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His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes.”
“And the queen?” I ask, the pieces slowly falling into place. “She’s your…”
“Aunt,” he finishes for me, though given the slight curl to his lip, I imagine the word tastes bitter. “Cynna and Silas are her children.”
The revelation settles over me, then a furrow creases my brow. My gaze darts to where the braid of my ashen hair drapes over my shoulder, then up to him.
An uneasy feeling coils in the pit of my stomach. “Are we related?”
For a moment he stares at me, and the silence stretches long enough for my heart to lurch. Then he laughs—a low, rich sound that’s carried away by the wind.
“No, Aella,” he says, shaking his head, his silver eyes glinting with amusement. “The Diarchy is ruled by two different bloodlines. Thalos, which Cynna, Silas, and I are from, and Kytherion, which you belong to. They have been kept separate for the sake of inheritance.”
His words ease the tension in my chest, but my thoughts churn.
He peers at me from the corner of his eye, a smirk still hovering on his lips. “You’re not going to break my bones over this, are you?”
I huff a laugh, recalling the threat I made when I decided to stay.
“I think that would be rather hypocritical of me at this point.” I glance away, looking to the dark expanse below. “What Cynna said…I was going to tell you. I almost did earlier today. I just didn’t know how.”
“How does a princess become a spy?”
The question hangs in the air between us, and I can’t help the soft, self-deprecating laugh that escapes me. I push strands of hair back from my face, then take a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak.
“My mother died the day I was born,” I say finally. “The healers told my father I hadn’t taken my first breath, that my soul didn’t claim my body. Later, I learned from my nursemaids that it only took her a moment to decide what to do. She carved a pair of marks into both our chests, kissed me once, and begged the gods to trade her life for mine. They listened, I suppose, and my name was the last word she spoke.”
“Stormwind.”
“What?” I ask.
“Your name,” he says. “It means stormwind.”
The meaning settles over me, clinging to my skin, sinking into my bones. Stormwind. I whisper it to myself, tasting its weight, the shape of it rolling off my tongue.
“My father resented me for her death. I think the older I got, the harder it became for him to see me and not her. My face, my hair, perhaps even the sound of my voice…I think they all reminded him of what he lost, and when it became too much, he sent me to the Aviary.”
I pick at the embroidery on the hem of my tunic as I unravel the years of relentless training and merciless punishment. The rest of my story swiftly follows—the first mission and how it forced me to claim my royal title, the grueling trials in Eretria where I faced Cynna, the inevitable collapse and the days of captivity and torment at Keres’s hands. When I get to the moment where our stories converge and I lifted the canvas from the cage that held him, it feels as though I’ve stripped myself bare. Like I’ve carved every truth from my chest, leaving it hollow and echoing.
I close my eyes, drawing in a slow, steadying breath, then look up at Lyxander. His eyes are already on me, rage carved into every line of his face. He’s not really looking at me, though—his eyes are fixed on my throat.
“Will you show me?”
My breath catches.
That voice.
There’s no softness in it, no comfort, only a quiet promise of devastation—and somehow, that’s worse. So much worse.
I force myself to swallow, and my fingers tighten around the hem of my tunic as I hesitate. But I’ve laid bare every piece of myself tonight, and among all the scars we bear, the one left by the collar binds us in a way no words ever could.
Slowly, I untie the laces at my throat, my fingers trembling as I tug them loose. The wind catches the fabric as I let the collar fall open.
Lyxander’s gaze darkens, and thunder rumbles overhead.
He reaches toward me, his hand hovering above my collarbone. But he stills, his eyes meeting mine, a silent question flickering in their depths.
I nod, and his fingers close the distance.
