“We’re already targets,” Cillian points out. “We’re already fugitives. What difference does it make if he wants Maya specifically?”
“Because he’ll never stop hunting her,” Saffron insists. “You could flee to the farthest reaches of the world, and he would stillsend people after her. Whatever he believes she is, whatever he thinks she knows—he won’t rest until he has her.”
I feel Cillian’s eyes on me, watching for my reaction. Part of me wants to curl into a ball, to hide from this new threat. But a stronger part—the part that’s grown since escaping the doctor, since choosing to fight rather than run—rises to meet the challenge.
“Then he’ll have to come and get me himself,” I say, straightening my spine. “Because I’m not going to stop fighting. Not when so many lives are at stake.”
Saffron studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “You’ve changed,” she observes.
“We all have,” I reply, thinking of Logan’s willingness to give me agency, of Cillian’s quiet strength, of Poe’s unexpected support of the rebellion. “And we’re going to change this kingdom too—starting with those clinics.”
Cillian’s hand finds mine under the table, a silent show of support that steadies me. Whatever the king wants from me, whatever he believes I am, he’s underestimated one crucial fact: I’m not alone anymore.
CHAPTER 22
Maya
When Saffron reveals our final destination, I don’t believe her. Not until I see it for myself.
The summer palace rises before us like something from a fever dream, all gleaming white stone and soaring towers against the cloudless blue sky. It’s nothing like the modest safehouse where Cillian and I spent the past three days. This is a statement of power and wealth, designed to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
“Breathe,” Cillian murmurs beside me as our carriage approaches the ornate gates. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. I exhale slowly, trying to loosen the knot of tension between my shoulder blades. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.” His voice carries no judgment, just quiet understanding. “Remember, we’re guests here, not prisoners. If you want to leave, we leave.”
The promise should be comforting, but we both know it’s not that simple. Nothing has been simple a single day in my life.
The truck slows as we reach the gates, where guards in the Queen Mother’s colors—silver and midnight blue—stand at attention. They inspect our papers with practiced efficiency, their faces revealing nothing as they wave us through.
“The Queen Mother’s security is impressive,” Cillian observes as we pass beneath the stone archway. “I’ve spotted at least two dozen guards since we entered her lands and she wouldn’t let anyone not loyal to her step foot on the property.”
“Is that unusual?” I ask, genuinely curious. My knowledge of royal security protocols is limited to what I’ve gleaned from books and the brief, disastrous time I spent at the palace before fleeing.
“For a dowager queen in semi-retirement? Yes.” Cillian’s pale eyes scan our surroundings, cataloging threats and escape routes with the habitual vigilance that never seems to leave him. “She’s preparing for something.”
Or someone, I think but don’t say. The rebellion, perhaps. Or the possibility that her son—the king—might decide his mother has outlived her usefulness.
The truck follows a winding path through meticulously maintained gardens, each more elaborate than the last. Fountains spray crystalline water into the air, catching sunlight and transforming it into rainbows. Topiary animals stand frozen mid-leap among beds of flowers so perfect they almost look artificial.
It’s beautiful and so extravagant that it borders on obscene.
And the last place anyone would look for the heart of a rebellion.
As we pull up to the palace entrance, a small welcoming party awaits us. Three attendants in the Queen Mother’s colors, standing in perfect formation on the marble steps.
“Welcome to the summer palace,” the lead attendant says, offering a perfectly calibrated bow—deep enough to showrespect but not so deep as to suggest we outrank him. “Her Royal Highness awaits you in the Blue Salon. If you’ll follow me?”
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that Cillian and I haven’t bathed in days, wearing clothes that haven’t been washed for even longer than that.
We’re led through the palace, each room we pass more opulent than the last. Crystal chandeliers hang from ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Priceless artwork adorns walls covered in silk damask. Furniture that belongs in museums sits casually arranged, as if inviting visitors to risk the wrath of conservators by actually using it.
I try not to gawk, to maintain the facade of a well-bred Omega accustomed to such surroundings. But it’s hard not to feel overwhelmed by the sheer excess of it all.
“The Queen Mother appreciates beauty,” Cillian murmurs, close enough that only I can hear. “But don’t mistake her aesthetic sensibilities for frivolity. She’s one of the most politically astute women in Melilla.”
“Is that a warning?” I ask under my breath.
