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The throne room is as lavish as Galo expects. A high ceiling is supported by columns of marble and richly-coloured carpet covers the floor underneath Galo’s boots. Between the columns lining the path to the golden throne, fire burns in ornate fountains. The flames flicker off the water, dazzling.
Galo’s attention is focused on the three people at the end of the room, one of whom sits on the throne, his pose casual, as if this is an everyday routine for him.
It certainly isn’t for Galo. The hair on the back of Galo’s neck prickles, a primitive instinct warning him that danger is heavy in the air.
The two figures on either side of the seated man are imposing, each covered from head to toe in the strange, uncrackable armour that still gives Galo nightmares. In comparison to his generals, the man in the middle looks small and fair. He has blond hair cut in a bob and pretty violet eyes. He certainly isn’t the monster Galo had expected him to be.
“Where’s the third one, Detroit?” hisses a low voice from behind Galo as they make their slow way up to the foot of the throne. “I don’t like this.”
Galo fully agrees silently as he glances around the room. The ornately-dressed nobles and councillors look nervous. None of them appear to be the missing general known only as Detroit. It’s surprising that Detroit isn’t with his two compatriots, Dallas and Miami. The three are rarely seen apart on the battlefield.
When the delegation reaches the foot of the throne, Galo stops before the three steps. He doesn’t bow. The young man might be a prince, but Galo refuses to show any sign of subservience. That wouldn’t be a good start to the peace negotiations.
Galo’s kingdom, Promepolis, is at war with this prince’s kingdom, Pyropolis. The two kingdoms have been at war for thirty years, longer than Galo has been alive. This day marks a turning point in the long war—no one from Promepolis, barring the odd prisoner, has set foot in Pyropolis’s throne room for the entirety of those thirty years. It’s rare for the citizens to ever mix, as a massive wall separates the two kingdoms. Guards from both kingdoms patrol each side of the wall and not even merchants or traders are allowed to pass through the barred gate.
Galo has only ever encountered a Pyropolin once, when he was a child. Something about the prince’s appearance strikes a chord in Galo, bringing those memories to the surface again.
A little blond boy with pink eyes, wearing clothes of much better quality than Galo’s—standing there and grinning pridefully at Galo as he tells Galo how he evaded the guards and climbed the wall. Galo had befriended the stranger, and they’d spent the day exploring the forest. Galo had shown the boy all his favourite spots—the best place to swim, the best place to find the juiciest berries, where to cross the stream without getting your feet wet…
Galo had been delighted to find a new friend, but the boy had left that evening, stating that he had to go home—and he’d never returned, though Galo had often gone back to the place they’d first met to look for him again.
This prince’s eyes are darker than that boy’s, but Galo thinks their hair is the same colour. He wonders if he can ask the prince about the boy, Lio. Maybe Lio’s still around and they could reunite.
The prince stares at Galo, his eyes as hard as diamond. Despite his bored pose, his face is alert. The expressions of his generals are impossible to know beneath their masks, but Galo gets the impression that they aren’t impressed by Promepolis’s delegation.
Galo isn’t a professional negotiator. He’s just Prince Kray’s dogsbody, really—but he’d volunteered for the mission because he truly wants to see an end to the war. Behind him are Kray’s best soldiers, just in case things don’t go to plan. Galo doesn’t care for Colonel Vulcan Haestus on a personal level, but he’s glad that Vulcan is at his back.
“Welcome,” the prince says, though his tone is anything but welcoming. It comes across as dubious, and Galo can see that they have a long way to go if these negotiations are going to change anything. “I am Prince Vassilios Fotia. You must be Galo Thymos.”
Vassilios is kind of a pretentious name, but Galo knows from the research he’d done before coming here that it is tradition. Every ruler of Pyropolis is given the same name.
Galo grins, projecting his usual sunny aura in the hope that it will melt the doubt on the prince’s face. “Yeah, that’s me,” he says. “Glad to meet you. Nice place you’ve got here, prince.”
Galo hears a sigh from behind him, and one of the prince’s generals snickers. He does his best to not let it get him down. There’s no rulebook for meeting your mortal enemy. Galo’s doing the best he can—it’s not like anybody else has ever done better. If they had, the war would have ended a long time ago.
The prince doesn’t seem to notice the reaction of the room, however. He’s still staring intently at Galo, as if he’s trying to count the hairs of Galo’s eyebrows. “Galo Thymos,” he murmurs again. “Did you… ever meet a little boy once? A boy named Lio?”
Galo perks up like a dog hearing its name. “Lio?” he questions. “Do you know Lio?”
One of the generals, Miami, leans down to address the prince. Galo can’t hear what is said, but the prince frowns before brushing the general away with a hand. Then the prince stands and approaches Galo. He’s short, coming only up to Galo’s chin. He stands on the bottom step and stares at Galo, his pupils fixated on Galo’s face. There’s conflict in them, though Galo doesn’t know why.
“How strange that it’s you they send?” he murmurs. “What a coincidence.”
And Galo doesn’t understand.
“Do you know Lio?” Galo repeats.
The prince opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Galo feels a sharp pain in his back. He tries to turn to see what’s happened, but feels something wet soaking into his shirt. His knees go weak. As he goes down, he’s caught by the prince, who’s eyes have become wide and shocked.
“What is the meaning of this!?” The anger in the prince’s voice is unmistakable.
Galo’s vision blurs. He clutches at the prince’s fine clothes, confused.
