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“Yes.” Arkyn picks up my barely touched pie and takes a bite. “I went searching for him while you two were summoning Queen Eliana. Judging by the status of his suite, he gathered his things and left in a hurry.”

“Who do you think he’s meeting with?” I ask, unease swirling around my stomach.

“It could be anyone,” Riven says. “We need to track that bastard down. Immediately.”

Arkyn nods. “Agreed.”

Riven loosens his grip on my waist. “I’ll go set up more wards to alert us if he returns.”

“What about the brides?” I ask. “If you’re not there to court them at breakfast, they might grow suspicious of your absence.”

His sigh is full-bodied as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Why don’t you just send them all home?” Arkyn suggests. “Well, all of them besides Gwyn.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I say.

Riven’s gaze locks on mine, and the question lingering there is crystal clear: Is it really that absurd, Gwyn?

Arkyn mumbles something under his breath as he climbs to his feet. Riven must pick up on it because the corner of his mouth twitches upward. His sword catcher tosses a wave over his shoulder as he exits the mausoleum, pie in hand, leaving Riven and me alone.

“Gwyn,” Riven begins, tone unreadable, “you were wrong when you told my mother you haven’t bespelled me.”

My stomach flips. By Dagny, does he really think I’ve cast a spell on him?

“Riven, you must know I would never⁠—”

“I know,” he cuts in gently. “I don’t mean literally, little witch.”

Relief floods me, and my shoulders sag.

He chuckles, adding, “But surely you must feel it?”

“I feel it,” I whisper. “You’ve bespelled me too.”

He presses a kiss to my temple, winces. “Then what are we doing? Why would it be absurd for me to send the brides home?”

He wants to have this conversation now? After everything?

There’s a part of me that aches to say it. To admit that Arkyn and his mother are right.

I have fallen for Riven Thaelon.

But I am so scared of what it might mean to admit it aloud, of what I’d be agreeing to if he did send the brides home, if he chose me.

Am I ready to be his wife?

His queen?

Moreover, am I ready to step into such a public role after centuries of hiding myself away?

“I don’t think this is the right time for this conversation,” I say, rubbing my eyes, mind spinning like mad.

“There’s never going to be a ‘right time’, Gwyn.”

He’s right, gods, he’s right.

And yet, all I can say is, “We should get some sleep.”