Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (read me like a book txt) 📕

out how they’d come to this point. Brandy on an empty stomach and long-buried emotions were threatening to send him topsy-turvy, and he needed an anchor.

“All that time keeping you alive, and then we were in Berlin, and we were rich and free,” Roland continued as Milo stared down at the chair. “I could want something more, but what did I know? You. All I knew was you, so that was what I wanted more of.”

Roland’s open hands stretched out to Milo.

“And you didn’t want me.”

Milo looked up and saw that tears were now rolling freely down Roland’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” Roland said, his voice just above a whisper. “I didn’t want this.”

Milo’s pale blue eyes bored into Roland’s dark orbs, and something clicked into place in his mind. Roland, who was strong, clever, and fearless—everything Milo had wanted to be—had been as broken as he was all this time. He’d put on a good front, better than most could ever hope to manage, but Milo realized now Roland had needed him. Roland had needed a reason to be brave, a reason to keep fighting, something to dedicate himself to. Milo had been that for him, and in that Berlin hotel, Roland had been determined to not lose him, and it had backfired.

Milo still wasn’t certain he could forgive Roland for what he’d done, but he understood it, and that was a kind of peace he’d thought was beyond his reach.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, though for what he wasn’t certain. They had both been broken children when their story together began, so Milo wasn’t sure where culpability lay, but he couldn’t keep the hatred of Roland he'd harbored for years, not now that he understood.

Maybe he could be sorry for that.

Roland leaned forward, studying Milo for some sign or indication before settling back into the chair. He wiped his tears away, and when he spoke, his voice was flat and toneless.

“It’s done,” he said with a nod. “And we’ve got bigger things to worry about than our little spat.”

Milo nodded.

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

Roland eyed the tumbler across the room and stifled a yawn.

“Late nights and strong drink on an empty stomach.” He chuckled with a slow shake of his head. “Just like old times.”

Milo nodded again, but there was no mist of nostalgia to soften his expression as he looked at Roland.

“So, what are you and Zlydzen up to?”

Roland’s eyes widened a little as he looked at Milo, his expression almost pleading, but he shook his head and sat up in his seat. His shoulders squared, and the hard edge in his posture returned. The reminiscing was over; Roland had his business face on, and any evidence of old wounds and old affections had disappeared.

“That is a very important question, and one I wouldn’t normally answer,” he said, taking a moment to adjust the fit of his suit. “But I am willing to discuss it with you because I am interested in making you a proposition.”

Milo’s eyes narrowed, and it took an effort of will not to reach for the pocketful of ash.

“I can’t think of any deal you could offer me that I would accept,” Milo declared, his expression hardening into a scowl. “I hope that doesn’t come as a shock to you, given who you’ve chosen to ally yourself with.”

Roland didn’t argue the point but rather nodded and held up his hands in acceptance.

“That is a fair accusation veiled as a reply,” he replied, a small smile on his lips. “But before you light my pyre, let’s be clear: the only people I’ve agreed to work with are sitting in this room right now. Everyone else was not my choice; they either chose me or were foisted on me by people I couldn’t deny.”

Milo cocked an eyebrow and nodded at the soulless at the far end of the room.

“So, you mean to tell me that working with treacherous xenophobes and bloodthirsty Bolsheviks to acquire an army of enslaved soldiers was not your plan?”

Roland shrugged.

“Believe it or not, I am as much a pawn as you in this game,” he replied as he gestured at himself. “Admittedly a well-placed pawn, and infinitely better dressed, but yes, a pawn all the same.”

Milo smirked and stepped around the chair to reach for his glass.

“I’d love to hear that explanation,” he said before taking a sip, for the first time tasting the brandy. It wasn’t bad.

“But before that, tell me what you and Zlydzen are planning,” Milo said, a little breathless from the liquor. “You did promise to share that.”

Roland nodded and slapped his knee before pointing at Milo. He wore a rueful smile as though remembering something.

“We can do that, but would you like a smoke first?” His hand ducked into his coat, and he drew out a cigarette tin. “I seem to recall you’d never turn one down back in the old days.”

Milo eyed Roland for a moment but decided it couldn’t hurt. Besides, he’d needed a smoke since leaving Sergio-Ivanoskye.

Bare feet padding on the floor, he moved forward and took the proffered cigarette and then a match. They were cheap, bitter things, and when Milo nearly choked on the bitter smoke, he realized that sharing in Ambrose’s premium collection of tobacco had spoiled him. It hadn’t been so long ago that he’d burnt through rubbish like this like a fiend. Milo turned to look out the window to keep Roland from seeing his watering eyes or how he was struggling to keep from coughing.

“Go ahead,” he managed to rasp. “I’m listening.”

The rising sun was bright and clear across the square before the palace, and below, Milo could see the full extent of the work at hand. There must have been hundreds of workers in the makeshift workshops. They’d seemed a disorderly sprawl when he’d seen them from the truck bed, but from up here, he could see that they were arranged in rough quadrants, with avenues large enough to accommodate trucks going either direction. As Roland spoke,