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Stepping carefully, he dodged the trilliatum at his feet and delved deeper into the garden. At its furthest edge, the primordial red balstrae towered at the base of the mountain, the Demon King bent over a carpet of the white and yellow flowers in its shade.
“Lyriat?”
He straightened but didn’t look at Mag. “Why do I have a feeling everything is about to get worse?”
Magnus cringed. “Because you’re a perceptive bastard, and always have been.”
Lyriat nodded. “A blessing and a curse.” He turned slowly, tucking a full basket into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s get it over with, Mag. I don’t think my heart can take it being drawn out.”
The scrolls were burning a hole in his front pocket, his uncle’s missive like a final, fatal blow—and he was the arsehole tasked with delivering it.
“It’s the food, isn’t it?”
Magnus couldn’t hold back the laugh that time. “See? Fucking uncanny.”
“Not really. You heard Thad last night.” Lyriat closed the distance and gestured towards a nearby bench, taking to it himself. “And a lifetime of nothing but ruling has certain advantages. Knowing the ebb and flow of business amongst all the shite is one of them. How bad is it really, though?”
Fuck. He was not about to cry in front of Lyriat.
—Take a slow breath, Maggie, and let it out—
He did as he was told. Twice. And then he pulled out those wretched papers, the sheets feeling like the weight of the world in his hands as he passed them to Lyriat.
“As I thought,” Lyriat said when he was done reading. He sighed and returned Caius’s personal missive, then straightened the remaining scrolls, folding them once. “Rations.”
“Aye. I’m sorry for it.”
“To be honest, I was already surprised the provisions lasted this long.”
Mag gripped Lyriat’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’ll see if there’s anything I can do to stretch it a bit further. Every Wolflord in Thodelebor is well aware that we’d all be fucking dead if it wasn’t for the armies you’ve lent. That has to count for something.”
“Every Wolflord?” Lyriat huffed. “Thaddeus painted a very different picture for us, and I think you know it. We’ve had little in the way of tension between us over the decades of my rule, but that damned imposter is doing his best to make it happen now, and I fell right into the trap.”
“Maybe some of it is that bastard’s fault, aye, but…” Magnus shook his head. “No way a shapeshifter is calling the shadows through the earth and tainting a realm’s worth of crops. That part of it has nothing to do with him. So where the fuck is it coming from?”
Lyriat pinned him with a stark look. “I think we both know the answer to that.”
“No, there has to be more to it. Something else we can do.” Magnus leaned forward, the parchment crumpling in his fist. “I can’t…I can’t lay the suffering of an entire realm at my brother’s feet the second he gets back from his damned healing. He’s walking around with enough fucking guilt as it is.”
“Brand is going to have to face this truth sooner or later. The Forgotten Lands are forbidden for a reason, even if we don’t know exactly why, and your realm is now unfortunate enough to be attached to it because of him.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You’re thinking like a brother, Mag, and you can’t do that forever. Someday, you’re going to be the Westrealm’s High Ambassador. Aside from the fact that he doesn’t need your protection anymore, you’ll have a responsibility to your people first and foremost. You won’t have the luxury of prioritizing your love for him.”
“Aye. I know that. I do.”
He didn’t. Everything about being an Ambassador felt too ruthless, too fucking heartless, for Magnus. He wasn’t built the way everyone wanted him to be, and it was tearing him apart.
“I’m not sure you do yet, but that’s alright.” Lyriat picked up a bloom, twirling it between his fingers. “When he does finally return, hopefully in full control of his powers, the Ghostbor has to be his priority. Call on all the Sorcerit you want, but if being connected to that ghastly place is the reason for your troubles, being disconnected from it will remedy them.”
Magnus buried his head in his hands, pulse hammering fit to make him sick as he tried to let some of the acceptance take hold. “And he’s the only one who can undo it.”
“Precisely.”
—And sometimes, Maggie my lad, we weep to keep from screaming—
Aye, Pet.
