The carriage turns toward the capital as the last of the daylight fades into night. I lean toward the glass, catching what I can through the narrow pane as we pass. Light spills across polished surfaces, catching in fabrics as people move through the streets. Something in me lifts toward it without permission.
"I can open it," I say, my hand already near the latch.
"No," Petunis replies.
"I only want to see?—"
"You are being seen whether you wish to be or not."
I let my hand fall.
Something like anticipation builds as we move deeper into the city. I had wanted this once. Badly enough to believe Yvara and fall into her trap. The memory comes quickly, the echo of what I had thought I was being given before it was turned into something else. I press the thought down. This is not that.
When we arrive, the Aurelin Theater rises before us and I forget to move. Layered arches, lanterns glowing along its exterior, people gathered beneath in small composed groups. Inside the levels open upward, tier upon tier surrounding the stage, gold lining the edges in restrained detail, velvet absorbing the light so that what remains gathers at the center.
Petunis leads me into a private box. From there the entire room unfolds beneath us.
She speaks beside me, her tone different here, less severe, more inclined to explain than correct. She names the performers without hesitation, outlining their strengths and failings with equal clarity. I find myself listening. I realize, quietly, that Aunt Petunis loves the theater the way I do.
When Nyara steps onto the stage, everything else fades. Her gown moves with her as though it belongs to her body, deep blue layered with silver that catches the light. And when she sings, the room belongs to her. Her voice fills it without strain, moving through in a way that feels almost physical, settling into the body itself.
I lean forward. The palace, the danger, the burden of whatever waits for me tomorrow. The ache of missing Colsar. All of it fades.
This is the first thing I have done in a while that is not about surviving.
This is exactly what I had wanted.
A wave of nausea rises before I expect it, low at first, then violent, pulling through my stomach and throat at once. I press my hand lightly against my lap, willing it to pass. It lingers longer this time.
Petunis turns her head. "You are unwell."
"I can stay," I say, though another wave rises stronger than the last.
She stands. "We are leaving."
Reluctance catches in me. But I follow, because I know Aunt Petunis will bring me again.
This is not Rathmor Palace. Alarna is dangerous and full of its own wrongness, but it is not a prison. I am not alone here. As I leave the theater I realize this moment has already been enough to remind me there is something beyond survival waiting for me, whether I am ready for it or not.
CHAPTER 26
The Return
The carriage waits at the edge of the theater steps, the lanterns along its sides casting a low, steady glow that feels softer than the brilliance we leave behind. I follow Petunis inside without hesitation, gathering my skirts as I settle into the seat across from her, the door closing with a quiet finality.
The carriage begins to move.
The city slips past in fragments through the glass, light and shadow stretching into one another in long intervals that lose their distinction the further we travel. I do not try to follow it this time. Instead, I let my focus turn inward, away from the movement, toward something less visible.
I lower my eyes, not enough to lose the world entirely, just enough to quiet it, and reach the way Teorin taught me, not reacting, not bracing, but searching for the shift before it happens.
At first there is nothing. Only the carriage, the faint pull of nausea beneath my ribs, and the quiet presence of Petunis acrossfrom me. Then something changes. A tug pulls at my senses, a disturbance that does not belong to anything I can see. It gathers slowly, then more clearly.
Something is wrong. My eyes open. “I?—”
The word does not finish when a figure suddenly appears over me. He forms out of nothing, close enough that the cold reaches my skin before I can move. His hand is already raised, something dark gathering at his fingers, something wrong in the way it moves, reaching without touching, drawing without contact.
"Consider this a welcome gift, little queen."
