And now it exhales.
I rise slowly, the gravity of the moment anchoring each movement. My hand flattens on the table, steadying myself. My kingdom. My family. My daughter’s future. All of it teeters on the edge.
“You’re both right. There’s no time for rest. We must prepare for war.”
My gaze cuts to Ilyra.
“I want full reports from your spies. Everything. I need to know which houses remain loyal to me and I want them summoned to Baev’kalath immediately. This war will not be won alone.”
I pause, turning the thought on my tongue before letting it free.
“And I want to speak with my father.”
Zyphoro lifts a brow, her goblet pausing halfway to her lips. “Why?”
“Because, for all his sins he has survived more centuries than any of us combined. He knows the houses. Their strengths, their fractures, the secrets they bury and the heirs they pretend don’t exist. That knowledge might be the only edge we get.”
She snorts, finishing her drink in one long pull before slamming the cup down. “Fine. But if he starts acting like a sanctimonious prick, we throw him in that cage with Lanneth. That alone is a fate worse than death.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “Agreed, sister.”
I turn back to Ilyra. “Where is he?”
“The hour is late,” she begins, voice softening as she bows her head. “Perhaps in the morning…”
The scrape of Zyphoro’s chair splits the air. She stands, eyes hard as flint.
“My brother didn’t ask for suggestions.”
I raise a hand before it can escalate.
“Zyphoro,” I say quietly, “we owe Lady Ilyra our thanks. Without her, we’d have no castle to return to.”
Ilyra straightens. “No. The Princess Zyphoro is right.”
She lowers herself into a shallow bow.
“I misspoke. My nerves are frayed, as I imagine all of ours are. These halls have known too much silence. Too much waiting. With the prince away and the houses circling like wolves, we’ve all been on edge.”
She lifts her chin, eyes clearing.
“Come. I will take you to him.”
We follow Ilyra through the silent halls of the fortress, the storm outside snarling low across the sky, thunder rolling like a warning too late. She walks ahead of us, unhurried, silent, her gaze cast downward, and I study her carefully, her every movement, every flicker of tension in her shoulders.
I lean toward Reon.
“None of this feels right, does it?”
He shrugs. “I’ve always thought Baev’kalath to be a peculiar place. I assumed this was normal.”
I frown. “Well, it’s not.” My fingertips graze the pommel of the dagger at my waist, more out of instinct than threat, but it calms me to know it’s there.
“I still want that back,” Zyphoro mutters.
Reon glances sideways, speaking under his breath. “You doubt, Ilyra? I thought she was our ally.”
“Are there such things among the Fae?” I whisper back. “I hope I’m wrong. I hope Modok hasn’t gotten to her. But if I’m right… we’re walking into a trap.”
