"Your mother seems to understand more than she lets on," I whisper to Callen.
He nods. "A survival tactic. The less my father thought she comprehended, the less he tormented her."
We're almost to the main entrance when a small, older woman steps from behind a column. She wears a simple green dress that marks her as palace staff.
"Prince Callen," she hisses urgently, motioning him closer.
Callen's face lights with recognition. "Marna." He steps toward her, signaling for Lochan to keep me back.
"My prince." She clutches his arm, her knuckles white. "I shouldn't be speaking to you, but I had to warn you." Her eyes dart around the corridor. "The Council meets tonight, not tomorrow. They know you've returned, and they speak of death."
"What exactly did you hear?" Callen asks, his voice low.
"They speak of execution. The girl." Her gaze flickers to me. "And of binding you, my prince, until they can ensure your cooperation." Her voice trembles. "They fear what your return means."
Callen's expression shifts, brow furrowing, then smoothing as steely determination replaces concern. His jaw sets as he places his hand over Marna's weathered one.
"Thank you, Marna," he says, voice steady and quiet. "You've always looked out for me."
"I watched you grow from a babe," she whispers fiercely. "I won't see them destroy what's left of this kingdom."
Callen squares his shoulders, standing taller. The transformation fascinates me—from charming rogue to commanding prince in an instant.
"They won't succeed." His tone carries absolute certainty.
"The Council has eyes everywhere," she warns.
"And I have shadows," Callen says with a cryptic smile. "Marna, you've risked enough. Return to your duties."
"What will you do?" she asks.
"Reclaim what's mine." He squeezes her hand.
We watch as she scurries away, disappearing down a servant's corridor.
"We need to leave," Lochan says. "Now."
Callen turns to us, his blue eyes electric. "Change of plans. We're staying in the kingdom a little while longer."
We walk briskly through the palace corridors, Callen leading with confident strides. His back is straight, his movements purposeful. Guards and courtiers stare as we pass, whispering behind their hands. I feel exposed under their scrutiny, like a specimen under glass.
"Keep close," Lochan murmurs beside me. "Don't make eye contact."
The palace suddenly feels like a beautiful trap. I focus on Callen's back as we follow him down a sweeping staircase and through the grand entrance hall. Sunlight streams through stained glass, painting the marble floor in jewel tones.
"Are we really staying?" I ask quietly.
"Seems that way," Lochan replies, his hand hovering near the small of my back, not quite touching but ready to guide or protect.
Outside, the kingdom looks different now—still breathtaking but threaded with danger. The fae who bow respectfully to Callen might be reporting our movements to the Council. The charming architecture could hide a dozen watching eyes.
"I know a place," Callen says over his shoulder.
"What about Queen Maywen?" I ask, hurrying to keep pace.
"My mother has survived decades of court politics," Callen says. "She'll be safer if we're not with her tonight. The Council won't move against her directly—she's too valuable as their puppet if they can get rid of me."
We turn down a less traveled path, away from the main thoroughfare. The buildings here are more modest.
