Maybe she never planned to keep me safe forever. Maybe she was teaching me how to stand alone when the walls closed in, how to breathe through fear and make decisions under pressure. Every lesson she hid inside our ordinary days was a training drill for this moment.
My hands shake as I trace the spot on my chest where the sigil appeared. The skin feels normal now, no trace of the mark that condemned me. But I can still feel it beneath the surface, waiting. Along with the crescent moon sigil that’s been there all my life – two opposing forces living in the same body.
Sun and moon. Pain and healing. Father and Mother.
I remember the stories Astrid told me – rumours she overheard herb traders whispering – about the purges after the war. How they hunted down anyone with royal Sun blood, anyone who might carry a claim to that power. Swift executions, no trials. They called it justice. They called it necessary. The door will open soon, and guards will come for me. Maybe they’ll make it quick.
When the door finally grinds open, I flinch. But it’s not an execution squad – it’s Cardinal Maria, flanked by white-armoured guards. Her expression is unreadable.
“Lady Cyra.” The title sounds foreign in her mouth. “The Cardinals have reached a decision regarding your … unique situation.”
I stand slowly, fighting the withdrawal symptoms that make my hands shake. My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “You’re going to execute me.”
Her expression shifts – not quite a look of sympathy, but close. “No. We are not.”
The words don’t make sense. I stare at her, waiting for the caveat, the condition that will make this mercy into another kind of death.
“Ancient law is clear,” she continues. “Any direct descendant of a ruling House has the right to compete for succession at the Conclave.” She pauses, letting that sink in. “You are hereby declared a legitimate contender for the position of Solar Sovereign.”
The chamber tilts. I reach for the wall to steady myself.
“I don’t understand. My father – the things he did?—”
“Werehiscrimes, not yours.” Cardinal Maria’s voice carries the heaviness of a decision she clearly didn’t make lightly. “But I won’t pretend this is solely about justice, Lady Cyra. If we execute you, every House would claim the Cardinals silenced a legitimate contender out of fear. The Conclave would fracture. Your survival, inconvenient as it is, has become our only path to maintaining stability.”
So that’s it. I’m alive because killing me would cause more problems than it would solve.
The relief that floods through me is bitter and complicated.
“You are required to appoint an advisor before the second trial,”Cardinal Maria continues. “Someone who will represent your interests, assist with strategy, and speak on your behalf as needed.”
My answer is immediate. “Astrid. My friend, on Mars. I wish to appoint her.”
The Cardinal blinks. “Your …friendon Mars? Not a noble, or a scholar, a commander…?”
“Yes, my friend.” My voice is firm. “I trust her more than anyone.”
Cardinal Maria draws a slow breath. “Very well. We will summon her. You should know from personal experience, Lady Cyra, that appointing someone outside the political houses will be studied closely. Some will view it as weakness, some as defiance...”
“I don’t care,” I reply. “Astrid is who I appoint as my advisor.”
A faint shift crosses her features, a combination of resignation and respect. She straightens, bringing the conversation back under her control.
“There is more you must understand,” she says. “Word of your revelation has already reached every planet. Lord Castor is calling for inquiries into magical interference during the trial.” She shakes her head once, weary. “You are being watched from every direction. And that puts you in considerable danger.”
She moves toward the door, then pauses. “We will provide you with security. The political situation is … volatile. I suggest you trust very few people in the coming days, Lady Cyra.”
When she leaves, only one guard remains. A woman I recognize from our arrival – the one with platinum blonde hair cropped short in a masculine cut. She looks to be a few years older than me, her skin almost luminous against the black of her tactical gear, with the kind of flawless complexion that makes me wonder if she’s ever spent a day in the sun.
Her face is angular, with a strong aquiline nose that suits her perfectly, a jaw that’s square and uncompromising. Her lips are full but pressed into a neutral line, the kind of mouth that looks like it doesn’t smile often but would be devastating when it does. Her eyes are bright blue – not soft or warm, but sharp and crystalline, like a winter sky reflected in ice. Her build is lean and powerful, and she stands with perfect posture, weight balanced, ready to move in any direction at amoment’s notice. She wears gear fitted close for mobility – the way it accentuates her athletic frame is impossible to ignore.
Everything about her radiates controlled danger.
I realize, with a sudden flush of heat, that I find her breathtaking. It’s different from how I react to Zevran’s commanding presence … this is immediate and physical – an awareness of her body, the way she moves, the strength in her stance. The kind of attraction that makes my mouth go dry and my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
I assume she’s just another guard until she speaks.
“Agent Ren. I’ll be handling your security.” Her voice is dry, matter-of-fact. “The Cardinals assigned me because I’m very good at keeping people alive who probably shouldn’t be.”
