The day’s events unfold precisely as Lucius predicted. Like clockwork, he dismisses each line of his defense. The Guard, the Covert Intelligence Assembly, the Army, he even positions the useless militia at the city’s gates.

Sooner than Emery could have hoped, the halls of the castle are empty, leaving just himself, the overpowered threat to national security, and Lucius, the sitting duck.

To state that Emery is tempted would be to severely understate.

But.

He hesitates.

Surely, Lucius must know what’s on Emery’s mind. There’s no world in which he had not considered a potential double-crossing.

One doesn’t strip a millennia-old wizard, the last of a long-dead breed, of his powers—or at least, one doesn’t try to—imprison him in the most degrading conditions this opulent kingdom has to offer, and then dangle oneself in front of his wolfish fangs like a prime cut of meat.

Not when one is as calculating as Lucius.

Walking behind him as they wind their way out of the gold-lined main court, Emery gets the sense that he is being baited.

Lucius walks just a few paces ahead of him, right in arm’s reach, leading him into the vault, the one room in the castle that is inaccessible to all but the King.

Emery watches in disbelief as Lucius reaches into his pocket, dangling the gold-filled key before him. “Here we are, Emerickus,” he says with a gentle smile, pushing the door open.

He’s definitely being baited.

The bright light embedded in the ceiling mimics a direct gaze at the sun. It blasts the room, of course comprised entirely of gold, with a picturesque value. The surfaces shimmer gorgeously, creating mirrors any which way Emery turns.

He pauses for a moment, taken by his own reflection in the ceiling.

His yellow eyes are saddled with bags, weighed down by the nights he’s spent trapped in that cage, fine-tuning his plan to rid Maukhetra of the pompous parasites they know as nobles. His brown curls are dry and flat, mussed in an unruly shag across his head. Instinctively, he brings a hand up to make himself somewhat presentable.

“Don’t dawdle, Emerickus,” Lucius calls from the room ahead. Caught in his gaze, Emery didn’t notice the man unlocking some sort of secret chasm, revealing the true vault, hidden behind what appeared to be a wall. “You look gorgeous, as always.”

Emery grits his teeth and tightens his pace.

Stepping into the next room, a blend of a library and pantry, Emery immediately notices that, unlike the rest of the castle, it’s quaint and practical. Lived-in, homely.

The old wooden floorboards creak with each step he takes, stained with rogue spills of paint and ink. The walls are lined with chalkboards, smeared with the dusty remnants of what seem to be blueprints. The long table stretched across the center of the room is stacked with canned goods, books, and commoners’ clothing. At the far end of the room, where Lucius is rummaging through a comically large haversack, there is a wall covered in annotated maps.

If pressed to guess, Emery would assume this room was a relic from the old Maukhetra, from the days before the Everdanes arrived.

Curious, Emery slowly paces the room, transfixed by its charm.

While he is distracted in the opposite corner of the room, King Lucius quickly and quietly shifts a set of anti-magic shackles from his bag to his robe’s pocket. Feigning nonchalance, he then starts carefully removing his maps from the wall and neatly loading them into his bag.

“This way, Emerickus,” he calls over his shoulder, pulling open a door leading to a pitch-black stairwell. Reluctantly, Emerickus returns the book he was thumbing and crosses the room, eyeing Lucius as he heads into the long descent of the stairwell ahead of him.

King Lucius returns his wary gaze with a steely, knowing one, following closely behind.

As they descend the stairs, in the complete darkness of the enclosed corridor, King Lucius stares with narrowed, discerning eyes at what must be the back of Emerickus’ head. The lightweight crystal cuffs in his pocket feel like bricks, bogging him down as he considers what he is about to do.

He chews the inside of his cheek, lost in thought as he mentally skims his finger along the hefty file he keeps on Emerickus.

He would be nailed to the cross if he ever admitted it, but truth be told, King Lucius has been fascinated with the man since he was a boy.

Emerickus was the first Maukhatrean warrior who dared to step on the battlefield against Everdane. In just a tunic, no armor or sword, he led the charge with his bare hands, commanding the natural elements with ease as he wiped out the front line.

