The pattern of evasion only deepens my suspicion. If these women died heroically serving the court, why won't anyone speak openly about their sacrifice? Why do mentions of them make everyone uncomfortable?
It's not until I overhear a hushed conversation between two young Fae servants that understanding begins to dawn:
"—same symptoms the goddess showed last week?—"
"—shh! You know we're forbidden to speak of such things?—"
"—but if she's following the pattern like the others?—"
"—His Majesty believes her human blood will make the difference?—"
"—that's what he hoped about Isabella too, remember?—"
They notice me and scatter before I can question them, but their words echo in my mind with growing horror. Symptoms. Pattern. The others.
Suddenly, the pieces begin falling into place with sickening clarity.
I return to the memorial garden that same afternoon, studying the headstones with new understanding. Divine transformation. The Great Work. The same process that changed me into what I am now—a process that has a perfect record of failure.
"You understand now."
I turn to find Ash standing behind me, their expression heavy with grief and resignation.
"How long have you been waiting for me to figure it out?" I ask, my voice surprisingly steady.
"Since the day you first showed the signs," they admit quietly. "The breathlessness during exertion, the way your heart races even at rest, the environmental magical chaos. I tend this garden, goddess. I know the patterns."
"And Thorian? Does he know I know?"
"His Majesty suspects you have begun to question. You are not the first to grow curious about the memorial garden, though you are the first to investigate so... thoroughly."
The first to survive long enough to investigate, they mean. "How much time do I have?"
"Isabella lasted three months from the onset of symptoms. You have been showing signs for approximately three weeks."
Three weeks. If the pattern holds, I may have five or six weeks left before the power consumes me completely. Longenough to feel our child quickening in my womb, perhaps, but not long enough to hold them in my arms.
"Does he truly believe my human blood will make a difference?" I ask. "Or is he simply hoping against hope because he has no other choice?"
Ash considers the question carefully. "His Majesty loves you deeply, goddess. More deeply than he loved any of the others. That love... it clouds his judgment. He sees differences where there may be none, hope where there may be only desperate denial."
The truth settles over me like a shroud. I am dying, slowly but surely, my enhanced body burning through its own systems like a candle flame consuming wax. The man I love knows this, has seen it happen seven times before, and continues to tell me I'm special while watching me follow the exact same path.
"What happens now?" I whisper.
"Now you must decide," Ash says gently. "Will you confront His Majesty with your knowledge? Will you demand the truth he has been too afraid to speak? Or will you continue the fiction that protects his heart while yours breaks?"
I look at the seven graves one final time, at seven women who died believing they were loved and treasured rather than expendable. Then I turn away from the memorial garden, my decision crystallizing with each step.
I am not them. I will not die in ignorance or in service to someone else's desperate hope.
It's time to have a conversation with my king about truth, love, and the price of both.
But not tonight. Tonight I need to hold him close and memorize the feeling, because once I shatter the illusion we've been living in, nothing will ever be the same between us again.
CHAPTER 22
THORIAN
