“Now that Liora has disappeared, I’m concerned his decision-making will be compromised. The pain affects his judgment, makes him unpredictable. If the Cardinals call for a vote, Mars needs to present a strong leader?—”
“You’re questioning his ability to rule?”
“I’m questioning his ability to rule while suffering.” Commander Nael’s voice gentles slightly. “The new healer, Miss Cyra – perhaps she can help him the way Liora did. But keeping her here against her will, making her essentially a prisoner … that’s not the action of a clear-minded leader.”
My heart stutters at the mention of my name.
Commander Nael’s voice continues. “General, I’ve served Mars loyally for fifteen years. I’ve watched His Grace grow from a grieving boy into a strong leader. But this – this isn’t strength. This is fear.”
The conversation falls silent, and I quickly continue down the corridor before they emerge, Commander Nael’s words echoing in my mind:This isn’t strength. This is fear.
Iwake to the sound of bells I don’t recognize.
They aren’t the sharp, clanging alarms from the slums or the market’s desperate call for attention. These are deep, a heavy series of drums that vibrate through the air. A Martian battle cry in a way.
I sit up in bed – too rough, too unfamiliar – and for a moment, I don’t know where I am. Then it comes back: the dinner … Lord Zevran’s vague threats and the feeling of palace walls pressing in on me … the fact that my mother is still missing, and no one will give me answers.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the marble floor cold beneath my bare feet.
Suddenly, there’s a meek knock at the door. It creaks open without waiting.
A servant enters, a girl with warm brown skin and short curls tucked under a golden head wrap. She bows, a set of clothes folded neatly in her arms.
“Miss, you’re expected in the atrium. His Grace wishes you to begin your formal duties today.” Her fingers tighten slightly on the folded clothes, as if she knows better than to linger.
I blink. “Formal duties?”
She doesn’t elaborate, just places the neatly folded outfit on the nearby divan. It’s not a dress like the one from last night, instead it’s a tunic, fitted trousers, and a sash with the sigil of House Mars stitched in shimmering red thread. I change after she leaves, trying to shake the feeling that I’m slipping into someone else’s skin.
After asking a few servants for directions, I find the atrium. Sunlight pours through glass and crystalline arches, bathing plants that grow lush and strange. It smells like warm spice and hot earth, and a slight humidity hangs in the air. It seems as though this space has been treasured … every plant labelled with a shaky hand, every pot meticulously watered. It’s entirely opposite of our garden at home, a hodgepodge Mother kept of healing herbs and spices planted in whatever free inch of soil was available.
Lord Zevran stands at the centre of the room, posture rigid. He’s flanked by two guards and a man with copper skin wearing a dark red uniform. When the man turns to face me, his eyes catch the light streaming through the glass arches, flashing red like polished garnets.
“This is Miss Cyra. She’s to serve as my personal healer.” Lord Zevran doesn’t turn when I approach. All I get is a view of the back of his head, where wavy dark-blonde hair flops to one side. His stance is disciplined, but as he shifts, I catch the faintest hesitation in his movement.
“And this,” he motions to the man beside him, “is Commander Nael. He oversees military intelligence on Mars.”
I recognize the name immediately. Commander Nael’s red uniform clings to his broad-shouldered frame, the fabric stretched across a physique built for brute strength. He’s roughly the same height as His Grace, but older – in his late forties at least. His bald head gleams in the filtered sunlight, and there’s something severe about the way he carries himself. He gives a respectful bow.
“I am very sorry to hear the news of your mother.” He says with the same deep voice I heard through the door last night. “As soon as His Grace was alerted of her disappearance, he had search teams out night and day to try and find any trace of where she might have gone. They’ve been able to search the palace and surrounding cities, but I’m afraid they haven’t found anything yet.” He lowers his head solemnly.
I feel my eyebrows raise in shock. I didn’t realize Lord Zevran cared this much about Mother, considering the way he’s talked about her to me.
Commander Nael continues, “Will you be joining us for our next strategy meeting, Miss Cyra?”
I shoot him a look of confusion.
Strategy meeting?
“No. I’ve decided against it.” His Grace interrupts, voice edged.
“Apologies, Your Grace, I only thought – because Liora was always in attendance—” Commander Nael ends abruptly, realizing he’s said too much as Lord Zevran gives him a look sharp enough to silence a room.
“You will only be needed once per day,” His Grace turns to me stiffly. “At nightfall. I require your attention then, and only then, here in the atrium.”
An unoccupied room would have done. Choosing this secluded, carefully tended space feels deliberate, as if he wants as few eyes on our work as possible.
He continues. “You will make it a point to be on time. You may do as you please outside of this appointment … but you will continue to live in the castle.”
