There is no judgment in it, only clarity, and then something else follows as the light opens again, wider this time, showingnot what has been but what could be. My power moves with intention, reaching outward until it connects with something larger, something structured and resistant.
A boundary. A ward. I feel the way it holds, the way it pushes back, and then I feel the point where it can give, just enough and just long enough. The understanding comes with it, clear before I can stop it. I could do this. I could open it. For him. For Colsar.
The thought sinks in deeper than anything else, and then the light closes, the heat rushing back as my body follows. I break the surface, air pulling hard into my lungs as the chamber forms around me again, the wells, the steam, the Mortide standing exactly where they had been.
Nyara stands a few paces away, soaked and breathing hard, her hair clinging to her face as she stares at the well like it has personally offended her. “What the fuck was that?” she mutters.
I grip the edge of the well, my hands unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with weakness. I lift my head. And for the first time since stepping into Alarna, I understand something I was never meant to: the wards can be opened. Not just by my blood being recognized, but by my will.
CHAPTER 18
The Empty Room
Afterward, servants dress us in loose pale gowns and guide us back into the upper halls. Alarna reveals itself differently when I am not being judged. The corridors open rather than close, the ceilings generous, light moving freely through the architecture without obstruction. Water runs in narrow channels along the floors, clear and constant.
It is beautiful in a way that feels considered.
It does not feel like home. Not yet. Though I am not sure Rathmor ever did either. It didn't matter because Colsar was there, and he was home.
By the time we reach the next set of doors, the sky has already begun to darken.
“Dinner will be served in the Great Hall shortly,” Queen Petunis says.
“I would prefer to take mine in my room,” I say. “I am exhausted.”
“That is to be expected,” she says. “You are of a bloodline that can pass the wards, but it is not without cost. Bringing others through requires far more.”
I frown. “Then how did I?—”
“Your entrance was not ordinary,” she says, cutting me off. “What was done to bring you here was woven long ago, by your grandparents, after your mother was lost.”
I go still.
“Old magic,” she continues. “Not something easily repeated. And not something meant to carry so many.”
She pauses, as though expecting a response.
I do not give her one. I have had enough half-answers for one day. My hand moves to my stomach, slow and controlled, a quiet reminder placed exactly where she will see it.
Her expression shifts. “Very well,” she says. “I will have something sent to you.”
“I would also like to see the healer,” I add. “And Aunt Jularin. This evening.”
“I will arrange it.”
Her attention turns to Nyara, her expression softening in a way that feels practiced. “You will join us at dinner. I have already asked that you sing.”
Nyara blinks, caught off guard, the color rising quickly in her cheeks. “I—yes. Of course.”
“Lord Eskalin will be in attendance,” Petunis continues. “He owns the theater near the capital. He is visiting tonight.”
Nyara’s entire face changes. The surprise gives way to something brighter, something she cannot hide.
I feel it beside me and manage a small smile. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I would come if I could.”
“You should rest,” she says quickly.
I let her believe that, though in truth it is not exhaustion that keeps me from going. I should be exhausted, and yet the scouring has ignited something in me. There is too much pressing in at once. I do not understand why Aunt Jularin could sense my child when for days all I had felt was weakness or nothing at all.
