“Foresight,” I repeat. “So it’s true? Daughters of the Moon can see the future?”
“Some of us, yes. Not all.” Mother’s eyes meet mine. “I have the gift. It’s inconsistent – sometimes I can read the visions, other times I get it wrong…”
My heart pounds. “What did you see?”
“Many things. Possible futures, branching timelines, consequences of choices not yet made.” She takes a shaky breath. “Some time ago, I had a vision that changed everything. I saw the Conclave. I saw you revealed as the Sun King’s daughter. And I saw you die.”
The words hang in the air between us.
“In every timeline I could see, your identity was eventually discovered. In most futures, you died within days of the revelation. Assassinated, executed, killed by people who feared what you represented.”
“But … notallfutures,” I say slowly.
“Not all.” Mother’s grip tightens on my hands. “There was one path – narrow, precarious, but possible – that branched out intopossibilities where you survived. Where you not only survived but thrived – built alliances, changed the system, became something your father never could.”
“What made that one path special?”
“Lord Zevran.” She says his name carefully, watching my reaction. “In the futures where you lived, you were close to him when your identity was revealed – you were under his protection.”
Understanding crashes over me. “That’s why you mentioned me to him. Why you told him about your daughter with healing powers.”
“Yes.” Mother doesn’t look away. “I planted the seed months before the Conclave was even called. Made sure he knew I had a daughter, that she could help with his condition if he ever needed it. I knew he’d remember when the time came.”
“You manipulated him into bringing me.”
“I did, to save you.” Mother corrects gently. “The choice was still his. But yes, I … influenced events to create the possibility.”
“And the note you left? That I shouldn’t trust anyone at court?”
I watch as the corners of my mother’s mouth tighten. “I needed to make sure you wouldn’t tell anyone about your heritage too soon. If you had confided in anyone at the palace … you wouldn’t be here.”
Astrid makes a small sound beside me. When I glance at her, her expression is complicated – hurt and understanding warring on her face.
“And me?” Astrid asks quietly. “Was I part of your plan too?”
Mother’s gaze shifts to her, and I see guilt written across every line of her face.
“Your mother sent you to me before she died,” Mother says. “She had foresight too – stronger than mine, actually. She knew what was coming, and that she wouldn’t survive. She knew I’d need help raising Cyra. She sent you to me because she trusted me to keep you both safe.”
“And you did,” Astrid says, but there’s an edge to her voice. “You kept us safe. You trained me. You made sure I could protect Cyra. But you never told me why. You never explained that you were preparing me for this.”
“I couldn’t.” Mother’s voice breaks slightly. “If I’d told you what I saw, you would have tried to change it. Would have made different choices. The future I needed to create was so specific, so precise – any deviation could have led to Cyra’s death.”
The revelation sits heavy in the medical chamber. All those years of training, of preparation, of Mother guiding us both toward specific skills and knowledge. None of it was random. All of it was orchestrated.
The logic makes sense, but it doesn’t erase the hurt. Doesn’t fill the hollow ache of all those nights wondering if she was dead, if she’d abandoned me, if I’d ever see her again.
“Lord Lucien,” I suddenly remember. “He somehow knew where to find you. He told me you were gathering supporters…”
Mother’s eyes soften. “Eventually, after I had hid for some time, I knew it was safe to start reaching out to my networks. I knew you would need support from the people, not just the House Leaders.” Her grip on my shoulder tightens slightly. “I had worked for years and years to gain favours, building loyalty and trust with nobles and peasants and everyone in between. I called in those favours and asked for their support.” Mother’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry, little moon. I wanted to come to you every day. Wanted to hold you and tell you everything would be okay. But I couldn’t risk changing the path that led to your survival. Even if it meant you hated me for leaving.”
“I don’t hate you,” I whisper, and it’s true. I’m angry, hurt, confused – but I don’t hate her. “I just ... Ineededyou. Istillneed you.”
“I know.” She pulls me into an embrace, careful of my injuries. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”
I let myself sink into her arms, breathing in the familiar scent of healing herbs and lavender. For a moment, I’m six years old again, seeking comfort after a nightmare.
But the moment can’t last.
