“She died during the Trials.”
“After.” Ilyra’s fingers traced the rim of her glass. “She completed the public stages successfully. But the final vow,the private sanctification, proved too much. Grief followed. The physicians did what they could.”
“Grief.”
“Yes.”
Sabine heard the word for what it was: official language laid over something the palace refused to name plainly.
“And Lucien,” Sabine said.
“Was devastated, naturally. As any husband would be.” Ilyra picked up another piece of fruit and examined it with faint distaste before setting it aside uneaten. “The kingdom does not preserve versions of grief that make it look weak, my dear. What remains in record is what serves continuity. You would do well to remember that.”
Which meant: the truth of Isolde’s death had been buried, edited, or rewritten entirely, and asking further would mark Sabine as dangerously curious.
Ilyra leaned forward slightly, her voice softening into something almost maternal. “You are very young to be carrying the weight of an entire house. Your brother, Cassian, yes? He must feel the pressure keenly as well.”
“He does.”
“And if you were to fail here, or withdraw, what becomes of him? Of your mother? Of the estate?”
Sabine’s jaw tightened. “You know the answer already.”
“I do. Which is why I want you to understand that the crown is not your enemy, Sabine. We want you to succeed. But success requires… flexibility. An understanding that what serves the realm may sometimes feel at odds with personal desire.”
“I did not come here expecting desire to matter.”
Ilyra’s smile returned, warmer this time, and somehow worse for it. “Good. Then we understand each other.”
She gestured toward the tray of pastries. “Eat, my dear. You look thin. The Trials ahead will require strength, and a woman cannot afford to appear fragile when the court is watching.”
The rest of the meal passed in lighter conversation, questions about Sabine’s childhood, Corvyr’s orchards, her mother’s health, Cassian’s prospects. All of it polite. All of it strategic. Ilyra extracted information with the skill of someone who had spent decades learning which questions opened people and which ones sealed them shut.
By the time Sabine was dismissed, the queen mother had learned precisely what she had come to learn: Sabine was not naive, but she was cornered. She would not collapse under pressure, but she could be steered if the lever was her family’s survival.
And Ilyra had made it clear that the palace knew exactly where that lever sat.
The walk back to her chamber felt longer than it should have. Sabine’s pulse thrummed in her throat. Her marked hand felt heavier, as if the pattern had absorbed weight during the conversation.
Lysa was waiting when she returned, folding linens near the fire.
“How was it, my lady?”
“Informative.”
Lysa did not press. She simply helped Sabine out of the blue silk and into a plain night shift, unpinned her hair, and set the room in order with the same quiet efficiency she had shown all evening.
“Will you need anything else tonight?”
“No. Thank you.”
Lysa curtsied and withdrew.
Sabine crossed to the writing desk, intending to record the evening’s conversation in her hidden notebook, but stopped when her gaze caught on the mantel.
Something sat there that had not been there before.
A small carved figure. Wood. Dark grain, polished smooth.
