Chapter Text
Before my garment lost its white
Before I saw my father cry
When fear was never on my mind
Take me there… - "Innocence" Nathan Wagner
"Time to wake up now, Nuengdiao."
Nueng's head pounds heavily, drowning out most of his thoughts, so it takes him a second to remember the bass-baritone voice speaking to him.
Uncle Kit.
He tries to move his arms, to struggle and flail and kick out at the man he'd called Uncle, but he can't. His limbs are numb and heavy, as though someone has tied weights to them. Sluggish. Drugs. He's been drugged.
"Come on, Little Nueng. I promise you, you don't want to miss this."
He cringes. How dare he use that name? After what he's done? His mouth opens to snap his frustration at Kit, but the words won't come. They're locked in his throat.
He struggles to get his bearings. There's a soft, uneven, slightly crumbly surface beneath his back. Dirt, if he had to guess. An owl hoots softly in the distance, crickets hum, and he thinks he hears the telltale whine of a cicada somewhere to his left.
He's in the forest outside the castle. That's the only explanation he can come up with. It's nighttime. There's a soft breeze pushing at the strands of his hair in his face. The air encases him in cool wetness, and he hears the very faint sound of water lapping at a shoreline, so he must be well off the beaten path to town. There are no bodies of water anywhere near the usual walking paths.
He can see Kit bringing him here. It's far enough from the castle, which means no prying eyes, and it's far enough from town for privacy. Honestly, Nueng hadn't even been aware that there was a lake in the forest at all.
It's the perfect place for... for what? An assassination? A murder?
He struggles to open his eyes. His eyelids are so heavy, and it might be one of the greatest struggles of his life just to pry them open.
"Little Nueng, Little Nueng, open your eyes for me. I believe in you."
It takes him far longer than he'd like to open his eyes. Tiny slivers of moonlight peek through the canopy of leaves above his head, and he can't help the relief that floods through him at the realization that it really is night. He doesn't think he'd react all that well to light at this very moment. Not with the pounding headache threatening beat his brain to mush.
An oval-shaped face enters his vision, peering down at him with a look of pure contempt in his dark eyes. "Oh, good," Uncle Kit says, his mouth curling into a sneer. "I was beginning to get bored." He looks up at something out of Nueng's sight and says, "Pick him up. Gently. I think our dear Prince is still a bit fragile."
Hard, calloused hands slide beneath Nueng's back and legs, and then the Prince experiences a feeling of weightlessness he'd like to never feel again, thank you very much. He struggles weakly against the arms carrying him bridal style, but the arms tighten their hold around him. Nueng looks up, trying to make out the face of his captor in the dark, but he can't see much of anything.
"Oh, you're going to love this," Kit says somewhere ahead of them. Nueng has just enough command over his body to loll his head to the side.
Kit is moving through the trees, his feet following a small, well-worn path that Nueng has never seen before. Well, he doesn't think he's seen it. He's played hide and seek in these woods for years with Chanon, knows the trees like they're his home, and he's sure he'd remember this. "Well, I'm going to love this," Kit corrects absentmindedly. He looks back at them for a moment. "I've spent enough years making sure you get everything you've ever wanted, Your Highness. I think it's time I finally took something in return for my faithful service.”
The small party emerges from the trees into what Nueng can only describe as a large, well-lit clearing mostly taken up by a shimmering lake. There are a few trees along the shoreline and a small meadow of grass and flowers, but that is all. It’s an idyllic space, one that’s likely even more beautiful in the daylight, and Nueng can’t help but wonder if this is some sort of joke.
This place is too beautiful to be his grave.
He renews his struggles, and this time, he’s pleased to find that his body is more receptive to his commands. It seems as though whatever drugs Kit has forced into his system are finally wearing off. He might have a chance, might, to run. To find Chanon or his mother and figure out what the hell is going on because the last thing he remembers is-
Rough hands yank him from his bed. An arm wraps around his windpipe and presses against it until Nueng is gasping for air.
”Let’s go find your mother, hmm?”
Right.
The coup.
Nueng pushes away the images of his mother and Chanon, bleeding on the floor of his mother’s bedchambers. He can’t think of that now. He has to think about his people. About survival.
“I’d think you’d have something better than torturing me in paradise,” Nueng rasps. His tongue feels like sandpaper, and his throat is dry and hoarse from screaming not too long ago. He hasn’t been harmed outside of a few bruises so far, but he’s sure Kit won’t leave it there.
