POV: Ravenna
"I want names."
Father's voice is deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before violence. Before kingdoms burn.
"Who had access to the birthing chamber? Who could have administered the poison? WHO KILLED MY WIFE?"
Lysander flinches. But he doesn't look away.
"I wish I could tell you," he says. "I've spent twenty-one years trying to answer that question."
"Then try harder." Father slams his hand on the desk. The sound cracks through the room like thunder. "You had twenty-one years, Lysander. You're telling me you found nothing?"
"I found patterns," Lysander says carefully. "Suspicions. But no proof. Nothing that would stand up to scrutiny. Nothing that would justify accusations against powerful people."
"I don't CARE about justification," Father snarls. "I care about justice."
"Aldric—" Lysander starts.
"Don't." Father's voice drops even lower. More dangerous. "Don't tell me to be calm. Don't tell me to be patient. My wife was murdered while I held her hand and watched her die thinking it was natural. Thinking it was FATE." He's shaking now. With rage. With grief that's had twenty-one years to ferment into something poisonous. "I will burn this kingdom to the ground if that's what it takes to find who killed her."
"Father," I say quietly. "Let him speak."
Father looks at me. Really looks at me. Sees the tears on my face. The way I'm gripping Theron's hand like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
He takes a breath. Steadies himself. "Talk."
Lysander nods. Spreads out more documents. "These are my notes from the investigation I conducted privately. The people who had access to Queen Elara during labor were: three midwives, five guards, two handmaids, and myself."
"Go through them," Father commands.
"The lead midwife was Marta. She died eight years ago. Natural causes—she was seventy-three. The second midwife was Lena. She moved to Aetherwyn after your wife's death, married a merchant. I contacted her years ago. She knew nothing, remembered nothing suspicious."
"And the third?" I ask.
"Disappeared." Lysander's voice is grim. "Two weeks after Elara died. Vanished completely. Never found. No body. No trace."
Oh.
"That's not suspicious at ALL," I say.
"Exactly my thought," Lysander agrees. "Her name was Iris. Twenty-six years old. Experienced midwife. Came highly recommended from—" he pauses, checking his notes "—a diplomatic contact in Skyreach."
Everything goes cold.
"Skyreach," I repeat. "She came from Skyreach."
"Recommended by someone in Skyreach," Lysander corrects. "She'd been working in Cindravale for two years before Elara's pregnancy. Established. Trusted. Vetted."
"And then she disappeared the moment Mother died," I finish. "Convenient."
"Very convenient," Lysander says. "I searched for her. Sent inquiries to every kingdom. Nothing. It's like she ceased to exist."
"Or went home," Theron says quietly. His first words since we sat down. "Back to whoever sent her. Mission complete."
"That's my theory," Lysander agrees. "But I can't prove it. Can't track her. Can't connect her definitively to anyone."
"What about the guards?" Father asks. His voice is still hard. Still dangerous. But more controlled now. "The handmaids?"
"All accounted for. All alive or died naturally of age-related causes. I questioned them repeatedly over the years. Nothing suspicious. Most genuinely loved Elara and were devastated by her death."
"So it was Iris," I say. "The disappeared midwife from Skyreach."
"Almost certainly," Lysander says. "But Iris was just the instrument. Someone SENT her. Someone paid her or coerced her or manipulated her into doing it. Someone with resources and connections and patience."
"Seris," Father says. Not a question. A statement.
"Possibly," Lysander says carefully. "But Seris would have been thirty-seven at the time. High enough rank to have connections, but not the absolute authority needed to orchestrate something like this alone."
"So she's working for someone," I say. "Or with someone. Or—" A horrible thought occurs. "Or she's part of an organization."
The Eclipse.
Hunters of gift-bearers. Operating for decades. Killing anyone who poses a threat to their twisted vision of balance.
"I've been thinking about that," Lysander says quietly. "About patterns. About the other... incidents over the years."
"What incidents?" Father demands.
"Gift-bearers who died young. Mysteriously. Across all four kingdoms." Lysander pulls out another document. "A healer in Aetherwyn who drowned in shallow water ten years ago. A shield-bearer in Pyrstone who fell from his own tower five years ago. A shadow-wielder in our own kingdom who died of 'natural heart failure' at age thirty-two."
"Natural heart failure," I repeat flatly. "At thirty-two."
