I kept my eyes on the sunset because looking at his face would make me lose my nerve.
“I want to see it. Your kingdom. The Obsidian Sea. The place this came from.” I touched the pendant. “I want to see where you’re from. Where our children are from. I want to stand in the place that made you and know it the way you know my bookshop and my town and every broken piece of my history that I’ve shown you.”
The porch was quiet. Inside, Solomon’s wrench had gone silent. Percy had appeared in the doorway, pancake container in hand, frozen mid-bite.
All three of them were listening.
“I’ve been to a compound where they tortured your people,” I said. “I’ve been to a sublevel where they caged your wolves. I’ve fought your war and carried your children and bled on your battlefield. But I’ve never seen your home.”
Lucian’s hand resumed its position on my back. His thumb didn’t move. Just pressed there, steady, anchoring.
“I want to go home with you,” I said. “The real one.”
The sunset painted everything gold.
76
— • —
Lucian
A week in Veyndral had changed everything.
The council had convened three days after our arrival.
Councilman Iver had stood and said, “The woman cured our people, defeated the Order, and carries the king’s heirs. If anyone objects, they may take it up with Lord Farmon’s very detailed report.”
Nobody objected.
Mira’s name was entered into the royal registry. Solomon and Percival were formally recognized as royal consorts, a title that carried legal standing in Veyndral. It has been a while since the last polyamorous bond recognized by the council. We were apparently reviving traditions.
The coronation was tonight.
“This corset is trying to kill me.”
Mira stood in front of the full-length mirror in the royal dressing chamber, twisting sideways, one hand braced on the glass frame and the other tugging at the structured bodice of her coronation gown.
“It fit two days ago,” she said. “Your children are already rebels.”
“The lacing can be loosened.” I crossed the room and stood behind her. In the mirror, her copper hair was half-pinned, strands falling around her face. The obsidian pendant sat at the base of her throat, dark against flushed skin. Her mismatched eyes found mine in the reflection.
“Help me with the back?”
I gathered the lacing between my fingers.
“Breathe out,” I said.
She exhaled. My fingers worked the lacing looser, one eyelet at a time, and the fabric gave. Her shoulders dropped with relief.
“Better?”
“Marginally. I still feel wrapped in a straitjacket.”
“You look like a queen.”
“I look swollen.”
“You look like my queen.” I met her eyes in the mirror. “Carrying my heirs. In my kingdom. Wearing my colors.”
