The Reborn Sovereign of Ruin, Bound by His Star

Marin did not look amused.

"That is convenient."

"With Mezos, convenience usually means someone has been forced into compliance."

"Good," Marin said. "I like competent force when it saves time."

The footsteps outside the sitting room proved both of them correct.

Mezos’s pace came first, measured and controlled, the sound of a man who had successfully transported a difficult person and expected no gratitude for it.

Then came Liam.

Only Liam, at least visibly.

Arik knew better.

The corridor outside the sitting room had gone quiet in the particular way Agaronian security made silence when it wished to be invisible. The Shadows were there. He could feel the shape of their absence more than their presence, positioned in the gaps between sightlines, in the brief pause between one step and the next. Liam did not notice them. He was too irritated, focused on Mezos, and too deep inside his own offense to feel the room had already been secured before he crossed the threshold.

Mezos entered first, expression composed enough to suggest victory and exhaustion in equal measure.

Liam followed him with his long brown hair tied back, red eyes narrowed, and shoulders set in the posture of a man who had been escorted somewhere against his will by a traitor. His gaze moved first to Arik, then to Marin, then to the reports spread across the low table.

His expression sharpened.

"You read the paper waste," Liam said.

For one brief second, no one moved.

Then Marin’s pale eyes brightened with unmistakable interest.

"Oh," he said. "Excellent. He knows."

Liam looked at him slowly. "You called it waste too?"

"I did. I actually called it toilet paper."

"Accurate."

Marin set his teacup down with ceremonial care and stood at last; apparently, Liam had insulted Wrohanian medical bureaucracy in the correct direction.

Arik felt, with a terrible sense of inevitability, that this meeting was about to go very well and very badly at the same time.

"Liam," Arik said, voice controlled. "This is Marin, imperial physician of Agaron. He has treated my family for decades and is one of the only people my mother allows to insult him before breakfast."

Marin inclined his head. "I insult Gabriel at any hour. Limiting myself to breakfast would be professionally dishonest."

Liam’s eyes flicked back to Arik. "You know... everyone talked about you like you are some kind of demon physician. You look normal."

"Normal?" Marin repeated.

Liam tilted his head, studying him with the same cautious attention he usually reserved for unstable valves, suspicious equations, and people who used too many polite words before asking for access to Lab V.

"Yes."

Marin looked at Arik. "You hear that? I have crossed an international border, suffered Wrohanian tea, read fraudulent medical waste, and now I have been called normal by the reason I am here."

Arik’s mouth curved by the smallest amount. "A devastating morning."

"Afternoon," Marin corrected. "The suffering has matured."

Liam blinked once.

Then, despite himself, his mouth twitched.

Marin noticed.

The old physician’s pale eyes sharpened with interest. "Demon physicians look normal, Lord Liam. That is how we enter rooms before people remember to flee."

"People flee from you?"

"Only the ones with survival instincts."

Liam glanced at Arik. "And you brought him to me."

"I brought the best physician in Agaron to you."

"You also brought a man who just compared himself to a demon."

"Marin is worse than a demon," Arik said. "A demon can be banished. Marin has imperial medical clearance."

Marin looked pleased. "That is almost affectionate."

"It was not."

"It was by Lyon standards."

Liam looked between them, and something in his shoulders loosened despite the tension still sitting beneath his skin. Marin was not soft. That helped. Soft physicians made Liam feel like they were preparing to lie. Marin had the sharp, dry impatience of a man who had no intention of smoothing the truth for comfort, and, unfortunately, Liam respected that almost immediately.

Marin looked at him as if he had seen the exact thought pass across his face.

"Good," he said.

Liam frowned. "What?"

"You are not stupid enough to trust me yet, but you are beginning to consider whether I am useful."

Liam’s expression went flat.

Arik closed his eyes briefly, as if already regretting the next five minutes.

Mezos remained near the door with the calm air of a man who had delivered one difficult person into the hands of another and considered the operation successful.

Liam crossed his arms. "I dislike being read."

"Yes," Marin said. "Most people who are badly documented do."

That landed.

Not hard enough to wound, but close enough to make Liam’s jaw tighten.

Marin did not apologize.

Liam realized, with reluctant approval, that Marin had not said it to provoke him. He had said it because it was true.

Arik stepped closer but stopped before entering Liam’s space. "Liam."

Liam’s red eyes flicked to him.

"This is your decision," Arik said. "Marin will not examine you without permission."

Marin lifted one finger. "I will, however, be extremely judgmental if he refuses out of spite."

"That is not helping," Arik said.

"It is medically relevant. Spite is a frequent symptom in clever patients with poor trust histories."

Liam stared at him.

Marin stared back.

Then Liam said, "You just made spite sound clinical."

"It often is."

"I have an excellent trust history."

Mezos made a sound.

Liam turned his head slowly. "Do you have something to contribute?"

"No," Mezos said immediately.

"You made a sound."

"A security sound."

"That is not a category."

"It is when I make it."

Marin’s eyes brightened again. "He argues with everyone."

Arik sighed. "Yes."

"Good. Selective compliance would have suggested a worse prognosis."

"I am not your patient yet," Liam said.

"Stage one," Marin replied.

Liam looked at Arik. "He keeps doing that medical thing."

"He does."

"Make him stop."

"I cannot."

"You are the Crown Prince."

"And he has ignored my family for decades."

Marin smiled thinly. "With dedication."

Liam was silent for one second.

Then he said, "I may respect that."

"I knew you had taste," Marin said.

Arik looked toward the ceiling as if asking some ancestral authority for patience and receiving nothing useful.

Marin reached for the tablet and turned the hologram so Liam could see it fully. The old reports hovered in pale light, ugly in their neatness: clinic stamps, copied phrases, false certainty arranged with bureaucratic elegance.

Liam’s amusement faded.

His eyes moved over the first page, then the next. He did not flinch. Arik watched him not flinch and hated every physician who had taught him to hold still around pain.

"They look even worse when projected," Liam said.

"They look worse when read by someone literate," Marin said.