“Don’t kick my brother, you fucker!” A cloud of shimmering color begins to gather around the girl beside me, something like smoke, something like light, something that refracts into soft bands of color that ripple outward from her small frame.
These children curse like sailors and behave as though they own the room. I stand there, exhausted beyond reason, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Before I can decide, another voice enters the room. “Elsarin, do not curse at your elders. That is not how a lady must speak. Vinkarin, unsnake yourself at once. And Amasin—what did I tell you about making yourself invisible and spying on others?”
The voice is weary but calm. It carries a weight that cuts through the chaos more effectively than any command. A man steps into the throne room, handsome in a way that feels worn down by time and responsibility, his features strikingly similar to thewoman on the dais. There is no mistaking the connection. Her son.
As he enters, a soft sigh sounds near my feet, and I glance down in time to see a small boy lying flat on the floor between my legs as though he has been there the entire time.
His hair is a bright, defiant orange. Several of his teeth are missing. He grins and shoves a finger up his nose before jamming it into his mouth.
My stomach turns.
“I was going to appear soon anyway,” the orange-haired child mutters, not bothering to move. “The Queen Heir smells like shit.”
Queen Petunis responds instantly. “Parshin,” she says, her voice cutting across the room, “I keep telling you that your children curse as though they were raised on Vaelor ships. No wonder their mother has no interest in them.”
“She likes us,” the girl with the shifting colors says immediately, lifting her chin. “She just doesn’t like Papa. Lord Orpinar tells better bedtime stories, Mama says.”
Before I can process this information, a servant woman rushes into the room, her hair disheveled, the front ties of her dress loose. Her expression is strained as she moves quickly toward the children. “Oh, Majesty, I am so sorry. Come along, all of you, come?—”
“Children run along,” Parshin mutters under his breath, as the three of them run through the doors, though his voice carries just enough to be heard.
Queen Petunis turns to Parshin. “My son, if you must bed the hired help, then do us all a favor and hire a separate servant to care for the needs of your children. How is she supposed to look after them if she is constantly serving you?”
The golden haired cousin says in my head,“Parshin is the Minister of coin. Dreadfully boring. He likely isn't even fucking that woman. Word is he has her disrobe and makes her listen as he reads aloud the ledgers.
“What?”
“He does it so Korvis won't tease him. Korvis beds everyone,”he adds with a light laugh as though that explains everything.
From beyond the doors, a smaller voice shouts back, “Mama says she prefers all the lady servants keep him company so she doesn’t have to listen to his boring stories about numbers and coin!”
Parshin turns an impressive shade of red. Behind me, I hear Nyara cough, the sound suspiciously close to laughter.
And then?—
“Disease!”
The word slices cleanly through the room. The woman in lavender has risen from her place, her expression curled into something sharp and disdainful as she points directly at Nyara.
“Sister,” she says, turning toward the dais, “you allow the Queen Heir and her…serving girl to enter this court unscoured, and now they bring their foreign sickness among us.”
“Venya is most unpleasant,”my cousin says in my head.“Don’t worry. Only your aunt through marriage.”
A pause.“I, unfortunately, have her as a mother.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay quiet.
She continues. “For centuries we have remained safe behind our wards, and now they arrive as messengers of death?—”
She doesn’t finish.
Nyara laughs, and it is not polite or careful. She steps forward through the tension as the guards begin to draw their weapons, her posture loose in a way that feels almost reckless in a room like this. “First of all,” she says, her voice carrying without effort, “I’m no one’s servant. I am the cousin of King Sevrin of Veynar and daughter of Duchess Finsara of the Eastern Court.”
She pauses, then looks around the room with irritation. “I’ve had a long fucking journey, and I am tired. My cousin is the Queen Heir, and not one of you has offered her a drink or a seat.”
The room stills. “And I wasn’t coughing,” she adds lightly. “I was clearing my throat. I’m a singer. I do it frequently.”
