The Moth Conservatory stood in a glass-roofed annex off the dowager wing, warm and humid and filled with white blooms that opened only at dusk. Pale moths moved through the air in lazy spirals, their wings almost translucent in the lamplight. The space smelled of jasmine, turned earth, and something faintly sweet that Sabine could not identify.
Queen Mother Ilyra sat at a small table near the center, surrounded by potted night-flowering plants and glass cases where more moths rested with wings spread flat against silk backing. She wore pale gray silk that made her look softer than she was, pearls at her throat, her silver-blonde hair dressed with minimal ornament.
She rose when Sabine entered. “My dear. How lovely to see you properly.”
The warmth in her voice was flawless. It made Sabine’s spine stiffen instinctively.
“Your Majesty.” Sabine curtsied,the full formal depth, because refusing would be noted and because Ilyra would expect nothing less.
“Please. Sit.” Ilyra gestured to the chair opposite her own. “I thought we might speak more comfortably here than in the throne hall. First selections are always… delicate.”
Sabine sat.
A servant appeared with wine, poured two glasses, and withdrew so silently Sabine barely registered his presence. Another brought a tray of sugared fruit, candied violets, small pastries dusted with gold leaf. All of it beautiful. All of it designed to create the illusion of intimacy.
Ilyra lifted her glass. “To new beginnings.”
Sabine drank without toasting aloud.
The wine was excellent. The fruit tasted like expensive air.
“You must be overwhelmed,” Ilyra said, setting her glass down with care. “The Hall of Selection is always a trial in itself, even before the Trials proper begin.”
“I am managing.”
“I’m certain you are. A woman does not enter the Nine Trials from a house under such… pressure without having already learned to manage a great deal.”
There it was. The first probe, gentle and precise.
Sabine met her eyes. “House Corvyr has faced difficulties. That is not a secret.”
“No, it is not. Which is why your selection surprised so many.” Ilyra reached for a piece of candied fruit and turned it between her fingers. “The court expected Lucien to choose strategically. A strong house. A clear alliance. A bride who could bring immediate political benefit to the crown.”
“And instead he chose me.”
“Yes.” Ilyra bit delicately into the fruit. “One must wonder why.”
Sabine kept her voice even. “I cannot speak to his motives.”
“Of course not. You have only just met him.” Ilyra’s gaze sharpened fractionally. “But you do bring something to the match, whether you intended to or not. Desperation can be quite… compelling. It creates devotion where calculation might hesitate.”
The words landed soft and poisonous.
Sabine understood the test immediately. Ilyra wanted to know whether Sabine could be governed through Corvyr’s need. Whether family debt would make her pliant. Whether fear of losing everything would turn her into a useful instrument.
“Desperation,” Sabine said carefully, “and devotion are not the same thing.”
“No?” Ilyra smiled. “In court, my dear, they are often indistinguishable. A woman who needs the match will endure what a woman who wants it might refuse. The crown benefits either way.”
“I entered the Trials to save my house. That is not a mystery.”
“And now you have been chosen first by a prince whose last bride died under unfortunate circumstances. That must give you pause.”
Sabine set her glass down. “What happened to Isolde.”
The queen mother’s expression did not change, but something in the air between them shifted,a tightening, a reassessment of boundaries.
“Isolde was a delicate creature,” Ilyra said after a pause. “Beautiful. Devoted. Unfortunately ill-suited to the pressures the crown requires. The rite is demanding. Not every bride survives the completion of it.”
