The archive room was colder than I remembered.
Sunlight slanted in through the high glass panes, dust swirling like golden ghosts through the still air. I sat at the long oak table beneath the stained-glass skylight, surrounded by scrolls and ink-smeared ledgers, trying to make sense of something that refused to make sense.
The trial of Lady Catherine and Duke Lanovo had been postponed, but the rot beneath it hadn’t paused with the council. If anything, the delay felt deliberate. Stalling. Like someone didn’t want the truth uncovered.
Lady Catherine’s file was thicker than I remembered. Dozens of pages, many redacted or re-copied in different hands. The charges were there: conspiracy, council manipulation, alliance with a possibly known traitor. But something was missing.
Literally.
I frowned, flipping to the record of witness statements. The scribe’s pen had trailed off mid-entry on page forty-two. A sentence half-formed. The next page had been torn clean out—not ripped in haste, but removed with care. The kind of quiet erasure that comes with planning.
I turned the book sideways to see if the ink had bled through.
It hadn’t.
But there—faint, almost invisible—was a residue of wax. A seal, long gone, its memory still pressed into the leather.
I checked the scribe’s log again. The page should have held testimony from one of the estate’s handmaids. Her name had been written in, then scratched out. Not erased—obliterated. A blot of old ink covered whatever had been there.
My finger hovered above it. “Suspicious,” I murmured.
Beside the ledger sat a stack of shipping manifests from three weeks prior — supply logs routed through the eastern pass. But there was a two-day gap in the timeline. The ink jumped dates without explanation. In a book that usually accounted for every cart, every crate, every horse, silence was loud.
I reached for the attached folio, but the entry I needed had been torn out. Jagged. Rushed.
I stood, scanning the room. My eyes landed on a hunched figure at the far end — Master Rhen, one of the archivists. He was sorting scrolls with the same slow, deliberate care I remembered from childhood.
“Master Rhen?” I called gently.
He turned. “Your Highness.”
“This ledger’s missing a page.” I held it up. “Do you know who was here last?”
He blinked behind his cracked spectacles. “This week? You. And... Lord Adrian, I believe. Yesterday afternoon. Said he was assisting you.”
I froze. “He didn’t mention that.”
Rhen shuffled closer. “May I?”
I passed him the ledger.
He studied the torn seam, sniffing faintly. “Smoke,” he said. “Smells like it was scorched.”
“Was anything removed from the secured folios?”
Rhen hesitated. “You might ask the High Scribe. He keeps originals locked in his office.”
“I thought he was traveling?”
The old man’s mouth thinned. “No. He collapsed two nights ago. Healers say it’s his heart. But...” He lowered his voice. “I’ve known the man forty years. His heart never gave him trouble before.”
A cold ripple worked its way down my spine.
Before I could reply, a voice spoke behind me, smooth and familiar.
“You’ve been down here awhile, haven’t you?”
I turned.
Adrian stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed, hair tousled like he hadn’t tried. A single sunflower stem dangled from his fingers.
“Figured I’d find you buried in parchment,” he said, stepping forward. “You’ve always had a flair for gloom.”
I sat back down in the chair. “I was reviewing trial records.”
“Which ones?” His gaze flicked to the table—too fast—then returned to me, still smiling.
“The travel logs. Something doesn’t add up.”
“Does it ever?” he said lightly. “The court’s a tangle of blind birds and bent quills.”
He reached out, placing the sunflower beside my inkpot. “You haven’t eaten.” He put a small white bag on the table, “Honeyed bread from the market—still warm.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised.
“I’m always thinking of you,” he replied, voice soft. “Actually, that’s part of why I came.”
He unrolled a second parchment. “There’s unrest in the lower quarter. Food lines. Shortages. The priests have asked for a royal presence—nothing dramatic. Just… reassurance.”
I hesitated. “Now?”
“They’re waiting,” he said. “And you're better at soft diplomacy than half the lords still seated.”
I glanced back at the ledger. The ruined page. The missing entry. A whisper of warning echoed beneath my ribs.
Adrian followed my gaze. “You’ll have time for that later. But fear spreads faster than truth, Kira.”
His hand extended. Open. Waiting.
And somehow, I found myself closing the book.
The missing page still lingered like a wound beneath my fingertips. But… they were waiting. And Adrian was right — fear spreads faster than truth.
—-----
The southern gates creaked open as we stepped into the heart of the lower quarter. Adrian walked beside me, his posture relaxed, one hand resting loosely on the sword at his hip. The sun glinted off the slate rooftops, where laundry lines stretched between windows and chimneys puffed with morning bread smoke.
The square looked quieter than usual.
