The Scorched Throne

XII - Adonis

It's nearly midnight, and I'm still wide awake, as I seem to be every night nowadays. I lean against the Duchess's heavy oak door. Even from here, I can smell the fragrant night jasmine she always keeps stocked in her chambers and climbing up her balcony, the vines bearing tiny white flowers drooping over thin-necked vases, always stained glass in cool hues.

I let my wings fall. Gods, I'm tired, but my mind will not let me sleep. It races through thoughts like a scrambling messenger, doubling back and switching directions at random, so fast I can't stop long enough to even consider sleep. I go over the security plans for the mission to Vaporis tomorrow, turning through streets and alleyways I can't fully picture in my mind. The irrational part of me is anxious that three men won't be enough to protect the Duchess, despite her extraordinary combat skills, despite my combat skill, and despite our foolproof plan.

What am I thinking? She's beat me in hundreds of fights over the years, and I'm worrying over her safety. Still, I go over the plans once more in my mind, scouring them for weaknesses to patch up. I find none, like the hundreds of other times I've looked, but it at least soothes my thoughts. I tip my head back, savoring the feeling of the cool breeze through the thin embrasures.

One of the two other men on duty tonight is taking his turn sleeping, as I should be. He snores obnoxiously loud, the sound rising and falling with his breath. I wouldn't be surprised if the Duchess could hear him from her bed. The other, a hard-faced wolf shifter with a distinctly musky smell, stares straight out at the hallway. In the low yellow light, his eyes look completely black and flat, like a snake's.

I sigh, and tuck my arms behind my head, separating it from the rough wood. Now, it just scrapes at my knuckles instead. The faintest breeze ruffles one of the feathers on my right wing, down near the crack of the door.

My hands itch for my tools, to be able to distract myself in the comfortable routine of welding designs into the handles and blades of my weapons. Recently, I've been working on a gift for Romulus; a thank-you for having my back in missions over these past years, and a present for his upcoming birthday.

It's a lovely piece, even by my harsh standards; a long dagger made of dragon bone, with a sharp, ridged edge. I've been working on it during sleepless nights for weeks, carving whorls and designs into the hilt, engraving the blade with words of the ancient language. The blade itself is made exactly for him. It tells his story, the story of his life, as much as I know about it. He didn't qualify for this assignment, and I'm surprised to realize that I miss his presence.

Romulus was raised on a farm. His family was big, happy, and content; three brothers, seven sisters, and a tired but cheerful mother. During late nights on patrol, he'd tell me about them. They all held the same creamy complexion, blond hair, and blue eyes as their father. He was always told that he had the charming, outgoing personality of his mother. His favorite sister, the youngest, was named Elia.

She was only seven when Romulus was fifteen, already being recruited into the Imperial Corps for his innate combat skill. Whenever he speaks of her, his voice always hushes. His eyes shift down, and a small smile graces his face—the most genuine, rare type. She was the only one without the same fair features; she inherited their mother's dark brown hair and freckles. The two of them were constantly together. Romulus taught her everything about the world, from how to fight and plow fields to reading and arithmetic. She was much shier than him, taking after their father.

A few months after he turned fifteen, an imperial patrol stopped by to take Romulus to the capital city. He hesitated, worried for his family, but they encouraged him to go. He was always meant for greater things, they said. They refused to chain him down. With their approval and the promise of extra money to send home, he left.