“Then you should leave now,” she says simply. “Take whatever supplies you need and disappear. Because half-measures and divided loyalties will get you killed—and possibly my grandson as well.”
The blunt assessment is refreshing after the verbal sparring. I consider her words, weighing them against my own conflicted feelings about Logan, about Maya, about the rebellion we’re building on such uncertain foundations.
“I’m committed to overthrowing the king,” I say finally. “To ending the fertility clinics, to creating a Melilla where Omegas aren’t treated as property to be exploited. Whether that means Logan on the throne or someone else... that depends on Logan himself.”
The Queen Mother’s eyebrows rise slightly, genuine surprise flickering across her features. “You would consider supporting another claimant?”
“If necessary,” I admit. “Though it’s not my preference.”
She studies me for a long moment, her golden eyes unreadable in the moonlight. Then she nods, a single sharp movement that seems to settle something in her mind.
“Good,” she says, surprising me. “Blind loyalty is a weakness in a king’s advisor. Critical support, tempered by principle, is far more valuable.”
“You’re not angry that I might abandon your grandson for another candidate?”
“Abandon? No.” She shakes her head, silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. “You’ve just told me you’re committed to thecause, even if Logan proves unsuitable. That’s not abandonment—it’s pragmatism. And pragmatism is what will win this war, not romantic notions of undying fealty.”
I reassess the Queen Mother, seeing her in a new light. This is not just a dowager seeking to place her favorite grandson on the throne. This is a political strategist playing a much longer game, with objectives that may not entirely align with Logan’s own.
“What exactly do you want from me, Your Highness?” I ask, cutting through the remaining pretense.
She smiles, apparently appreciating the directness. “Information, for now. An accurate assessment of our position, our resources, our chances. And later, perhaps, action of the kind you’re particularly suited to perform.”
Assassination, she means. The removal of obstacles that can’t be overcome through political maneuvering alone. It’s what I’ve always done for Logan, but hearing it suggested so casually by his grandmother gives me pause.
“And in return?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
“My continued support,” she says simply. “My resources, my connections, my protection. All of which your rebellion desperately needs if it’s to have any chance of success.”
She’s right, of course. Without the Queen Mother’s backing, our chances of successfully challenging the king drop from slim to virtually nonexistent. We need her—or at least, we need what she offers.
But alliances built on mutual necessity rarely survive once that necessity passes. And the Queen Mother strikes me as someone who plans several moves ahead in any game she plays.
“I’ll consider your proposal,” I say, careful not to commit either way. “And discuss it with Logan.”
“No,” she says, her voice suddenly sharp. “This arrangement remains between us. Logan has many admirable qualities,but subtlety in political matters is not among them. He would...misunderstand.”
The request confirms my suspicions—the Queen Mother is playing her own game, with objectives that may overlap with Logan’s but are not identical. She’s hedging her bets, creating contingencies in case her grandson proves unsuitable for the role she envisions.
“You’re asking me to keep secrets from him,” I observe. She doesn’t need to know I’ve been doing much the same thing on my own. “That’s a significant request.”
“I’m asking you to serve the greater cause,” she corrects. “To recognize that sometimes, the path to victory requires compartmentalization of information. Surely that’s not a foreign concept to someone in your position.”
Again, she’s right. I’ve kept plenty from Logan over the years—the details of certain operations, the methods used to acquire sensitive information, the identities of sources who would rather remain anonymous. But those were tactical omissions, not strategic ones.
This feels different. More significant. A potential betrayal rather than a simple withholding.
“I’ll need time to consider,” I say finally. “This isn’t a decision to be made hastily.”
The Queen Mother inclines her head, accepting this with surprising grace. “Of course. But don’t take too long. Events are moving more quickly than even I anticipated.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly alert to the implication that she knows something we don’t.
“My sources report increased activity around the fertility clinics,” she says, her voice dropping lower despite the apparent privacy of our location. “The first subjects have already been processed. The program is accelerating.”
We knew the clinics were operational, but the timeline suggested by the Queen Mother’s information is far more aggressive than we anticipated. If women have already been taken there, then our window for action is closing rapidly.
“How many clinics?” I ask, shifting mentally from diplomatic mode to tactical assessment.
