I’m imagining things. The stress, the withdrawal, the strangeness of this place. That’s all.
As I proceed to walk in, I find Lord Zevran standing near a fountain, one arm braced on the edge, his back turned. Even from behind, I notice the taut set of his shoulders, as though holding back either pain or fury, I can’t tell which.
When he hears my footsteps, he straightens, masking whatever strain lingered there.
“Miss Cyra.”
He turns. The dying light outlines the sharp lines of his face, the dark cut of his jaw. There’s no armour now, no audience – just him in a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, steel eyes watchful and tired.
“Sit,” he says, motioning to a stone bench.
I hesitate, the air between us humming like it wants to close the distance. The man himself radiates caution, walls firmly up in place. I slowly sit, not entirely sure what else to do.
He joins me, leaving a deliberate space between us, posture stiff as if afraid to relax. For a long moment, we sit in silence, filled only by the fountain’s trickle. His jaw flexes, then eases, like he’s debating whether to speak at all.
“No satchel full of healer tricks?” he finally asks, blunt but not unkind.
“I don’t need them,” I reply quietly.
His eyes pass over me, sharp and assessing. There’s something less guarded in his stare than before, a hairline crack in the armour.
“Your mother didn’t either. Isn’t that what the Daughters of the Moon are known for?” he asks.
“I’m not a Daughter of the Moon,” I reply.
He pauses, confused. “But … you have their powers … you can heal just like they did. Your mother trained you to be one, didn’t she?”
I could read his hesitation before he spoke, the tiny stillness at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked away when he mentioned my mother. A combination of inherited ability and years of healing has trained me to listen to what people don’t say as much as what they do.
I stay silent for a moment, considering what I should say versus what I shouldn’t. “There’s a ritual one must go through before officially becoming a Daughter of the Moon. It’s only possible to go through the rite once every nine years, when the lunar veil opens and the calling happens, where the Moon either claims you or turns you away...”
I pause, feeling the weight of what I’m about to admit settle in my chest.
“I was planning to go through the next one, but … Ineedmy mother there. I can’t do it without her, and I’d feel like a cheat if I declared I was a Daughter without enduring the ritual.”
“That’s admirably moral of you,” he says. His voice almost softens, though it sounds like he doesn’t quite know how.
“Your Grace…” I turn to look up at him, eager to drown out the craving clawing at me. “Why do you need a healer?”
He exhales, low and strained. “It’s grown worse. The longer I go without healing, the more it spreads. No one can diagnose it. All Iknow is, from the very first conscious memory I have, my bones have always felt like they’re burning from the inside.”
I glance at him. “That sounds like a horrible way to exist…”
His brows furrow, as though he resents the admission. “Rulers who bleed don’t live long.” The words are flat, but I hear the truth buried beneath them. He learned a long time ago that any weakness for him is a liability, and a chronic illness is the worst possible scenario. No wonder he wears coldness like armour. It strikes me then what a lonely way that must be to live.
“Why me?” I ask, finally. “You could have a hundred palace medics – you could find the best priests?—”
“I did. Nothing I tried worked … until I met Liora,” he says. His voice dips when he says it.
I swallow. “Do you know what happened to my mother?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the setting sun.
“No. I wish I did.” he says, finally.
He meets my eyes, and for the first time since arriving at this palace, I feel like I’ve received an honest answer.
“Your mother didn’t just heal bodies – she counselled minds, listened to secrets. The kind of knowledge that makes powerful people nervous.”
