Her eyes flick briefly to my reflection. “We do not have time for crowns to fall when we are fighting wars or wielding power.”
“These do not fall.”
She presses something else into my hand, lighter this time.
I open my fingers. A circlet rests there, gold worked into a narrow band, darker stones set along its edge.
“If you insist on tradition,” Petunis says.
I glance up.
“We do not require them,” she continues. “But we do not forbid them either.”
Then she steps away. I feel the difference in the air almost immediately, subtle and difficult to name, but present.
I cross to the glass without thinking about it. The reflection looking back at me is not entirely one I recognize. Gold traces my face in fine lines, the ruby at my brow dark and unignorable against my skin.
It does not make me look soft. It makes me look like something.
“It suits you,” Petunis says. Her voice is not kind, but it is quieter than before. I do not answer her, but I do not take it off.
The door closes behind me, and the silence that follows feels heavier than anything I carried with me into this place.
CHAPTER 19
The Intunar
Iundress and stare at myself in the mirror. I barely recognize what looks back at me. Thinner than I should be, the lines beneath my eyes darker, my face drawn in a way that makes me look older than I am. The scouring has taken the bruises but not the memory of them.
On my thigh, the place where the blade went in is no longer a wound but a pattern. The weaver's work remains, gold and faintly luminous against my skin. The leg holds my weight without protest. At night the pain still comes without warning, harsh enough to wake me, gone just as quickly.
My hair hangs damp down my back, still bright from the scouring, the color almost unnatural against the rest of me.
A knock sounds at the door. I move quickly, reaching for the gown left folded on the bedside table and pulling it over my head before crossing the room. I open the door.
Aunt Jularin stands there, composed as ever, and beside her a man I do not recognize. He is older, his expression measured,his presence quiet in a way that suggests control rather than hesitation.
“Asharin,” Jularin says. “This is Hyverin.”
I step aside and let them in.
He does not waste time. His attention moves over me with practiced efficiency, not unkind, but direct. When he reaches for my wrist, I allow it, watching him as he closes his eyes briefly, something subtle shifting in the air between us.
“You are with child,” he says after a moment. “A strong boy. Healthy.”
He pauses, his brow faintly drawn. “Strange,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “The pattern overlaps.”
He looks at me again, the moment already closing. “No matter.”
“He will be stronger than most.”
He hesitates, then adds, “I served your mother as her healer. It was my duty to protect her bloodline.”
His voice is quiet but firm. “That duty remains.”
“The term is still distant,” he continues. “There is no immediate concern.”
No immediate concern.I hold onto that.
