“It’s just Wren,” I murmur and lift my chin as a towering fae curls his lip in disgust when his eyes fall to us. “Don’t let these entitled, arrogant fae make you feel less than. We are all equals in this world.”
Her expression softens and I catch the rush of tears pricking at her eyes. She quickly brushes them away with her free hand before letting a soft smile lift her lips.
“You’re quite beautiful.” I say before leaning in towhisper, “Lift your chin and let them all bask in jealousy of your uniqueness.”
A flush stains her cheeks and I see a momentary panic in her wide eyes before a shift takes over. She pulls her shoulders back as she lifts her chin. “Thank you, Wren. I needed to hear that.”
We walk a few more steps in companionable silence before a thought slides an ache into my chest I wasn’t expecting.
Ilyria would like her.
An image comes to mind–my wraith friend throwing an arm around this gentle fae girl’s shoulders, cracking a joke, and telling anyone who looked at Natasha sideways to take up their problem with her. The thought pulls tightly, a bittersweet tug against the hollow ache I hadn’t noticed growing.
I miss her.
But with Natasha’s arm linked with mine all the way to the polished doors of the breakfast chamber, just like I had with Ilyria, I don’t feel entirely alone in a new place. Despite the warmth it gives me, my gut churns with a growing dread as my thoughts return to last night.
The threads had altered history, providing mercy, and preventing the loss of life. I swallow the lump of emotion growing in my throat as I remember the first threads I saw from Ilyria. I hadn’t altered that projection for the future from her choice to not argue withthe fae generals, and it ended with a disastrous attack on the wraith’s castle.
My stomach tightens.
Do I tell Sylvin what happened? I did alter his people’s fate…but I’m not sure if he will believe me. I hardly believe it myself, despite the memories burning brightly in my mind. If I do…maybe I can tell him about the wraith’s fate and help usher them to sign the proposal Ilyria had brought.
Would that be enough to alter it?
Natasha slips her arm from mine just before we reach the doors and bids me goodbye with a quiet promise to work on my wardrobe.
Two fae guards stationed outside bow to me without a word and push the polished panels inward. Frost curls along the carved edges, blooming outward in delicate spirals as the chamber is revealed.
The space beyond is regal without being overwhelming. A tall ceiling paneled in pale wood. Wide arched windows that fill the room with natural light and a fire crackles low in the hearth–one that I assume is typically for decoration when I’m not here and in need of warmth. A long table rests in the center, topped with fine crystal and dishes that shimmer with steam.
Sylvin sits at the far end, angled toward the windows, one elbow resting lazily on the table while the other hand lifts a teacup to his lips. His short, palehair shimmers in the light, a stark contrast against the deep blue of his robes.
When he sees me, a warm smile curls his lips.
“Ah,” he says, setting the cup down. “I was beginning to worry you might not feel well enough to come.”
I almost smile, but the heavy feeling pressing against my ribs keeps it from fully forming.
I take the seat to Sylvin’s left, the chair already drawn out for me. A plate waits, warm and delicately arranged. Eggs, roasted root vegetables, a small roll brushed with something golden that smells faintly sweet.
Sylvin pours a second cup of tea and slides it toward me.
“I shifted Natasha to your care last night,” he says, tone casual but laced with quiet intention. “Her last assignment was…less than kind, and I thought she deserved better.”
That catches me off guard.
I glance at him, finally meeting his eyes. “You reassigned her…forhersake?”
“Of course,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “You’re one of the few here I’d trust to be kind, even without trying.”
A warmth lodges in my chest at that, soft and sharp all at once, that he thinks of me in such a kind light, despite not having much time together.
I take a small bite and hum in delight.
Across the table, Sylvin sips his tea with slow precision, like every movement is intentional. Steam coils in the morning air, catching the pale light that filters through the frost-laced windows. Snow dusts the balcony beyond the glass, sparkling where sunlight manages to break through the overcast sky.
He looks at home in it, posture easy but never lazy. The kind of ease that comes from someone used to being watched and used to performing beneath that gaze.
