“That’s...” Her voice trailed off.
“Not what you’re expecting. You’ll adjust.”
Lucian moved to stand beside me. “Annora. You’ve now been informed. My mate is carrying my heirs. She is operating inside the Order’s compound at personal risk that you, from your comfortable council chambers, cannot begin to comprehend.” His voice was quiet. Worse than loud. “Choose your next words with extreme care.”
“I’m speaking truth, Your Majesty.” Her composure sealed back into place. She’d been doing this for decades. “Heirs or not, she is still a hunter. Carrying children does not make a queen. Any woman can bear children.”
“Any woman didn’t.” Percy’s voice was flat. He’d positioned himself to my left, and his usual warmth was gone. “She did. And she’s doing it while you’re standing here with your luggage.”
Annora looked at him. “Percival. So eager to defend. It’s endearing.”
“It’s a warning.”
“How refreshing. Theroguehas opinions now.”
“Well, rogues can get rid of anyone since we aren’t anchored to any pack. Don’t you think so?”
Giselle stepped into the clearing from the perimeter. She’d been listening. I could tell by the way her gaze moved between Annora and me.
“She’s not wrong,” Giselle said. Directed at the group but aimed at me. “The council’s concerns are legitimate. A human hunter as a queen creates a precedent that could destabilize Veyndral.”
I stared at her. Two days ago this woman told me I hadn’t earned what my mates were giving me. Now she was backing up Annora as if she’d finally found an ally.
Solomon’s gaze shifted to her. “Giselle. You have got to stop crossing the lines.”
Giselle’s jaw tightened. A change in her expression, the sting of being corrected by the one person whose opinion she couldn’t dismiss.
Percy turned to her next. No tact, just pure Percy. “Are you serious right now? You’re siding with her? You used to hateAnnora. She was a spoiled snob. Those were your exact words. And now you’re standing next to her nodding along?”
“People change, Percival,” Annora said. “Perhaps Giselle simply recognizes what you’re too biased to see.”
“What I see,” Percy said, his voice losing the last trace of warmth, “is two women who’ve decided that the mother of our children isn’t worth the space she’s standing on.”
Lucian stepped forward, and the authority that radiated from him wasn’t performed. It was the natural byproduct of two centuries of rule compressed into a single look.
“Annora. You are a guest in this camp by the thinnest margin of tolerance. If you wish to remain, you will treat Mira with the respect due to the future queen of Veyndral. If you cannot manage that, the tree line is right there.”
“And Giselle.” His gaze shifted. “The next time you align yourself against my mate, consider that the woman you’re undermining is the reason we have any intelligence on the Order at all. What exactly have you contributed on your own that entitles you to question her place?”
The fire crackled. An owl called from somewhere in the canopy.
I should have felt vindicated. Three men defending me. The king of Veyndral shutting down two women who’d challenged my worth. It was the fantasy, right? The mates rising up, the critics silenced, the girl validated by the people who loved her.
But I was tired.
Not grateful-tired or relieved-tired. Bone-tired of being defended. Of being assessed and evaluated and found lacking by people who didn’t know me, and then rescued by men who did. Tired of being the variable that everyone else got to solve.
All of this has to do with the Order. My bloodline and my legacy.
This wasn’t just Lucian’s war. It wasn’t Solomon’s strategy or Percy’s fight or Annora’s political chess match.
This wasmine.
“Enough.”
My voice cut through the clearing. Everyone turned.
“I appreciate the defense,” I said and looked at Annora. “You want to know if I deserve the crown? Watch me.”
