Clenching his teeth, Fox dug his finger into the wound. He let out a groan, enduring the stinging pain, and breathed out hot, acidic air that fogged the mirror he was holding. As he wiped the looking glass clean, the few strands of red hair had turned back to black.

He fell back into the pillows.

A little voice, reminiscent of Katla's lisp, spoke to him from the back of his mind. How easy it had been to convince the petite chamberlady with the wild, oak brown curls that he had wanted to see the cut, to study how the Healer had stitched it up and how the wound healed. 

The lies were second nature, even the small ones. Not that he enjoyed lying, but the world gave him no choice. He could have hardly walked into Sunstone Castle, announcing his plans. If he had, he would be standing at the gates of the Heavenly Halls, awaiting the weighing of his soul. Today, he would end up in the Seven Hells, given all the crimes he had committed and the lives he had taken. In sixty years, after a long reign that had united the continent and brought peace to magicians in all five kingdoms, the Gods would judge his actions differently.

Temporary sins to achieve permanent virtue.

He closed his eyes, trying not to get ahead of himself. The magical link between him and King Thomas taught him his uncle was still floating between life and death. He had time. Today, his only goal was to send a message to Moondale, informing them of his successful infiltration. Storm would then move parts of his army closer to Sundale, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble.

Not that Fox expected there to be any. He had everything under control.

With little else to do, he has spent most of yesterday and the early morning observing the sounds of the castle. The clacking of boots through the hallway, the occasional whisper of people fearing for the King's life, and the increasingly lazy thudding of a lance or a spear against the marble floor. The security at Sunstone Castle was tight but not foolproof. Once a guard had passed through the corridor, he had roughly fifty heartbeats before the next one appeared on the other end.

All he needed to know now was the location of the pigeonry.

He drifted back to a state of semi-sleep until a horn blasted him awake. Panting, he reached for the mirror. Fiery red streaks were clearly visible underneath layers of black.

Before he could do anything, the door opened wide.

As by childish instinct, Fox pulled his bedsheet over his head, pretending to be asleep. Heels clicked as they moved through his chamber, towards his bed. Through the linen, he watched the outline of the hourglass lady with curly hair putting a tray on his bedside table. The smell of warm porridge and fresh milk filled his nostrils.

He exhaled into his hands, the burning air hot but not harming his skin. If she found out what he was, he had to kill her.

Her heels turned, the clicking moving away from him. He waited until the shape of her disappeared from view. Then, he counted to ten before removing the sheet and grabbing the mirror. 

Though still predominantly black, his hair showed too much red. He sighed. Life on the road had been hard enough, but now that the throne was within reach, he couldn't help but rejoice. All of humanity chased after happiness, and he who didn't want it was cursed to live with it.

As a small flame burnt in the palm of his hand, gradually his hair lost its reddish colours. He had no friends. The only family he had left wanted him dead. He was doomed to be alone, to stay alone for the rest of his days. Not loved but feared by those who went against him. And they would go against him. The Greenlanders weren't ready for a Magician King, but he would make them.

Those who lived hidden and in persecution would adore him.

A red streak appeared.

Curse the Gods! Fox slammed the mirror against the bedside table. The glass cracked, pieces shattering, and the tray jerked sideways. The bowl wobbled, porridge spilling over the edge. Milk gushed out of the glass. And Fox's cut stung.

Charity, what was he doing wrong? He slumped against the pillows, cupping the wound and wallowing in self-pity. Without the mirror, he couldn't even eat or drink, fearing that he would like the Greenlander delicacies too much.

Outside, the horn blasted a second time. The chamberlady returned, carrying a steaming pot. Thick woollen mittens, Greenlander green in colour, protected her hands.

"Morning," she said. Then she gasped as she noticed the mess. "Oh, no. I put the tray too close to your head, didn't I? I'm such a Muttonhead."

