FUCKING FATE bonds. He was too old to deal with one appearing on him. Vesryn was over six hundred years old, and he’d served the royal family for more than five of those centuries. He’d taken countless lovers through the years and had even bedded Prince Callith—now King Callith—on numerous occasions, but he’d never found someone he wanted to share the rest of his life with. Vesryn was content with his role in the kingdom, and he was thankful his only duty was to protect Synne. If he had the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders, they’d likely all be dead from a civil war. He couldn’t help flexing his fingers, staring at the shimmering red thread that stretched up to a higher floor. He couldn’t feel it, but his finger insisted there was a hint of a tingling sensation, as if it were on the verge of falling asleep. “Vesryn?” He glanced at Synne, returning her raised eyebrow with one of his own. “Yes, Princess?” He restrained a smile when she wrinkled her nose at him. “Are you ill?” He couldn’t quite fight back his scowl. “No,” he said, but her brow twitched higher in a familiar expression of disbelief. “You should get some rest.” Vesryn started to say he was fine, but the threat of a pang beneath his ribs stayed his tongue. He was well accustomed to the discomfort that came with lying, but it was still never pleasant. The worse the lie, the deeper and sharper the ache. Truth be told, he did need rest. He hadn’t been sleeping well, kept awake at night by the thread on his finger. Since Synne could be far more stubborn than her older brother when she chose, he swept a low bow and stepped back. “As you wish.” He turned and motioned for two other guards to move in and take his place. Then he headed out of the throne room and stopped by Duaia’s office, surprised to find her at her desk for once. He rapped his knuckles against the door to get her attention before stepping inside. “Can you assign someone to Synne for a few days?” Duaia eyed him in surprise, sitting back and tucking stray wisps of bright red hair behind her ear. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Elwin has been asking for something other than prison duty.” Elwin was a good choice. He was levelheaded and had the quick reflexes innate to all feline beastkin, and he was part of Callith’s kingsguard. With the king currently out of the city, the kingsguard were spread out to help with the patrols and city guard. Vesryn nodded his thanks and stepped back, escaping before she could try to pry and stubbornly ignoring the twinge of guilt. He might be centuries older than Duaia, but as the only sorceress on this side of the Wound, he knew better than to catch her attention. She could be as ruthless as Synne when it came to protecting her own, even if it meant berating someone until they wept. With the sudden lack of immediate responsibility, exhaustion pressed in on him. He intended to go to his room, shower, and try to sleep. Instead, he found himself following the Fate string and stopped outside the closed door of the fae’s room. This was a terrible idea. What could Fate possibly want with Vesryn, an elf with a fractured magical core? He had no talent for the sun magic most elves were gifted with. The only magic he had ever been able to control was fire, but he couldn’t even start a fire with condensed sunlight. No, the fire had to already exist; then he could call on the flames and manipulate them. And only natural flames answered to him. He’d been of no help at all when the Black Sun set fires to their granary and the library and the temple, the alchemical-borne flames tearing through everything far quicker than a natural fire. He may have been one of the most skilled with a blade, but he paled against the warriors who’d been lost in the war. Surely there were others who could offer more. He lowered his hand and turned away. If he was to speak to the fae for the first time, he’d need honey.