I have to look away. The term of endearment does not belong on someone like him.
“Fine,” Enovar says, his tone unchanged as he forces Hurstinal down onto his knees, apparently to apologize.
What happens next is less clear. There is a change, immediate and undeniable, and when I look back, the front of Hurstinal’s clothing is darkened. Whether it is fear or something forced upon him, I cannot tell. The answer feels obvious anyway.
A small snake slips beneath the door. It moves quickly across the floor before reshaping itself into a dark-haired child who lands lightly as though this is entirely expected.
“Vinkarin, Elsarin,” he calls brightly. “Come see. Uncle Hurstinal has pissed himself.”
Hurstinal’s face turns a deeper shade of red as he struggles against the hold that keeps him in place. “You little?—”
Two more children enter at once, laughter already building between them, Parshin close behind with a presence that does little to restrain them.
Another figure follows. I recognize the children's caretaker from yesterday, though she is no longer dressed as one. The silk of her gown marks the shift clearly.
“Nephew,” Uralish says, looking toward Parshin with open satisfaction. “Still fucking the help, I see.”
The room continues as though none of this is unusual.
Across the table, Jularin meets my eye and offers a small, knowing smile that mirrors Korvis’s so closely that the connection becomes obvious. I wonder if he is missing because of work or because of another social obligation or because he knew this dinner would be dysfunctional in this way. Before I can think about it further, Aunt Jularin speaks.
“How are you faring,” she asks softly, “without your husband?”
The question catches me off guard because she asks it at all. No one else has. Here, Colsar exists only in absence, unspoken, as though he no longer requires consideration.
“He has not come through the wards,” I say.
Her expression remains gentle, her attention on mine. “That must be difficult.”
There is no pressure in it, no expectation, only acknowledgment, and I find myself holding her eyes a moment longer than I intend.
“The wards can make distance feel permanent,” she continues, her voice low enough to remain between us. “They are meant to keep what lies beyond from entering freely.”
I listen, my focus narrowing.
“But they are not beyond influence,” she adds. “They can be softened, briefly, by those with royal blood.”
“If the path is prepared for someone,” she continues quietly, “the wards may accept them as permitted rather than foreign.”
Something stirs at that, the memory of the scouring brushing the edge of my awareness without fully forming.
“Alarna has always stood on its own,” she says. “But there are times when it cannot remain unchanged. Sometimes it is the presence of outsiders that ignites the change that is necessary.”
I let the thought rest where it is and return my attention to my plate, cutting into my food as the conversation around the table resumes without pause.
The children circle Hurstinal, arguing loudly with Enovar as he returns to Syle, only to begin arguing with him instead until Parshin steps in to separate them. Uralish drinks and swears with increasing enthusiasm, while two distant cousins lean toward one another to discuss the Duke’s latest mistress and the gown she wore the previous week as though it holds equal importance.
Relief comes when the door opens again.
“Queen Regent, Queen Heir,” the servant says. “Your carriage for Aurelin Theater has arrived.”
I rise before anyone can delay it.
And for the first time since entering the room, I am grateful to leave it behind.
CHAPTER 25
The Aurelin Theater
