His expression flickers, almost imperceptibly. Something crossesthose storm-grey eyes … surprise? Grief? It’s gone before I can name it, his face settling back into cold authority. The crowd’s murmurs die down to uncomfortable silence.
“I require a healer. You will replace your mother effective immediately. The guards will see you to your chambers.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he turns away before I can speak, those broad shoulders dismissing me as effectively as words.
My mind races:My chambers? Mother was only needed once per day at the palace, usually returning home just before nightfall. But they want me to stay night and day … why does it feel like I’m being held captive?
All around me, the crowd begins to disperse. The whispers begin again, but now there is an edge to their mutterings. As I turn to leave, not a single person meets my eyes. It’s as if they all know not to ask questions about the missing healer.
The guards escort me back to the hallway. This time, they lead me through a maze of corridors and staircases. We pass rooms with doors standing open – libraries with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a dining hall with a table long enough to seat fifty, a conservatory with plants growing lush behind glass. The walls are lined with more tapestries, portraits of stern-faced Mars lords in armour, weapons mounted on plaques. Servants in red and grey uniforms scatter as we approach, pressing themselves against the walls with lowered eyes. We climb a narrow spiral staircase, the steps worn smooth in the centre from centuries of use, until finally we end up in front of a small wooden door near the top of a tower.
I’m still trying to process everything as I turn to them. “I didn’t pack any clothes, or any?—”
“You will find everything you need in there.” The guard interrupts, opening the door with a creak. “His Grace requests your presence for supper at sunset.” His tone is clipped, formal.
I enter the room gingerly. It’s small, barely larger than the main room of our cottage, with a single narrow window that overlooks the courtyard far below. The walls are bare red stone, cold and unadorned except for a single oil lamp mounted beside the door. As I look around, I spot a small wardrobe in the corner, simple dark wood with one doorswung open. It’s full of dark coloured clothes and robes – greys and deep reds, the kind of clothes that lower members of the court wear here. The bed is small but neatly made, pushed against the far wall with a thin grey blanket tucked tight across the mattress. A wooden chest sits at its foot. There’s a separate washroom in the corner, barely more than a closet – through the half-open door I can see a basin, a small mirror hung on the wall, and some basic toiletries on the edge of the sink. A bar of soap. A comb.
The guards shut the door of the room roughly behind me without another word.
I collapse on the edge of the bed, exhausted in every way imaginable. But the sheets are stiff, the stone walls bleed a draft, and nothing carries the warmth of our firelit cottage. No herbs drying from the rafters. No scent of Mother’s tea. Just cold stone and silence.
I wish my mother were here. What I wouldn’t give to be able to ask her everything I need to know, to give her a hug…
Her satchel is sitting on the nightstand, brought up by the footmen when we first arrived. I reach for it, hugging it to my chest, breathing in her smell of lavender and herbs off the worn leather … until a faint rustle catches my attention.
I dig around and find a folded piece of parchment in the topmost pocket. I spot my name on the front, scribbled in script.
Mother’s handwriting is rushed, desperate:
“If you’re reading this, trust no one at court.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Iam summoned to dinner just as the red sun begins to dip beneath the horizon.
The dining hall is gilded in firelight, its vaulted ceiling dripping with crystal orbs that catch the glow and scatter it across the room, reminiscent of falling stars. Tapestries line the walls – Mars victories woven in crimson thread against gold backgrounds, battle scenes frozen mid-strike. The air is warm, almost stifling, scented with roasted spices and the faint metallic tang of polished bronze.
I fidget with my long sleeves as I stand in the entryway. I chose an all-black, modest court dress from the wardrobe, long in every aspect and sprinkled with a few swirling patterns of signature House Mars gold. The fabric is finer than anything I’ve ever worn, but it feels like a costume. I hate that all the clothes I’ve been given have a hint of gold. Reminds me too much of the sun. Ofhim.
In the middle of the decadent room lies a beautiful mahogany table too large for two people. Crystal goblets and silver cutlery sit next to ornate plates, all arranged perfectly and equally to the other.
Lord Zevran stands when I enter, unfolding to his full height with controlled grace. I don’t know if it’s courtesy or calculation, but it unsettles me all the same. His coat gleams bronze at the seams, fitted perfectly across his shoulders, and his wavy dark blond hair is swept back from his face. His expression is unreadable, eyes tracking my approach.
“Miss Cyra,” he says smoothly, not blinking as he studies me.
“Your Grace,” I manage, keeping my voice even.
He gestures for me to sit opposite him. Servants appear like shadows,uncovering platters laden with Mars delicacies – golden paella studded with saffron-infused rice underneath, sliced chorizo beside roasted red peppers, everything drizzled with olive oil that catches the firelight. I notice the way the servants move with barely contained excitement, stealing glances at us when they think we’re not looking. One young man nearly drops a silver platter, catching it just in time with flushed cheeks. Another whispers something to her companion as they retreat, their eyes bright with curiosity.
This doesn’t happen often, I realize.Perhaps it doesn’t happen at all.It’s as if the servants aren’t used to serving two. I wonder if Mother ever sat across from him like this when she first arrived, or if she was simply told her duties without ceremony. There’s something deliberate about this dinner, something that feels like an effort he’s making, though I can’t fathom why.
I have no appetite. My eyes keep catching on the faint tremor of his left hand where it rests near his crystal goblet, the tightness in his jaw as if he’s grinding back pain.
We eat in silence. Or rather, he eats. I only push food around my plate, trying to find words that won’t betray how badly I’m shaking.
At last, I whisper, “Why am I here, Your Grace?”
His gaze flicks up. “Because you’re hungry, I assume.”
