POV: Mara
He takes the command chair like a man walking back into his name. The room shifts around him the way a ship reorients around its captain—quiet, inevitable, a little relieved. I stand beside him because there isn’t a title for what I am yet, and I don’t need one to be it. The bond hums steady beneath my ribs, present without pulling, as if even it knows we have work to do.
The council files in carrying too many papers and not enough sense. The Regent sits—steady, though pale enough that I watch her twice for every once I watch Cael. Jax leans against the map table with arms crossed, radiating don’t-even-try-me energy that scares three junior advisors back into their chairs.
“Report,” Cael says, voice low and controlled, the kind that makes men remember their place in the world.
“South pylons scarred,” Lorre says, tapping a charcoal circle on the map. “Bridges hold. Markets half standing. Casualties… better than they should be.”
“Weird prayers work,” Pia mutters from the back, then instantly coughs into her sleeve when the Regent almost—almost—smiles.
“Moonfell?” Cael asks.
“Pulling back,” Jax says. “Not broken. Re-shaping. Kade always likes a second swing. He’ll come back hungrier.”
“Seris?” I ask.
“Rage and paper.” Jax flicks a scroll like it personally offended him. “Her envoy demands a second council on your ‘illegal union.’ Wants to assess your ‘corruption risk.’” He air-quotes so hard the scroll wheezes.
Cael’s jaw ticks once. “Later.”
“Later,” the Regent echoes. “We will not litigate life while we are cooking for the living.”
“Speaking of,” one of the stiff-backed lords says, clearing his throat as if manners might protect him. “Retribution schedules. Burn their storehouses, salt their—”
“No,” I cut in before I can stop myself. The word rings. Heads snap toward me like arrows. I don’t flinch. “Mercy is strength. We hold our line and feed our people. We don’t turn hunger into a sport. If you want to set something on fire, light more kitchens.”
Silence stretches, taut as string.
Then, from the corner, the old judge with the tired eyes nods once—sharp, decisive. “Noted,” he says, and writes it down like it matters. Maybe it does.
Cael’s hand finds mine under the table and squeezes once, warm and private. The bond hums, soft as candlelight.
We push through lists—water, rope, healers, sleep. Gods, sleep. People forget it’s a resource until their hands start dropping cups and their sentences stop having ends. I order two units to mandatory rest and threaten to tell Silvie if they disobey. That terrifies more men than swords do.
Pia starts passing around bread. Jax drinks from a chipped mug like it’s the blood of his enemies. A shield captain bandages his own forearm while arguing about grain logistics. The room feels like it’s been wrung out and left in the sun—still wet at the edges, but warm again.
At last the Regent raises her cup. “To the living,” she says, voice steady, eyes ringing like bells. “To the ones who held the line. To the ones who kept us.”
“To the stubborn,” Jax adds. “To soup.”
People chuckle. Someone actually claps. The room breathes.
Then—
The Regent blinks. Once. Twice. Her fingers miss the cup. The color drains from her face so fast my stomach lurches. Cael freezes beside me, his whole body pinning itself upright.
“Mother?” he says, half rising.
She sways. “I—” The word breaks. Her lips go blue at the edges. The cup slips from her hand and shatters on the stone.
For a heartbeat the room does not move. It doesn’t breathe. It doesn’t understand.
Then her body folds like someone cut the strings.
“Poison!” I shout, already diving to catch her head before it hits stone.
Chaos detonates—chairs scraping, people shouting, boots slamming. Cael lunges toward us, pain ripping across the bond like a lightning tear. Jax vaults the table. The old judge curses loud enough to shake the walls.
“Clear space!” I bark, rolling her onto her back. My hands are already moving—checking pulse, lifting her lids, tasting the air for bitterness. “Cael—stay back. You're not fully mended.”
“The hell I will,” he snarls, dropping to his knees beside me.
Her breath is shallow. Too shallow. Aster stirs under my ribs like an alarm that finally woke.
“Get the antidote kit!” I yell. “Now!”
Pia trips over a stool, rights herself, and bolts through the door at a speed that makes Jax swear.
“Who handed her the cup?” Cael demands, voice like stone cracking.
No answer. The silence is too loud.
“I said WHO—” he starts, but his voice breaks because her eyes are rolling back and her limbs have gone heavy in my hands.
“Focus,” I tell him. “Focus on her. Not on rage.”
The bond shivers like it’s carrying both our heartbeats and hers—a third one fading fast.