Kit turns, putting up a hand to stop the person carrying Nueng. “Well, it is my home away from home. And now, it will be yours.” In the moonlight, Kit’s smile is entirely too bright. “You won’t think this is much of a paradise, but who knows? An eternity here and maybe you’ll come to love it.” He chuckles darkly. “Then again, I doubt you will.”
So he isn’t meant to die here. He’s not sure if the thought is a comfort.
Nueng is deposited on the ground feet-first. He stands on unsteady legs, keeping one hand on his captor’s shoulder to keep himself upright while he tries to get his bearings.
He could run, he thinks. He could race out into the forest to the path that leads to the village. He could find help. He could bring a mob back to the castle to -
To what? Rescue his family? The thought crumbles to dust. There’s no one left to rescue.
Besides, he won’t make it far on unsteady legs. He recognizes the guard as one of Kit’s favorite underlings, Aran. His features are difficult to make out in the darkness, but the man’s bald head shines distinctly in the waning moonlight. Aran is too fast, too smart, and if what Kit says is true, he likely knows the area too well for Nueng to hide.
Nueng slowly turns in place. His eyes scan the area, but he can’t see anything that might be a place to keep an unwilling captive. There are no buildings in the clearing, no cages, no holes. Kit doesn’t seem to be worried about him running or escaping from the lake, so how does he plan to keep Nueng here?
”So what,” Nueng finally says, crossing his arms over his chest, “are you going to leave me here?” He smirks. “Even you must be smarter than that. It might take some time to find my way through the forest, but I can easily make it to town and gather a force to retake the castle.” He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. “I think you’ll find that the Royal family is much more popular than you.”
Kit’s mouth quirks into a sneer that sets Nueng’s stomach on edge. “You’ll soon discover that you won’t be able to leave this place any time soon,” he says conversationally. He glances up at the slowly brightening sky and claps his hands once in delight. “Ah, we’re finally at the good part.” He gestures to the lake with his hand. “Get in the water, Nuengdiao.”
Nueng glances at the lake behind him. The water? He looks back at Kit for an explanation, but all he receives is another gesture towards the lake in return. For a moment, Nueng almost goes. His confusion and frustration get the better of him, and he ends up standing stock still. He doesn’t know what Kit’s goal is, but he won’t make it any easier for Kit to succeed.
Kit sighs. “You don’t want to be out of the water when the sun rises,” he says, his voice laced with barely concealed amusement. “Believe me, I would enjoy seeing your pathetic attempt to weather what’s coming on land, but the first time will be bad enough without the lake’s help. You really should get in the water, Nuengdiao.” He punctuates the last few words with a series of threatening steps in Nueng’s direction, and while Nueng is fairly certain the goal here isn’t his death, this perhaps isn’t the hill to die on.
He warily wades into the water up to his knees, his hands raised above his head in surrender.
“I wouldn’t move if I were in your position,” Kit says. His hands fiddle with one of the many rings on his fingers.
Nueng huffs. “I don’t understand, uncle,” he spits the title with all the venom he can muster, “what is this supposed to achieve?” He lowers his hands. He thinks he can feel the sparks of his magic returning. Just a little longer, and he might have some leverage.
Kit ignores him. “I was originally going to choose a dog. There would be something poetic about keeping you at my heels and making you beg for scraps from my table. I’d chain you to my throne and take you for walks through your mother’s gardens when you were good.” He looks up at Nueng and smiles. “Then I thought a cat or a bird, something small and pathetic. But I think a swan - a swan will be lovely. So fitting for someone like you.”
“You were…” Nueng’s stomach squeezes tightly as he runs the words through his mind. There’s no way, he thinks. His magic can’t -
“See, you’re such a pretty boy. You’re famed throughout the land for your beauty, truly the envy of every kingdom,” Kit continues as if Nueng hadn’t spoken. “But you’re so snappish and rude at times. So obstinate.” He looks up at the sky once more. “Brace yourself, Little Nueng. The first is always the worst.”
Nueng has had about as much of this as he’s willing to take. He splashes his way towards the water’s edge and says, “Stop ignoring me, you sick-“
His words die painfully in his throat as fire erupts through his limbs, up his spine, and through every inch of his body. His legs lock, and suddenly he’s falling, collapsing into the lake as he screams and screams and oh god what’s happening? His hands clench around loose gravel and dirt on the lakebed as his screams devolve into desperate pleas for the pain to end. Eventually, he loses track of everything but the endless waves of agony rolling through his entire body.
