Cillian bows, the movement precise and respectful. “Of course, Your Highness. You have my word.”
She studies him for a moment longer, then nods, apparently satisfied. “Very well. Dinner is served at eight. I expect you both to attend.” With that, she sweeps from the room, leaving us alone in the Blue Salon.
As soon as the door closes behind her, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Well,” I say, turning to Cillian. “That was...”
“About what I expected,” he finishes for me, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “The Queen Mother has always been direct to the point of brutality. But she’s also shrewd and, in her own way, fair.”
I consider this, trying to understand the complex web of loyalties and secrets that seems to define royal politics. “Do you trust her?”
Cillian hesitates, choosing his words with obvious care. “I trust her to act in her own interests, which currently align withours. Whether that continues to be the case depends on how events unfold.”
It’s not a particularly reassuring assessment, but I appreciate his honesty. “And in the meantime, we’re essentially prisoners here. Luxurious prisoners, but prisoners nonetheless.”
“Protected guests,” he corrects, though his tone suggests he shares my frustration. “The distinction matters, at least in terms of how we’re treated and what freedoms we’re allowed.”
A soft knock at the door interrupts our conversation. One of the attendants from earlier enters, bowing slightly. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”
As we move through the palace’s opulent corridors, I find myself thinking of the others—Logan, Poe, Ares—somewhere out there, making their way toward us. Facing dangers I can only imagine. The bond between us, stretched thin by distance, pulses with a dull ache that’s become so constant I barely notice it anymore.
Be safe, I think, directing the thought toward that tenuous connection. Be careful. Get back to us.
CHAPTER 23
Logan
We don’t make it past the first checkpoint before our convoy is hit.
I feel the impact before I hear it—metal crashing against metal, the sickening lurch as our vehicle careens off the road. My head slams against the window, vision blurring with the sudden violence of it. The world spins, gravity shifting as we roll once, twice, before settling with a groan of twisted metal.
For a moment, there’s only silence and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Then Ares groans from the front seat, a string of colorful curses that tells me he’s alive, if not unharmed. Poe is quieter, but I catch the controlled rhythm of his breathing—measured, deliberate, the way he always sounds when assessing a threat.
“Everyone alive?” I ask, my voice rougher than usual.
“Functioning,” Poe responds from the passenger seat, already moving. His hand goes to the gun at his hip, a motion so fluid it happens in a blink. “We were hit by an improvised device, I think. But there are three vehicles up ahead. Six men, minimum.”
Ares kicks his door open, the metal screaming in protest. “Ambush,” he grunts, the single word carrying a universe of meaning. Not random bandits. Not common thieves. This was planned. Targeted.
I force my own door open, glass raining from the shattered window. My body protests—ribs bruised, possibly cracked, a cut above my eye bleeding freely—but I push the pain aside. Pain is just information. Useful, but not commanding.
Outside, the road is quiet except for the tick of our cooling engine and the soft crunch of approaching footsteps. I straighten to my full height, ignoring the flash of pain from my ribs. Ares moves to my right, Poe to my left—a formation we’ve held a hundred times before, in a dozen different battles.
Three black vehicles block the road ahead, their engines still running. Professional. Efficient. Six men in unmarked tactical gear approach in standard formation, weapons drawn but not yet aimed. Not king’s guards, then. They would have announced themselves, would have demanded surrender in the name of the crown.
Something else, then. Something worse.
A seventh figure emerges from the lead vehicle, and the air around me goes cold despite the summer heat. I know that silhouette, that careful, measured gait. Have known it since childhood.
Willam. My half-brother. Tenth in line for the throne, so far from succession that most forget he exists at all. Which makes him perfect for the kind of work that can’t have the king’s official sanction.
“Logan,” he calls, his voice carrying the same aristocratic drawl I remember from court functions. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Willam.” I keep my tone neutral, betraying nothing of the calculations racing through my mind. Six armed men plusWillam. Three of us, only one with a visible weapon. The forest on either side offers cover, but running means abandoning the vehicle, the supplies, any hope of reaching the summer palace on schedule.
“I’d ask what brings you to this remote stretch of road,” Willam continues, approaching with the casual confidence of a predator who believes his prey is already cornered, “but I think we both know the answer to that.”
Beside me, Ares shifts his weight subtly, preparing to move. I catch his eye, a minute shake of my head. Not yet.
“Enlighten me,” I reply, keeping Willam’s attention on me. “Since you seem to know my business better than I do.”
