Fearless (The Powerless Trilogy)
Fearless: Chapter 70

Kai didn’t move from Kitt’s side until his body grew cold.

Even then, it took three Imperials to pull him from the pool of blood. He let them, of course, unlike the dozens prior who dared drag the Enforcer from his grief before the sun rose timidly through the study’s window. Rays of light stroked over Kitt’s still body, memorializing the sickening scene as though it were a painting—Kitt, a canvas of scarlet streaks.

For as long as Kai kept Kitt company, so did I.

By the time our aching knees rose from the worn rug, blood was crusted atop our skin and caked into our hair. I followed Kai numbly to his rooms and filled the tub with steaming water. He didn’t fight me when I peeled off his soiled clothes or urged him into the bath.

His eyes were distant, hollow. But they were on me, and that was something. I lathered a bar of soap across his skin, smelling so distinctly of pine and the man I fell in love with. With a soft sponge, I scrubbed at every patch of hardened blood. His eyes never strayed from mine, shutting only when I softly asked it of him while wiping the stained face of sorrow itself.

He didn’t stand from the tub when I finally lowered the sponge. Instead, he moved with an intent I hadn’t seen in half a day. Water dripped from his arms as he unbuttoned the back of my dress. As soon as it had slipped down my body and into a puddle of fabric on the floor, he pulled me into the tub.

He wouldn’t let me touch the sponge. The fearsome Enforcer of Ilya swiped every speck of his brother’s blood from my skin. It was the gentleness with which he loved, even when he grieved, that made me break. We held each other, weeping for a brother, a broken boy, a loss to the world. Our bodies shook, tears rolling down the shoulders we clung to.

Though, Kitt was not mine to grieve. In the end, he was a shell of the boy I once knew, one who saw me as an obstacle to overcome. But I did not resent him. Rather, I ached for the brother who Kai had lost, not the king with a broken mind. I ached for Kai, as though his grief were my own.

So when the water had gone cold and each breath began to slow, Kai spoke his first words since Kitt uttered his last.

“Thank you.”

The second day after the king’s death was arguably the hardest. All of Ilya had learned of the kind ruler’s cruel death. It was advertised as a tragic accident, though the people searched for a more exciting tale to tell. Rumors rippled through the kingdom, every mouth speculating how Kitt had met his end in order to fill the void of withheld truth.

They would likely wonder for years to come, and still, we would not tell them. Kitt, even in death, was to remain the kind king he was always meant to be.

Kai pulled his grief back like a tide, hauling it in long enough to panic over the gift we had left in Izram. The crate of roses was likely opened weeks ago to loose a Plague on the entire city. But before we were given the chance to spiral further, a letter was found wedged beneath the castle’s towering front doors.

In neat, elegant writing, it read:

I do hope it was not you, Paedyn Gray, who attempted to infect my kingdom. This is said in jest, as I knew you truthfully believed the roses to be a gift. No matter—I sensed what awaited in that box before you ever set foot off my docks. Alas, I have little use for your Plague, but I suppose your king thinks differently. Perhaps he should have tried polluting another kingdom. Then again, I hear he is no longer with us. My condolences.

Any further attempts to infect my people will result in an unpleasant retaliation. Do not take my overlooking of this crime as a sign of weakness. I know the laced roses were not your doing. But I do wish for us to have a fruitful relationship.

Your fellow queen,

Z

I promptly looked over at Kai. “How the hell did she know?”

We spent the rest of that day receiving condolences from the grieving castle. Without a plagued kingdom to worry about, Kai strode stiffly through the hall, his gaze vacant and words scarce. The entire palace had been draped in a sheet of darkness—black curtains covering windows while black clothing draped every body.

Scholars nipped at our heels like shadows, calling after Kai to discuss his coronation. “I am not king until Kitt is laid to rest,” he would say, more toneless than the time before. I knew that he meant it, just like I knew that he was stalling. He did not wish to be king.

We spent that night in the arms of those closest to Kai.

“My boy,” Gail had wailed when he walked into her kitchen. “My sweet boy.”

She held him long enough to burn what food simmered on the stove and cried hard enough that she didn’t care. Jax sobbed against his brother’s chest, mourning the loss of their other half. It was when he started hiccupping that Andy joined, her body shaking with sobs. A few traitorous tears had escaped my burning eyes before Gail pulled me in and wrapped her arms around us all.

The third and fourth day were more of the same. Berating Scholars, a castle in mourning, gossiping Ilyans, grief, tears, sobs. When we could stomach the conversation, solemn Healers circled us in a dim room to swap hushed details of the king’s slow demise. They spoke of his insistence on taking the Plague despite knowing the ramifications, then more hesitantly of his unraveling mind soon after. He was easily agitated, often caught speaking to the empty air or wandering around at all hours of the night.

Kitt was dying long before he forgot to dodge his brother’s advance, we discover. The Healers could not save him, and suddenly, this makes sense after learning the truth of Elites’ limitations. His body was rejecting another dose of the Plague. It was only a matter of time until the sickness unraveled all that he was.

Within the long stretches of sorrow, we spent much of our time in the study, simply staring at everything exactly as he left it. All but the bloodied rug remained. Jax and Andy would sit with us, partly in silence but, occasionally, more boldly in reminiscence. They would swap memories, each one bleeding into the last and lending a smile for fleeting moments.

And that was something.

By the fifth day, that emptiness occupying Kai’s gaze had lessened slightly. Still, we held each other, just as we had for the past several days. And when he pulled away, he spoke soft gratitude against my skin. “Thank you, Pae. For everything.”

I would smile—it was always sad. “It no longer surprises me when you say that.”

“Good.” His nose brushed mine. “I want you to grow so used to my gratitude that you’re sick of it.”

That night, I slipped the wedding ring from my finger.

And on the sixth day after Kitt’s death, we read his letters.