Page 108 of Psycho Pack
Guards leap forward, blocking us with drawn swords. Whiskey snarls, getting between them and me protectively as the other Ghosts surround me, too. All ready to fight to the death.
But the queen doesn't react to us.
She doesn't draw her sword, either.
Instead, she reaches out with impossible grace, her bejeweled fingers catching Plague's chin. She tilts his face up with excruciating gentleness, her thumb stroking his cheek in a tender caress.
I freeze mid-step, my heart stuttering to a stop as I watch the queen's severe expression transform. The change is subtle, just a slight softening around her pale blue eyes as they land on Plague. A flash of anger, and then…
Longing.
Love.
The pieces click into place with dizzying speed as she speaks, her musical voice thick with emotion.
"Welcome home, Prince Hamsa."
Chapter
Nineteen
PLAGUE
Ten Years Ago…
The heady scent of night-blooming jasmine wraps around me as I lean back against the carved stone railing, watching the sunset paint the lake in shades of gold and crimson. Up here in the hanging gardens, it's easy to forget the weight of duty and expectation pressing down on me.
Easy to pretend I'm just Hamsa.
And not a prince.
Adiir sprawls beside me on the cushioned bench, his long legs stretched out carelessly. The dying sunlight catches on the golden threads woven through his white robes, making him glow like some ancient god. He's the only one who's ever seen past my title to the person beneath.
"You're brooding again," he says, nudging my leg with his bare foot. "I can practically hear the gears grinding in that overactive brain of yours."
I snort, shoving his foot away with a grimace and standing up so he can't do it again. "I'm notbrooding. I'm thinking."
"Same thing when it comes to you." He sits up, fixing me with that penetrating stare that always makes me feel like he can see straight through my carefully constructed walls. "What is it this time? More medical texts you're not supposed to be reading?"
Heat floods my cheeks.
Of course he knows.
Adiiralwaysknows.
"I found something interesting in the archives," I admit. "A treatise on battlefield surgery from before the war. The techniques they used... they were revolutionary. If we could adapt them, combine them with our own healing practices?—"
"Hamsa." The gentleness in his voice makes my chest ache. "You know you can't."
"Why not?" The words burst out before I can stop them, sharp with frustration as I look out over the railing that overlooks the sprawling miles upon miles of empty lands. Beyond them, the orange glow of explosions and fires dot the landscape. "Why can't a prince be a healer? What's so wrong with wanting to help people rather than ruling over them?"
Adiir sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. The motion displaces his scarf, revealing the strong line of his jaw for just a moment before he adjusts it. "Nothing's wrong with it. But you have other responsibilities. Sacred duties that?—"
"That's bullshit and you know it." I push away from the railing, too restless to stay still. "What's more sacred than saving lives? Than easing suffering?"
"Your mother?—"
"My mother is wrong." The words taste like ashes on my tongue, but I can't take them back. Don't want to. "All of this—the isolation, the rigid traditions, the walls we've built aroundourselves—it's killing us. We're suffocating behind our own perfection."