POV: Mara
The courtyard fills with careful people. Not loud people. Not curious people. Careful people—spines a little straighter, shoulders tucked in, voices lowered to a hush that smells like danger. The stone under my boots feels colder than it did five minutes ago, as if the courtyard itself knows who is coming and would prefer she didn’t.
The Regent waits at the top of the steps, cloak neat, eyes sharp in that way that slices lies clean in half. Cael stands at her shoulder, posture perfect, one hand tucked behind his back so nobody sees the fist he’s not making. It’s his tell. He thinks nobody notices the tension in the line of his arm, but I do. I always do.
Jax stands on the edge of the gathering, hands clasped lightly behind him, eyes doing math on every doorway, every arch, every possible exit. He’s counting problems before they happen. He looks like he expects five of them.
Seris Vale glides in like silk thinks it owns the world. Pearls at her throat. Gloves that shine like they were polished by handmaiden tears. A smile that wants to be a kiss and a cut at the same time. She walks the way storms walk—like she already knows what she’ll ruin.
Behind her: two aides carrying folders, a clerk with a case full of paperwork that probably smells like smugness, and a soldier who doesn’t blink. Not once. Not even to pretend he’s human.
“Your Grace,” Seris says, bowing in a way that barely bends her pride. “Crownward is lovelier than rumor allows.”
“Welcome,” the Regent answers. Her tone is cool. Precise. “Let’s speak plain, Lady Seris.”
“Always,” Seris says, and her eyes slide to me for a second—quick, precise, like a knife checking where to land. A flicker. A calculation. I keep my head down. My jaw locks. My hands press flat to the tray I carry so they don’t shake. The porcelain rattles anyway, the sound tiny but humiliating.
Aster is a hot, steady line inside me: Don’t give her your face. Don’t give her your fear.
“We’re reviewing your notice,” the Regent says. “Our law—”
“Of course,” Seris cuts in sweetly. “We respect local customs. Lantern-sails, for example. So charming. So… Lowline. Simple lines. Honest light.”
Her voice drips sugar and acid in equal measure.
Pia inhales sharply behind me. I don’t look at her—I can’t. If our eyes meet, mine will shout don’t react don’t react don’t react. Instead, I stare at a crack in the stone so I don’t stare at Seris.
Cael doesn’t speak. He’s holding himself like a blade that doesn’t want to be drawn. He breathes like he’s fighting down a growl. The way his shoulder tightens tells me Rhun is awake and furious. I can feel the air of it across the space between us, thickening the air. It hits my skin like heat from a stove.
Seris smiles at the Regent again. “I bring letters. Requests. Nothing dramatic.” She lifts a hand without looking back. The clerk steps forward immediately with a folio bound in red twine.
Red. Perfectly chosen. Everything she does is perfectly chosen.
“If we can resolve this quietly,” Seris continues, “we’ll all be happier.”
“We’ll resolve it lawfully,” the Regent says. Her voice has the softness of a hammer.
“Of course.”
Seris’s gaze drifts again. Finds me. Stays a beat too long. A whole conversation happens in that single extra moment. She sees the tray. She sees my uniform. She sees my lowered head. She sees everything she ever wanted.
“Your kitchens are very… lively,” she says. “I love the smell of broth. So humble. So safe.”
My ribs squeeze tight around my lungs. I keep my eyes on the tray. My voice is steadier than my body when I say, “Tea?”
She holds out her cup like she’s offering me a chance to worship her. I pour. My hand trembles once. Just once. I hate it. She sees it. She likes it.
“Thank you, dear,” she purrs.
“Ma’am,” I say, clipped, careful.
She turns back to the Regent, all grace, all confidence, all poison. “If you’ll allow, I would love a tour. A civic one, of course. The bridges. The lanterns. The… hearts of things.” Her chin tips toward Cael. “Perhaps the heir could guide me? It would be… educational.”
Educational. For who? For what?
My stomach cramps, sharp and cold. Pia’s hand finds my elbow and squeezes hard enough to hurt. Good. Pain anchors me. Pain keeps my expression still.
Cael’s face doesn’t change. His eyes do—just barely, just enough for me to catch it. A flash like a blade catching sun. The tiniest flare of don’t push me. Then it’s gone.
He glances at the Regent. Waiting for her signal. Or maybe waiting for permission to refuse.
The Regent’s mouth is a straight line. A wall. A warning.
“I’m sure we can arrange something,” Seris says into the silence, as if she is doing us a kindness and a threat at once. Like the world will end if she doesn’t get her tour.
The aides behind her shift, pretending they’re not listening. The clerk clasps his folio tighter, eyes darting around the courtyard like he’s hunting for someone to write down.
Aster presses harder, a flat, steady palm against my racing heart. Hold. Hold. Hold.
I chew the inside of my cheek until I taste blood and salt and humiliation. My hands smell like tea and fear. I keep my head down and breathe through my teeth, because if I don’t, something inside me will shatter.
Seris’s pearls glint in the lantern-light.
Cael’s fist tightens behind his back.
The Regent’s jaw ticks once.
The courtyard hums with the kind of silence that always comes before a war.
And I just stand there, tray in hand, pretending the world isn’t already shifting beneath my feet.