My wolf stirs restlessly at the non-response, hackles rising further.Yep,I think grimly,I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but he knows more than he’s letting on.The scent coming off him is all wrong, too controlled, too clean, missing the adrenaline and fear that should be lingering after what we just survived.
Locke scoffs, the sound harsh and bitter in the stone chamber. “Tell me again how secure your patrols are, Father.”
The words drip with contempt, years of frustration and disappointment condensed into a single cutting sentence. The General turns his eyes toward his son, measured and unreadable as always, giving nothing away.
“Now’s not the time, son of mine,” he says, voice steady as granite.
“It was the time. Hours ago,” Locke retorts, taking a step forward that puts him squarely between his father and the rest of us. “This should never have been allowed to happen. Where were your supposedly impenetrable defenses when the wraiths were tearing through the Great Hall?”
Rue coughs once and edges back toward the wall, clearly recognizing the tension between father and son and wanting no part of the inevitable explosion.
I glance between them, father and son, mirrors of one another in build and bearing, only one of them cracked down the middle with barely suppressed fury. They have the same strong jaw, the same broad shoulders, the same way of holdingthemselves like violence is always an option. But where the General is all cold control, Locke burns with righteous anger.
Locke doesn’t even try to hide the disgust on his face as he stares down his father. I don’t blame him. If this is the man who was supposed to protect Esme today, he failed spectacularly. The general cannot be trusted, every instinct I have is screaming that truth at me.
The tension is broken when Naera slips into the chamber, moving with the quiet grace of someone trying not to draw attention to herself. She bows low, her red braids swinging over one shoulder as she carries a bundle of folded clothes, travel boots, and two well-worn satchels that look like they’ve seen plenty of road time.
“I brought what I could gather quickly, my king,” she says softly, setting the bundles down near where Esme rests. “She’ll need these for travel, and I’ve included some basic supplies.”
Another servant enters behind her, one of the fae who’s helped me navigate castle life this week despite my stubborn refusal of assistance at every turn. He’s young, maybe barely out of adolescence by fae standards, with kind eyes and careful hands. He holds a satchel I know like the back of my hand, the worn leather pack I brought with me on our journey here, filled with the few possessions that matter to me.
He crosses the room quietly, bowing to the king in passing with the automatic deference of someone raised in royal service, and passes the familiar weight into my hands with a small nod of understanding.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
The king lifts his eyes toward Locke, and I can see the weight of difficult decisions settling across his shoulders like a mantle. “My daughter is no longer safe here. Until the queen is found and dealt with, she cannot remain in this castle.”
Locke straightens to his full, imposing height. Rue looks up in what might be shock or might be amusement, with him, I can never tell if he’s genuinely surprised or just loving the chaos happening all around him. The fae seems to thrive in turmoil like a plant thrives in sunlight.
“What are you saying?” I ask, curious but wary. Surely he doesn’t mean to send her out into the wilderness where she can be easily attacked by far worse things than shadow wraiths. At least here there are walls, guards, some semblance of protection.
Rhys turns to me, and for a moment I see not the King of the Night Court but simply a father terrified of losing his daughter. “I’m saying she needs to leave. Tonight, if possible. Before Lucelle regroups and tries again.”
“I’m not sure that’s a—” I start to protest, but I’m cut off by the most beautiful sound in the world.
A soft groan stirs against my chest as Esme’s fingers twitch and clutch weakly at the lapels of my coat. Her touch is tentative, uncertain, like she’s not sure if she’s awake or still caught in whatever dreams claimed her.
I look down and see those pale, luminous eyes flutter open, half-lidded and unfocused but beautifully, wonderfully aware. “Esme,” I whisper, relief flooding through me so completely I feel dizzy with it.
She blinks slowly, like even that small movement takes effort, then winces as she tries to sit up. Pain flickers across her features, and I ease her upright carefully, propping pillows behind her back so she can lean against the stone wall without strain.
The king is already moving, crossing the chamber in three long strides. He drops to one knee beside her with the fluid grace of a man who’s spent his life in armor and takes her hand in both of his. His touch is gentle, reverent, like she’s made of spun glass.
“You’re safe,” he says, voice soft with paternal relief. “You’re safe for now.”
Her gaze flits between him and me, confusion clouding those mirror-bright eyes. Then her attention moves past us, taking in Naera and the travel bags and clothes, at Locke standing rigid by the door and Rue lounging against the wall, and finally landing on the stoic figure of General Erron.
“You’re sending me away?” Her voice is raw, throat probably damaged from whatever power tore through her earlier. “You want me to go?”
The pain in those simple words makes something twist violently in my chest. She just found her father, just discovered she has a place in this world, and now he’s asking her to leave it behind.
Rhys exhales slowly, the sound heavy with regret and necessity. “No. I don’t want you to go. If I had my way, you’d stay here where I can protect you, where I can get to know my daughter properly. But yes, you have to leave. If Lucelle breached the castle once, she’ll do it again. She’ll keep coming until she destroys you, and I cannot, will not, let that happen.”
“I just got here,” Esme says, emotion swelling in her voice like a tide ready to break. “I thought you were going to help me.”
She blinks hard, like she’s willing herself not to cry, and I can see her struggling to hold back the disappointment and fear that threaten to overwhelm her.
“I know,” the king says, squeezing her hand with infinite gentleness. “I wanted more time with you. I wanted to teach you about your heritage, about this court. What you did in the Great Hall today. . .that wasn’t ordinary magic, Daughter.”
