I try to straighten, to pull the nightclothes back into place. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t.” She crosses the space between us. “I know, Lady Cyra. The way you gravitate toward anyone injured. The way your hands steady after healing sessions.”
Her words feel like a punch to the gut. I want to deny it. To deflect.
Instead, I nod.
“It’s worse than it’s ever been.” My voice cracks. “It’s accelerating.”
She reaches out and helps extract my arm from the tangled nightclothes, her touch professional. I look at her, really look. No disgust. No pity. Just the same steady calm she brings to everything.
“I thought you might judge me if you found out.” I whisper weakly.
“I’m not one to judge anything, Lady Cyra. I don’t think this makes you a bad person … not even close.” She moves to the wardrobe and retrieves my clothes. “We deal with this after the Conclave. Properly. Right now, you hold it together. You lead your team. You survive.”
She helps me into a light shirt, thin pants, and gold robes, her hands steadying me when I sway. The professional efficiency doesn’t quite mask the way her fingers linger at my shoulders, the way her breath catches slightly when our faces are close.
I watch her expression as she cinches the belt at my waist. “You didn’t tell them.”
Her hands still. She knows exactly what I mean.
“About Lord Lucien,” I continue. “You didn’t tell the Cardinals what you saw during the assassination attempt.”
Ren’s jaw shifts, barely perceptible. She finishes with the belt and steps back.
“The Cardinals spun their narrative,” she says. “Ignored everything that didn’t fit.” Her voice drops. “They care more about appearances than truth. More about maintaining power than protecting anyone.”
There it is. The crack in her loyalty I’ve been sensing for days.
“You protected me,” I say. “You could have told them what you saw … used it as leverage, or given them ammunition. Instead, you kept it to yourself.”
“I kept it to myself because I don’t trust their judgment anymore.” She meets my eyes. “Not after watching them lie to an entire assembly without flinching.”
The admission – saying it aloud – seems to shake something deep within her. I can see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she won’t quite let herself relax even here, alone with me.
“After the trial,” Ren says. “When this is over. We talk about what I saw that night. About Lord Lucien. About why he was there and what it means.” She pauses. “And we deal with your withdrawal.”
It’s not a question. Not a request.
“All right,” I say.
She nods once, then opens the door and resumes her professional mask. I follow her into the corridor, hyperaware of every place her hands touched me, every moment her composure cracked.
The withdrawal still claws at my insides. My hands still shake.
But I shove it down. Lock it away.
Right now, I don’t have the luxury of falling apart.
Right now, I have a team to lead.
The preparation chamber crackles with tension when we arrive. All the contenders are here, clustered in their House sections. Zevran near Mars, Isolde by Venus, Lord Castor prowling by Jupiter. The space feels charged, electric with anticipation.
Ren positions herself behind me. When my hands start to shake, I clasp them together.
Cardinal Benedict occupies the centre of the room, white and silverrobes immaculate. “The second trial begins in one hour. Teams will have thirty minutes to strategize before entering the Fractured Mirror. The first team to reach the central chamber and claim the Sovereign’s Crown will be declared victorious.”
He gestures to two separate side chambers. “Team One, to the left. Team Two, to the right. Use your time wisely.”
