Lucien is waiting in that broken tower. I can’t see him, but I know he’s there, dressed as Whisper, no doubt. He’s waiting for me. Whatever he wants to say couldn’t be said in the palace, which is why he sent the letter and arranged this. Who does he want to avoid in the palace? He and the whole court know I’ve been taking shelter in Varia’s apartments since Y’shennria’s disappearance. Could he not just come speak to me there?

Unless he doesn’t want Varia to hear it.

But why? She’s his sister. He loves her. The admiration in his eyes when I see them together is undeniable. He trusts her, doesn’t he?

The lawguards largely ignore the ruined tower, their attention taken up by the caravans. One or two still patrol near the tower, but they pause to speak with a few soldiers. I take a deep breath and dart over the grass to the tower. I pick through the rubble, finding nothing on the ground floor but stones overgrown with wildflowers. There’s a spiral staircase ascending to the roof, but it’s missing the bottom six feet of steps. I perch myself on a little hill and jump with all my might, my arms barely hooking onto the stone. Pulling myself up, I wince at my bruised ribs. I’m sure Lucien had no problem with that jump, if his performance scaling an entire building during the fake witchfire scare at the Temple of Kavar a week ago was any indication. He’s more in shape than I am. And I’m more immortal than he is. It balances out.

“There’s no use comparing us,” I mutter as I scale the worn steps. “I’m clearly the more attractive one.”

As I get to the top of the tower, the sight of a bare chest gleaming in the moonlight stops me in my tracks. The whole of Lucien lazily lies on the demolished stone lip of what remains of a wall, body splayed along it like it’s the most luxurious palace settee. The moonlight embraces the faint lines of his muscles and smooth expanses of his golden skin with overzealous glee. I roll my eyes up at the sky, at the Old God and New God who are clearly laughing at me and any assertion I’ve ever dared to make of my own attractiveness.

“Good to know you two are on my side,” I grumble.

Even my begrudging self has to admit it: he’s beautiful. His eyes are closed, dark lashes laid long against his cheeks and his black hair scattered around his forehead. My unheart skips a traitorous beat. In this moment, framed against the starry sky and the double crimson discs of the Red Twins, he’s like a painting of the New God—untouchable and exquisite.