Lucian nodded and followed me downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, I glanced at him.
“She didn’t say no,” I said because I knew he was spiraling again.
“She didn’t say anything,” he grits out.
“Exactly.” I turned toward the kitchen. “It means she didn’t say no.”
He watched me go, then disappeared into his office.
I made sandwiches and brought them upstairs. Mira ate with one hand resting on Percy’s blanket the entire time.
The day settled into quiet.
By late afternoon, the wound had sealed to a faint scar and Percy’s color had returned but he still needed sleep.
I could finally calm down a bit.
My body needed air and my mind needed space to think without walls pressing in so I went outside.
The porch was cold. The chill grounded me, heightened the edges that guilt and exhaustion had blurred. I sat on the top step and let the theories run.
There were pieces that didn’t click
Who was behind this? Someone who was definitely more skilled than Hudson.
And what did they want? What was this for?
I thought about factions who opposed Veyndral’s expansion as a possibility. Those who saw Lucian’s expedition as a provocation. But Lytopian enemies would have used Lytopian weapons. I should’ve been able to identify that dart.
The other option sat in my gut and refused to leave but I suppressed it.
No. That’s impossible.
For the sake of our kingdom, ithasto be impossible.
Besides, I didn’t have enough data. Until then, theories were all I had, and I hated theories. I dealt with facts. Guessing made me feel exposed and useless.
The front door opened behind me.
“Getting fresh air too, huh?”
I turned. Mira stood in the doorway, a mug cradled between both hands.
She gave a small smile. “Percy’s asleep. Lucian kicked me out to shower, saying he’ll take watch, which is insulting.” She wrinkled her nose. “Do I smell?”
“No.”
“He basically implied it. So here I am. Figured I wouldn’t listen to him, as always.” She moved to the step beside me. “Staging a protest.”
“You’re free to share this guilt space.”
Mira smiled and sat. We both know that we blame ourselves for this.
She wrapped both hands around the mug, thumbs tracing the rim, and for a few minutes neither of us spoke. The quiet between us had always been easy.
From the beginning, before she knew what we were, she’d settled into my silence without trying to fill it. Most people couldn’t tolerate the absence of sound. Mira treated it the way I did. As its own kind of conversation.
“It’s not your fault,” I said.