"Magic," Kit says, his voice cutting through Nueng's screams, "is the lifeblood of the kingdom. Of our family."
Nueng's eyes open for the first time since the pain began. His bare arms and hands shake beneath him. A beautiful latticework of feathers stretches across his pale skin, darkening with every heartbeat. They slowly gain definition, changing from a two-dimensional pattern to a three-dimensional second skin. He almost doesn't believe his eyes as the lines begin to sprout feathers along his bare skin.
He feels his shirt melt and sink into his body. A grinding sound reverberates in his ears. His bones shrink and contort beneath his skin, pulling a shriek from his throat as the world around him begins to grow larger with each passing second. He looks up at Kit in a silent plea, even if he knows there's no point to it. Anything to stop this... whatever this is.
Kit looks down at him in delight. "I was going to wait until your coronation, you know."
The colors of the forest dull into soft blues and greys while the trees and shoreline lose their definition. To Nueng, it's almost as if someone has put a veil over his eyes to distort and desaturate the world around him.
"Your mother was planning to get rid of me. She was going to send me to the countryside to 'take a well-earned rest,' and I just couldn't allow that, now could I?"
He feels more than hears the bones in his neck grinding against each other. His head begins to extend outward, and a fresh wave of agony washes over him. He nearly whites out from the sensation of his neck stretching. It's all he can do to hold on to his sanity.
"Don't worry," a voice says beyond his prison. It's bright. Condescending. "The change isn't permanent. You'll be back to your old self when the moon rises over the lake. Of course, you'll return to swan form when the sun returns, but that can't be helped."
Nueng's vision slowly clears. Kit stands over him, his mouth twisted into a smirk, and his eyes looking far too thrilled at Nueng's current predicament. Nueng can only stare back.
It takes him a moment to realize that he cannot cry, cannot plead... he can't even glare. He tries to open his mouth, but even that betrays him. He has nothing. No way to express himself.
He's trapped, alone, in a body he doesn't want, wishing above all else that he could be home with his family.
Kit and his lackey walk away, murmuring something about a test run, but Nueng can't bring himself to care. He lets his head and unnaturally long neck fall to the shore, water gently lapping against his body as he drifts off into a dreamless sleep.
Six years later.
The sword comes at Palm's head too quickly.
He ducks. Rolls left. The blade whistles right where his skull was only a mere moment ago, and his leather boots skid against packed dirt as he comes up in a loose crouch. Sweat drips from his dark hair into his eyes, where the droplets sting at the corners. His lungs burn from the effort of fighting for this long.
"Again."
Suphakit's voice cuts across the training yard. Palm doesn't look in his direction; he can't afford to. The guard in front of him - Phum? Palm still hasn't figured out everyone's names yet - is already moving, his sword raised for another strike.
Palm blocks. The impact rattles up his arm all the way to his clenched teeth. He twists, using the momentum to slide his blade down and away so that he can get more space. His uncle would have been proud of that move.
His father would've-
Don't.
Palm shoves the thought into the deepest corners of his mind and attacks. The guard, his age, but more experienced, blocks the first two. The third catches him off balance. Palm's blade stops just before it slices through Phum's throat and hovers there, waiting.
"Point," someone calls from the edge of the training ring.
Palm steps back and lowers his sword. His shirt feels tacky against his skin despite the cool morning air. His chest heaves. Two months of this. Two months of dawn drills and midnight watches and Kit's cold gaze following him everywhere he goes.
Two months, and he still feels like he's drowning.
"Adequate." Suphakit's boots crunch as he crosses the yard from where he'd been watching the proceedings. He stops at the edge of the ring, hands clasped behind his back. Around him, the guards stand at stiff attention, and Palm knows he should follow. He just can't. He's too tired.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the guard captain level him a stern glare. He's going to catch hell for "insubordination" later.
The rising sun catches on the gold of Kit's robes, turning him into a glittering figure that looks far too regal to be standing in a training yard. "Your footwork needs refinement. You're still telegraphing your overhead swing."
Palm's jaw tightens. More criticism. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"But your technique is sound, and your instincts are better than most." Kit's dark eyes fix on him. "Your father had the same natural grace when he fought. You have the potential to match him."
The words cut far deeper than Kit had likely intended. Palm keeps his face blank as the strings around his chest tighten. He's learned to keep his emotions from breaking through the facade of peace if he wants to survive this place. The guards around him will take any chance to gain an advantage over him.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Kit's mouth curls into something that's not quite a smile. "Again. This time against Tarn."
