Viktor and Gabriel exchanged a glance.
She’d seen them coming.
The doors groaned open, spilling torchlight into a chamber more perfumed than regal. Incense coiled in heavy ribbons from braziers, clinging sweet and bitter to the back of Viktor’s throat.
No court, no counsel—only the queen herself, draped in deep green silk. Bare shoulders caught the firelight; her dark hair fell loose to her waist as if the hour excused her of crowns.
Viktor drew a slow breath, steadying against the strangeness of it—queen and predator, both.
Her gaze cut past him without pause, fastening on Gabriel as if Viktor were nothing more than the shadow trailing him. Her eyes widened, hunger glinting sharp.
“You,” she whispered, rapt. “You’re Draekenra.”
It wasn’t a question.
Viktor bowed low.
“Your Majesty, may I present Lord Gabriel Feindoran—sent from King Yethule’s court.”
Gabriel began with the poise of a courtier.
“Your Majesty, I bring word from Vykenra. The king’s health falters again, and if he can withstand—”
She cut him off with a raised hand, eyes narrowing as though he were some glittering thing she meant to pocket.
“Your voice,” she breathed. “I could close my eyes and believe I’d been carried to Elváliev. The way your vowels bend—” a soft sound slipped from her throat, shameless, “it’s… intoxicating.”
Gabriel’s hands flexed against his thighs, caught between courtesy and revulsion. He inclined his head, but her gazelingered, trailing down the line of him in slow, claiming indulgence.
“Go on,” she urged.
His tone came tighter, clipped.
“If the king can withstand the voyage, he means to sail south. To the isles. The warmth may ease him.”
Zeporah sank into the settee, a smile curling with something like pity—only sharper.
“Perhaps he would be warmer still if his children did not circle his deathbed like carrion.”
Viktor’s throat closed. Gabriel stiffened.
But Zeporah only flicked her wrist, as if brushing away her own cruelty.
“Not the crown prince, of course. Xavien…” His name left her like steam off water, breathlessly indulgent. “He has my utmost admiration.”
Her smile held too long, her gaze still clinging to Gabriel as if she could drink him in by will alone. Then, with sudden softness, she said, “Goodnight, Lord Feindoran.”
Gabriel nodded once, the movement crisp, and turned half a step toward the door.
Her voice followed, sweeter still.
“I said goodnight.”
Gabriel bent low this time, tension in his chest as tight as bowstring.
“Goodnight, my lady.”
Her lashes lowered, satisfaction curving her lips, and at last she let him go.
