When I pull back, I notice the way Mother’s shoulders are still tense. The way her eyes don’t quite meet mine.
There’s something else – something she’s not telling me.
“Mother,” I start. “Is there?—”
“You need to get ready,” she says, standing quickly. “The Conclave vote. You don’t have much time.”
I don’t have time to push. Astrid helps me stand, steadying me as my legs threaten to give out. She catches my eye, and I see the same awareness there. She noticed it too.
Whatever Mother is hiding, it’s not small. But it will have to wait.
Islip inside the medical chamber where Ren is recovering.
She sits on the edge of a bed, her platinum hair disheveled and darkened with dried blood. A split runs through her left eyebrow, the skin around it already purpling. Her uniform is torn at the shoulder, and the way she holds herself – too carefully, breathing shallow – tells me her ribs are damaged.
She looks up when I enter, and the relief that crosses her face is immediately replaced by guilt.
“Lady Cyra.” She starts to stand, then winces and stops halfway.
“Don’t.” I cross the room quickly. “Sit. You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.” But her voice is tight with pain.
I kneel in front of her, my hands already moving toward her ribs before I can stop myself, the healer’s instinct automatic. I reach for my power, feeling it stir beneath my skin.
Ren’s hand catches my wrist, her grip gentle but firm.
“No,” she says quietly. “I don’t want to do that to you.”
The words hit harder than they should. Even now, injured and guilty and desperate, she’s protecting me from myself.
“Ren—”
“I should have been there.” Her eyes bore into mine. “I was supposed to protect you. Three men jumped me in the corridor, and I—” Her jaw clenches. “I almost had them. Ididhave them. But one got their hilt across the back of my head and I went down. When I woke up, Astrid told me what happened with Lady Isolde. That you were alone. That you nearly died.”
Her hand is still wrapped around my wrist. I can feel her pulse against my palm, rapid and uneven.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say. “They ambushed you specifically to keep you away from me. Three trained operatives, Ren. You fought them and almost won.”
“Almost doesn’t matter.” Her voice breaks slightly. “You could have died.”
“But I didn’t.”
“No thanks to me.”
I shift closer, moving my hands to hold hers. She flinches – not from pain, but from the intimacy of the gesture.
“Listen to me,” I say firmly. “You’ve been the only constant thing protecting me since I arrived at this cursed Conclave. One ambush doesn’t erase that.”
Her eyes close.
“I need to escort you to the vote,” she says, opening her eyes again. “I need to?—”
She tries to stand, getting halfway up before her ribs make her gasp and stumble. I catch her, steadying her, and for a moment we’re too close. Her breath is warm against my cheek, her body solid despite the injuries.
“You’re not escorting anyone in this condition,” I say gently.
“Lady Cyra?—”