Market stalls stood half-filled. Baskets of onions, dried fish, and flour sat unsold. A boy swept dust from a stone step with tired determination, glancing up only when we passed. People turned as we walked — not with full bows, but enough that I felt their eyes.
Adrian leaned in just slightly. “You see that?” he murmured. “You haven’t said a word, and already they’re watching you like a miracle walked in.”
A blush rose before I could stop it. I looked away. “They’re just curious.”
“They’re hopeful,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
We reached the fountain at the square’s center. A few townsfolk had already gathered — mostly older villagers, mothers with children, apprentices lingering near shuttered stalls. The air felt tight with waiting. With worry.
I stepped forward.
“The Queen sends her regards,” I began, voice lifting over the murmur of the crowd. “She knows many of you have friends, loved ones near the border. She wants you to know that Valara stands with you — and that you will not be left behind.”
A hush fell. I saw a few heads nod.
“If anyone in the quarter needs food, water, medicine — the palace gates remain open. Speak to the guards. You will be heard.”
A woman clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “And when the war comes closer?” she asked. “Will you still hear us then?”
My chest tightened.
Adrian stepped beside me, his voice smooth. “That’s why she’s here now,” he said. “To make sure you don’t have to face it alone.”
He gestured to a few crates being hauled in by palace servants — dried barley, honey bread, jars of preserved roots. “This is just the first. There’ll be more before the week is out.”
Whispers stirred. Gratitude. Skepticism. All tangled together.
A boy ran forward, clutching his sister’s hand. “Are you really a princess?” he asked, blinking up at me.
I crouched, smiling. “I am.”
“Can you do magic?”
I opened my mouth to answer — but then a cry broke through the square.
A woman stumbled toward us, her arms wrapped around a limp child. Her daughter, maybe eight or nine, was pale and unmoving, sweat beading at her brow.
“She collapsed,” the woman gasped. “There’s no apothecary left—please—”
Adrian reached for the girl, but I was already moving.
“Lay her here,” I said, kneeling at the edge of the fountain.
I pressed my hands to the child’s chest. Her breath was shallow, fading. My pulse thrummed in my ears — not with fear, but with purpose. I closed my eyes and let warmth rise through my palms, focusing on that thread of light that lived somewhere just beneath my skin. The same one I had used to heal Kai once. And Cassian.
Please, I thought. Let this be enough.
A breath. Then another.
The girl stirred, eyelids fluttering open. Color returned to her cheeks slowly, like light through fog.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“She’s breathing.”
“The princess healed her.”
“Bless the gods…”
I stood slowly, heart racing. Adrian’s hand caught my arm before I could wobble.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said under his breath. “But it was beautiful.”
I met his eyes — too close, too warm — and forgot what I was going to say.
The mother sobbed into her shawl, holding her daughter close.
“She’ll be alright,” I told her gently. “Cool cloth. Water. Let her rest.”
The woman nodded, overcome. Behind her, the crowd pressed forward, not out of fear — but reverence.
Adrian leaned in. “Do you see them now?” he said, voice low and close to my ear. “You gave them hope. You are their hope.”
I turned slightly, breath still shallow. “That’s not why I did it.”
“No,” he said, brushing his hand softly against my face. “That’s why it matters.”
I didn’t pull away.
We left the square slowly, the townsfolk parting to let us pass. A few reached out — touching the hem of my cloak, offering soft blessings, quiet thanks. I couldn’t meet all their eyes. I didn’t know how to hold so much expectation in one body.
Adrian’s presence beside me was steady. Grounding. Too steady.
When we turned down the alley behind the baker’s, he paused.
“You were meant for this,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
He reached for my hand — not forcefully, just… there. “Then let me remind you.”
And for a moment, I almost let him.
We were halfway back to the palace gates when a courier found us — breathless, young, and pale beneath his crest-marked collar. He bowed too quickly and held out a folded piece of parchment.
“For Her Highness,” he said, eyes darting toward Adrian, then quickly back down. “From the Queen’s hand.”
I took it.
The seal was a pressed violet, familiar and fading — my mother’s. I broke it carefully.
Kira,
If you are able, come to me now. No guards. No fuss. Just you.
I would like a little sunlight while I still can.
—Mother
The words weren’t heavy, but something in them curled under my ribs and refused to let go.
Adrian glanced down. “Everything alright?”
I folded the paper, slipping it into my sleeve. “She wants to see me.”
He smiled — soft, unreadable. “Of course. She always did know when to call you home.”
We reached the gates. Adrian paused at the stairs.
“Thank you for today,” he said. “For everything you did — for them.”
“It wasn’t enough,” I said quietly.
“No,” he agreed. “But it meant everything.”
Then he stepped back with a faint bow — not formal, but respectful. Like he was giving me to someone else.
