Mistress of Ebonhal

Iskandar is too big for his own bed today. He’s sprawled across it sideways, blankets twisted around his hips, hair a dark, tangled halo on the pillow. His skin, usually warm bronze, has gone a little dull and flushed in uneven patches—cheeks pink, nose slightly red, eyes glazed with that heavy, glassy look that says I don’t feel good even before he tries to move. He tries anyway. The moment you step into his room, he lifts his head too fast. A wave of dizziness hits him like a wall. He sucks in a breath, goes cross-eyed for a second, and then forces a crooked smile onto his face like that didn’t happen.

“Oh—there you are,” he says, voice rough around the edges, deeper than usual. “You’re not cold, right? They didn’t make you walk here alone? I told them—” He breaks off, coughing once into the back of his hand. It’s not a delicate sound; his whole chest jolts with it. The effort leaves him blinking, momentarily stunned. Then he shakes it off and starts trying to sit up. The blankets protest. So does his body. He manages to get halfway, propped on one elbow, before his head swims again. His giant shoulders sag, and for a heartbeat he just hangs there, undecided between lying down and pretending he’s fine. Pride wins by a hair. He drags himself upright with both hands, shoulders hunched, breathing a little faster than normal.

“There, see?” he says, sounding weirdly triumphant for someone who looks like he might fall over. “Not that bad.” His hair is sticking to his forehead in damp curls. There’s a bowl of untouched broth on the bedside table, lukewarm now, and a cloth that someone clearly tried to put on his forehead earlier—which currently sits abandoned on his knee instead. He notices your look and squints, half apologetic, half stubborn. “They keep saying I should rest,” Iskandar mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. “But you’ve only been here a few days and there’s so much you need. You don’t know where anything is. You don’t know who is nice and who is...” He makes a vague, unhappy gesture. “Sharp.”

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. That’s when his body decides to rebel properly. As soon as his bare feet touch the floor, the room tilts. His vision narrows for a second, dark at the edges. He pauses, hands bracing on the mattress, fingers curling in the blankets. “...Hmm,” he says, in the deeply thoughtful voice of someone realizing the ground is farther away than usual. “That’s... new.” He stays there, hunched forward, trying to will the dizziness away. It doesn’t fully cooperate. Sweat beads at his temples, catching in the tiny gold chains hanging there. He looks up at you again, eyes softer, a little embarrassed. “I’m okay,” he insists quickly, before you can say anything. “I just... maybe stood up too fast. I can still show you where the kitchens are after this. And the good windows, the ones where you can see the sky. You like the sky, right? Everybody likes the sky.” Another cough pushes its way out of him; he grits his teeth and rides it out.

When it passes, his shoulders slump. For a moment, his usual sunny, dim sweetness flickers, and something more fragile shows through—guilt and worry and the stubborn belief that if he doesn’t take care of you, no one will. “I don’t want you to feel... lost,” he says quietly, staring at his own hands. “I found you. That means—” He fumbles for the words. “I should make sure you’re okay here.” His fingers drift automatically to the little pile of shiny rocks on his bedside table. He picks up a small polished stone, turns it between thumb and forefinger, watching the light catch in it. It steadies him a little.

“If you get sick,” he adds, trying for a weak smile, “it’s fine. I’ve been sick before. I can hold both of us up.” The words are ridiculous. He’s swaying sitting down. He tries to stand. Really tries this time. He gets as far as straightening his knees before a wave of heat and weakness crashes through him hard enough that his eyes squeeze shut. His balance tips. For a terrifying second it looks like he’s about to pitch forward like a felled tree. He catches himself at the last moment with a huge hand on the bedpost, knuckles whitening, jaw clenched. His breathing comes in shallow pulls. Sweat has gathered at his throat now, glistening in the hollow just above his chest.

“Okay,” he pants, with a shaky little laugh. “Maybe I... cannot hold both of us up right now.” He eases himself back down, this time not fighting the pull of the mattress. The bed creaks under his weight as he sinks into it, sprawling more by necessity than choice. One arm ends up thrown over his eyes for a moment, his chest rising and falling heavily. When he moves the arm away again, his expression has shifted from stubborn to sheepish. “I don’t like being sick,” he admits, voice softer now. “Makes me feel... too big and too small at the same time.” His brows wrinkle together, trying to explain. “Like I take up all this space and still can’t do anything useful.”

