I inhale slowly, steadying myself. “I’d like to find Dante,” I say, already turning toward the hall that leads to his quarters.
“Yes, Your Highness.” He steps back, giving me space. The mourning period is over, so there should be no reason for him to stop me, but I can feel his gaze linger as I move forward.
Because he knows there’s something wrong, but he doesn’t knowwhat. I’ve had the theories clashing in my head the whole ride back from Delasurvia, and I’m nowhere near ready to talk about them.
At least not with anyone except Dante.
I tighten my grip on my cloak, my fingers cold despite the warmth lingering in the air. A sharp breath catches in my throat, and I force my feet to keep moving, pushing past the uncertainty coiling around me.
Because right now, I need something steady. Something real.
I reach Dante’s door and raise a fist, knocking twice.
It feels like it takes forever before he opens the door.
Dante’s eyes lock with mine as he stands in the warm glow of candlelight, his tunic undone at the collar, his dark hair tousled from sleep or thought—I don’t know which.
His expression shifts, a flicker of concern threading through the sharp lines of his face. “Something’s wrong,” he guesses.
Of course he sees it.
I hesitate, my throat suddenly tight. Then, finally, I speak. “May I come in?”
His lips part slightly before he steps aside, holding the door open wider. “Of course.”
I step inside, past the threshold, past the weight of everything I don’t know how to say yet.
But I will. Because if I don’t tell him, I fear the thoughts will cause my brain to cave in on itself.
I walk past Dante and head right for a chair near the hearth. I sink into it, grateful for the solid weight beneath me. My body feels stretched too thin, my thoughts even more so.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the quiet crackling of the fire, its glow casting shifting shadows along the stone walls.
Dante remains standing, one hand braced against the mantel, his other rubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes never leave me.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself.Just tell him.
“There are some things I’ve learned,” I begin, my voice quieter than I expected. “Some crazy, unbelievable things.”
Dante’s brows knit together, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I wet my lips, exhaling slowly before diving in.
I tell him everything. From my mother having a son before she married my father to my connection to the prophesy. I tell him my uncle’s theory about the tsar being my father and how he may have been the one who pushed my mother down the stairs to her death—or ordered it done.
When I tell him how my uncle shut down my idea to march into Dulcamar and confront the tsar to end the carnoraxis attacks, Dante doesn’t move, but I can see the subtle flex of his fingers, the way his jaw tightens as he processes it all.
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
Dante stares at me, his mouth slightly parted, but no words come. For the first time since I stepped into this room, I think he is at a loss for what to say.
I let my head fall back against the chair, pressing my fingers against my temples. The weight of everything crashes over me at once—my mother’s secrets, my unknown brother, my father’s betrayal, the prophecy that names me as the tsar’s undoing.
The fire crackles, its warmth brushing against my skin, but I feel nothing. I’m raw. I’m broken.
Then, finally, Dante moves. He crouches before me, resting his arms on the sides of my chair. His expression is softer now, less rigid with strategy, morehim.
“What do you need?” His voice is quiet, steady, grounding.
