That is enough. He turns without further discussion and gestures toward the open ground, and when the blade is placed in my hand it feels right. Familiar. Like something returning rather than something new.
Trophi watches me differently from the first movement. I see it, and I press harder. Faster. The rhythm returns without effort, the motion flowing where it had once required thought. I shift, turn, strike, recover, and this time there is nothing beneath it waiting to punish the movement.
Trophi adjusts. Then again. Then he smiles, the kind that belongs to someone who has just learned something worth knowing.
"You did not mention this," he says.
"You did not ask."
That earns something close to a laugh. We go again.
By the time I dress afterward the decision has already formed. I will go to Veynar. The thought remains, certain and clear. Colsar has too much here, the borders and the undead and the kingdom pressing in on him from every direction. Or perhaps he is simply happier here. The thought passes through me and moves on. Either way I am done waiting.
I finish dressing and then pause. The circlet rests where I left it. I reach for it, the metal cool against my skin as I set it into place, the weight of it natural now in a way it had not always been.
A queen. The word holds.
I step into the corridor. The palace moves around me in its usual rhythm, entirely unaware of what has shifted in me.
I walk without direction at first, then change course toward the throne room.
I have not watched him there. Not properly. I have heard it spoken of, the way he holds the room, the way the court responds, the way things move when he decides to let them.
I want to see it for myself.
When he is finished, I will tell him.
Colsar
The throne room was warm with the low murmurs of petitioners. Colsar endured it. Courtiers bowed and spoke in careful voices while scribes scratched quills across parchment. Complaints about borders, trade roads, and ancestral rights blurred together into a dull procession of obligations he had never wanted.
He had slept perhaps an hour. He had been up late staring at maps and ledgers. Then, the twins had decided sometime before dawn that sleep was a suggestion rather than a necessity. He was already awake and Asharin needed the rest. It would be absurd to awaken Cambra or Saurin. So Colsar put them to sleep. He had remained awake afterward, staring at the ceiling while one small fist remained stubbornly wrapped around his finger.
Another nobleman finished speaking.
Colsar’s head tipped back briefly against the carved wood of the throne. “Yes,” he said.
The man blinked. “My lord?”
“Resolved,” Colsar replied with mild impatience. “Whatever it was.”
The courtier bowed several times and retreated quickly.
A ripple of movement stirred near the doors.
Jessamy entered the throne room. Colsar felt a flicker of irritation.
She bowed gracefully, dark hair slipping over one shoulder. “My lord.”
“What do you want?”
“My father waits outside,” she said softly. “But I hoped to speak with you first. There is a matter between our houses that requires… discretion.”
Colsar exhaled slowly and lifted a hand.
“Leave us.”
The court emptied with visible reluctance. Guards remained along the walls.
