Chapter 45
Xero
Momma Raven has sentme on many missions throughout the kingdoms. I watch. It is what I do—what I was born to do. Watch, learn, and report to Mom. My eyes see what others miss. My ears catch whispers meant for no one. My paws carry me through shadows where larger creatures cannot follow.
I am small. I am silent. I am everywhere and nowhere.
And I am very, very good at my job.
I move Iris and myself to the Eastern Isles in a blink—that folding of space that feels like stepping through cold water, a moment of pressure and darkness before the world reassembles around us. The sensation is similar to what the Ziggy does, not much different from the Keir, though my method leaves a taste like copper and ozone on my tongue.
We materialize on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea. Salt wind buffets my fur, carrying the cry of gulls and the deep, rhythmic crash of waves against cliffs far below. The sky stretches endlessly above us, pale blue bleeding into gold where the sun begins its descent toward the horizon.
We fly the rest of the way to the castle.
My wings slice through the air, the membrane between my shoulder blades catching currents and thermals with practiced ease. Iris glides beside me, her larger form cutting a more impressive silhouette against the clouds. The castle rises from the island’s heart like a crown of white stone, its towers reaching toward the heavens, its walls gleaming in the fading light. No banners fly from its parapets. No guards patrol its ramparts.
Strange. Very strange.
We land on a balcony of polished marble, our claws clicking against the smooth surface. The stone is warm beneath my paw pads, holding the heat of the day. Flowering vines climb the railings, their blossoms heavy with perfume—jasmine and honeysuckle and something sweeter I cannot name. Through the open doors, I catch the scent of candle wax and old books and the faint musk of females.
Only female. No male scent anywhere.
I file the observation away for later.
“Queen?”I reach out with my mental voice, letting it drift through the chambers beyond like smoke through an open window.
A beautiful blonde-haired woman steps out onto the balcony. Her gown flows white and gossamer around her form, catching the breeze like captured clouds. Her eyes are the color of emeralds—deep and clear, and sharp with intelligence. She moves with the grace of someone who has never known fear in her own home, and yet I catch something beneath the surface. Wariness. Caution. The careful assessment of a ruler who has learned that even small creatures can carry large dangers.
“Well, hello, little ones.” Her voice is warm, musical, carrying the lilting accent of the Eastern Isles. “One of the other royals sent you?”
She opens the door wide behind her, an invitation into her domain. The gesture speaks of either tremendous confidence or tremendous foolishness. I suspect the former.
I follow Iris through the doorway, my paws silent on the thick carpet that cushions the floor. The room beyond is a study—walls lined with books that smell of leather and age, a massive desk of dark wood polished to a mirror shine, chairs upholstered in velvet the color of deep wine. Candles flicker in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across maps and scrolls scattered across every surface.
I land on the desk beside Iris, careful not to disturb the papers beneath my paws. Iris steps forward with the dignity befitting her station and drops the scroll she has been carrying—the message from Queen Mina, sealed with wax the color of dried blood.
“Iris is Queen Mina’s. Xero is Princess Raven’s.”Pride swells in my chest as I push the words into the queen’s mind. It is no small thing to serve the most powerful females on our continent. “Iris cannot speak like Xero can. She is silent, but she understands everything.”
Queen Giselle’s eyebrows rise slightly—the only indication that hearing a voice inside her head had surprised her. She recovers quickly, her composure smooth as glass.
“Well, thank you, Xero. You are a very good tressym.” She moves to the door and pokes her head into the corridor beyond. Hervoice carries clearly as she issues orders—ground venison and water bowls for her guests, brought immediately.
She returns to her desk and breaks the seal on the scroll, her emerald eyes scanning the contents. Her expression remains neutral, unreadable, but I watch the slight movements that betray her thoughts—the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers grip the parchment just a fraction harder.
Whatever Mina has written, it is significant.
The food arrives on a silver tray, carried by a serving woman with kind eyes and scarred hands. The scars catch my attention—old wounds, long healed, but extensive. Burns, perhaps. Or something worse.
I file this observation away as well.
The venison is fresh, finely ground, rich with the iron tang of blood. I eat with careful precision, savoring each bite. Iris is less restrained; her hunger is clear after our long journey. The water is cool and clean, tasting of mountain springs and morning frost.
We definitely need this after our journey. My muscles ache with the particular fatigue that comes from phasing long distances—a bone-deep exhaustion that food and rest will cure, given time.
While we eat, I flick my ears, rotating them independently to catch every sound around me. The scratch of the queen’s pen against parchment. The soft footsteps of servants in distant corridors. The whisper of wind through open windows. The call of birds in the gardens below.
No odd sounds. No alarming sounds.