"Or you could say I'm one," Fox said cheekily. "I don't know how it happened. One moment I was dreaming I was being chased by a shadow out to get me. The next moment, I heard something shatter. I don't know what I did."

"I fully take the blame. You were fast asleep—I didn't think." She placed the pot on the washing table next to the solid cedar wood closet and removed the mittens. Tiptoeing towards him, she fetched a cloth from her apron and wiped the nightstand clean as though the piece of silk was but an ordinary rag. She picked up the broken mirror.

"I fell asleep with it, then it fell," Fox explained. "See, I'm partly to blame too."

"I'd never. Do you require a new one?"

"If it's not too much to ask. Wounds infect easily—I'd like to keep an eye..."

"It's fine. I understand—don't move. I'll be right back." She was already heading for the door.

Fox stopped her. "Wait, it's fine. I can get out of the bed from the other end."

"But it's my duty."

"Stay." Then he added, "Please...?" He hinted at wanting to learn her name.

"Mary-Ann."

"Please, Mary-Ann." Fox swallowed. He had long pretended to hide his feelings, but Hawk and Cobra had assured him women unaware of political power play found vulnerable men endearing. "Between a clean room and company, I prefer the latter."

"You sound like you've studied."

"No. But I've never shown much interest in my father's woodwork either."

"The Gods knew your destiny." She sat down at the foot of the bed and touched her neck. "I can only imagine what would have happened if you hadn't been in Northmore right when..." She shook her head.

"I did what everyone would have done," Fox downplayed his achievement. 

He glanced up to watch her reaction, but she showed none, as though she was sunk in thought. Change of plan.

"What's the pot for?" he asked.

"I've been asked to wash you."

"I smell." He lifted his arm and sniffed. Fine, he was more than ripe.

A blush appeared on her freckled cheeks. "It's no wonder. What you did required great physical strength."

"That was mostly my horse."

"I heard she sacrificed herself."

Fox gave half a nod, releasing hot air through his nostrils. Keeping the image of the dying mare in the back of his mind, he took porridge but refrained from using the spoon, suspecting it was coated in iron. He set the bowl to his lips. The taste was both rich and sweet; he couldn't remember the last time he had such a good breakfast.

"You'll heal," she assured him, "and a good clean will do you good."

"It's not me I'm worried about. How's His Majesty?"

"No news," she said quickly. Her tone betrayed she had more information but had no intention to share.

Not that Fox needed an answer. "And the army—have they returned from Northmore?"

She fidgeted with the bronze ropes around her wrist, the mark of a bride-to-be. "Their investigation will take time, but they might..."

"Might what?"

She stroked her apron. "Nothing, just a silly thought."

"I doubt you have silly thoughts," he complimented her. "It's because you can't tell me, can you?"

She nodded. "When we start working for the crown, we swear an oath of secrecy. Everything that happens must stay between these walls."

"I'm within these walls."

"But you swore no oath."

"I'll swear it now." Fox put the bowl away and placed his hand on his heart. "To King, crown, and country."

She buried her face behind the palm of her hand and giggled.

"What?"

"You have a little something." She touched her upper lip.

Fox licked the porridge away. "Saving it for a rainy day."

"I thought you were a learnt man, but you're a country boy after all," she said, jesting. At least, Fox hoped she was. "How about that wash? I can't sit here all day and do nothing?"

"That's a shame," Fox lied.

The thought of her touching her made him shudder. It wasn't her fault; he simply didn't like being touched by strangers. Healers he could tolerate for necessity's sake, but having a chamber lady wash him while he had two capable hands seemed absurd.

He had to talk his way out of her proposition. "I've heard tales about the medicinal power of baths. The mix of hot water and crystalline salt is said to work miracles. My muscles are quite sore."

"You want to take a bath?"

"Is that weird? Or too much to ask?"

"No, I didn't consider it. Most men your age aren't interested in lying still in a tub."

