“Lumenstone,” another councilor finishes for him with a small smile. “She’s quite eager for it, claiming her artificers will use it for ornamental work.”
There’s a round of polite chuckles, the kind that mean no one really cares what Elowen wants with it. I, however, sit a little straighter. Lumenstone isn’t something anyone outside our borders usually asks for. It’s mined in the oldest reaches of our mountains, difficult to harvest, and known to have…other uses. Magical ones.
My mother doesn’t seem troubled. “The trade agreement stands,” she says, tone cool and decisive. “The arrangements are profitable for both kingdoms.”
Profitable.My fingers curl tighter. Elowen has neverbeen one to barter without purpose. Dimitri’s warning slides unbidden into my mind:Elowen is moving pieces again. Quiet ones. Dangerous ones.
I push the thought aside, focusing on the conversation as Hazen continues. “…of course, the glassware will be presented at the royal wedding reception. Her Majesty has already extended a personal invitation for Queen Elowen to attend.”
That makes my head snap up, my gaze fixed on my mother. An invitation to come here. During my wedding.
No one else looks unsettled. Not even slightly.
“She’ll bring her usual entourage, no doubt,” Veyra says lightly. “At least her court knows how to dress properly. Perhaps it will remind certain nobles of ours what elegance looks like.”
More quiet laughter. The sound scrapes at my nerves.
My mother catches my eye for only a heartbeat, then looks away, moving seamlessly on to the next matter—the patrol routes along the northern borders, the influx of human traders in the east, and the harvest tax from the western villages. Her voice is steady, her commands absolute.
I sit in silence, outwardly composed, but inside my thoughts churn like stormwater against stone. What if Elowen isn’t coming for the ceremony and gifts? And what is she really using the lumenstone for?
By the time the meeting adjourns, the weight in my chest has settled like a stone. I rise with the rest of them and smile when I’m meant to, but I can’t shake Dimitri’s warning.
------------? ? ?? ?------------
Alira leans across the rug in front of the fire, snatching up another card with a grin that makes her blue eyes gleam.
“You’re terrible at this, Tor,” she says, tossing her card down with aflourish.
Torin groans and flops back dramatically onto the floor, his cards falling from his fingers. “That’s because this game doesn’t make any sense.”
I blink down at the five cards in my hand—none of them good—and toss them onto the pile in silence.
Alira tilts her head. “Serenya?”
I glance up. “Hmm?”
Torin sits up, frowning. “You haven’t insulted either of us in a full five minutes. Are you dying?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. Then I sigh and pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “Sorry. I’m just distracted.”
They’re both quiet.
Alira reaches for the wine bottle. “The trial.”
I nod once.
I should find comfort in their presence. In hearing their laughter. In playing games with them. But my mind keeps drifting.
The crackle of the fire fills the silence. Shadows flicker over Torin’s boyish face, softening his usual mischief. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re thinking yourself into knots again.”
“That’s her favorite pastime,” Alira adds, pouring wine into my empty cup before I can protest. “Brooding. Sulking. Staring dramatically at nothing.”
I shoot her a look. “You make me sound unbearable.”
“You are,” Torin says with mock seriousness. “But we love you anyway.”
Alira bumps her shoulder into mine, her warmth grounding. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”
