Logic, but it doesn't ease the ache in my chest. Those babies trusted me, and I let them be taken.
The door to our chambers bursts open, and two small figures charge toward the bed like tiny warriors storming a fortress.
"Queen Lady!" Lavi shouts, scrambling up the side of the massive bed with determined enthusiasm. "You're awake! We've been waiting forever!"
Jorik follows more sedately, but his relief is just as obvious. "Mother said you were sick because you ate something bad. Are you better now?"
"Much better," I manage, though my voice still sounds like I've been gargling gravel. Lavi immediately curls up against my side, her small hands patting my arm as if checking that I'm real.
"The bad men said they needed our help with a surprise," she says, her young voice serious. "They said you wanted us to go with them to pick special flowers for a ceremony. But then they kept us in the old tower for so long, and there weren't any flowers at all."
"We knew something was wrong when they wouldn't let us come back," Jorik adds, his developing tusks giving him a solemn expression. "And they kept asking strange questions about the stronghold and the ceremony. But we didn't tell them anything important."
My throat tightens with pride and renewed guilt. Even children could see through the deception, but they'd been powerless to escape it.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, gathering them both close. "I should have protected you better. Should have seen the threat coming."
"Youdidprotect us," Lavi says with the simple certainty of childhood. "You got sick to save us. That's what queens do—they sacrifice for their people."
The matter-of-fact way she says it makes my chest tight with emotion. To her, my choice wasn't dramatic or heroic—it was simply what any proper queen would do for her subjects.
"The bad men are gone now," Jorik reports with satisfaction. "Captain Bren brought them back tied up like hunting prizes. Father says they'll never bother anyone again."
Ghazrek's arm tightens around me, and I feel the controlled violence radiating from his massive frame. "One of them won't bother anyone ever again," he says quietly. "The one who gave you the poison. The others have been banished with warnings that returning means death."
Justice, swift and final. Part of me wants to feel guilty about Garrett's execution, but I can't summon the emotion. He used children as weapons and would have let them die to serve his political goals.
"Good," I say.
We listen as they tell their story in the jumbled, self-censoring way of children, their voices growing quiet as they skip over the parts that frightened them most. They're resilient, as children often are, but I can see the way they stay close to me, seeking reassurance that I'm really here and really safe.
When they finally leave, chattering about showing me their new drawings when I'm stronger, I'm left alone with Ghazrek and the weight of what happened.
"The clan knows what I did," I say. It's not a question—servants talk, warriors report to their families, and poison at a coronation feast isn't exactly subtle.
"They know their queen was willing to die for two children who weren't even her blood," he confirms. "They know you chose to sacrifice yourself rather than let innocents suffer for your crown."
"And what do they think of that?"
His smile is sharp as a blade. "They think they chose their queen very well indeed. Mothers are bringing their children to the kitchens hoping for glimpses of you. Warriors who questioned having a human queen are now bragging about your courage to anyone who'll listen."
The irony isn't lost on me. The choice that should have ended my reign has instead cemented it more firmly than any ceremony could have.
"There will be another feast," Ghazrek continues, his voice dropping to the intimate rumble that makes my pulse quicken. "A proper celebration, now that the threat is ended. The clan wants to honor what you did."
"And what do you want?" I ask, studying his face in the afternoon light.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing the bond mark that glows faintly at his touch. "I want you to choose me again. Publicly. Let the clan see their queen claim her mate because she wants him, not because magic or ritual bound her to him."
The idea sends a thrill through me—not biology this time, but something far more potent: power. The power to choose, to want, to claim just as fiercely as I can be claimed.
"When?" I ask.
"When you're strong enough to stand before them without swaying," he says, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "When you can make that choice with a clear head and a willing heart."
"And after?"
His smile is pure male satisfaction. "After, I claim what's freely given. Just you choosing to surrender to me because you want to."
