Exhaustion penetrated so deep into Thyra’s bones that she considered not sleeping with the Frør Crown on her head, as she’d done every night since Saga told them of the Crown’s powers.
But no, she couldn’t. Dreamer magic was unpredictable. Double that with the unpredictability of the Hallow, and Thyra would never forgive herself if this turned out to be the one night when her magic chose to be accessible and she wasn’t wearing the Hallow. She could not let her sister down. Nor herself.
Sighing, she changed into her sleeping dress and slipped the band of amethyst, diamond, and silver atop her head. Adjustingher pillow to make the circlet more bearable to wear, Thyra burrowed into bed. Even with the discomfort of the headdress, her tired body relaxed, and Thyra knew it wouldn’t be long until sleep claimed her.
And it did, like a shooting star in the night sky, sleep came, plunging the raven-haired princess into a world to which she once belonged.
Thyra stood right inside the doorway and stared at her mother and father, recognizable from the portrait locket Brynhild had taken from the castle two decades ago. The queen rested on her knees before the king, laying on a settee by a window, a muscle fluttering in his strong jawline.
The princess scanned the rest of the room and concluded they had to be in the queen’s bedchambers. Everything was so luxurious and feminine. She twisted and found a sitting area outside the bedroom, likely where the queen would take visitors. Most importantly, everything in the suite possessed a telltale shimmer.
This was a vision. A dream. The Frør Crown was working.
Two other male faeries lingered in the bedchamber. Both had short black hair and silvery-blue wings. One boasted a muscular frame, while the other was taller and slimmer.
“Aksel,” her mother spoke softly to one of the males. “Go to my workshop and retrieve the brown bottle labeled Aconia tonic.”
“Yes, Mother,” the taller, reedier male replied and approached Thyra. She inhaled his scent of something herbaceous and metal as he walked by her, pushing her to theside as he did so and sweeping from the room. Thyra’s throat tightened.
Aksel Falk—her eldest brother. She wanted to follow him and see more of the male she’d never meet again, but when she tried, the Crown rooted the princess in place. What she was meant to see would be in this room.
“I don’t need a tonic. What I need is more bleeding swords!” The king grumbled. “Kalan, debrief me on the mage attack.”
Kalan, the second oldest Falk male. Brynhild had called him a great warrior. He’d been an adult when he died in the Rebellion—a turn or two older than Vale was now. Around thirty.
“You’re too scattered to deal with that,” Queen Revna hissed. “You’re pushing yourself too hard, Harald.”
“Why is Kalan here if not to tell me how my forces are faring?”
“He’s worried about his father.” The queen stroked the king’s long, silver hair. “We all worry for you, my love.”
“You should take him to the White Tower.” Kalan’s tone was so deep, much like the king’s voice.
“I have, darling,” Thyra’s mother replied. “No one knows what’s happening.”
“I do!” the princess shouted from the doorway she was trapped in. “It’s a whisperer messing with his head! Inga Aaberg!”
Of course, they didn’t hear her. No one had paid her appearance any mind because she wasn’t actually there. Frustration surged within Thyra, but she pushed the annoyance aside and reached into the recesses of her memory. The mages had been a nuisance preceding the White Bear’s Rebellion. Did that nuisance extend into the Rebellion?
She tried to remember as Aksel returned, and her mother convinced her father to drink the tonic. All the while, Kalanspoke of the battles with the mages, but when a knock came at the suite door, everyone in the room stopped what they were doing.
“Inga? Is that you?” Revna called out loudly.
“It is. And young Lady Polia with the tea.”
“Enter.”
Though Thyra was not physically present in the vision of the past, somehow every part of her burned hot as Inga, the current Queen of Winter’s Realm, entered and smiled at her parents.
“My queen,” Lady Inga demanded such a presence that Thyra barely noticed the younger lady-in-waiting moving to the table carrying a tea set, presumably ordered by the queen. Odd that a lady-in-waiting carried the tray and not a servant, but maybe that was what Queen Revna had preferred? “Sten Armenil and Lady Orla have arrived. The High Lady of the Northlands wishes to see you.”
The queen pressed two fingers to her right temple and rubbed the tender area. “I forgot they were due today along with those of House Qiren. I?—”
The king shot up from where he lay. “I must take care of the Qirens! Kill their lord. The heir too.”
A clatter arose as Lady Polia dropped the tea set and the glass shattered. The princes’ faces paled, and the queen spun to face her husband, her hand outstretched as though to slap it over his mouth. Little did she know, the outburst originated from one of the two ladies. The one pretending to be appalled.
Finally, Thyra understood why a lady-in-waiting had been carrying the tea. House Polia was a lesser house, one deeply tied to House Qiren. Inga had orchestrated this. Perhaps Lady Polia was under her powers too, and Inga coerced Lady Polia into coming here to see the king’s outburst.
