“The hour is late, Your Highness,” she replies smoothly. “They’re in their quarters. Sleeping.”
My brow furrows. “Blades rarely sleep. Reapers even less.”
She lifts a delicate shoulder in a shrug. “Had I known you would return tonight, I would’ve roused them.”
Something cold skitters down my spine. A slow, gnawing unease curls in my gut. I glance over my shoulder. Zyphoro’s scowl matches the storm still thrashing beyond the walls. When I turn back, I study Ilyra again, her posture, her tone, her too-calm presence in an empty, echoing castle.
My gaze flicks past her once more, to the twin thrones at the end of the hall.
“How is my father?”
Ilyra inclines her head. “As well as a prisoner can be. Though his chambers are far more luxurious than most. Would you like to see him?”
I shake my head too quickly. “No. Not yet.” A pause. “And Lanneth? Does her cage still hold?”
A faint smile ghosts across her lips. An expression rare for Ilyra. “It does. There are days I forget she’s even there.”
“Modok,” Zyphoro calls behind me, loud and clipped.
I frown at the interruption, but gesture for her to speak.
“Has he crossed the sea?”
“Not yet,” Ilyra replies. “The Blades still guard the coast, and my spies have eyes on his stronghold. For now, we hold the advantage. You return to order.”
Order.
The word rings hollow.
I lower my head slightly. “You have my thanks, my lady.”
She clasps her hands together. “You must be hungry. Or weary. Shall we see to your needs?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She glances over my shoulder at my brethren behind me, drenched, silent, waiting. “What of the others?” Her eyes pause on the last of them. “What of your wife?”
“She will join us soon enough,” I say, voice cool. “When I know it’s safe.”
Ilyra cocks her head, the movement almost birdlike. “But Your Highness... I’ve already told you. It is safe.”
I offer a shallow dip of my head, the closest thing to a smile I can manage. “You have. But after what I’ve seen these past weeks, I no longer take things at face value. Let us sit. Talk. I would hear everything.”
She nods slowly. “Of course. The dining hall, then. I’ll have wine brought up.”
“Wine,” Reon mutters, stepping from the ranks with a dramatic sigh. “I never thought I’d grow sick of rum, but here we are.”
Ilyra leads us to the dining hall, and it’s colder than I remember.
Not just in temperature, though the fire at the far end does little to soften the stone, but in presence. In memory. In silence.
She strides ahead, confident and regal, and slips into the seat at the head of the table as though it’s hers by right.
My brow arches. Zyphoro, mid-step, freezes beside me. Her eyes find mine, and there’s a flicker of shared understanding between us.
Solena is the one to speak. “Lady Ilyra. That is the prince’s chair.”
Ilyra’s eyes narrow, like a blade being unsheathed. “I don’t need lessons in etiquette from a maid.”