"I'm not most men." He gulped down the rest of the porridge, then attempted to hold in a burp. His cheeks puffed.

"I see." She muffled another giggle. "I'll take care of it. And the broken mirror too."

Mary-Ann returned not much later with a second chamberlady. A wilting blue rose adorned her hair, and the layer of powder hardly masked the bags under her eyes. Both ladies were groaning as they carried the human-sized barrel into the room and placed it in between Fox's bed and the washing table. While the other lady left, Mary-Anne laid a linen cloth into the tub and poured down the pot. From the pocket of her apron, she took a small bag and sprinkled the salt into the water.

"How hot do you want your bath to be?" she asked.

"I don't mind the heat," Fox said without thinking. When he realised what he had said, he added, "Or whatever is easiest. I don't know the first thing about salt baths."

"Don't worry. Viviane and I will take care of it. It's not a chore."

If that wasn't a chore, Fox wanted to know what was. Bucket after jug and pot of water disappeared into the tub. Not all boiling water, but most of them were. His room smelled of a nostalgic summer's day, and although inviting, he refrained from stepping in until the women had disappeared. For one, he couldn't predict the effect of the bath on his disguise, and by the honour of the Goddess of Lust, he didn't want the chamberladies to see him naked.

As Mary-Ann added more cool well water, Viviane cleared the shards of broken glass and placed them onto the tray. She handed him a pocket mirror. "It won't break as easily," she said, more rude than friendly. The older chamberlady mainly ignored him. If she thought him beneath her, the future would come to surprise her.

"All done," Mary-Ann said. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"You've done more than enough."

"Kindness lives in you, Master Harry." She made a short bow.

Soon she would call him His Majesty. Fox turned the beginning of a grimace into a smile. "One thing, though. I would like to send a letter to my family. Can you help me?"

"Oh, sure, I'll take you to the pigeonry after your bath."

"Is it far?"

"Not really."

"But how far?"

"Let's see." She made a discrete right turn with her hand, then a left one. "Then up the tower," she murmured before saying. "It won't take us more than ten minutes."

Fox nodded.

"I'll be back in half an hour to check on you." Mary-Ann left.

Fox tapped his chin. Half an hour of uninterrupted privacy. The Gods were on his side. Instead of falling asleep in the comfortable heat of warm water, he could put his newfound knowledge to use.

After a quick glance into the pocket mirror, he slipped out of his room shortly after the guard moved away from his corridor. He had fifty heartbeats before the next one would appear. Actually, he had more—his heart was racing.

The hallway forked into three passages. Footsteps approached in the distance, but a privy saved him from having to explain himself. No man would question another for needing to relieve himself. Nerves coursed through his veins as he waited for the guard to pass. He was wasting precious time in a dark, small room that smelled like the swamps of Silvermark.

Finally, the thudding of the army boots faded. He carried on. The sun shone through the high windows. The royal garden was in full bloom. Beds of flowers in every colour of the rainbow. Tall trees provided shade to a pond where snow-white lilies floated. The two guards standing underneath the large willow had more eyes for the walls than what was happening inside the castle.

He climbed the spiralling stairs. The pigeonry would be at the very top. Disregarding the ache in his muscles, this was child's play. He neither heard nor saw another officer, the only sounds that of cooing birds.

The stairs led into a small, stuffy room that resembled more of Moonstone Castle than the wealth of Sunstone Castle. A cool breeze wafted through the round openings in the wall as if stones had been taken out haphazardly. Twenty-ish wicker baskets containing one to four dark grey pigeons hung from the ceiling. Piles of bird droppings, often several inches thick but also recently scraped off in places, coated the stone floor.

A man with a receding hairline and a low ponytail was holding one of the birds, caressing its back. "I know you already have to fly back to the Port, darling, but this news can't wait. Lord Simon must send the mercenaries more north."

The pigeon master held his hand flat, levelled with the hole. The creature stared at the man, then at the blue sky outside. It hopped into the hole, spread its wings, and flew off.

