Fantasy novel | gay romance sub-plot| poc main character.
An heir to a monarchy threatened by a popular revolution forges an alliance with an amnesiac man who could have forgotten links to the rebellion.
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Her...
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Davir Her Arun | 61st day of Sprout season
Davir steadied the heir to keep him from falling. He stared back at Davir with his typical frightened gaze of a rabbit about to be slaughtered. His lips quivered and he attempted to say something he could not utter.
To read his body, Davir brushed a hand across his forehead, grasping at his nerves. The heir was weak and ached all over, but the epicenter of the pain was located at his thigh. Davir sighed, confused and frustrated. The heir had access to the best nurses one could ask for. Davir couldn't fathom how that wound remained untreated. He looked over his shoulders to inspect his surroundings.
"You'll have to walk, alright?"
Heron managed a limp nod.
Davir led him inside and to the poorly lit stairs that climbed up the first floor in a tight spiral that seemed to make Heron more nauseous.
The paleness around his lips stretched up to his forehead so quickly, Davir kept grasping at his body to ensure he was still conscious.
There was nothing to be seen in the corridors, save from the thick walls painted with a black layer of old and fresher smoke from torches that lit the way. But Heron's lost gaze appeared to wander to every palm of rock.
Davir led Heron down the hall and into his chambers. To help the heir lay down, Davir almost ripped through the transparent curtains of the canopy bed to clear his way. Cradling him, earned Davir a large stain of sweat on his uniform. "Stay with me, Lord. Be strong."
Bracing for the pain, he went to fetch a lit candle that he brought next to Heron, then retreated to hide in the shadows of the small hallway next to the entry door. It pained Davir to feel so impotent.
The nearest sickhouses with nurses were in the prestigious third and fourth boroughs. And bringing one to his chambers this late at night wasn't guaranteed, given Davir's economies. Still, he opened the door, immediately facing the neighbor's chamber. He rushed to knock on the door more times than he could count.
Angry black eyes appeared through the peephole. "I'm not receiving clients today, Sir," the woman sneered. She slammed the peephole shut before Davir could utter one word.
Davir punched the door. "I have a sick with me, woman," he shouted. "Bloody Ancients." Even after silence conquered the corridor again, the door remained still and sealed. Davir sighed, turning to the stairs. He knew he wouldn't have much more luck with people he came across on the streets, but still, what other choice did he have?
When he was five paces deep into the corridor, the door he'd left behind finally opened.
The svelte, woolly-haired woman was studying him, shoulders oblique as she leaned against the edge of the doorframe. She was in her night robes; long stretches of dark brown skin uncovered in her limbs by an emerald green strapless dress.
