"Oh, she was here earlier, my lord," Greta says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Puttering around the herb stores. Said she was looking for something to calm her ceremony nerves. A strange brew, needed a lot of privacy for it."
Her words, meant to be innocent, send a fresh wave of unease through me. Vesha is an accomplished alchemist, not a nervous girl brewing calming tea. Whatever she was doing, it was deliberate.
I make my way toward the human camp in the lower courtyard. I walk directly into their midst, my shadow falling over the maps they have spread on a makeshift table. They scramble to their feet.
"Lord Harwick," I say, my voice a low growl. I loom over him, letting my size and the fresh scent of battle do the talking for me. "Your little excursions into my lands end now."
Harwick swallows, his composure fraying. "Warlord, we are guests here, protected by the treaty?—"
"Treaties protect diplomats, Lord Harwick, not spies," I barked. "And your men have been riding very hard for men with no official business." I let my gaze drift to their boots, still caked with tell-tale mud. "You will be attending the ceremony tonight," I command, my voice leaving no room for argument. "You will sit and watch my queen crowned, and you will smile. Then, at dawn, you will leave. Or I might begin to wonder what kind of diplomacy requires such secrecy."
I leave them to their shock and make my way back to the main keep, but the conversation has only deepened my unease. Something is wrong. The wrongness has a scent to it—my mate's growing terror, the satisfaction of enemies who think they've gained an advantage, and something else...
The absence of children's laughter.
The thought stops me cold.
"Sir?"
I turn to find Nessa, one of the nursery maids, her hands twisting in her apron, her face tight with a fear that mirrors the dread coiling in my own gut.
"Warlord, forgive me," she begins, her voice trembling. "But the children... Lavi and Jorik... they're still gone. It's been too long. This isn't a game anymore."
The gut punch is absolute. The raid wasn't the main event. It was the overture.
"Organize a search," I command Bren, who has appeared at my elbow. "Check every chamber, every passage, every possible hiding place. But quietly—I don't want to alarm the ceremony guests."
"And if we don't find them?"
I meet his eyes, letting him see the steel beneath my concern. "Then we expand the search beyond the stronghold walls. Someone took those children, Bren. I can feel it in my bones."
But even as Bren rushes to obey my orders, I know we're already behind the curve. Whatever game is being played, whatever has my mate terrified and my enemies satisfied, it's already in motion.
The ceremony begins at sunset. And I must play my part, with or without answers.
VESHA
The hours before the ceremony crawl by like years, each minute weighted with the knowledge of what I must do. I go through the motions of preparation—bathing, dressing, practicing my ceremonial responses—while my mind churns with the chilling clarity of my plan.
"My lady?" Aino's voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. "It's time to dress for the ceremony."
I let her help me into the midnight blue gown, each layer of silk feeling like armor. The silver torque settles against my throat, a cool weight against my skin. Tucked into a fold of my sleeve, a second secret feels even heavier: the small, folded note that holds all our hope.
"You're trembling," Aino observes, her weathered hands gentle as she arranges my hair. "The ceremony nerves?"
"Something like that," I manage.
"Every queen feels this way," she assures me. "The weight of crown and responsibility. But you're strong, my lady. Strong enough for whatever comes."
If only she knew.
"There," Aino says, stepping back to admire her work. "You look like a queen, my lady. A true queen."
In the mirror, I see what she sees—a woman transformed by fine silk and careful grooming into someone worthy of a crown. But I also see what she cannot: the hollow desperation in my eyes, the pallor that speaks of someone about to risk everything.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For everything."
Something in my tone makes her pause, her head tilting as she studies my reflection. "My lady? Are you quite well?"