"That's fascinating," Fox said.

The man startled. He bumped into one of the baskets, which caused the birds to utter grunting sounds and trample each other.

"I didn't mean to scare you." Fox opted for a sheepish grin. "I'd like to send a letter to my parents in Doe Hill."

"And people said Kay's your man," the man said as he rearranged the basket, his gaze fixated on the pigeons.

Fox said nothing, not worth the lie.

"Do you need help writing the message?"

"I'll be fine." Fox looked around. He had never seen a pigeonry with so many birds. "If you don't mind me asking, how do the birds know where to go to?"

Kay chuckled. "Because they know their way home, of course."

"Isn't this their home?"

"For some. The others have two homes. They fly between two places, knowing they'll get the best worms when they reach the furthest nest."

"And how do you know which one flies where?"

"A soldier learns how to wield a sword, a cook knows how to prepare meals, and I can tell you all about the flight of the pigeon." He seemed eager to answer more questions.

"What's the longest a pigeon can fly?"

"The furthest location is Bigtown. Though I only send one pigeon up there—the birds that call Bigcastle home are the ravens," he said as he caught Fox scouting the room. "They prefer the company of dogs and horses. The pigeons are afraid of them."

Fox hummed. "Isn't Alburkhan further?"

"Yes, but any message to Queen Rainah is sent to Socota first."

"Pray we never step on King Siga's toes."

"Let us hope not. The Silvermarkers keep us busy enough."

Fox pretended to scratch his hair. He pinched the skin above the cut. "Does His Majesty ever write King Storm?"

"Of course. Our nations may be enemies, but I house three pigeons that call the twin cities home." Kay walked up to the basket containing three birds, the grey of their feathers lighter and the white more prominent.

"I didn't know," Fox said. Except that he did. He shifted his attention to the lonely, slightly ruffled pigeon in a basket closest to the stairs. "Where does that one go to?"

"He doesn't go anywhere." There was a hint of sadness in the man's voice. "Not anymore."

"Too old?"

"He has plenty more years in him, flew straight up here six years ago. I thought he had lost the message from Lord Brandon. A few days later came the devastating news."

"Laneby," Fox whispered.

"You said you were from Doe Hill, didn't you?"

"Yes, Master Kay. Though I was but a lad of ten, I remember the day as if it were yesterday." In his head, it was not only the day he lost his family but also the day he realised he had no friends. They had never cared for him; not the way Katla had. "It hasn't been the same since."

Before the pigeon master could reply, the horn resounded again. It wasn't a powerful blast like earlier in the morning but rather a subdued tone. Other horns seemed to reply, imitating the mournful melody.

Was the King dead? Fox verified the magical link between him and his uncle. King Thomas was still alive, barely clinging to life but holding on. He wouldn't die without Fox wanting him to.

Kay peered through one of the holes. "An open carriage," he murmured. He swallowed audibly. "Holy Fourteen, it's the lads and the General."

Fox crouched to a lower hole and narrowed his eyes. People poured out of their houses to pay respect to the five make-shift shrouds; the victims of his perfectly orchestrated attack. A bit further, another cart revealed the carcasses of the dead horses or whatever remained of them. The flag the head of the patrol carried flew at half-mast.

"I used to play ball with Patrick and Peter. Reg and Sam were but lads, such good lads. And the General—can't imagine another man to lead our army. Strict but fair, and always remained a man from the Sunless Shade." Kay shook his head. "Who would do such a thing?"

Fox looked at the man. As their gazes met, the pigeon master's eyes widened. A look of utter shock spread across his face. "Your hair. You're... you're..."

A bright green flame sprung up in Fox's hand. "I'm the man who does such a thing."

Kay stepped back and opened his mouth. But before he could make a sound, Fox shot the fire into the man's heart. He fell backwards, his robe ablaze and smoking.

The birds cried out.