The shout shatters the moment, jerking us apart with guilty speed. I look up to see Lieutenant Bailey, the communications officer, hurrying toward the fire, his breath coming in white puffs in the cold air.
“Your Highness,” he repeats as he reaches us, snapping to attention. “Urgent message from the palace, sir. Your presence is required immediately.”
I stand, royal mask sliding into place despite the chaos of emotions beneath. “What’s happened?”
“It’s His Majesty, sir. He’s fallen ill.” Bailey’s expression is grave. “The Queen has requested your immediate return to the capital.”
The world seems to tilt beneath my feet. My father’s ill enough that they’re calling me back from training?
“How serious?” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
“I don’t have details, sir. A helicopter is already enroute for extraction. ETA twenty minutes.”
I nod, my mind racing to process the implications. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll prepare immediately.”
Bailey salutes and withdraws, leaving me standing rigidly, the warmth of the previous moment evaporating like morning mist.
“Leo.” Rangi’s voice, soft now with concern rather than intimacy, brings me back to the present. He has risen too, standing close but no longer touching. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“I have to go.” The words come out more abruptly than I intend, the emotional whiplash of the moment making it hard to find balance.
“Of course.” Rangi steps back slightly, professional distance asserting itself once more. “I’ll help you gather your gear.”
We work in silence, packing my essentials with efficient movements. As the distant sound of helicopter rotors grows louder, Rangi pauses, his hand briefly touching my arm.
“Leo,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens... what was said here, what almost happened—it wasn’t a mistake.”
I meet his gaze, finding steadiness there that anchors me amidst the sudden turmoil. “No,” I agree softly. “It wasn’t.”
The helicopter appears over the ridge, its searchlight cutting through the darkness. Our time has run out.
“When you return,” Rangi begins, then hesitates. “If you return?—”
“I know,” I interrupt, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “This isn’t over, Rangi. I promise.”
For a fleeting moment, his composure slips, raw emotion visible in his eyes. Then he straightens, snapping to attention as other soldiers begin to emerge from their tents, drawn by the helicopter’s arrival.
“Safe journey, Your Highness,” he says formally, though his eyes convey much more.
I shoulder my pack, royal duty settling around me like a familiar weight.
“Until next time, Rangi.”
1
LEO
“If you straighten that painting one more time, I’m going to throw something at you.”
I pause, hand still outstretched toward the gilt frame that holds our father’s portrait. Charlotte’s reflection appears in the glass beside mine, her dark chestnut hair falling in loose waves around her heart-shaped face. Her expressive brown eyes—always quick to dance with mischief or darken with concern—study me with the particular mix of exasperation and affection that only sisters seem to master. Her lips, fuller than mine or Kit’s, quirk into a half-smile as she catches me fussing.
“It’s crooked,” I protest, though we both know that’s not why I’ve been hovering in this particular corner of the morning room for the past ten minutes.
The palace’s morning room has always been our family’s refuge—a place where the weight of crown and country eases, if only slightly. Afternoon sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the same pale wood floors that my ancestors walked centuries ago.
The room still bears the marks of our childhood—a small scuff near the fireplace where Kit once tried to teach me traditional dance, a barely visible ink stain on one of the cream sofas from when Charlotte decided to write her first novel at age six, a framed print of our family on the nearby table taken when I was just entering school.
These things usually bring me peace, but today I find myself agitated and unsettled. A jittery energy thrums beneath my skin, pulsing along my nerves
