POV Selene
I barely slept after Casimir left. Every sound became Kestrel’s tread; every shadow, one of Isolde’s spies.
At dawn, the storm arrived. A knock made me jump. A footman stood in the corridor, rain dripping from his livery. “Envoy. His Majesty requires the Ormont amendments. You’re to deliver them to the chapel rehearsal immediately.”
I gathered the folio, wrapped my cloak around my shoulders, and ran the covered walkways. Rain lashed sideways; ankle-deep water soaked my hem by the time I reached the chapel.
The doors stood open. Courtiers moved through set positions; guards called orders. Casimir stood at the center, soaked, dark hair plastered to his forehead, barking instructions as nobles slid on wet flagstones.
I bowed. “Majesty. Your amendments.”
He turned. His eyes found mine—recognition, memory. He reached for the folio. A gust tore through the doors; candles guttered out. He cursed, shrugged off his drenched outer tunic, and as he moved, something fell from his inner pocket. A strip of cloth skittered across the stone and stopped at my boot.
I looked down—and forgot how to breathe.
A ribbon. Dark emerald green. Frayed where it had been tied and retied. The same shade as mine. The same silk weave. I had told myself a thousand times that kings did not attend masked festivals.
But here was the ribbon.
I bent and picked it up. The silk was worn from being carried. When I looked up, Casimir had gone still, staring at the ribbon in my hand. His face was white.
Cedar and smoke. The rough velvet of his voice in the map room saying my name. It was him, the stranger in the garden. The father of my child.
Around us the rehearsal churned on—too public, too many eyes. I slipped the ribbon into my pocket. He saw. Our gazes caught: acknowledgment, silent and irrevocable.
“The amendments, Envoy.” His voice was rough.
I gave him the folio. Our fingers brushed and heat bit like a brand.
“Take your position for the procession,” he said for the room, then lower: “Diplomatic delegation, third row.”
I moved as directed and felt his gaze the whole time. The rehearsal lasted two hours. I barely felt the cold. All I could feel was the ribbon against my hip. When it ended, I joined the departing diplomats. Casimir appeared beside me, close enough that his shoulder grazed mine.
“Tonight,” he breathed, warm at my ear. “Your quarters. Midnight.”
Then he was gone. I walked back through easing rain, the ribbon heavy in my pocket. The hours crawled. At a quarter to midnight I gave up on stillness and paced.
The knock came exactly at midnight. Casimir stood in the doorway, holding the silver ribbon he’d seen on my wrist in the map room.
“Where did you get this?” He stepped inside, shut the door. “The truth. Now.”
I backed away, heart hammering.
“Say it.”
“The Night of Silent Lanterns. Seven years ago.” The words scraped out. “You tied it around my wrist at dawn. You made me promise to keep it.”
He looked from the ribbon to me. “I suspected—when I saw it in the map room, when I heard you speak the old tongue. But I needed to be certain.”
“You suspected?” My voice felt hollow. “You knew and said nothing?”
“I couldn’t risk it.” His jaw tightened. “Kestrel’s been watching you—watching the boy. If he discovered the truth before I could protect you both, he’d use it against me. Against Ari.”
“So you stayed silent.”
“I had to verify it quietly.” He lifted the silver ribbon. “Tonight confirmed what I already knew.”
The floor seemed to tilt. “How long?”
“Two weeks,” he said, voice roughening. “Since you lifted your sleeve and I saw the knot. Since you spoke words only she would know—the woman in the garden. The one I never stopped searching for.”
“You’ve known for two weeks and said nothing.”
“Kestrel is building a case,” he said, stepping closer. “He’s pressuring physicians, delaying treatments. If he learned Ari is mine before I could secure your position, he’d move to strip your rights immediately.”
The words settled in me like stones.
“I needed time,” he went on. “To understand his plan. To place loyal guards. To make sure that when the truth surfaced, neither of you would be vulnerable.”
“So you investigated me.”
“I protected you.” The edge in his voice cut clean. “If I’d confronted you publicly, he would have destroyed us both.”
I turned to the window. Rain threaded the glass, finer now.
“I never believed it could be you,” I said. “Kings don’t slip away to masked festivals. I told myself that every time your voice sounded familiar. I crushed those thoughts because they were impossible.”
“They weren’t,” he said, coming to stand behind me. “They were real. And I’ve been confirming it without exposing you to danger.”
I faced him. “What happens now?”
“Now I stop hiding.” He cupped my face. “I suspected you were her. I knew Ari might be mine. I couldn’t act until I was certain.”
“And now?”
“Certain.” His thumb traced my cheekbone. “Tell me something only we would know.”
“My grandfather taught me the old tongue,” I said softly. “He said it was a language for secrets. We danced to music we could barely hear. You held me like I was the only real thing in a world of masks. Afterward, you traced constellations on my skin and named them in the old tongue.”
He pulled me into his arms and held on until the years between us cracked. I clung back, breathless.
“I have a son,” he murmured into my hair. “We have a son.”
“Yes. Ari.”
“I need to see him. Tomorrow. Properly.”
“All right.”
He framed my face in his hands. “I’m not losing you again. I don’t care about the marriage, the council—any of it. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
I kissed him—soft first, careful, testing the shape of something fragile. He answered at once, deepening, one hand in my hair, the other at my waist. It was nothing like the desperate garden kisses of anonymity. This was recognition.
We broke apart, foreheads together, breath unsteady.
“We can’t tell anyone yet,” I said. “Not until we know how to handle Kestrel. Isolde. The council.”
“I know.” He kissed my brow. “I’ve started moving pieces—guards I trust, physicians loyal to the Crown. When we make this public, we do it from strength.”
“They’ll still try to destroy us.”
“Then we face them together.” He helped me up. “I should go. If anyone sees me leaving now, everything I’ve arranged unravels.”
At the hidden panel he paused, hand on the catch, and looked back. “Thank you for keeping the ribbon.”
“Thank you for keeping mine.”
He smiled—young, for a heartbeat—and slipped into the wall. Stone swung shut.
I locked my door and leaned against it, lips tingling, mind racing. At the window the storm eased to a hush.
A floorboard creaked outside.
I froze, opened the door.
A young servant stood there—the same girl who’d spilled wine on Isolde months ago. Raw, scrubbed hands. Hard eyes.
“I saw him leave,” she said. “Through your door. At midnight.”
Cold slid through me.
“Please—”
“The queen pays well for information.” She held up a small purse; coins clinked. “Better than you ever could. She’ll want to know about this immediately.”
“Wait. What do you want? I can—”
“Nothing you have is worth more than my freedom.” She turned away. “The queen promised that if I brought her proof of the king’s affair, she’d release me from service—give me enough gold to leave this place forever.”
“If you tell her, she’ll use it to destroy us. To take my son.”
The girl paused and looked back. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—sympathy? Then it was gone.
“Better your son than my freedom,” she said, and walked down the corridor.
I stood frozen. She would tell Isolde within the hour. Everything Casimir had been working to protect would crumble. Everything was about to fall apart—and I had no way to warn him.