eyes, the sound made something deep in Dorian’s chest twinge with longing. Jasper hopped down from the crumbled wall upon which he had been sitting as he watched Dorian hack away at wooden foes, and made his way to the pile of debris Dorian had spent an hour creating. Jasper kicked the soccer ball head to a cluster of Avicelings who had been watching Dorian practice. They scampered over to the ball, reclaiming it. With a tight smile, Jasper made his way back to his perch and sat down, his sharp amber eyes lingering on Dorian.
It still startled Dorian, even now, how he found himself reacting to Jasper’s presence. It wasn’t simply that Jasper was distractingly beautiful—and knew it. Dorian liked to think he was strong enough to resist a pretty face. Gods knew he had long experience doing just that; his position as captain of the royal guard had made him one of the most sought-after companions among the Drakharin, yet he had welcomed none of the nobility’s perfume-soaked advances. For so long, Dorian had held only one person in his heart, but Jasper had somehow, against all odds, made room for himself there. It had taken Dorian months to welcome the intrusion, and only minutes for the fragile thing growing between them to collapse. For how could he allow himself to find happiness with Jasper when he had so thoroughly and shamefully failed the person to whom he had pledged his love and loyalty?
You are my prince and I will follow you anywhere.
Dorian had spoken those words a thousand times. It was the truth he’d held most dear for more than a century. He had meant the words each and every time he’d uttered them, and there hadn’t been a single doubt in his mind that he would be there, by Caius’s side, to follow through on them when the time came. But when his prince had needed him the most, Dorian had been miles away, ignorant of the danger Caius was in. It was the most solemn oath Dorian had ever taken, and he had failed to live up to it. He had failed Caius. And for that, he would never forgive himself. Not until Caius was found. Not until Dorian knew Caius was safe. And probably not even then.
There was no time for a dalliance in his life. Not even with someone who insisted, rather impudently, on looking like that.
Sunlight danced along Jasper’s hair-feathers, breaking into beautiful, prismatic light. The purple feathers weren’t merely purple, they were indigo and fuchsia and the deepest violet. The blues shimmered like ocean waves, and the shades of green fluctuated like the rustling leaves of a tree canopy in a soft breeze. Jasper’s bronze skin shone in the light. He was silent, as if allowing Dorian a moment to revel in his magnificence.
Dorian let himself revel, just for a little while. Self-flagellation might have been the order of the day, but he had never claimed to be a saint.
The corners of Jasper’s lips ticked upward, as if he were reading Dorian’s thoughts and found them most satisfactory. “Enjoying the view?”
Heat flooded Dorian’s cheeks and he turned around quickly, on the pretense of tidying up the savaged training dummies, but the widening smirk he caught on Jasper’s face before it was lost to view told him that he had hidden nothing. To gawk was one thing. To be caught gawking was something else entirely. His embarrassment scrolled in patchwork red across the back of his neck. He rubbed at the skin there, hoping—in vain—to mask it.