His desk is the cluttered chaos one might expect from an artist. Ink pots fill the window ledge where I set down the potted vine, one jar still open, and I worry its ink may dry.
By the time I have the lid secured, I can no longer help myself. I begin to gently stack and tidy the desk in front of me.
Taking great care not to disrupt the creative space but rather honor it, I focus on the lightest, most obvious tasks. Straightening books on the brink of toppling without changing their order. Collecting the array of discarded mugs in one place so they can be taken and cleaned more easily later. Small gestures of care for the space—and for my friend.
With a handful of quills, I reach to open the drawer I most expect to be their home. I open the drawer on the right side, far too short to hold the length of such objects. Instead, it houses a collection of wax and jars of loose pigment. The entire drawer is a colorful, dusty mess—a myriad of hues from azure to ochre scattered about.
Ochre.
My heart sinks, and any air in my lungs is stilled.
The seal on the letter Daerin uncovered.
No. No, Mira.It’s a common enough color, I tell myself. Don’t think the worst from something as small and inconsequential as a pigment.
He makes maps. He works with every color one might imagine.
Still, something gnaws at me.
I look down at the drawer once more. So shallow it cannot hold a quill. Too shallow.
I remember Daerin’s words. Fenloris is clever—and clever men…
I reach to the back and feel it. A small notch at the rear of the drawer. I freeze as my heart sinks. Still, my mind wars with reason, with doubt. I hold my breath as I reach for it.
With one cautious tug, it gives way.
Behind it—a seal. I blink, as if that might change what I see right before me.
Closing my eyes, not wanting it to be true.No. Not Fen.I trusted him. I still trust him.
But as I take the seal press in my hand and turn it over, the truth is undeniable.
The mark of the Ironborne Flame.
Footsteps, voices—gone. The world narrows to the stamp in my hand; my knees falter beneath me.
“You weren’t supposed to find that.”
His voice shatters the quiet, and the stamp slips from my fingers, clattering against the wood. I stare at it—at the mark pressed into its face. Not confusion. Not curiosity.
Recognition.
Something shifts in his expression. A calculation. His eyes flick from the seal to me, searching for doubt—finding none.
As I turn, my back near the window, he stands there, slowly closing the door behind him.
He looks at me, colder now. His stoic nature amplified as he leans back against the door, exaggerating the distance between us.
Just beyond my pounding heart and fractured breath, I hear the faint click as he locks the door.
He moves slowly, measuring how much of the mask he is willing to let fall. I can feel my heart breaking as each layer slips away.
“You must love it,” he says at last with a huff, the words then coiling tight with venom. “All the attention.”
I try to step back, stumbling into a pile of books. My hands shoot out to steady myself—and them.
“The girl turned queen,” he continues, eyes raking over me. “Everyone tripping over themselves to earn your favor. Look how high you’ve climbed.”
