“Wait, did you arrange this?” Tomas asked, anger flaring as he swept his archer in from the side to take his father’s cavalry. The Knightsguard had been nothing more than a decoy, something his father would’ve realized a few years ago. Lately, he’d been barely worth playing against; Tomas couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt challenged. “Was that so-called monster really the Ghost dressed up in an elaborate disguise? Did you arrange for him to sneak away from your soldiers only to backtrack in order to carry out this assassination?”

The king scoffed. “You were always the schemer, Tomas, do you really think me capable of planning and executing such a nefarious plot? If I’d wanted her dead, I’d have swung the blade myself.”

Tomas didn’t know what was worse, that his father’s mind couldn’t fathom the sort of complex strategy that occurred to him so easily, or that he spoke of committing murder himself like it was an everyday task to be accomplished. “I’m sorry, I’m just on edge. But if it wasn’t the Ghost, then who was it?”

His father waved away the question. “You’re the one with the clever ideas, you figure it out.” He moved what was left of his decimated light infantry between the archers and his fortress. “But I suspect the method of killing—fire—is no coincidence.”

Tomas met his father’s eyes. “The Fire Eater only just escaped Comman Dur. Surely he couldn’t have reached Marchessault already.”

“I didn’t say it was Cainan who carried out the attack.”

“Then whom?”

“Have you taken your medicine?”

The question caught him off guard, considering how off topic it was. “My medicine. No, not yet. But you can’t dodge the question, Father.”

“Take your medicine. Do you have it with you?”

“Of course I do.” Tomas patted his hip pocket and felt the shape of the glass vial that was placed in his clothes by the royal apothecary every morning.

“Drink it.”

“I will. Why are you focusing so much on my medicine? It’s not like I’ll forget; my memory is impeccable.”

“But you have forgotten, do I need to remind you?”

“Why are you bringing that up now, it’s been, what, a hundred years?” His nonchalance was a lie. He still remembered that day like it was yesterday. How weak he felt, like the simple act of standing required a monumental effort. How pale his skin was reflected back at him in the mirror. Like he was halfway to death.

“Seven years, Son. And it’s not like you to exaggerate, which is how I know you’re being defensive about it.”

“Defensive? I’m not defensive, I just don’t appreciate being treated like a child. But if it means that much to you—”

“It does.”