We move through the hall toward a larger chamber at the far end. My boots click against cold marble underfoot, polished so smooth I can almost see my reflection. Then the corridor opens into a vast room, and I stop short.
The court.
Dozens of people dressed in elaborate silks and brocade mill about in clusters, their voices a low hum of conversation that cuts off when we enter. I recognize the quality of the fabrics immediately – imported from Venus, the kind only the richest market stalls offer, and that cost more than our cottage. The women wear gowns with layered skirts and fitted bodices, their hair piled high and decorated with jeweled pins. The men are in tailored jackets with brass buttons, high collars, their faces clean-shaven or beards neatly trimmed. Everything here is pristine, expensive, untouched by the red dust that coats everything in the lower districts.
The crowd shifts as we enter, bodies turning to stare. Conversations stop mid-sentence. I catch glimpses of wealth I’ve never seen – ringson every finger, necklaces dripping with stones, a woman with a small mechanical bird perched on her shoulder that ticks and whirs. But beneath the finery, I see other things too: bandaged fingers hidden under lace gloves, the way one lord in dark burgundy favours his left side when he shifts his weight, a lady in pale blue winces when she bows to someone passing.
My palms start to burn. The hunger rises, sharp and immediate.
As I try to make myself small near the back of the room – scanning faces for anyone who might have worked with Mother – a woman in elaborate scarlet robes approaches me. She’s perhaps fifty, with short dark hair cut in a practical style just under her chin, strands of grey shining throughout. Her face is marked by fine lines around her mouth, and her brown eyes suggest someone who’s spent years studying suffering up close.
“You must be Liora’s daughter,” she says without preamble. “You look so much like her, even down to almost the same eyes…”
I blink, startled. Her compliment lands like a warning. I nod slightly, avoiding any light that might reflect gold in my green eyes.
“Oh, I–You know my mother?”
“Lady Vera, Court Physician,” she introduces herself with a small bow of her head. Her hands are long-fingered and steady, the hands of someone who’s performed surgery in battlefield tents. “I’ve worked alongside your mother on several occasions. She has a gift for the cases that stump the rest of us.”
“What kind of cases?” Curiosity edges my voice.
Lady Vera’s eyes grow thoughtful. “Trauma, mostly. Soldiers who’d been through too much, who couldn’t sleep or eat, couldn’t function despite having no visible wounds. Your mother can reach places that medicine can’t touch. If a battle was close, she would even venture off to the frontlines to help.”
She pauses, studying my face as my eyes widen in shock. “She spoke of you often, before she went missing. Never by name, always as ‘my daughter,’ but with such pride. She said you had inherited the true gift, not just the techniques. His Grace made the right decision, asking you to replace her.”
Before I can ask what she means, a young woman in servant’sclothing approaches hesitantly. Lady Vera nods encouragingly, and the servant steps forward.
“Miss, I’m sorry to interrupt, but – your mother, she helped my family too. My little brother, he was born wrong – couldn’t breathe right, the physicians said he wouldn’t live to see his first year.” Her eyes shine with gratitude. “Miss Liora came to our home in the lower quarters. Didn’t ask for payment, didn’t make us beg. She spent three hours with him, and when she left…” The woman’s voice breaks slightly. “He’s four now. Healthy and strong.”
These stories paint a picture of my mother as not just a healer, but someone who treated the poor and powerful alike. Someone who helped everyone, someone brave enough to rush into violent situations without a second thought. I should be proud.
Yet … my heart aches.
Why didn’t I know any of this? Why didn’t I know these facets of my Mother? Why would she keep this from me?
My thoughts stop as a hush falls over the crowd. That’s when I notice, at the far end of the room, an elegant throne on a raised platform of black stone. The throne itself is carved from a single massive piece of red marble, polished until it gleams in the firelight. The arms are shaped like coiled serpents, their scales so detailed I can make out individual plates, their mouths open as if ready to strike. The high back rises at least seven feet, inlaid with copper that’s been hammered and worked into an intricate pattern of flames climbing upward, licking toward the peaked top. The seat is fitted with deep crimson cushions, the fabric so rich it almost looks wet. Above the throne hangs the banner of House Mars – crossed swords buried in flames, the sigil embroidered in gold thread that catches every flicker of light.
Waiting at the top of the platform, standing rather than sitting, is a man with fire in his eyes.
Lord Zevran.
Mother had rarely spoken of him during her years working at the palace. When she did mention Mars’s lord, it was always in passing, brief comments about his temperament and demands. Never about what he looked like, never about who he was beyond being her patient. I’d pieced together fragments – young for a ruler, battle-hardened. Butstanding here now, I realize I’d built an image in my mind that bears no resemblance to reality.
He’s younger than I expected, maybe early thirties. Tall. Broad. Radiating command like a second skin. He clenches a strong jaw that looks like it was carved rather than born, with a straight nose that has a slight crook at the bridge, suggesting it’s been broken at least once. His dark blond hair falls in messy waves that somehow look intentional, pushed back from his forehead but rebellious enough to soften the severity of his features. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive – a striking shade of grey.
The guards who escorted me here appear on either side of me once again, and they motion for me to follow. The crowd parts as we walk up to the platform, and the whole room bows as we approach. I attempt a shy head nod, not really sure what else to do. Heat creeps up my neck as every gaze drags over me, taking in my knotted blonde hair, my too-thin nose, the sun spots on my skin, my tattered boots. I am the opposite of everyone I see in the crowd.
The withdrawal chooses this moment to spike through my nerves, making my hands tremble. Addiction to magic is rare and despised, and there has only ever been one other infamous case of it happening. The Sun King.
No one can know.
“So this is Liora’s daughter,” Lord Zevran says coolly, his lips barely parting but his voice carrying. Those grey eyes pin me in place, and I notice a small scar cutting through his left eyebrow – white against olive skin, old enough to have faded but deep enough to have left its mark.
My throat constricts. Every instinct screams at me to bow deeper, apologize, fade into the background until he forgets I exist. The crowd’s disapproving murmurs feel like punches to the gut.
Mother’s missing face flashes in my mind, and I take a shaking breath.
“M-My mother is missing,” My voice comes out smaller than I intend, but nonetheless determined. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
