POV Selene
I could not sleep after finding my room searched.
I lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to every creak in the walls. My mind would not quiet. Who had gone through my things? What were they looking for? What would they do next?
At midnight I gave up. I wrapped my robe around my nightgown and left my room.
The palace was different at night. The corridors were dark except for torches at intervals. My footsteps echoed on the stone. I walked without direction, needing to move, not be trapped in the room where someone had stood over me while I slept.
I passed a tapestry showing the last dragon’s fall—the great beast wreathed in flames, a silver crown at its feet. The woven eyes seemed to follow me. Sacrifice for a kingdom. I wondered if the dragon had chosen its fate or if duty had chosen for it.
Before I left my quarters I checked every hiding place twice: the loose flagstone under the bed, the hollow behind the wardrobe, the slit seam inside my traveling cloak. Nothing missing; nothing new. That was worse. If they had stolen something, I could name the loss. If they had planted evidence, I could rip the room apart until I found it.
Instead there was only intrusion itself, like invisible fingerprints pressed against my throat.
Suspects circled my thoughts. Kestrel, who smiled like a knife and turned protection into a threat. Isolde, who preferred the elegance of social ruin to the mess of blood. Or Casimir’s own agents, measuring whether I was a liability he must cut away. The palace had too many hands, and any of them could have turned the key.
In the map room, Ormont’s demands uncoiled like another night terror. Ports are not merely docks; they are symbols. Cede them and border lords will begin testing the hinges of the crown. Refuse and famine breeds riots the garrisons cannot contain.
My proposal was not generous; it was survivable. Ten years of favorable wool tariffs can be unwound later while we build granaries and renegotiate river tolls to blunt Ormont’s leverage. It is the kind of compromise that saves lives and buys breathing room until the kingdom can afford pride again. Principle can wait; hunger cannot today.
I reached the administrative wing: council chambers, records, the map room. Light spilled from beneath the map room door. It was cracked open, warm lamplight flickering through the gap.
I should have turned back, but something pulled me forward. I pushed the door open.
Casimir stood at the table, bent over a map of the coastline. He wore no jacket—just a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow and a black vest unbuttoned. His hair was disheveled. He did not look up.
“Can't sleep either?” His voice was quiet, rough with exhaustion.
I should leave—improper, dangerous. My feet would not move. “No, Majesty.”
“Drop the title. It's midnight.” He finally looked up, eyes shadowed and tired. “We're both too exhausted for protocol.”
I stepped inside and closed the door. The lock clicked softly. “All right.”
He gestured at the map. “Ormont wants these three ports. If I give them, we lose leverage on the eastern routes. If I refuse, they embargo grain. By spring, people starve. What would you do?”
I moved closer. The map showed the coastline in detail, ports marked with pins, routes drawn in red. “Offer tariff reductions on textiles instead. Ormont needs markets for wool. Favorable rates for ten years in exchange for continued grain shipments.”
He looked at me—sharp, interested. “Explain.”
I traced routes with a finger. “Their wool industry is growing but tariffs choke it. Reduce rates here and here; they gain southern markets. We lose some tariff revenue but keep ports, stable grain, and political capital.”
My hand stopped near his on the map. Our fingers almost touched. Heat sparked between us, sudden and startling.
He went very still. He did not pull away.
“You think like a tactician,” he said quietly.
“I was trained to.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“I trusted someone I shouldn't have.” Bitter. “They used what I told them against me.”
His gaze softened. “I know that feeling.”
Silence, the lamplight flickering. Details sharpened: a faint scar at the corner of his mouth; silver in his hair; the way his shoulders carried tension even alone. Something tugged at my awareness, familiar and unplaced.
“Why do you pay for my son’s care?” The question slipped out.
He stiffened, hands flat on the table. “I don't know what you mean.”
“The rent at the sanctuary. The medicine. The copper pans Anya uses. I saw ledger entries.” I watched his face. “Why?”
He moved to the window over the dark garden. “The Crown has resources. I allocate them where needed.”
“Why?” I pressed. Charity, leverage, or something else? “Why help us?”
He was silent. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Because a sick child needs medicine regardless of whether his mother has status or the court approves. Because it was the right thing to do.” He looked at me, intensity stealing my breath. “I think you're surviving something that should have killed you. And you're doing it alone because everyone who should have helped you didn't.”
Honesty cracked something open. I wanted to tell him everything—Lysara, why I left, Ari’s father, the masked night seven years ago, the silver ribbon on my wrist—but the words stuck.
“Thank you,” I managed. “For helping us.”
He nodded. “You should go. It's late.”
I moved toward the door. As I passed, his hand caught my wrist—gentle, stopping, not restraining. I froze.
“Be careful, Selene.” Urgent, quiet. “This court weaponizes weakness. Don't give them ammunition.”
“I'm not weak.”
“I know.” His fingers lingered, warm through my sleeve. “That's what worries me. The strong make powerful enemies.”
“Why do you care?”
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, longing—unguarded, then gone. I should have left. Instead I turned back. “Wait.” He was staring at my wrist, where the fabric had shifted to reveal a glint of silver silk.
“What is that?” His voice had changed.
I tugged the sleeve down. “Nothing. An old ribbon.”
Color drained from his face. He stared at my wrist, then my face, then my wrist again.
“Where did you get it?” Rough.
“It's a keepsake. From years ago.” I stepped back, rattled by his intensity. “Why does it matter?”
He didn't answer. His jaw worked; his hands clenched.
“Casimir?”
“Nothing.” He turned away, putting the table between us. “You should go.”
I stared at his rigid shoulders. A ribbon had struck like a blade.
“I don't understand,” I said.
“There's nothing to understand.” He did not turn. “Leave. Please.”
The please was broken. I went to the door and paused. “Did I do something wrong?” Silence. Then: “No. This is… not about you.”
But his voice said otherwise. I opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Isolde stood in a nearby alcove, white silk ghostly in torchlight, blonde hair loose. Her eyes were fixed on me, sharp and knowing.
She had been watching. Listening. Waiting. The queen smiled and said nothing. Then glided away like a phantom. Fear washed through me. She knew I had been alone with the king at midnight. Knew we had argued, knew something had happened between us.
I returned to my room on weak legs, locked the door, and sat in the dark. My wrist felt bare though the ribbon was still tied there.
Seven years ago. The garden at dawn. We stood by the ruined fountain, reluctant to let go. He drew out a ribbon: dark emerald, frayed at the edges. “Take this.”
I untied the silver ribbon from my wrist. “And you take this.”
We tied them on each other with careful hands—his emerald on my right wrist, my silver on his left. “Promise you'll keep it,” he said, voice rough. “That you'll remember me.”
“I promise. Always.” A gust of wind snuffed the lantern. In the sudden dark his mask shifted, slipping slightly.
I almost saw his face: blue eyes; sharp cheekbones; a mouth lined with pain and longing. He adjusted the mask and the moment was gone.
But I had seen enough to recognize him tonight. The stranger in the garden and the king in the map room were the same man. And now he knew too.
I touched the silver ribbon, felt the worn silk and the three knots he tied with such care. Somewhere in the palace he might be touching emerald silk—if he kept it; if dawn had not made him throw it away. I lay down and stared at the ceiling and had no idea what would happen next.