POV: Cordelia
I do not sleep.
I lie beside Sebastian and count breaths instead—his steady rhythm against my own uneven one, the space between inhale and exhale stretching thin as wire. Every time I close my eyes, the street returns to me: Henry’s hand on my wrist, the jolt of recognition, the way the city seemed to lean closer to listen.
Tonight.
The word sits in my chest like a stone.
I wait until Sebastian’s breathing deepens before I slip from the bed. The floor is cold. The palace is not. It holds warmth the way bodies do after fever, the air still humming faintly from the day’s movement. I cross the room and light a single candle, careful, controlled, my hands steady even as the warmth beneath my skin coils tight and restless.
Think.
I pace, counting steps, rehearsing outcomes the way generals rehearse battles they hope not to fight. There are only a few truths I can afford to give Henry, and even fewer lies that will survive his scrutiny. He knows my rhythms. He knows when I am avoiding a subject and when I am lying outright.
I will tell him I am pregnant.
I will not tell him when.
I will tell him the child is his.
I will not tell him everything that followed.
I will say I did what I had to do.
I will not say why it worked.
I stop pacing and grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
No promises.
No apologies.
No softness that could be mistaken for invitation.
I have learned what softness costs.
I sit and force myself to write—not letters, not confessions, but bullet points in my mind. If he presses here, deflect there. If he asks this, give that much and no more. If he begs—if—I end the meeting immediately.
Control is the only mercy I have left.
The warmth hums in agreement, low and urgent, a reminder that it is listening too. Magic always does. It responds to intent, to clarity, to resolve. It does not care whether the choice is kind.
I extinguish the candle and stand in the dark, breathing through the tightness in my chest until the palace settles back into silence.
Morning arrives like an accusation.
Servants move through my rooms with practiced care, their glances skimming past my face, respectful and incurious. I dress slowly, choosing layers that conceal more than they reveal, fabric that drapes instead of clings. I avoid the mirror until the last possible moment.
When I finally look, my reflection is calm.
Good.
Sebastian watches me over breakfast, his gaze lingering in a way that would once have felt flattering. Now it feels diagnostic.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I reply, and this time it is not a lie.
He frowns slightly. “The dreams again?”
“Yes.”
He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. The warmth recoils at the contact, sharp and offended, and I bite back the instinctive reaction.
“You should rest today,” he says. “I’ll handle the council.”
“I don’t want to be idle,” I say gently.
“It’s not idleness,” he counters. “It’s caution.”
I lift my gaze to meet his. “You didn’t choose me because I was cautious.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “True.”
He squeezes my hand once, then releases it. “Then walk with me later. We’ll keep things light.”
Later.
The word tightens my throat.
“I might take a bath instead,” I say. “Clear my head.”
His brow furrows. “You’ve been doing that a lot.”
I hold his gaze without blinking. “I’m growing a child.”
He exhales and nods, the tension easing. “Of course. Forgive me.”
There it is—the ease with which he accepts explanations that fit the narrative he prefers. I tell myself not to resent it. It is one of the reasons this has worked.
After breakfast, I retreat to the gardens and let the day unfold around me. Sunlight filters through leaves. Birds flit away at my approach, as they always do. The warmth stirs at the edges, alert and watchful, responding to the proximity of life the way it always has.
Henry will come tonight.
The thought lands with a jolt that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with memory. I steady myself against a stone balustrade and let the feeling pass.
I will not unravel.
By afternoon, Sebastian notices.
He finds me in the sitting room, fingers worrying the fringe of a cushion I’ve already straightened twice.
“You’re restless,” he says.
I look up. “Am I?”
“Yes,” he replies simply. “You are.”
I force my hands still. “I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
The answer is a knife’s edge.
“About timing,” I say. “About what comes next.”
His expression softens. “We’ll move at your pace.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He studies me for a moment longer than necessary. “You’re not hiding something from me.”
It is not a question.
I meet his eyes, letting the warmth settle, letting my face smooth into the shape he trusts. “No.”
The lie is small. Controlled. Precise.
He seems to accept it, though the doubt lingers like a shadow at the edge of his attention. “All right,” he says. “I’ll be late tonight. The envoy from the coast insisted on a private supper.”
Relief flares so sharply it almost hurts.
“Take your time,” I say, careful to keep my tone neutral.
He smiles and kisses my forehead. “Try to rest.”
When he leaves, I remain seated, listening to his footsteps fade, counting them until they disappear entirely. The palace exhales. The day stretches long and thin.
I spend the remaining hours preparing in the only way I know how—by eliminating variables. I dismiss my ladies early. I order the corridors near my rooms closed for cleaning. I arrange for the side gate to remain unguarded under the pretense of maintenance.
Every choice narrows the path until there is only one way forward.
At dusk, I change into dark clothing and cloak myself carefully, the fabric absorbing light. I pause before the mirror one last time.
“Do not beg,” I tell my reflection. “Do not bargain.”
The woman staring back at me nods once.
Night falls quickly.
As I step into the shadowed corridor that will lead me away from the palace and toward the place I named in desperation, the warmth hums low and tight, a warning and a promise all at once. I move without hesitation, my steps soundless, my mind clear.
I have arranged this.
I have chosen this.
Whatever Henry demands tonight, whatever truth presses toward the surface, I will meet it standing.
And when I return—because I will return—I will return unchanged.
I pull my hood up and disappear into the city, carrying my plan like a blade hidden beneath silk, ready to use it if I must.