Everyone knows the tale—how King Leopold, the fierce conqueror who united the warring city-states, fell so deeply in love with the Omega daughter of a minor noble that he forsook all others, breaking with tradition by taking only one mateinstead of the customary harem. Their devotion to each other was the stuff of ballads and epic poems.
“Queen Midale had begun to disagree with aspects of the king’s rule,” Poe continues, each word careful, measured. “She gathered her own independent base of supporters, mostly among the Omega nobility. She was becoming... a threat. One the king could not allow, even for love.”
The implications sink in slowly, each one more disturbing than the last. If the king could murder his beloved queen, his true mate, for political expedience... what else might he be capable of? What other atrocities has he committed in the name of maintaining power?
And more immediately concerning—what might Logan be capable of, following in his father’s footsteps?
“Do you believe it?” I ask, searching Poe’s face for any hint of deception. “That the king murdered his own mate?”
Poe’s expression remains carefully neutral, but something flickers in his eyes—knowledge, perhaps. Or memory. “I believe power corrupts,” he says finally. “And that love, no matter how genuine, is rarely enough to overcome that kind of ambition.”
I think of Logan, of the bond he forced upon me, of his insistence that it was for my protection. Was it? Or was it about possession, about control, about having what he wanted regardless of the cost?
“And you think staying to fight is the answer?” I ask, trying to understand his position fully. “You think challenging the king directly will somehow protect us from becoming like him?”
“I think running only delays the inevitable,” Poe replies, his voice steady. “The king’s reach is long, and his memory longer. He won’t forget this perceived betrayal, and neither will those who serve him.”
“Like the doctor,” I murmur, a chill running down my spine at the mere thought of him.
“Like the doctor,” Poe agrees, his expression darkening. “And anyone else committed to keeping this world the way it is.”
I stand, suddenly needing to move, to think, to process all that Poe has revealed. The room feels too small, the walls closing in with each new revelation. I pace to the window, staring out at the overgrown garden behind the safehouse. Weeds choke what might once have been flower beds, nature reclaiming what humans abandoned.
Much like my life now—wild and uncontrolled where once there had been structure, however confining.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I say finally, not turning to face him. “But I still need time.”
“Of course,” Poe says, and I hear him move toward the door. “Just remember, Maya—time is the one thing we may not have much of.”
I turn then, catching his gaze one last time. “One more question,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can reconsider. “If I choose to stay and fight—if I support Logan’s claim to the throne—what happens to me? What role do I play in this revolution of yours?”
Poe pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “That would depend on you,” he says after a moment. “On what role you want to play.”
“And if I want no role at all?” I challenge. “If I want to be left alone, to live my life as I choose?”
A sad smile touches his lips, there and gone in an instant. “Then you chose the wrong prince to be bound to,” he says softly. “Logan was born for the throne, whether he admits it or not. And those connected to him will always be drawn into its orbit.”
With that, he slips out the door, leaving me alone with thoughts that swirl like storm clouds, dark and threatening. I return to the bed, sinking down onto its edge as I try to make sense of everything I’ve learned.
The queen, possibly murdered by her own mate. The king, willing to sacrifice love for power. Logan, following in his father’s footsteps whether he intends to or not. And me, caught in the middle of a political struggle I never asked to be part of.
CHAPTER 13
Maya
That night, Ares doesn’t seem surprised when I step out into the hallway. He only picks up his chair and quietly follows me to Cillian’s room before planting himself like a sentry outside the door.
I slip into Cillian’s room, noticing immediately how stifling the air feels. The curtains have been pulled tight against the windows, blocking any hint of moonlight or fresh air. The room is uncomfortably hot, almost oppressive, yet when I move toward the nearest window to crack it open, Cillian’s voice stops me.
“Don’t,” he says, the word barely audible from the bed. “I’m freezing.”
I turn, surprised by how weak he sounds. In the dim light from the bedside lamp, I can see him huddled beneath a pile of blankets, his pale hair stark against the dark pillowcase. Despite the heat of the room—heat that has sweat already gathering at my temples—he’s shivering.
“Freezing?” I repeat, crossing to the bed without thinking. “It’s like an oven in here.”
I press my palm to his forehead before I can second-guess the intimacy of the gesture. His skin burns against mine, hot and dry in a way that sends alarm bells ringing through my mind.
“You’re burning up,” I say, unable to keep the concern from my voice.
