She had said he was strong. The thought brings me comfort.
And then there was memory of the light, of the ward, of what I touched and what it might mean. And beneath all of it, quieter but harder to ignore, the image I cannot shake. Teorin, surrounded. The moment I stepped through the wards and left him there. Something pulls tight in my chest at the thought.
“Come,” Petunis says.
We follow.
At the next corridor, she gestures for Nyara to continue straight, toward a set of doors framed in gold and carved stone. “The royal guest suite is this way.”
Nyara hesitates, glancing back once, but whatever waits ahead of her pulls harder. She smiles, a little breathless, and disappears down the corridor.
I take a step to follow, but Petunis stops me with a single lifted hand. “No,” she says gently. “You are not a guest.” She turns andleads me in the opposite direction. The palace grows quieter the further we go. The movement of servants fades. The sound of water softens. The space opens again, but this time there is no one in it.
We pass through a final set of doors.
“This is yours,” she says.
An entire wing. I step inside and the space unfolds around me, larger than anything I have ever been given. The polished floors stretch beneath my feet, the walls carved with delicate patterns that catch the light in ways that feel almost alive. Curtains fall in soft layers around tall windows, though they are unnecessary.
The ceiling above me is glass. Night has settled fully now, and the sky stretches wide and unobstructed, deep and endless, scattered with stars that feel closer than they should.
It is breathtaking, but it is empty. I stare at the bed and am suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. I wish that Colsar were here tonight to hold me, to call me his Asha Bear.
“Wait,” she says.
I turn. Something fine hangs between her fingers before I can make sense of it. Gold, thin and intricate, deep red stones threaded through it.
Rubies.
“For you.”
I hesitate, but she is already moving toward me, already lifting it. I understand what it is as it falls into place. A lattice meant to trace the face, a drop at the brow, finer strands to anchor along the ears and into the hair.
Like hers.
“It is worn by the women of Alarnan royal blood,” she says. “Not always. But often.”
A brief pause.
“Your mother wore them often.”
That stops me.
“Rubies,” I say quietly.
“Among others.”
She moves behind me, her hands efficient, fitting it into place without asking permission. The gold rests cool against my skin and then warms, as though it has decided to stay.
When she is done, she presses something small and solid into my hand. A box.
I look down at it, then back at her.
“Some were mine,” she says. “Some were your mother’s. Some were hers before that.”
My fingers tighten slightly around it.
“Alarnan women have always ruled,” she continues. “With or without partners. We favor jewels over crowns. The reason is practical.”