Vulcan’s voice comes from nearby. “Peace will never be achieved through negotiation. The only peace that can ever last will come when Pyropolis is wiped off the map.”
Darkness envelops Galo.
Galo wakes in an unfamiliar room. His torso is wrapped in thick bandages. A cool breeze flows through an open window, rippling the hair of the man sitting at his bedside.
Prince Vassilios puts his book down when he sees Galo struggle to sit up.
“You shouldn’t try to move,” the prince advises. “You’ll open your wound again.”
“Where am I?” Galo demands. “Where are the other delegates?” He gives up on trying to get up and lets himself sink into the soft, cradling mattress. There’s a dull ache at his lower back, and Galo suspects that if he wriggles around too much, it will turn into a fire.
“Delegates?” Vassilios sneers. “You mean those traitorous thugs? Chased back over the wall, I hope.”
Vassilios sits back in his chair, his expression both bitter and pitying.
“You must be the unluckiest person in both kingdoms,” he comments. “Thanks indirectly to you, the war will continue for a very long time, perhaps indefinitely. I hope Prince Foresight is satisfied.” Vassilios turns his face to the blue sky outside the window. “I was willing to negotiate,” he mutters, “but now…”
“I don’t understand. What happened?” Galo demands.
“What happened is that your own delegate stabbed you in the back,” Prince Vassilios says, turning back to Galo.
Galo is dumbfounded, and extremely skeptical. “But that makes no sense! Why would they do that?”
The pitying look returns to Vassilios’s face. “They will return to Promepolis carrying the news that you are dead—“
“But I’m not!”
“—And they will blame us for your death, ensuring that the war will not end,” Vassilios finishes. “Your kingdom never intended to engage in peace talks. They only want war.”
“That’s… that’s…” Galo can’t wrap his mind around the situation. “Kray couldn’t possibly…”
“He could, and he has.” Vassilios is uncompromising, and Galo can’t doubt his honesty. Vassilios believes what he’s saying, even if it sounds preposterous.
“He’d really… kill me? It must be a mistake. I’m sure he had no idea what would happen…”
Galo wants badly to cling to that possibility, but Vassilios is cynical.
“He must really hate you,” Vassilios says.
“Shut up!” Galo hisses angrily. “You don’t know anything!” Galo tries to get up, but the pain flares up like a snake rising from the grass, keeping him on the bed. Galo groans, frustrated.
“I have to go home,” he says.
“You’ll never make it. The guards on the wall will kill you on sight,” Vassilios predicts.
Galo is getting the impression that Vassilios is an asshole. Unsurprising, since he’s a Pyropolin. Not that Galo knows much about them, except what he’s heard from the soldiers.
But Lio had been different. Lio had been nice, and interesting, and fun.
“Why’d you bother saving me anyway?” Galo grumbles. “Doesn’t seem like it makes any difference to you if I’m dead or alive, right? Why go to the trouble?”
“You don’t recognise me, do you?”
The prince’s voice is soft, and it draws Galo’s eyes back to him. “What?” Galo asks.
Vassilios’s hair shines in the sunlight, and his eyes seem lighter than they had in the throne room—almost the same pink as…
“I’m Lio,” Vassilios says.
And Galo is taken right back to that day in the forest when he’d first laid eyes on the boy with the strange, pretty eyes. The boy who had treated Galo with wary suspicion until Galo’s innocent chatter had won him over. The boy who had given Galo a glimpse of what lay beyond the wall, a glimpse of a part of the world he’d never thought he’d see for himself.
“Lio,” Galo whispers. “You’re the prince of Pyropolis?”
Lio nods in silent agreement. His eyes are now sad and tired. Now that Galo is paying attention, he sees that Lio looks pale and drawn, the weight of an entire kingdom resting on shoulders that look too slim to carry it.
Galo knows he isn’t smart, but instinct is telling him that he’s been wrapped up in a tangled mess of motives and plans that he doesn’t understand. Maybe that’s Vassilios’s fault, maybe it’s Kray’s. Maybe it’s Vulcan’s. Galo has no clue.
But he’ll figure it out. He’ll figure out who is on his side and who he can trust. He’ll figure out what happened and why.
“Galo?” Lio’s inquiry causes Galo to blink. Lio is wearing an uncertain expression. “Galo, you can stay here as long as you need to. In fact, I think it would be best for you to stay here.”
“But I’ve got friends,” Galo protests weakly. His family is dead, but there’s Aina and Varys and Remi and Lucia. As orphans, they’d all grown up together in the palace, taken under the wing of one of the councillors, Ignis. Galo knows that if any of them had disappeared into enemy territory, he’d risk life and limb to find them.
Lio’s expression turns soft. “It might be possible to get a message to them,” he murmurs. “In the meantime, please don’t make any rash decisions. You need to rest and heal. And…” The uncertainty returns to Lio’s face. “Maybe you’d spend some time with me,” he says. “You showed me your forest. I have an entire kingdom to show you.”
Lio smiles, and Galo sees a myriad of emotions in that smile. Apprehension, embarrassment, doubt and most clearly, a cautious hope.
When Galo doesn’t answer, Lio speaks again. “I don’t have very many friends,” he says.
That is all it takes to win Galo over. There’s no way he could ever put an arrow through a heart that is bared so vulnerably to him.
“I’d like to spend some time with you too, Lio,” Galo says.
Lio’s smile returns, and it’s brighter and more hopeful than any dawn Galo has ever seen.