“Loyal,” she repeats, testing the word like a suspicious food. “An interesting choice of term, given recent events.”
I tense slightly beneath her hand, though I doubt she can feel it through the layers of fabric separating us. “Recent events have tested many loyalties, Your Highness. But not broken them.”
“Haven’t they?” She stops walking, turning to face me fully. In the moonlight, her age shows more clearly—the fine lines around her eyes, the slight loosening of skin beneath her jaw. But those golden eyes remain sharp as ever, missing nothing. “Tell me, Poe. Does loyalty extend to helping a prince force a bond on an unwilling Omega?”
The question lands like a physical blow, though I maintain my neutral expression through years of practice. “I wasn’t present for that particular event.”
“But you’ve stayed with him since,” she presses. “Continued to serve him, to protect him, to carry out his will. Some might call that complicity.”
“Some might,” I acknowledge. “Others might recognize that loyalty doesn’t mean blind obedience. That true service sometimes requires questioning, challenging, even opposing when necessary.”
She studies me for a long moment, her golden eyes unreadable in the moonlight. “And have you? Questioned? Challenged? Opposed?”
I think of the confrontation in the safehouse, of standing against Logan for the first time in our long association. Of thegrowing distance between us, the fracturing trust, the choices that have led us to this precarious position.
“When necessary,” I reply simply.
The Queen Mother’s lips curve in a smile that contains more calculation than warmth. “I’ve heard interesting rumors about your activities at court,” she says, changing tack with the abruptness I’m beginning to recognize as characteristic. “Particularly regarding your...interactions with the female Omegas of court.”
I keep my expression carefully neutral, hoping to reveal nothing.
“Court is full of rumors, Your Highness. Most are exaggerated, if not entirely fabricated.”
“Indeed,” she agrees, resuming our slow circuit of the balcony. “But where there’s smoke, one often finds at least embers, if not a full conflagration. And the smoke surrounding you, Poe, suggests a man with a…complex history.”
I remain silent, unwilling to confirm or deny anything without understanding her purpose in raising the subject.
“Is that what drives your commitment to this rebellion?” she asks after a moment. “A desire to protect Omegas from the fate my son would consign them to? Or is it something more personal?”
The question is expertly crafted—a trap disguised as insight, designed to provoke either defensive denial or revealing confirmation. I sidestep it entirely.
“My commitment is to this pack,” I say simply. “To our collective survival.”
“How admirably straightforward,” she replies, though her tone suggests she finds it anything but. “And yet, I wonder if that’s the complete truth. Men like you—men accustomed to operating in shadows, to doing what others cannot or will not—rarely act from such uncomplicated motives.”
I consider my response carefully, weighing the risks of honesty against the potential cost of being caught in a lie. The Queen Mother has resources we desperately need—shelter, information, political connections. Antagonizing her would be tactically unwise.
But there’s something in her manner that suggests she values truth, however unpalatable, over comforting falsehoods.
“The king’s vision for Melilla is unsustainable,” I say finally. “His treatment of Omegas is not merely cruel but shortsighted. A society that consumes its most vulnerable members eventually collapses under the weight of its own corruption.”
“A political assessment,” she observes. “Not a personal one.”
“The personal and political are often inseparable, Your Highness. Especially for those of us who serve the crown.”
She laughs, the sound startling in the quiet night. “Well parried, Poe. You’ve clearly learned from my grandson’s diplomatic training.” Her golden eyes fix on mine, suddenly serious. “But I’m not interested in diplomatic answers. I’m interested in understanding the man who might soon be advising the next king of Melilla.”
The implication—that she sees me continuing in my role should Logan take the throne—catches me off guard. Given recent tensions, I’m not entirely certain of my place in Logan’s future court, assuming he survives long enough to establish one.
“You assume much about the future, Your Highness.”
“I assume nothing,” she corrects. “I calculate probabilities based on available information. And my calculations suggest that despite whatever... tensions may currently exist, you remain essential to my grandson’s success.”
I say nothing, unwilling to reveal the extent of those tensions or my own uncertainty about what comes next.
The Queen Mother sighs, a sound of genuine weariness rather than theatrical effect. “Let me be direct, since you seemdetermined to match evasion with evasion. I need to know if you are fully committed to this rebellion, to placing Logan on the throne. Not just in word, but in deed. Because what comes next will require absolute commitment from all involved.”
“And if I’m not?” I ask, testing the boundaries of her tolerance. “If my loyalty has limits?”