A new guard steps into the circle. Palm hasn't had the dubious honor of facing off against this man yet. He's bigger than most of the guards. Older. He's seen this particular guard around the castle. Tarn is usually one of those standing at the King's side during court proceedings, marking him as part of Kit's personal guard detail.
Palm adjusts his grip on his practice blade. His palms are slick. He wipes them on his trousers, one at a time, and tries to ignore the way his heart hammers against the cage of his ribs.
You wanted this, a small voice in the back of his mind murmurs. You came here to finish what he started.
Except he didn't want this. If it were his choice, he'd be in Paya on his uncle's fishing boat - far from the castle and the shadows within. The conscription notice had arrived three months ago, its royal seal stamped prominently on the outside, informing him that, as the sole surviving male of the Jannaloy house, he was required to serve the crown. One man from every family. No exceptions, even for the families of heroes.
His aunt had cried. His uncle had raged. Palm had packed his things and left without looking back.
Tarn doesn't wait for the signal to begin. He lunges, and Palm barely has a chance to raise his sword to block the heavy swing that's aimed right for his head. The impact pushes him backward, and he nearly slips in the mud. He catches himself on his back foot, pivots, and tries to create distance between himself and his attacker.
Unfortunately, Tarn is relentless. Each strike is heavier than the last. He's aiming to overwhelm, Palm can tell, but there is nothing he can do to stop it.
Palm's arms shake. He blocks. Dodges. Blocks again and again and again. His mind races as he searches for an opening in Tarn's defenses. The other guard is too skilled to give him one. Tarn fights as if possessed. There is no finesse to his movements. He's a hurricane of brutal force and efficiency.
Think. There has to be-
Tarn’s blade catches Palm’s shoulder. The strike is not hard enough to break skin through Palm’s padded training vest, but it is enough to send pain shooting down his arm. Palm stumbles; his knee hits the dirt.
“Up.” Palm cringes at the flat, disappointed edge to Kit’s voice.
Palm grits his teeth and pushes to his feet. His shoulder throbs. Tarn is already moving, his sword raised for another blow. This time, Palm doesn't try to block. He drops low, lets the blade pass harmlessly over his head, and shoves his shoulder into Tarn's exposed stomach. The older guard grunts and staggers back. Palm takes the opportunity to press the advantage, his sword a blur as he attempts strike after strike.
Tarn recovers too quickly. He catches Palm's wrist, twists, and in a matter of seconds, Palm's sword is on the ground. Palm feels the chill of metal at his throat.
"Yield," Tarn commands.
Palm swallows thickly. His Adam's apple brushes against the steel training sword at his throat. "I yield."
Tarn steps back and motions to Palm's sword still lying in the dirt at his feet. Palm reaches down with sore limbs to retrieve his weapon. His muscles scream at him to stop moving, but he knows that's not an option right now. He already feels as though he's just failed some test he didn't know he was taking.
"Better." Kit's voice carries across the ring. It still holds the flatness from before, but there's something else beneath it now. Approval, maybe. "You adapted. That's good." Palm turns to face the King, whose face is as unreadable as ever. "But, you hesitated. Hesitation will get you killed."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Your father never hesitated." Kit steps over the edge of the ring and moves close enough that Palm can smell the incense that clings to his robes. There are fine lines at the corners of his eyes that betray his age, but outside of that, he doesn't look a day over the age of thirty. "Chanon was the finest guard the royal family ever had. Loyal. Unwavering. He would have died for this kingdom."
Palm's jaw clenches. He did die for this kingdom, he thinks privately, though he dares not to speak the words out loud.
"I'll do better, Your Majesty," he says instead, offering the King a shallow bow.
"See that you do." Kit's hand lands on Palm's already bruised shoulder. His fingers dig in just enough to make the bruise ache. "You have potential, Palm. Don't waste it."
Then he's gone, striding back toward the castle with his hand-picked guard trailing behind him. The training yard lets out a deep exhale, and just like that, conversations resume. Someone laughs. Another pair of guards steps into the ring.
Palm walks out of the sparring circle, sword in hand, and feels the weight of his father's ghost pressing down on his shoulders.
"You're bleeding."
Palm's eyes snap up from the armor he had been polishing. Chopper stands at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, his expression dark as he looks Palm up and down.
The King's son.
