“I heard stories about Titans when I was growing up,” I confess. “I did not realize they were anything beyond bedtime tales designed to scare children into behaving.”
“That’s no surprise. We don’t get many visitors on the Isle of the Mighty.” Vaughn picks up an entire baguette and tears the end off in one clean bite. “Titans are not the friendliest bunch, overall. But you can’t really blame them for craving isolationfrom the rest of the realm, given its history. Fae problems tend to creep across the rough waters of Titan’s Way, dragging them into battles they’d rather watch from afar.”
“But you’re half-fae…”
“That’s why I’m here, standing in my brother’s kitchen—”
“Eating all his food,” Soren mutters.
“—talking to you.” Vaughn takes another bite of bread. Half the baguette is gone already. “I have a vested interest in what goes on here in Hylios, and in the rest of Anwyvn. But the other side of my family tree displays very little in the way of concern for those rooted on the mainland. If every last fae and mortal slaughtered one another on the field of battle, the Titans wouldn’t blink.”
“But what of the blight?” My brows are arched nearly to my hairline. “Does it not concern them that the land is sickening year by year? That the birth rate is stagnant? That the crops are dying?”
He shrugs. “They have been around since the time before the Cull. They have seen empires rise and fall, have withstood famines and droughts and natural disasters. Our bloodiest wars do not seem to warrant any more attention than a game of sticks and stones played by the neighbor’s children. They set themselves above it.”
Soren scoffs. “Because they think themselves gods, directly descended from the blood of deities…despite no evidence to support that myth.”
Vaughn tosses a chunk of bread at his brother’s head. “How else do you explain our divine strength, if not as a gift from the skies?”
“By the same logic”—Soren dodges swiftly—“how do you explain such scarcity of brains paired with that overabundance of brawn?”
My eyes dart between them as they trade barbs, grinning at each other the entire time.
“You may enjoy talking in circles to dizzy your enemies, big brother, but as it turns out, you don’t need all that much brainpower to pummel people into submission one-fisted.”
“Ah yes,” Soren drawls. “Titan diplomacy tactics. Never without bloodshed.”
“Or gin. Speaking of…” Vaughn’s smiling face turns my way. I freeze with my apple halfway to my mouth. “Have you ever had Titan gin before, Rhya?”
I shake my head warily.
“Excellent.” He reaches down into the rucksack by his feet and produces a large bottle. The liquid inside is clear but swims with flecks of what looks like gold when he holds it to the light. “Tonight, it will be my honor to corrupt you.”
Soren’s groan is audible even over the pop of the cork being unstoppered.
Chapter
twenty-one
My final week in Hylios passes with twice the speed of the two that came before. There is never a spare moment. Vaughn’s larger-than-life presence infuses the once quiet royal grounds with so much energy, it is difficult to believe I once spent evenings on the ocean-facing terrace with a book and a glass of wine, only Soren’s occasional presence to interrupt my serenity.
As the wedding creeps closer, each evening inevitably dissolves into an impromptu celebration—one every soul in the city seems more than eager to partake in, though none so enthusiastically as Vaughn.
Yara is a close second.
From that first day onward, when he declared his intentions to corrupt me, the half-Titan has kept his promise, thoroughly enjoying his role as rowdy ringleader. He is always spearheading something, whether it is an evening at Ledge for a sampling of every concoction on the menu or a late afternoon at Vintners’ Cove in which he bribes the barge operators to bring up several treasured casks for private consumption.
His own villa, a quainter version of Soren’s on the lower half of the royal grounds, is too small, he argues. Too isolated. Heprefers the palatial elegance of his brother’s home. And so, more often than not, that’s where he can be found—splashing in the spring, bathing in the crystal bathhouse, and eating everything in the cupboards.
On the rare occasion you cannot find him in the crowd, towering heads above all others, his near constant laughter makes it easy to pinpoint him. It booms like a cannon across the city no matter the hour or occasion.
When he is not using his elephantine frame to stir up trouble, he is exercising it—chopping wood in the olive grove or lifting boulders repetitively overhead or throwing axes at the targets I use for projectile practice. Usually, he prefers the built-in weapons of his powerful fists, but a few times I see him swinging a broadsword so sharp it could cut me clean in half, using a series of wild moves the men of the Ember Guild would undoubtedly be interested in adopting for their own training regimens.
I can envision Jac, in particular, enjoying Vaughn’s company—both at the sparring pits and at the local breweries. Height differences aside, there is something mirrored in the two men’s dispositions that makes me miss my old friend.
Friends.
All of them.