POV: Cordelia
The lie does not sit still.
At first, I believe it will. I tell myself lies are like structures—once built carefully enough, they hold. But this one moves inside me, shifts with my breath, presses against my ribs in ways that have nothing to do with the child I carry.
I wake before dawn, tangled in silk sheets, heart racing as if I’ve been running. The dream still clings to me—stone walls, a tower without windows, my hands slick with blood that isn’t mine. I sit up sharply, gasping, and the warmth beneath my skin flares in response.
Too fast.
The candles along the wall gutter violently, flames bending inward before snapping upright again. I force the magic down, clenching my jaw until my teeth ache.
“Control,” I whisper. “Control.”
Sebastian stirs beside me but does not wake. His presence should steady me. That’s what I told myself when I chose this—when I decided proximity to power would anchor everything else.
It doesn’t.
I slip from the bed and pace the room barefoot, marble cold against my soles. The palace is quiet at this hour, held in that fragile space before day asserts itself. I press my palms against the window glass and breathe slowly until the hum beneath my skin lowers, smoothing into something manageable.
This is the cost.
Maintaining the deception takes more than words now. It takes constant vigilance—measuring every reaction, every flicker of magic, every look from Sebastian that lingers a moment too long on my face as if he senses something shifting beneath the surface.
“You’re tired,” he says later that morning as we break our fast.
The table is set with abundance—silver platters, fresh bread, fruit arranged like offerings. I sit across from him, hands folded neatly in my lap, posture perfect.
“Pregnancy does that,” I reply.
He nods, accepting the explanation without question. He always does. Trust is easy when it confirms what you want to believe.
“You should rest more,” he continues. “The council can wait.”
“I won’t be hidden,” I say calmly.
His brow furrows slightly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” I interrupt gently. “But I won’t be sidelined.”
He studies me for a moment, then smiles. “That’s one of the things I admire about you.”
The warmth responds to his approval, flaring subtly, and I grip the edge of the table until the surge passes. Magic has moods now—volatile, unpredictable. It reacts not just to ambition, but to fear, to pressure, to the constant tension of sustaining a lie this large.
When Sebastian leaves, I release the breath I’ve been holding.
By midday, the palace feels too close.
Whispers follow me through the corridors—not malicious, but curious, speculative. Every look carries weight now. Every gesture is interpreted, cataloged. I can’t afford mistakes.
In the library, I try to ground myself among familiar things—books, quiet, order. I run my fingers along spines without reading titles, focusing on texture, on sensation. The warmth thrums erratically, refusing to settle.
“You’re slipping,” I mutter to myself.
The words echo unpleasantly.
Henry’s face intrudes without invitation—his steady gaze, the way he could always sense when my magic was about to spiral. He never touched unless invited. Never demanded. He simply waited, letting the chaos burn itself out while he anchored me with nothing but presence.
I close my eyes, inhaling sharply.
I miss him.
The realization lands hard, unwelcome.
Not because I want him back. Not because I regret the choice I made. But because he represented balance—something I no longer have.
I open my eyes and the shelves shudder.
Books rattle violently, several tumbling free before I snap my focus back into place. The disturbance fades as quickly as it began, leaving the room eerily silent.
A servant stands frozen at the doorway, eyes wide.
“What did you see?” I ask calmly.
“N-nothing, my lady,” she stammers.
“Good,” I say softly. “Because if you speak of it, I will ensure you regret it.”
She nods frantically and flees.
My hands tremble.
This is new.
Threats come too easily now. Fear sharpens instead of dulls. The magic responds to my instability, amplifying it rather than smoothing it out.
That night, the nightmares return.
I dream of Henry standing at the edge of a forest, calling my name, his voice swallowed by wind. I reach for him and wake with a cry, the warmth exploding outward in a violent surge.
The glass decanter on the table shatters.
Sebastian bolts upright. “Cordelia!”
“I’m fine,” I snap, already pulling the magic back in, forcing it down with sheer will. “Just a dream.”
He reaches for me, concern etched into his face. “You’re burning up.”
“Don’t,” I say sharply, then soften my tone. “Please. I just need air.”
He hesitates, then nods. “I’ll have the physician summoned.”
“No,” I say immediately. Too quickly. “It’s unnecessary.”
Suspicion flickers in his eyes, brief but real. I meet his gaze steadily, letting the warmth calm, letting my expression settle.
“It’s just stress,” I add. “This will pass.”
He relaxes, satisfied. “All right.”
But the doubt lingers in the air long after he lies back down.
I slip onto the balcony later, wrapping a shawl tightly around myself. The city stretches below, distant and indifferent. Somewhere beyond these walls, Henry walks roads I can’t see, his presence muted, unreachable.
For the first time in years, I reach for him instinctively—not with magic, not with intent, but with longing.
And for the first time, there is no answer.
The lie presses heavier now, a living thing that demands constant feeding. My magic pulses erratically beneath my skin, craving the stability it once found in shadows and quiet rooms.
“I chose this,” I whisper into the night.
The words don’t comfort me.
They accuse.
I straighten, lifting my chin as the warmth finally settles into a low, uneasy hum. I will not unravel. I will not falter.
But as I turn back toward the palace, toward Sebastian’s waiting presence and the life I have claimed, I know one thing with chilling clarity.
The lie is not passive.
And it is beginning to demand its due.