Palm has seen him around. He's always at the edge of things, never quite part of the drills or the camaraderie that forms between soldiers during long hours on midnight watch. Chopper is one of the few people in the castle that are Palm's age, though the chasm between them feels much larger due to the other boy's status. As far as Palm is aware, Chopper doesn't even train with the rest of the guard despite having an active role in the kingdom's military.
"It's nothing," Palm replies quietly, turning back to his work. This is his punishment for his earlier behavior: polishing the armor of everyone in his squadron until it gleams in the afternoon sun. It isn't the first time he's had polishing duty, and he's sure it won't be his last. At the very least, his body is getting a well-deserved break after the sparring session this morning.
Chopper moves closer. "Tarn doesn't pull his strikes." The prince is dressed simply in trousers and a shirt that's clearly seen better days. If Palm didn't know any better and the shirt didn't lack the royal crest sewn into the right shoulder of every soldier's clothes, he'd think Chopper was just another guard. "You should have someone look at your shoulder."
Palm shakes his head. "I'm fine."
"Right." Chopper's mouth twists into something between a smile and a grimace. "Because that's what my father wants. Guards who are 'fine.'"
There's a bitter note to his voice that wasn't present before. Palm picks up the polished breastplate and places it onto the rack. He's not sure what he's supposed to say to that, what Chopper wants him to say.
"Your father is..." A tyrant. Someone who makes my skin crawl even when he's praising me. "Demanding. But he has high standards for his men. That isn't a bad thing."
Chopper lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "High standards. Is that what we're calling it?"
Palm's grip on the next breastplate tightens. He doesn't know Chopper. This could be some kind of test. The King might have sent his son to report everything he hears from the new recruits. Two months in the castle isn't nearly long enough to know who to trust here, and Palm isn't going to risk his life over idle chitchat.
"I should clean up," Palm says in lieu of a reply. "Excuse me."
He starts toward the barracks, but Chopper's voice stops him before he can get far.
"He's using you, you know."
Palm turns. "What?"
"My father." Chopper's arms are still crossed, and his face is flat and expressionless. There's guarded concern there, hidden beneath the prince's stony exterior. "He's using you. I don't know why yet, but I will."
"The King is training me to serve the crown," Palm replies. "That isn't-"
"You misunderstand me." Chopper takes a step closer. His voice drops. "My father doesn't do anything without a reason. The amount of attention he's paying you is not normal. He has never treated any other guard this way."
Palm's hands curl into fists. "Maybe I'm just good at what I do."
"Maybe." Chopper's dark eyes search Palm's face, and for a moment, Palm sees the family resemblance. "Or maybe you remind him of someone he hated."
Palm's breath catches in his throat. "What are you talking about?"
But Chopper is already walking away, shoulders hunched and hands shoved into his pockets. He disappears into the castle's dark halls, leaving Palm alone in his corner of the training yard with armor strewn around his feet.
The barracks are quiet this time of day. Most of the guards are either on duty or catching sleep just before the night watch. Palm uses the stillness to strip off his vest and shirt away from prying eyes. He doesn't hold back his wince as the fabric pulls at the shallow cut on his shoulder. Tarn knew exactly how hard to hit to make it painful without forcing Palm into days of recovery.
Hesitation gets you killed.
Palm sits on the edge of his bunk and stares at his calloused hands. He hadn't thought that they could get any rougher after spending the past twelve years aboard his uncle's boat, but apparently, spending hours a day gripping training swords can make callouses even more prominent. Who knew?
His body is harder, too. His muscles leaner, stronger, shaped by endless drills and Kit's relentless expectations.
He barely recognizes himself anymore.
The door creaks open. Palm looks up, expecting another guard, but it's Chopper again. A small wooden box rests in his hands.
"Medicine," Chopper says before Palm can ask. "Unless you want infection to take root."
Palm wants to say no. He should tell Chopper to leave. He should insist on being left alone so that the young prince stops saying things that make Palm's painstakingly constructed sense of duty crack at its edges.
But his shoulder hurts, he's tired, and Chopper is already sitting down beside him. He's pulling materials from the box - a clean cloth and some sort of liquid. "This is going to sting," he warns just before he presses the drenched fabric to Palm's shoulder.
The prince isn't wrong. The cloth burns like fire, and Palm has to bite down on the curse that threatens to burst from his throat as Chopper gently cleans the wound.
"You've done this before," Palm says through gritted teeth. He lets out a sharp hiss of pain when Chopper moves the cloth further down.
