I walk toward her, my boots clicking against the polished floor. The noise doesn’t seem to reach her. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge me. Even as I step onto the dais and stand before her, she stares straight through me, her fingers twitching absently in her lap.
“Mother,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
Her gaze flickers, just for a moment, but she doesn’t focus on me. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, as if listening to a whisper only she can hear.
Her lips move, forming words without sound. Then, abruptly, she speaks again, her tone sharper.“They want it. They’ll take it.”
I glance around, but no one’s paying us much attention. The courtiers are too busy with their own conversations, their own schemes. Still, her words make my skin crawl.
“Who wants it?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She shakes her head, her hands fluttering like trapped birds.“They’re everywhere. Even here.”
I reach out, hesitating for a second before placing a hand over hers. Her skin is cold, almost lifeless. There was never any warmth in my mother’s touch.
Her eyes finally meet mine, but there’s no recognition in them. Only fear.“He’s gone, isn’t he? He’s gone, and they’ll come for me next.”
She’s talking about my father. King Cillian. The man who broke her, piece by piece, until there was almost nothing left.
“No one’s coming for you,” I say firmly, though I’m not sure I believe it myself. The Council’s already circling. I can feel it.“I won’t let them.”
She pulls her hand away from mine, her fingers curling into her palm.“You’re just like him,” she whispers.
The words hit like a slap. I straighten, stepping back.“I’m not him.”
But she’s already retreating into herself, her gaze drifting past me again.“They never stop.”
I stare at her, my throat dry. There’s no reaching her, not really. Whatever part of her that was my mother once—that might have loved me once—is buried too deep.
“I’ll be back,” I say, though she’s not listening.
I walk away, not wanting to stay any longer than I have to, but it’s clear I’ll get no real information from her.
I’m barely ten steps from the dais when a hand grabs my arm, firm but not harsh. I turn, and there she is—my old nanny. Her face is lined with age now, more than I remember, but her eyes are sharp, darting around the hall like she’s checking for eavesdroppers.
“Prince Callen,” she says, her voice urgent.“I must speak with you.”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond, just beckons me toward a corner of the hall, and for a moment, it’s like I’m a child again, hiding behind her skirts from my father’s temper.
“What is it?”
She leans in closer, her breath warm against my ear.“The Council’s been here. Twice in the last week. They’ve been talking to your mother.”
My jaw tightens.“About what?”
“They’re pushing her,” the old fae says, her voice barely above a whisper.“Asking questions about you, about the throne. They’re circling, Callen. They want the throne.”
I feel a surge of anger, but I keep it in check.“And what’s she saying?”
She hesitates, her eyes flicking to the dais where my mother still sits, staring into nothing.“You know the Queen. How she is. She’s confused. They’re taking advantage of that. They’re planting ideas, whispering in her ear. If they haven’t already, they’ll convince her to hand over control.”
I glance back at my mother, her frail figure dwarfed by the grandeur of the hall. She looks so small, so broken. And the Council—those power-hungry bastards—are using her weakness to their advantage.
“Not while I’m breathing.”
The Council’s intentions are clear—they’ll use my mother as a pawn to keep their grip on the throne, to keep the fae kingdom under their control. And if they succeed, it won’t just be my mother they destroy. It’ll be everything I care about—Brigid, the fragile threads of hope we’ve been clinging to since the Morrigan’s awakening.
“Thank you, I say to Marna.“I’ll handle it.”
