“You don’t have to stay,” he says quickly, as if afraid I might bolt at any second. “Not forever. But a few days, perhaps. Let me show you the realm, introduce you to your heritage. Let us try to build something from the ashes of what we’ve lost.”
I open my mouth to reply, to tell him that yes, I want that more than I can express, but the air goes still suddenly. The temperature drops several degrees, and I feel the hair on my arms rise as magic crackles through the room like electricity before a storm.
The shadows at the edge of the study ripple and distort, then crackle and split like broken glass.
A woman emerges from the darkness like a storm given form, glittering in elaborate robes of crimson and sapphire that seem to shift and change color as she moves. Gold drips from her earsin cascading chains, and an elaborate crown of braided hair is swept into a high knot secured with jeweled pins. Her beauty is sharp and cold, like a blade forged from winter starlight.
Her expression promises murder.
“Is this a private little family reunion I wasn’t invited to?” she purrs, her voice like poisoned silk sliding over steel. “Oh, my dear husband. What delicious secrets have you been keeping from me?”
Rhys turns slowly, and I know with bone-deep certainty that I am looking at Queen Lucelle. The woman who has shared his bed and his throne while my mother lived in exile.
“I should have known,” she continues, her voice rising in pitch as rage builds behind her calculated composure. “You’ve always been fond of your little secrets, haven’t you? But this, oh, this is truly your masterpiece of deception.”
She steps forward with predatory grace, her gaze finding my mother first. “And you,” she sneers, “hidden away in the forest like a broken toy he couldn’t bear to throw away but was too ashamed to display.”
Cashira steps forward, calm and still as deep water, but I can see the power gathering around her like heat shimmer.
Lucelle’s eyes shift between my mother and me, cataloging similarities, making connections. Then she freezes, her nostrils flaring like a hunting animal catching a scent. Her pupils dilate as realization dawns, and her eyes widen with a mixture of fury and disbelief. She sees it then, the resemblance, the family connection she’d somehow missed before.
“You bastard,” she breathes, then her voice rises to a shriek that echoes off the domed ceiling. “You’ve had a child! You’ve had a child all this time, hidden away like a guilty secret, and she’s a witch! A mongrel half-breed!”
“Enough,” Rhys growls, stepping forward with menace radiating from every line of his body. “You will not speak of her that way. Not now, not ever.”
“She is not one of us!” Lucelle shouts, her careful composure finally cracking completely. Her eyes gleam with manic fury as she gestures wildly at me. “She’s half-witch, half-mortal, tainted by lesser blood! The court will never accept her as heir. I will never accept this abomination!”
“Yes,” Rhys says, his voice cutting through her hysteria like a blade. “This is my daughter. My blood runs in her veins, and that makes her the rightful heir to the Night Court. That is not open for debate.”
Lucelle reels back as if she’s been physically struck. “You wound me,” she snaps, pressing a hand to her chest in mock pain. “You know I cannot bear a child?—”
“This was before you and I were ever joined,” Rhys says sharply, cutting off her victim’s performance. “You never knew what happened to me in the Mortal Realm, because I never told you. I came back half-broken, my memories scattered to the winds. I was changed by my time there. But that does not make her any less my daughter. And I will not stand here while you speak poison about what is mine.”
Lucelle trembles with rage, her beautiful face twisting into something ugly and vindictive. “You will regret this decision,” she hisses. “Both of you will pay for this humiliation.”
Sam steps forward, his protective instincts fully engaged, muscles coiled for violence. Locke does the same, moving with deadly grace to flank my other side. For once, they do not glare at each other with territorial suspicion. Instead, they stand united, one beast, one blade, both ready to spill blood in my defense.
“You will both regret this moment,” Lucelle spits, her voice dripping with venom and promised retribution. “You think thisis the end of it? That you can simply declare her legitimate and I’ll bow down in acceptance? I will scorch your precious legacy to ash and salt the earth so nothing can ever grow there again.”
“Lucelle!” King Rhys shouts, but she’s already dissolving back into shadow and crimson smoke, disappearing in a burst of fire that scorches the obsidian stones beneath her feet and leaves the smell of sulfur and burned roses hanging in the air.
The silence that follows is like a vacuum, pulling all sound and breath from the room. We stand frozen in the aftermath of her fury, each processing what just happened and what it means for the days to come.
Then—
“Locke,” the King says, his voice steady despite the chaos that just unfolded.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Locke steps forward, his expression unreadable, professional. I can only imagine what he must be thinking, caught between his duty to the crown and whatever complicated feelings have developed between us.
“Take them to the East Wing immediately. Their chambers have been prepared and warded against intrusion. Esme is now under formal royal protection.” His voice hardens. “You will guard her with your life.”
Locke bows low, the gesture sharp and precise. “With my life, Your Majesty.”
Rhys turns to my mother, and I see the pain in his eyes as he prepares for another goodbye. “Cashira?—”
She shakes her head before he can finish the thought. “I cannot stay,” she says, her voice heavy with regret but firm in its resolve. “You saw her face, heard her threats. You know she’ll come for me next, and my presence here will only make Esme a bigger target.”
“She wouldn’t dare harm you,” my father says, disbelief and anger warring in his tone. “You are my guest, under royal protection.”
