I’m quiet for a moment, letting the magic do its work. “It’s small … we have a cottage on the edge of the village, near the woods. My mother keeps an herb garden … but it never grows quite right – the soil is too rocky, and the red sandstorms don’t help.”
Lord Zevran’s eyes lock onto mine. It’s almost as if he’s suddenly inspired, the way his eyes shine and his lips turn upward into a near a smile. “Do you help her with the garden?”
“Every day. We constantly review which plants can heal and which can kill … medicinal herbs are one of the very first things she ever taught me about, probably because we have that garden. Over the years it progressed … how to prepare tinctures, mix teas … then her teachings evolved into more advanced things, like how to set bones, stitch wounds.” I pause. “I started healing in the market district when I was a teenager, to help make ends meet.”
“Do you miss any of it?”
I think about the cozy cottage … Mother … Astrid … I pull my hands back, the healing complete. “I miss the people who made it feel like home.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice has lost its edge. “I understand.”
The words come out rougher than usual, weighted with grief, maybe. Or loneliness that runs deeper than empty rooms.
I study his face. The guarded expression has softened, just slightly. There’s no performance in the way he looks now. Just a man who knows exactly what it feels like to lose the people who mattered.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. For the healing session, for this moment of honesty, for letting me see past the armour … I’m not sure which.
He nods once, and I wonder if he understands what I’m really thanking him for.
The next morning, I arrive at the war room just before dawn. It’s a circular chamber in the north tower, dominated by a massive table carved with a map of Mars and the surrounding territories. The stone here is darker than the rest of the palace, almost black, and the air smells faintly of mildew. Commander Nael is already there, along with two officers I recognize from the palace guard. One is a middle-aged woman, with broad-shoulders and cropped black hair. The other is a man – younger, maybe twenty, with bright red hair and the rigid posture of someone who hasn’t learned to relax even in private.
When I enter, they all look up. The silence feels pointed.
“Miss Cyra,” Commander Nael says, his tone carefully neutral. “We weren’t expecting?—”
“She’s here at my invitation,” Lord Zevran says, entering behindme. His boots echo on the stone floor as he crosses to the table. He gestures to an empty chair. “Sit.”
I take the seat, aware of the officers watching me. The carved map beneath my hands is worn smooth in places, like generations of commanders have traced the same routes with their fingers. The briefing begins. Reports from the border, supply chain updates, scout sightings near the eastern ridge. I listen, trying to absorb the flood of information, the military terminology I barely understand.
But as the discussion continues, the words begin to form patterns I can almost see, connections that shimmer at the edges of my awareness like moonlight on water. The supply routes, the timing, the mountain passes. It’s not logic exactly, more like instinct pulling my attention to the gaps between what’s said and what isn’t.
Halfway through, Lord Zevran looks at me. “The supply issue. Thoughts?”
Every eye in the room turns to me. My mouth goes dry.
“I—” I glance at the map, at the marked routes. The answer rises in me unbidden, certain. “The caravans are leaving too late. They’re getting caught in the mountain passes after dark. If they left earlier, before the morning inspections instead of after, they’d clear the pass before sunset.”
Silence. Then Commander Nael leans forward, studying the map. “That … could work.”
“Adjust the schedule,” His Grace says. “Anything else?”
It unnerves me how quickly he trusts my instincts. He has commanders with decades of experience. He grew up in these halls, trained to rule and fight and decipher strategy. Yet he listens to me with a focus that feels almost dangerous. I don’t know whether it’s loneliness, desperation, or something else entirely.
The session continues. I contribute twice more, small observations, minor suggestions. Nothing earth-shattering. By the end, the officers are looking at me differently. I’m looking at myself differently too, wondering where these insights come from, this clarity that feels less like thinking and more like knowing. Mother used to say the Moon didn’t just mark those with power, it whispered to them if they learned to listen. Maybe this is what she meant.
After they file out, Lord Zevran lingers. “You did well.”
I can’t help but look down at my hands. “I barely said anything.”
“You said the right things. That’s harder.” He moves to the window, looking out over the city. “Most advisors talk to hear themselves speak. You talk when you have something worth saying.”
“Is that why you invited me? To make your other advisors look bad by comparison?”
He turns back to me. “I invited you because you don’t want anything from me.”
I furrow my brow. “I?—”
“Power. Influence. A higher position at court.” He crosses his arms. “Everyone else in every room is angling for something. Building alliances, positioning themselves for advancement. You’re just trying to survive.”
