“How?” I ask, genuine curiosity overriding my frustration.
She turns back to me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I have resources you don’t, Logan. Connectionsyour father knows nothing about. People who could act on our behalf while you continue your preparations.”
The offer is tempting—a way to address the immediate suffering without compromising our long-term goals. But I’ve learned to be wary of gifts that seem too perfect, especially from my grandmother.
“At what cost?” I ask, because there’s always a cost with her.
“No cost,” she replies, her smile widening slightly. “Consider it my contribution to your cause. My way of ensuring that when you take the throne, you do so with clean hands.”
I don’t believe her—not entirely. The Queen Mother has never done anything without calculation, without weighing potential benefits against risks. But I also can’t deny the appeal of her offer, the possibility of saving those Omegas without compromising our larger strategy.
“I need to know the details,” I say, unwilling to commit blindly. “Who these people are, how they would operate, what their objectives would be. And I’ll need time to think on it.”
“Of course,” she agrees easily—too easily. “I’ll have my head of security brief you tomorrow. For now, I think we’ve covered enough ground for one evening. You look exhausted, and I’m not as young as I once was.”
The dismissal is clear, but I’m not ready to let this go. “Grandmother,” I say, my voice hardening slightly. “I need your word that you won’t act without my knowledge or consent. Whatever resources you have, whatever plans you’re making—they need to be coordinated with our overall strategy.”
Her golden eyes meet mine, sharp with an intelligence that age has done nothing to dim. “You have my word,” she says after a moment, “that I will do what I believe is best for Melilla. Just as I always have.”
It’s not the assurance I wanted, but it’s likely the best I’ll get. The Queen Mother has never been one to submit to anyone’sauthority, not even the king’s. Expecting her to follow my lead unconditionally was perhaps naive.
“Thank you for your support,” I say instead, offering the formal words like a peace offering. “Your resources will be invaluable to our cause.”
“Yes, they will,” she agrees, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Now go rest. You’ll need your strength for what’s to come.”
I bow slightly, the gesture more habit than genuine deference, and turn to leave. As I reach the door, her voice stops me once more.
“Logan,” she calls, her tone suddenly serious. “Remember that a king who cannot protect the most vulnerable of his subjects is no king at all. He’s simply a tyrant with a crown.”
The words follow me as I make my way through the palace corridors, echoing in my mind with uncomfortable persistence. A king who cannot protect the most vulnerable. A tyrant with a crown.
Is that what I’m becoming? So focused on the grand strategy, on the throne itself, that I’ve lost sight of why I wanted it in the first place?
No. I refuse to believe that. The throne is the means, not the end. The power to create real change, lasting change. To build a kingdom where what happened to Maya never happens again.
But grandmother’s words have planted a seed of doubt that I can’t quite shake. What good is a future victory if we allow present suffering to continue unchecked? What kind of king would I be if I prioritize strategy over the immediate needs of those I claim to protect?
These questions plague me as I make my way back to my chambers, each step sending fresh pain through my injured ribs. A physical reminder of the cost of confrontation, of the price we’re all paying for this rebellion.
A price that seems to grow steeper with each passing day.
CHAPTER 26
Poe
The night air carries the metallic promise of rain, though the sky remains stubbornly clear. I move along the perimeter wall of the summer palace, my footsteps deliberately silent on the ancient stones. Three hours into my watch, and so far I’ve cataloged seventeen potential security vulnerabilities, four guard rotations with predictable patterns, and one gardener who’s either terrible at his job or deliberately creating hiding spots among the topiary.
I make a mental note to mention the gardener to Cillian. He’s been obsessively reviewing the Queen Mother’s security protocols since we arrived, finding flaws where even I see none. The man never rests—a quality I’d admire if it weren’t slowly killing him.
A shadow moves on a second-floor balcony, drawing my attention like a beacon. I freeze, instinctively melting into the darkness beneath a gnarled oak. The figure is draped in flowing fabric, face obscured, but the posture speaks of advanced age carried with dignity.
Not an intruder, then. Something far more dangerous.
The Queen Mother.
I debate my options. Continue my patrol, pretending I haven’t seen her? Announce my presence and risk her displeasure at being observed? Neither choice appeals, but protocol demands acknowledgment of the royal presence.
“Your Highness,” I call, pitching my voice just loud enough to reach her without alerting the entire palace. “Forgive the interruption.”