During every step of the reformation—or, as he would call it, the degradation— of Maukhetra, he rallied his people to fight back, to lift the veil of legitimacy the monarchy slung over themselves. Reminded them that while they had breath, they had options. That oppression requires active submission. Consistently, he tore the wool before it could be pulled over his eyes.

But his words fell on deaf ears.

Even after he witnessed the fall of his homeland, filled with vitriol for the invaders, especially the Royal Family, Emerickus had never laid a hand on a single soul, let alone an Everdane, outside of wartime.

So, after a millennium of passing up on every opportunity to get rid of his political enemies, what would possess him to stop straddling the fence of meddler and murderer? And of all targets, the most revered one in the land? What changed?

For a moment, he considers that Emerickus was touched by his letter.

But, then. No.

It couldn’t have been that embarrassment of a letter.

Surely, not the one concocted in the early hours of dawn following the last Full Moon worship ceremony, when he was at his wits’ end.

He cringes thinking about it.

That night was a truly unforgettable celebration of the Full Moon that the Everdanes claim that Mighty Miu hung herself.

Languidly sprawled out over her throne, proud belly facing the sky, Miu slept through the hours of cheers and cries of joy that overwhelmed the Square.

Despite this, a never-ending line of citizens, in tattered clothes and soleless shoes, sprawled from one end of the city to the other. Buzzing in excitement, they took turns proudly presenting their best meats and cloths as tributes to Miu’s throne, not even rousing a curious sniff from her. They bowed before her, shouting her praises as she merely rolled from her back to her side.

Standing off to the side, Prince Lucius watched through slitted eyes as his father carefully cataloged the cat’s offerings, running back and forth, storing them as if he were Miu’s servant.

Effectively invisible to the cult of Miu, the Prince nursed a nondescript bottle of ale, not bothering to conceal the bitter rage plastered plainly on his face.

It made him sick.

So sick that in a drunken rage, he stormed into the castle, hunched over his paper and quill, and scrawled a letter of desperation to the only soul with whom he knew his sentiments would resonate: The Great Emerickus. Damning every lesson his father taught him about power and mystique, he poured his heart out onto the page, sang Emerickus’ every praise, and planted a little seed of hope for himself in the margins while he was at it.

He rose the next morning nursing a great headache and even greater regret when he read the novel of a letter he left on his desk. He quickly folded it up, stashing it in his drawers. Prince Lucius mentally kicked himself; what would he have done if the cleaning staff had seen it?

He didn’t touch it for months. Then, following his mess of a coronation ceremony, and finally the passing of his father, Prince Lucius revised it with fresh, sober eyes before presenting it to Emerickus.

The man’s words replay in his head.

“Yes, Sire, I would be most honored to assist you.”

Sire. It didn’t feel genuine. It just didn’t make sense.

King Lucius is startled out of his thoughts when he bumps into Emerickus when they reach the bottom of the stairwell. “Ah, pardon me, Emerickus, this door requires a key. Just a moment,” he mumbles, reaching into his pocket.

His shaking fingers grasp the shackles. They jingle inconspicuously in the dark, just as a set of keys would. In one swift movement, he pushes Emerickus flush to the door by the nape of his neck, and snaps the first cuff on his tensed dominant hand, chest heaving with anxiety, then slaps the other on his right.

“What is the meaning of this?” Emerickus shouts. The sibilant edge of his velvety voice ricochets off of the hall’s stone walls, striking a chord of fear into him. He tries to buck against King Lucius’ firm press to no avail. “You unhand me, you brat! What happened to working together?”

King Lucius regrets doing it for a split second.

Emerickus did follow his instructions to a T.

Passed each vetting test set in front of him with flying colors.

He left the enchanted holding cell, free to use his powers as he pleased, but instead chose to honor their agreement.

He was alone with King Lucius for several hours during the military’s investigations, and even locked in the vault with him, able to kill him at any moment, but he didn’t.

Still, something in his gut, be it the inheritance of his long-lost mother’s intuition or the haunting memory of the uncertainty surrounding his father’s death, would not allow him to trust Emerickus.

“We’ll work together on my terms, Emerickus,” King Lucius declares. “I know you think me to be a fool, but I assure you,” he says, reaching to turn the keyless lock of the door with his free hand. “I am not.”