"My father's guards get injured often." Chopper's voice is neutral. "Someone has to patch them up."
Palm turns his head to look at the other man. "Why you?"
"Because it makes me useful. My magic isn't as strong as my father's." Chopper wraps another clean rag - dry this time, Palm notes with gratitude - around the wound. "There. Try not to get hit in the same spot tomorrow."
Palm grimaces. "I'll do my best."
Chopper closes the medical box, but he doesn't leave. He sits on the edge of the bunk, hands on his knees, staring at the floor.
"Can I ask you something?" he finally says.
Palm's stomach clenches. "Sure."
"Why are you here?"
Palm snorts. "Conscription. Same as everyone else."
"No." Chopper looks at him shrewdly. "I mean, why are you here? Why are you trying so hard to earn my father's approval?" He gestures to the barracks with his hands. "Why do you care about any of this?"
Palm's throat squeezes shut. It's a good question. A great question, really. He's been asking himself the same thing every night when he lies awake in his narrow bunk, listening to the other guards snore.
"My father served the crown," Palm says after a beat. "He was head of the royal guard. He died protecting..." Protecting who? The King? The kingdom? Palm doesn't even know. "He died performing his duties. I'm just trying to honor that."
"By serving my father," Chopper says dryly. He shakes his head. "He doesn't-" The prince scowls. "Never mind."
"He doesn't what?"
"Nothing." Chopper grabs the box from the bunk. "Forget it."
Palm can't forget it. The words hang in the air between them. "Chopper," he says, his voice coming out far rougher than he intends, "if you know something-"
"I don't." Chopper stands abruptly. "I don't know anything. That's the problem." He heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the wooden frame. "Just... be careful, Palm. My father isn't who you think he is." His jaw tightens. "Whatever he's telling you about your father, about duty or honor or whatever," he spits the last word with pure venom, "just be careful."
He silently exits the barracks just as the rest of the guards begin to filter through the doors. It isn't long before Palm is swept back into his duties, all thoughts of Chopper forgotten in the monotony of his upcoming evening shift at the gates.
That night, Palm dreams of fire.
He's four years old again, small and terrified and oh so weak, being carried through smoke-filled corridors by hands he doesn't recognize. Someone screams. Another person, a child, maybe, is crying. The castle burns.
He didn't know it was a castle back then. Now, he knows it entirely too well.
"Take him," a voice says. He doesn't remember it very well, but he knows it's his father's. "Get him out. Keep him safe."
"Chanon-"
"I'm going back for the prince. Go. Now."
Then he's outside, the cool night air a balm against the heat from the flames. He's being passed to someone else, another stranger. She's crying. Everyone is crying.
He looks back at the castle. Figures stand in silhouette against the flames. His father stands at the entrance, arms up, facing something Palm can't see. He dives into the burning building, and Palm wakes with a startled gasp.
His heart hammers in his chest. His sheets are tangled tightly around his legs. The barracks are dark and quiet. Not even Charn, known for being a light sleeper, stirs.
He sits up, runs a hand through his damp hair, and tries to remember if that's a real memory or just another nightmare built from fragments and stories of a history he barely remembers.
He was four. He was too young to remember anything clearly. There was no way he would have understood what was happening.
Yet somehow, he remembers the fire. He remembers the screaming. He remembers his father's tears soaking into his skin. "You have to go away now, Palm. Just like your mother," he'd crooned into Palm's hair when the flames finally died. It was the last thing he'd said before he sent Palm to the far reaches of the kingdom.
"He couldn't lose you, too," his uncle had murmured one evening as they sat out on the ocean in his fishing boat. "After all he'd sacrificed, the one thing he couldn't sacrifice was you."
Palm doesn't know much about his father beyond the stories his uncle told him about their childhood. He doesn't know what Chanon truly thought of the monarchy, nor what Chanon thought of him. All he knows is that his father died in service to the crown, protecting the Old Queen and her son from whatever assassins came for them that night six years ago.
Palm lies back down and stares at the wooden beams in the ceiling. He wonders, idly, if it was worth it. If he were willing to do the same.
After two months here, he doesn't think he would. His duty and honor demand it of him, but if push comes to shove, he has very little doubt that he would leave without a second glance. Nothing Kit has done has proven him worthy of Palm's protection. Of Palm's life.
What made them worthy of it?
He doesn't have answers. He doesn't even know who to trust or what to believe. All he knows is that he's trapped here - by duty, law, maybe even grief of all things - and he doesn't know how to break free.