His gaze finds you again, and there it is—the same gentle worry he had for you in the field, just... tilted now, fever-bright. “I was supposed to be taking care of you,” he says. “Not the other way around.” He doesn’t protest when you adjust the blankets, or move the forgotten cloth back to his forehead, or push the bowl of broth closer. He watches your hands with a kind of dazed focus, like he’s trying to memorize what it looks like when someone fusses over him instead of the other way around. When you encourage him to lie down properly, he hesitates only a second.

“Only for a little while,” he mumbles, already sinking deeper into the mattress. “Just until my head stops floating.” His eyes drift half closed. The corners of his mouth twitch up faintly. “If I get you sick,” he adds, voice slurring with approaching sleep, “I’ll... bring you extra blankets. And soup. And my best rock.”

A beat.

“You’re safe here,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “Even if I’m useless today.” His breathing evens out slowly, giant frame finally relaxing, one large hand still resting near where you stand—palm open, as if even in sleep he means to be available, just in case you need something.

Outside, the palace goes on—sharp and dangerous and wrong in all the usual ways. Inside this room, a sick giant is finally resting, still convinced, even half-conscious, that your comfort matters more than his own.

Iskandar’s idea of “showing you around the castle” is less a tour and more a series of near-misses with architecture.

He walks beside you down the corridor, stooping just enough that he doesn’t brain himself on every archway, one huge hand hovering near your back without actually touching—ready to steer you away from sharp table corners, sudden noble traffic, and suspiciously placed statues. His jewelry clinks softly with each step, white-and-gold robe trailing behind him like a small, personal comet. “See?” he says, gesturing with a big, pleased sweep of his arm that almost takes out a wall sconce. “This hallway is good. No draft. If there is a draft, you can stand behind me and I’ll block it.”

He beams down at you, completely sincere. Behind him, a servant quickly straightens the slightly tilted sconce. Iskandar doesn’t notice. He’s been like this for weeks—hovering, fussing, and now he’s finally coaxed the palace into building you a small room that opens directly into his. A door in his wall now leads not to another gilded space, but to yours; he points it out every time like it’s a miracle he still can’t quite believe is real. “Now if you have a bad dream,” he’d said earlier, “you don’t have to walk alone. You can just knock. Or I will knock. Or we knock at the same time and scare each other.” He’d laughed at his own thought, delighted.

Today, though, he’s gone one step further: He’s decided it’s time you “know the castle like he does.” “This is the good stairway,” he explains as he leads you to a broad stone staircase. “It doesn’t creak as much. And nobody yells here. The yelling ones are on the west side.” He makes a face. “We don’t like those.” He keeps glancing down, checking your face every few steps, as if afraid the building itself might frighten you. Whenever someone passes too close, he instinctively shifts himself into the outside position, body forming a barrier without thinking about it. By the time you reach one of the upper galleries—a long space with tall windows overlooking the city—he looks proud in a shy, towering way.

“There,” he says, pointing. “Best windows. You can see the roofs. At night, the lanterns look like—” He trails off, searching for a word. “—like fallen stars that didn’t want to go too far.” He stands there for a moment, content, hands resting on the railing as he leans forward to show you the view. The sunlight spills over his shoulders and the side of his face, warming the bronze of his skin and making the pearls at his throat glow. He’s so focused on the view, and on you beside him, that he doesn’t notice the quiet shifting of the room’s mood until too late. The air tightens. The servants at the far end of the gallery stop moving quite so freely. A guard straightens his posture, eyes flicking toward the entrance.

Iskandar feels it before he sees it: that particular kind of stillness that belongs only to one person. He turns his head.

King Lysander is standing in the archway. The king isn’t flanked by an escort and just two guards, a single attendant, and whatever it is that rides silently behind his eyes. His clothing is elegant, his posture loose, his expression almost gentle. Almost.

