POV: Mara
The hibiscus hall is quieter than any room I’ve ever entered. The carpets hush footsteps. The pale walls seem to hold their breath. Sunlight falls through high arched windows and makes a garden on the floor.
The Luna Regent sits at a low table with a ledger open, a pen laid across the seam. She wears pale blue with a thin belt of mother-of-pearl, and her hair, streaked with silver, is braided like a crown. She doesn’t look like power until you meet her eyes, and then it’s the only word that fits.
“Come closer,” she says, not unkindly.
I walk until the edge of the carpet bites my toes.
“Closer,” she repeats, and gestures to a cushion. “Sit if you like.”
I lower myself onto the cushion. My hands fold on my knees. I do not fidget.
She studies my face for a while without speaking. Not the way Seris studies to find a bruise; the way a seamstress studies cloth to understand where it will bear weight.
“Name,” she says finally.
“Mara Ilyas.”
“Ward.”
“Moonfell.”
“Status.”
“Observed labor,” I say, the words like cold tea. “Review in thirty days.”
Her mouth almost smiles. “You listen.”
“I have ears.”
“Not everyone uses them.” She touches the ledger but does not open it. “Tell me what happened.”
I keep it narrow because wide stories drown people. “Warden Kade denounced me as low-resonant at the High-Tide Assembly. He promised me a brand at dawn. He also promised—” My throat closes. “He promised ownership after. I ran during the storm.”
The Regent’s lashes lower a fraction. “You fought a Drift.”
“I didn’t want to be eaten.”
“That does complicate a day,” she says dryly. “How did you end up tranquilized?”
“Someone on a lantern boat shot me,” I say. “I assume Crownward. It saved me from drowning.”
“Accidental rescue is still rescue,” she murmurs. “Do you intend harm to this citadel?”
“No.”
“To my son?”
For a blink I do not understand the question. Then the air in my lungs feels like a fist. “I don’t even know him.”
“You met him,” she says, not quite a question.
“In a corridor,” I say, neutral.
“What did you think?” There’s a thread of humor there, and I realize with a start that she might be testing my balance, not my flattery.
“That he looked like he had a list in his mouth,” I say before I can stop myself. “The kind you swallow because you don’t have time to write it down.”
She laughs, low and surprised, and the room warms. “Accurate,” she says. “Does your… resonance… feel stable?”
I make my breath slow. “Mostly.” I don’t tell her Aster hums brighter here, as if the walls are tuned to catch certain notes.
“Any reason I should test you?” she asks. “With…visible measures.”
“Not if you believe words.” Mine are as steady as I can make them.
She considers that, then taps the closed ledger. “I could demand a flare, force a reading. I won’t. Those tests tell me how a person performs under humiliation, not how they live under a roof.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it enough that my voice goes hoarse.
Her gaze touches the thin pink ribbon at my throat, the braid Pia made. “Hearthworks suits you.”
“I can be useful,” I say.
“I prefer the word ‘indispensable,’” she says. “But useful will do until you remember what being human feels like.”
I press my lips together because the feeling that rises is a wave with teeth.
She leans back. “Here is my verdict, Mara Ilyas. You are to remain citadel-bound as an observed laborer for thirty days. At that time, we will review your conduct and the war’s temperature. You will have a roof, regular meals, and work. You will not be hounded through corridors or paraded for sport. If anyone attempts to brand you while I breathe, they will lose the hand that holds the iron.”
My eyes sting. I blink twice and nod. “Yes, Regent.”
“If you are wise,” she adds softly, “you will make yourself ordinary for a while. It’s the safest disguise.”
“I can be ordinary,” I say, though a small voice inside me—Aster—asks if that is true.
The Regent’s gaze sharpens as if she hears unspoken thoughts. “Ordinary is a practice, not a talent.” She lifts a small cup from the tray and sets it within my reach. “Water?”
“Thank you.” I drink. It tastes like hyssop and something floral—hibiscus, maybe. My hands do not shake. Aster hums contentment like a cat in sun.
The Regent rises, and the room seems to rise with her. “Matron Silvie will keep you busy. If anyone troubles you, you will tell her, and she will tell me. Do you understand the chain?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She looks toward the open colonnade where the courtyard’s pale light spills in like water. “You may go.”
I stand, bow—not deeply, just enough—and step back.
At the door, I feel the weight of eyes on my shoulder and look up.
Across the colonnade, under the shadow of a column, the heir stands. Cloak unfastened, head bare, rain-dark hair pulled haphazardly back. He watches, face unreadable, a statue carved from storm and restraint.
Our gazes meet. Something under my ribs remembers a bridge and a growl that wasn’t a sound.
Aster steadies her hands on my heart.
“Breathe.”
I do. I do not look away first.