POV: Cordelia
Astoria finds me without trying.
It slips into the palace disguised as idle conversation, as passing news traded between courtiers who think themselves untouchable. I am walking through the east gallery when I hear the name, spoken too casually to be accidental.
“—the northern border stabilized after King Maximilian intervened—”
I stop.
Not abruptly. That would draw attention. I slow instead, studying a tapestry as if the stitching has suddenly become fascinating. My fingers trace the woven edge while my pulse beats once, hard, then steadies.
King Maximilian.
The title lands heavier than any insult ever could.
“He’s said to be decisive,” another voice continues. “Ruthless, some say. But Astoria hasn’t known unrest in years.”
Ruthless.
The word catches in my throat like a shard of glass. I swallow it down without reacting. The courtiers drift on, already bored with a kingdom that no longer intersects directly with their ambitions.
I remain where I am long after they’ve gone.
The warmth beneath my skin tightens, coiling in on itself, the hum lowering into something watchful. It recognizes the name the way it recognizes old scars—instantly, involuntarily.
Maximilian.
My brother.
I straighten and continue walking, my steps measured, my posture flawless. No one sees the fracture. No one ever does. I have learned how to seal myself from the inside out.
But the past has been alerted.
***
That night, I cannot sleep.
Sebastian’s breathing is steady beside me, his arm heavy and possessive across my waist. I lie rigid beneath it, staring into the dark as memories surface unbidden, sharp and vivid.
Maximilian’s hands when he used to braid my hair because the maids were afraid to touch me. The way he smuggled books into the tower, his whispered apologies echoing off stone walls. His promise—earnest and impossible—that he would free me when he became king.
He kept part of it.
He chose the crown.
The warmth flares suddenly, heat licking up my spine, and I clamp down hard, forcing it back into submission. My jaw aches from the effort.
“You’re not real,” I whisper into the dark. “You’re done.”
Sebastian shifts, murmurs something unintelligible, and pulls me closer. I let him. The physical weight anchors me enough to keep the magic from surging again.
In the morning, I rise early and dress without waking him. I choose darker colors—deep green, heavy fabric. Armor disguised as elegance. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see no trace of the girl who once pressed her face to tower windows, counting days by the sound of bells.
Good.
The news returns with persistence.
A visiting envoy from Astoria arrives two days later, all polished manners and careful phrasing. Sebastian invites him to dinner, eager to reinforce alliances. I sit beside him, composed, attentive, every inch the future he envisions.
“King Maximilian sends his regards,” the envoy says, raising his glass. “He speaks highly of your leadership.”
Sebastian smiles. “As do I of his.”
The envoy’s gaze flickers to me. “And of course, congratulations. News travels quickly.”
“Apparently,” I reply coolly.
“He has a reputation,” the envoy continues, emboldened by wine. “The king. Astoria speaks of him as a man who values order above sentiment.”
I meet his eyes. “Sentiment is inefficient.”
He laughs, delighted. “Exactly his philosophy.”
The warmth stirs again, restless now, reacting not to ambition but to proximity—to the way the past presses closer with every word. I sip my wine carefully, letting the taste ground me.
Sebastian’s hand finds my knee beneath the table. A reminder. A claim.
“I hear Astoria prospers,” Sebastian says. “Peacefully.”
“Yes,” the envoy replies. “Though there are… rumors.”
“Rumors always exist,” Sebastian says lightly.
The envoy lowers his voice. “Some whisper that the old curse still lingers in the bloodline. Superstition, of course. But people remember.”
My grip tightens around the stem of my glass.
“People remember what they’re taught to remember,” I say evenly.
The envoy nods, chastened. “Of course, my lady.”
The conversation moves on.
I do not.
Later, in the bath, steam curling thick around me, I finally allow myself to sit with it.
Astoria remembers.
Maximilian rules.
The kingdom that buried me alive now thrives under the brother who chose it over me.
The thought is not rage-inducing.
It is corrosive.
I submerge fully, letting the water close over my head, muting the world. For a moment, there is only the thrum of my pulse and the hum of magic, restless and alert.
“He watches,” I murmur underwater.
Not literally. Not yet.
But power recognizes power. And curses—ancient ones—do not forget the vessels they were born into.
I surface, gasping softly, water streaming down my face. My reflection in the rippling surface looks distorted, older, sharper.
I will not let him see weakness.
If Maximilian’s name is resurfacing now, it is not coincidence. It is alignment. Kingdoms do not move without reason, and neither does fate.
That night, I dream of Astoria.
The tower stands whole again, unburned, its shadow stretching long across the palace grounds. I stand at its base, looking up, and Maximilian watches from a window that never existed.
“You’re alive,” he says.
“So are you,” I reply.
I wake with the taste of ash in my mouth and the warmth blazing uncontrollably beneath my skin. The bedside table rattles violently before I slam the magic down with a gasp.
Sebastian stirs. “Cordelia?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
It is a lie so practiced it barely registers.
The past does not need invitation.
It watches patiently, waiting for the moment I falter, for the crack that will let it in fully. I refuse to give it that satisfaction.
When I rise the next morning, I am composed. When I smile at court, it is effortless. When I advise Sebastian, my insights are sharper than ever.
No one sees the old wounds reopen beneath the surface.
No one hears the echo of tower bells in my chest.
And no one—not Sebastian, not the court, not my brother across the border—will ever know how close the past came to breaking through.
I survived Astoria once.
If it thinks it can reclaim me now, it has forgotten what I became to escape it.
The past watches.
I do not look back.