My hands shake as I read. The craving stirs in me, a desperate ache with no outlet.
That’s when I hear bootsteps cut across the quiet.
Lord Zevran finds me huddled over a book. He pulls me away from the table and into a shadowed alcove, his jaw set. “You stood in that hall like a stunned bird.”
I rip my arm free. “Maybe because Iwasstunned.What was that?”
“Every Conclave participant must bring one advisor. The court expected me to choose Vance, or Nael – men with their own agendas.” His arms fold tight across his chest. “I chose you because I need someone I can trust. I also need to be healed – I can’t let anyone sense even a hint of weakness, now more than ever.”
I blink. “You trust me?”
He wouldn’t if he knew the truth about me.
He leans closer, voice low. “Cyra … I need you.”
His words cause my heart to quicken its pace – but I can feel frustration building in the back of my mind.
“You’ve made me atarget,” I snap. “They’re already asking questions – about my family, my past.”
“So? Let them.” Suspicion crosses Lord Zevran’s face. “Whatexactlyare you afraid they’ll find, Cyra?”
For a moment, I encourage the silence between us as I think.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “I feel like I’m being dragged into all these games I don’t understand.”
I watch as his expression softens, hopeful he’s able to empathize with my anxieties.
“Do you want me to withdraw the appointment?” He asks quietly.
For a moment, the safer answer tempts me. Then I think of the staff who’ve shared whispers about my mother’s disappearance, of contacts my mother might have known among the other Houses or the Cardinals … and of Lord Zevran, who would face each trial weakened, struggling to survive with a body that’s slowly breaking down…
“No,” I whisper. “But I’ll be looking for answers. About Mother. Whether that helps you or not.”
“Then we’ll find out together,” he says. But his gaze tells me he knows I’m holding something back. “Our transporter ship will be ready by morning.”
That night, I pack in silence as my thoughts spiral. The Mars-red robes feel heavy in my hands as I gently fold them into my leather satchel.
I’ll just have to keep my head down, stay as invisible as possible. I’ll only ask questions about Mother if an opportunity presents itself. Otherwise, I won’t talk, I won’t make eye contact, I won’t draw any attention. If I’m lucky, most of the House leaders will be too pompous to acknowledge my existence.
But I can’t subdue the painful knot growing in my stomach.
Because sooner or later, someone might look at me too closely and notice the hint of gold in my eyes … the same infamous, insatiable hunger for magic…
And see not just a healer.
But the daughter of the Sun King.
Iclutch the bedframe until the tremor eases.
No one can know who I am. They would destroy me if they found out.
The withdrawal is no longer subtle. My hands shake as I try to fold another robe into my bag, half-packed beside me. Sweat beads along my hairline, my skin hypersensitive to every brush of fabric.
It’s been two days since I last healed His Grace. Ever since the northern outpost attack last week, our nightly sessions have been unpredictable, sometimes cancelled last minute, sometimes rescheduled. The last session was exactly forty-eight hours ago. Two days of my body screaming for the release only magic can provide.
I press my palms flat against the bed, trying to steady the tremors. The crescent moon sigil on my chest pulses with a dull ache – not the bright luminosity of active magic, but the hollow emptiness of denial. My stomach churns as I swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat.
A corridor bell chimes somewhere in the palace: twelve hours until we leave for Talis.
