“… aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Catalin blurted out.
Victor shrugged. “I guess you could say that, yeah.”
Catalin paused, dreading his own question. “So all that about Gwendolyn having an heir…?”
“That would be Amara, yes. There, all done!” Victor pulled the collar off triumphantly. Catalin vaguely registered that it just figured that when he finally got rid of that collar, he found himself quite unable to breathe like he wanted to. “Feels a lot better, doesn’t it?” As Victor leaned back, catching a glimpse of Catalin’s expression, he frowned. “Hey… you really don’t look so good.”
‘Not looking good’ was an understatement. These weren’t actually crazy Myrrh insurgents with delusions of grandeur after all. No, they were ten times worse. This was Gwendolyn Doyle’s real, legitimate husband. The father of her real, legitimate heir. Accompanied by two real, legitimate members of the Imperial Guard. And Catalin was, for whatever reason, Celeste’s real, legitimate successor.
And I am really, legitimately fucked.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown him out a window,” Damian suggested without any real remorse.
“Catalin?” Victor gave him a light shake. “Are you okay?”
“He goes by ‘Cat,’ Victor,” Damian piped up.
That snapped Catalin out of it. “No, I don’t.”
“Really…?” Victor raised an eyebrow. “That’s a shame. Kind of a cute nickname.”
“Cat,” Saphie repeated happily. “It fits him so perfectly!”
“It really doesn’t,” Catalin protested.
“It kind of does.” Victor nodded to himself.
“Don’t just decide that on your own!” Taking advantage of his now-free hands, Catalin struggled to his feet, crossing his arms tightly. “It’s Catalin, okay?”
“See, Victor?” Damian said. “He’s fine. Very energetic, really.”
“Well… in that case, we need to head out.” Victor got to his feet, himself. “This shack has some good natural camouflage, but Anwar’s not going to send just anyone after Cat, here.” He ignored Catalin’s bristle, and pointed to him and Damian. “You two, change into the clothes I brought you, you look too conspicuous like that.”
Damian instantly dug into the bag, digging out the smaller-sized clothes for himself. As he yanked out a worn, brown cap, he squinted at it. “What’s this for?”
“That’s for Cat!” Saphie tugged on the ends of Catalin’s hair. “Even if people are less likely to recognize you in the countryside, it’s going to look suspicious if a noble is wandering around with some commoners.”