I turned toward the palace alone.
The corridors felt quieter than usual as I moved through them. Not abandoned, but softened — like the castle was holding its breath.
I passed no guards. No attendants.
Only silence. And the faint scent of lavender, trailing from the upper wing like the memory of something kind.
When I reached her door, I didn’t knock.
I opened the door.
The Queen’s room was warmer than usual. A tray of untouched tea sat on the table, the steam long since faded.
She was seated near the window, a pale shawl around her shoulders despite the summer sun. Her smile was genuine, if tired — but something about her stillness made my pulse flicker.
“Kira,” she greeted, opening her arms. “You’ve come at last.”
“I came as soon as I got your note,” I said, moving to embrace her. Her frame felt smaller than I remembered. More fragile.
We sat. Talked lightly at first — memories of Kai as a toddler, the first time Cassian tried to sneak into the kitchens, the mess that followed. She laughed, but too softly. Like it cost something.
But halfway through a story, her words slowed.
She blinked — once, twice — as if her thoughts had slipped through her fingers.
“Mother?”
“Hm?” She looked at me, her sea blue eyes meeting my own, distant for a moment. Then smiled again. “I’m fine, darling. Just tired. This war… it takes its toll on all of us.”
She shifted, rising too quickly.
Her knees buckled.
I was on my feet in an instant. “Careful—!”
She waved me off, but I caught her elbow, steadied her. Her skin felt too cold. Her pulse fluttered.
“Let me try something,” I said, already pressing my hand to her arm. I called the light — gently, carefully — and let it seep into her veins.
Nothing. Not at first. Just a silence so loud I could feel it echoing in my bones.
For a moment, it worked.
Her color returned. The tightness in her brow eased. She exhaled, blinking back tears she didn’t let fall.
“I always forget how warm your gift is,” she murmured. “Like sunlight. You were always made of it.”
But then she shivered. Her breath caught.
And for one awful second, I saw something shimmer behind her eyes — not fear, not pain, but something foreign. Something ancient.
She pressed a hand to her chest, then quickly dropped it.
“I’m fine,” she said again. Firmer this time. “I just need rest. No more worrying.”
She reached out, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Go on, sweetheart. There’s too much happening for you to hover here.”
I hesitated.
But she was already sitting again, hands folded neatly, expression composed.
So I nodded. Kissed her cheek. And left.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling.
What I felt beneath her skin — it wasn’t just fatigue. Something else was there.
Something that didn’t feel entirely hers.
The palace halls were quieter now, brushed in the mellow gold of late afternoon. Somewhere, bells were chiming the fifth hour. I moved slower than usual, my thoughts still full of my mother’s face — too pale, too bright-eyed. Like she was burning from the inside out.
I needed something solid to hold onto. A pattern. A fact. Anything that made sense.
I turned the corner just as Fennie rounded it from the opposite side, nearly dropping the stack of books in her arms.
“Princess—oh! I didn’t think you’d be back today.”
I steadied the top volume before it could slide. “Neither did I.”
She squinted at me. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”
“Because I didn’t,” I murmured. “Is the archive still open?”
“For you? Always.”
We walked together in step, her arms full of ledgers and scrolls. She gave me the rundown of which aides were rotating in for transcription, which deliveries were late, and which quill sets had mysteriously vanished again.
“—And don’t even get me started on the Court Scribe’s new filing system,” she huffed. “Who alphabetizes by title?”
I smiled despite myself. “You’ve been busy.”
“You left half your notes this morning,” she said, more gently now. “I thought you might come back for them.”
“I meant to,” I said, then hesitated. “Things got...complicated.”
Fennie didn’t pry. She never did. Just nodded, pushing the archive door open with her shoulder and leading us into the lantern-lit quiet.
My stack of research was still there — right where I’d left it, beside the ledger of trial summaries and a half-finished letter to the Queen’s High Clerk. A few petals from my morning tea had dried into the parchment.
But something looked… off.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Did anyone come in here after me?” I asked softly.
Fennie paused, frowning. “Only the scribe’s assistant, I think. Why?”
I picked up one of the records I remembered highlighting — a list of communications between Duke Lanovo’s staff and the regional war offices. Only now, the key entry… was gone. The date I’d flagged was still marked with my ink blot, but the line beneath it had been cut away. Precisely. Deliberately.
I stared at it, heart ticking faster.
Fennie noticed. “Something missing?”
“Maybe,” I said carefully, setting the page back down. “Maybe I just imagined it.”
She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced. “You want me to cross-check it with the original copy in the sealed holdings?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. Let’s not raise any alarms.”
The ache in my spine sharpened. This wasn’t just bad memory. Someone was moving pieces when I wasn’t looking.
And I needed to be looking harder.