As I dropped into the seat across from Ericen on the patio, the door opened, and several servants stepped out carrying plates of food. They set the dishes on the table before bowing and returning inside. I didn’t so much as look at the prince as I filled my plate.

“I can tell this is going to be a very productive meal,” he mused.

“Here’s an idea. You sit there and eat your meal, silently, and I’ll sit here and eat mine, while pretending you’re not there.”

“Is that your plan for the rest of our lives or just today?”

My face broke into a scowl. “That depends. Are you always this much of a pain in the ass?”

“Are you?”

“Only to people who deserve it.” I stabbed a piece of meat with my fork.

Ericen smiled, and a glorious silence descended. Thick enough to cut with a knife, but quiet.

Then, “Your Turren Wing reminds me of the streets around Darkward Academy in Illucia. Everyone carries a weapon, and over half the shops sell them. I graduated from there a month ago.”

I leveled a flat gaze on him. Despite all our bickering, he couldn’t seem to let the conversation die. Like we could talk as if there weren’t a dark and bloody history between our people. “What in the Saints’ name makes you think I would want to talk about anything to do with the Illucian military? Or about you for that matter?”

Ericen didn’t respond, his gaze resting briefly on my scarred arm before he turned his eyes to the garden beyond. I wanted my gloves.

Finally, he let the conversation die. I moved the steak around my plate with my fork. Once, Iyla would have nudged me with gusts of wind from where she perched on the patio railing until I tossed her a snack. Without her, without Estrel and my mother, the patio felt empty, the table too big.

The patio door opened, and servants cleared away dinner before bringing us each a slice of chocolate cake. Ericen eyed his as if it might bite him.

“What? Is our dessert not good enough for you either?”

“We didn’t have sweets at Darkward.”

“That explains a lot.”

He barely seemed to notice the insult, instead taking a bite of the cake. His expression didn’t change as he ate it, and he didn’t say a thing, but he finished his slice before I did mine and watched me eat every last bite.

Then, as if he’d simply been waiting for me to finish, he reached into his pocket, withdrawing a folded letter with Illucia’s royal seal. He slid it across the table to me, but I didn’t take it.

“This,” he said, “is a letter to General Castel. She leads the army currently sitting on your border.”