“I apologize.” The queen settled for rubbing her husband’s shoulder as he fumed over some perceived slight by House Qiren. “He has a fever and is hallucinating.”
“I do not,” the king shouted. “Kalan, take me to the docks. I wish to slaughter mages.”
Thyra’s stomach sank to her knees. If scenes like this one had happened in public, it was no wonder that Magnus Aaberg had not had issue with organizing a rebellion.
“I need to find someone to clean this up.” Lady Polia gestured to the shattered glass and spilled tea before rushing from the room.
Inga, however, remained, concern etched on her face. “Have you tried Helska’s Milk, my queen?”
Even Thyra, with her limited healing knowledge, recognized that name. Helska’s Milk was a tonic that would cause a person to sleep as if they’d been sent to the afterworld.
“Bah!” the king growled. “All of you, out of my way.”
Queen Revna tried to stop him, as did her sons, but while King Harald was not strong in his own mind, he remained very strong in body. He shoved those he loved aside and stormed through Thyra, out of the queen’s rooms.
Thyra watched her father go, sure that he was about to enter a public part of the castle and embarrass himself. Or worse, create more enemies who would soon join the rebellion to take him down.
The princess’s fists clenched, and once again, she tried to pull her feet from the ground, tried to make it to Inga. What she would do had the vision allowed her to move, she wasn’t sure.
As it were, she did nothing because the vision suddenly lifted and Thyra awoke. In her room, in Ramshold, once more.
Her cheeks were wet. Her body trembled. Thyra swallowed, and with shaking hands removed the Crown and tossed it to the foot of the bed.
They’d known what Inga had done but seeing it was different. Hearing her father’s madness made her ache.
She rose from the bed, slid her feet into slippers, and pulled on a robe. Before Thyra knew what she was doing, she was at her door.
Astril awaited outside. The vampires needed little to no sleep, making them ideal night guards.
“Is all well?” the vampire asked.
“I need to speak with my sister.”
Astril’s eyebrows shot up. Never had Thyra gone to Isolde so late.
“I want to share something with her.” She felt like a small child, explaining herself in this way, but the need to tell Isolde what she’d seen overpowered any shame that might bring.
“They’re asleep,” Freyia said from where she stood before Isolde’s door. “I can knock. See if they wake?”
“Please.”
Freyia gave a single nod, and her fist fell on the door across the hall three times. Her eyes widened. “Someone is coming.”
Thyra held her breath and exhaled it only when Isolde opened the door. Loud snores came from beyond. “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh,” Isolde said, clearly surprised. “Did something bad happen? Shall I get a sword? And Vale?”
“Nothing like that. I want to talk.”
Her twin’s face softened, and Thyra cursed all the times she’d been cruel and cold to her twin. Thank the dead gods they were mending their past, becoming closer every day.
“Let me get slippers and my robe.” Isolde darted into the room and was back again in seconds. “Tell Vale if he wakes.”
“Judging by the snoring, he won’t,” Freyia said with a smirk.
“Fates alive, tell me about it,” Isolde joked and shut the door softly behind her. “To your room?”
Thyra returned to her suite, holding the door open for her sister. Isolde’s gaze landed on the Crown, still sitting where Thyra had tossed it at the foot of the bed.