Iskandar’s shoulders rise, then drop slowly. Instinct tells him to bow. Habit tells him to put himself between you and the doorway. So he does both. He shifts his body without thinking, a subtle step that moves him slightly in front of you, so you are half-shadowed by his frame. Then he bows his head, chains and pearls sliding with the motion. “Your Majesty,” he rumbles, voice softer than usual.

Lysander’s gaze passes over you once, briefly, with the vague curiosity one might give a new piece of furniture. Then his attention lands on Iskandar. “You are far from your rooms,” the king observes. His tone is mild. His eyes aren’t.

Iskandar straightens a little too quickly; the movement makes his jewelry jangle. He swallows, clearly aware of the eyes on him—the guards, the servants, the king. His hand brushes your shoulder as he adjusts his stance, fingers curling like he’s reminding himself not to grab you and bolt. “I was just...” he starts, then hesitates, mind grinding loudly enough to almost be visible, “...showing them the safe places.”

The king’s head tilts a fraction. “Safe?” Lysander repeats. The word sounds faintly amused. “Do you fear the palace, Iskandar?”

Iskandar opens his mouth, closes it, then glances sideways at you for half a second. Something tightens in his chest; he can feel your presence there, close and small and fragile in a place that has never really been kind. He has been thinking something for weeks now. Months, maybe. He’s pushed it down every time it rises, smoothed it over with simple thoughts and shiny stones and soft blankets. Now, with Lysander’s eyes on both of you, it just... slips out.

“Not the palace,” Iskandar says before he can stop himself. His voice is quiet, but the size of him makes it carry. “The palace is just walls and stone and people who are tired.” His fingers flex once at his sides. “It’s the king that’s...” He stops. The silence that follows is long enough for him to hear his own pulse in his ears. A servant somewhere in the room looks like they forgot how to breathe. One of the guards stares straight ahead, face suddenly too blank. Iskandar realizes what he’s just done. His mouth works for a second, trying to catch the words before they’re fully born. Too late. They’re already out in the air between them, hanging there like a dropped piece of glass.

“...wrong,” he finishes, because he’s already halfway over the cliff and there’s no way to clamber back up gracefully. His gaze flickers to Lysander’s, then away, then back again in stubborn honesty. “Not—” he stammers, trying to soften the blow and failing miserably. “Not wrong like... bad clothes or bad manners. Wrong like...” His brow furrows deeply as he searches for something that won’t sound like treason. “Like a statue that blinks,” he says at last. “Or a painting that breathes. Looks human.” His voice lowers. “Doesn’t feel human.”

The gallery feels colder. A muscle in Lysander’s jaw ticks—so small a motion most would miss it. His hands remain relaxed at his sides. His face remains composed. But something in the shadows near his eyes shifts, too smooth to be entirely natural.

“And you are an expert on humanity now?” the king asks, tone still light, as if they’re discussing weather.

Iskandar’s instinct is to backpedal so hard he falls over. Instead, he does something else. He turns his head just enough to see you from the corner of his eye. Then he places one big hand very gently on the railing beside you—not touching you, but close enough that if you stepped back even a little, you’d be inside the space of his arm.

“I’m not an expert on anything,” he says, forcing his voice to stay steady. “But I know what feels like a person. And what feels like...” He trails off again, because he’s not sure saying like something that eats people from the inside would improve the situation. “Different,” he finishes lamely. The word hangs there, smaller than what he means, bigger than what he should have said. Lysander watches him in silence for a heartbeat that seems to stretch.

Then the king smiles. It’s a small, elegant curve of the lips that doesn’t reach his eyes at all. “Giants,” Lysander murmurs, almost fondly. “Always so honest.”

Iskandar swallows, throat bobbing. He doesn’t step aside. He doesn’t move closer either. He simply stays where he is—too large, too soft, too clumsy to be talking like this, and yet somehow managing to stand between you and whatever it is that looks out through the king’s gaze.

Inside his own head, his thoughts are simple and stubborn: You are his. He found you in an open field and brought you here. If something is wrong with the king, you should at least know it. Even if he shouldn't have said it where the king could hear.