“We’ll be safe in here,” she says. “We can speak freely. Kieran has this entire space warded against prying eyes and listeningears.” She moves toward the counter, pulling things from the shelf above it. “Just don’t bring any mirrors in. Tea?”
“Actually, yeah.” I sink into a chair that’s far more comfortable than it looks. Leave it to Kieran to have secretly cozy furniture. “I’d love some tea.”
The bond pulses at my wrist. Gold. Still wrong. Still afraid.
I grip the armrest until my knuckles go white.
“I feel lost,” I tell her. The honesty rises from that place where all those emotions remain buried, the graveyard behind my sternum. “And for some fucked-up reason, I want to dig into the storage unit and dust off the cobwebs.”
Kestra sets a kettle on a heating slate and settles onto the other chair. She looks like she belongs there. Like she’s sat in that seat many, many times before.
Waiting for her brother. Worrying about him. Being the person he came home to.
Now it’s me she’s helping.
I wonder, who asks about Kestra? Who checks on her?
Me. I can ask. I can be that person.
Because right now I can’t think about Finnian alone with Amarantha. I trust him. But not her. Never her. And whatever is happening in there right now, we will have to work through later.
“I’ve just had the delightful realization that I’m Fae.” I laugh, but it comes out cracked. Another tear tracks down my face and I swipe at it angrily. “Burying emotions until the dam breaks. Very on-brand for a species that treats feelings like a disease.”
“Ash—”
“Ever since the damn trials, I’ve been leaking like a broken faucet.” I sniffle. “It’s embarrassing, honestly. I used to be good at this.”
Kestra’s smile is soft. Knowing. “This is the Trial of Survival.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re living it.” She gets up as the kettle whistles, pouring tea into two cups. Sets them on the table between us. “So much happened so fast,” she says, “no one explained anything to you, did they?”
“Not really.”
“By design.” She flutters her hands as if it doesn’t matter anymore. Or at least not right now.
I doctor my tea, maple sugar, some cream, and cradle the warmth between my palms. “Something’s been bothering me. How is Amarantha a queen?”
“She isn’t a true queen in the traditional sense.” Kestra sighs, stirring her own cup. “Amarantha killed for her place.”
“Didn’t she have to go through the trials?”
“All who claim a crown must complete the trials. But it isn’t for our benefit.” Her expression sours. “It’s for the power of the court itself. You can only rise by the death of the previous queen. Now, how she dies...”
She trails off. Leaves the thought open.
The bond pulses. Gold. Desperate.
Focus, Ash. This matters.
“So the trials aren’t a test. They’re a transfer mechanism. The court needs to verify the new vessel can hold the power.”
Kestra’s eyes light up. “Exactly.”
“And Amarantha killed Tatiana, but...” I’m putting pieces together now, years of training finally useful for something. “She didn’t complete the transfer properly. She has the throne, but not the full power.”
“Now you’re seeing it.” She sips.
