Zoran touches my shoulder as he passes, the faintest gesture of comfort. Then they're gone, their footsteps fading down the corridor.
And I am alone again.
In my chambers, I shed the plain gown like a husk. From the wardrobe, I select not the mourning clothes I've worn for months, but armor of a different kind—a gown of midnight blue silk layered with silver mesh that catches light like stars. The colors of diplomacy, of reason. The high collar frames my face with authority; the sleeves fall just short of my wrists, revealing the silver cuffs that mark me as both Light and Shadow—bound to both courts.
My fingers move to my hair, weaving it into a crown braid tight enough to pull at my scalp. The slight pain sharpens my focus. I reach for the carved ebony box on my dressing table—inside, the silver circlet set with moonstones that I haven't worn since that night. The weight of it settles on my brow like a promise.
From a hidden drawer, I retrieve a small vial of essence distilled from night-blooming jasmine. Three drops at my pulse points—throat, wrists, temples. The scent centers me, calls back the woman I was before grief drained me. I press my palm flat against the mirror and breathe.
When I meet my gaze in the mirror all I can think about is Banu. If only she were here. The real Banu, not the creature who took her form and destroyed my world.
I glance away from the mirror. My mind reeling with a sense of guilt that I wasn’t searching for my friend. When I'd begged to join the search myself, Kaan's refusal had been absolute—something I couldn't forgive him for, even as I understood it.
How could I chase shadows across mountains when my body still ached from what was taken? How could I not, when it was Banu? The guilt of divided loyalties weighs on me daily—should I be mourning my son, or searching for my friend?
Can I do both without betraying either? Each morning I watch another party depart from my window, my hands pressed against the glass, torn between two impossible griefs.
Alone with my ghosts, my scars, my guilt. Alone with the knowledge that in moments, I'll have to face the man who let our son die and still calls me his wife.
I haveonly minutes to gather the fragments of who I once was. To rebuild the mask I'll need in the war room. The woman Kaan married is gone, but the queen he created from her ashes must take her place.
Because there are two wars coming.
The one at our borders—and the one raging inside me.
CHAPTER 3
THE WAR DECLARATION
Kaan
The war roomstinks of blood and burnt parchment.
I stand before the onyx table where maps of both realms sprawl like open wounds, my shadows coiling restlessly around my boots. Emir hovers across from me, illuminated by floating shadow-lights that cast his face in harsh relief. Elçin stands near the window, her storm-gray eyes cataloguing escape routes and defensive positions with the instinctive vigilance of someone who's survived places like the Third Circle—the demon realm's training ground where Erlik sends his most promising warriors to either break or become weapons. She's one of the few who returned. She's wearing Northern Reaches leathers—practical, expensive, and bristling with enough weapons to start her own war.
"Three full battalions crossed at dawn," Emir says. "Lord Taren's personal standard at the front."
My wife's father has come to wage war. How delightfully domestic. I can already picture the family reunion—swordsdrawn, shadows bleeding, someone's intestines decorating the landscape. Really brings people together.
Though Taren carries no real authority in this war—he's merely a pawn for Gün Ata's commanders, taking orders like any other foot soldier. But this? This incursion is personal. The man who orchestrated our marriage, who bound his daughter to me like a sacrificial offering, now marches on my court with borrowed authority and righteous fury. He's made this war his own vendetta, and Gün Ata's generals are clearly indulging him.
How touching. Father-in-law truly does care.
"Which border?" I ask, though my shadows already whisper the answer.
"The Whispering Marshes. Pushing through toward the Sessiz Ovalar."
The Silent Plains. Of course. Burn those fields and half my territories starve by winter. Someone advised Taren very well. Too well.
"Lord Taren's never been a fool," Elçin observes from her position by the window, her tone matter-of-fact. "This is a strategic choke point. Cut off your grain supply, force you to either capitulate or watch your people starve." She traces an invisible line on the glass. "If I were planning this invasion, I'd follow with a secondary push here"—she taps the window—"toward the Dogu Gölgeleri while your forces are occupied at the plains."
I blink at her slowly. "Thank you for the tactical analysis of how to destroy my kingdom. Very helpful."
"You're welcome." Her expression doesn't change. "I've seen worse invasions. The Bone Wars in the Third Circle taught me to think like the enemy." Her expression goes distant for a moment, remembering battles fought in demon-realm darkness where the losing side had their bones harvested for Erlik's armies. "It's kept me alive this long."
I trace the invasion route with one finger, my shadows stretching across the floor. From the breadbasket, Light Court forces could push north toward my capital in Karanlik Kalp, or swing east toward Dogu Gölgeleri where my cousin Yasar once held power before vanishing into my father's demon realms for "training."
My hand unconsciously moves to my chest where the bond with Nesilhan still pulses—damaged, frayed, carrying only her hatred now. But it used to carry more. A third heartbeat, small and curious, flickering between us like a candle flame. The absence of that tiny presence hits like a fist, and my shadows ripple with pain before I force them still.