"The pattern is there if you look for it," Lysander says. "But it's subtle. Spread across decades. Across kingdoms. Nothing that would trigger investigation unless you were specifically looking."
"Someone is hunting gift-bearers," Theron says. Voice hard. "Systematically. For years."
"Yes," Lysander confirms. "And Elara was one of them. A healer. A queen. A hybrid with influence and power. The perfect target."
"And now Ravenna," Father says. Looks at me. "You manifested the gift. Publicly. Dramatically. In front of EVERYONE." His jaw tightens. "You painted a target on your back."
"I know," I say. And I do know. Have known since I woke up from that transformation. "That's why someone tried to shoot me during the competition. Why Lucien happened to attack Solace right when I was vulnerable. Why—" I stop. "Why Seris has been watching me so carefully."
"She's confirming," Lysander says. "Making sure the gift is real. Making sure you're a threat worth eliminating."
"Then we eliminate her first," Father says. "Before she can act."
"We don't know if it's her," I point out. "We THINK it's her. We SUSPECT. But we don't have proof."
"We'll GET proof," Father says. "During the hearing. While she's distracted watching the trial. We search her quarters. Her belongings. Her correspondence. We find the connection."
"That's treason if we're wrong," Lysander says carefully.
"I don't CARE." Father's voice is absolute. "My wife is dead. My daughter has been targeted repeatedly. If Seris is involved—if she's part of this organization hunting gift-bearers—then I want her HEAD."
The violence in his voice should scare me. But it doesn't. Because I feel the same rage. The same need for justice.
Mother didn't deserve to die. Didn't deserve to be murdered while giving birth to me.
And neither do I.
"We need to be careful," Theron says. "If there's an organization, taking out one member won't stop them. It might make things worse. Make them escalate."
"So what do you suggest?" Father asks. Not sarcastically. Actually asking.
"We gather evidence," Theron says. "We watch Seris. We document everything. And when we're certain—when we have proof—we strike at the whole organization. Cut off the head. Expose them publicly so they can't operate in shadows anymore."
"That could take time," I say.
"Better than exposing ourselves too early," Theron points out. "If we move against Seris without proof and we're wrong, we lose credibility. If we move against her WITH proof but she's just one member of a larger organization, they go underground and we never find them."
He's right. I hate it, but he's right.
"So we wait," Father says bitterly. "While they plan. While they watch my daughter."
"We don't wait," I correct. "We investigate. Quietly. Carefully. During the hearing." I look at Lysander. "You said the poison was distinctive. From Skyreach. Are there records of who might have access to it?"
"Air Kingdom alchemists guard their formulas jealously," Lysander says. "But there are only a handful who could create that compound. I have names."
"Good." I stand. Decision made. "Then we start there. Quietly. No public accusations. No dramatic confrontations. Just careful investigation."
"And if we find proof?" Father asks. "If we confirm Seris is involved?"
"Then we destroy her," I say simply. "And everyone connected to her."
Father nods. Approval in his eyes. Maybe even pride.
"The hearing starts tomorrow," he says. "We focus on clearing Theron first. Then we hunt."
"Agreed," I say.
Lysander gathers his documents. "I'll compile everything I have on Skyreach connections. Names. Patterns. Travel records. Anything that might link Seris to your mother's death."
"Do it quietly," Father warns. "If she suspects we're investigating—"
"She'll disappear like Iris did," I finish. "I know. We'll be careful."
Lysander nods and leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
And then it's just the three of us. Me. Theron. Father.
"I should have known," Father says quietly. "Should have suspected. Should have INVESTIGATED instead of grieving."
"You loved her," I say. "Grief made you blind. That's not weakness. That's being human."
He looks at me with eyes full of twenty-one years of pain. "She died protecting you. And I've spent twenty-one years resenting you for surviving."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know that too." I swallow hard. "But we can't change the past. We can only try to make sure her death wasn't for nothing."
"She gave you her gift," Father says. "Her power. Her legacy. And you're using it to heal. To protect. To be exactly what she would have wanted."
I nod. Can't speak past the lump in my throat.
"I'm proud of you," he says. "Your mother would be proud of you. And when we find who killed her—" his voice hardens "—we'll make sure they pay."
"Together," I say.
"Together," he agrees.
Theron's hand squeezes mine. Silent support. Steady presence.
Tomorrow the hearing starts. Tomorrow we face House Ashford's accusations in public court.
But after—
After, we hunt. And gods help anyone who stands in our way.