The Queen's Mage

Chapter 7: The Shape of Leaving

On the third morning after First Sun, Harrek had moved four pins.

Daravan noticed before he noticed anything else.

Yesterday, the four black markers had sat along the western edge of the city map.

One near the river road.

One at the carriage gate.

Two near the old warehouses.

This morning, all four had been moved back toward the center of Myrae.

Daravan stopped beside the Watch command table. “You changed your mind.”

Harrek looked up from a stack of reports.

A strip of bandage remained visible beneath his hair.

“I was wrong.”

Daravan waited.

Harrek frowned. “You are supposed to ask about what.”

“I assumed you would tell me.”

“Poor investigative practice.”

“I am not an investigator.”

“No. It shows.”

Daravan looked at the map.

Harrek pushed a report toward him.

“We assumed they fled west because three witnesses saw movement in that direction after the square cleared.”

“Yes.”

“Gate searches found nothing. Harbor found nothing. No evidence of magical extraction outside the western wards. No stolen horses. No abandoned carriage. No blood trail past the tannery lane.”

Daravan read. “Which means?”

“It means I was wrong.”

“You already said that.”

“I like to be thorough.”

Harrek rubbed his forehead and pushed the next report aside.

Daravan looked at him.

“Better?”

“Than yesterday. Worse than before someone hit me.”

Lia had used healing magic on him in several careful sessions since First Sun. The headache had eased, and he no longer had to wait for the room to settle whenever he moved.

An hour over small handwriting still cost him.

“Another treatment today?”

“Yes. Apparently you cannot heal a head in one spell because the head is complicated.”

“Yours certainly is.”

Harrek gave him an unimpressed look.

Daravan returned to the map. “You think they’re still in Myrae.”

“I think we have no evidence they left.”

“That is not the same conclusion.”

Harrek pointed at him. “See? You can investigate.”

Daravan ignored this.

Four Lyehiran agents.

Somewhere inside his city.

Perhaps.

He disliked perhaps.

“Anything from the prisoners?” Harrek asked.

“Silence.”

“Same.”

Harrek leaned back carefully. “We finished comparing descriptions.”

Daravan looked at him.

“The accounts agree about the man who spoke in the square. The one who pursued Lady Serali and cut Lady Marielle. Our witnesses place him leaving with the others.”

They had already established that he was not among the dead or captured. A route was more useful than another confirmation of his absence.

“The cut beneath his eye?”

“Two witnesses noticed it. One saw him pressing a cloth to his face.”

Daravan looked down at the map. “Which route?”

“West, as far as the tannery lane.”

A confirmed route, then.

But only as far as the tannery lane.

After that, they had lost him.

Harrek watched him for a moment.

Noticed the silence.

Did not interpret it.

That was one reason Daravan liked working with him.

Harrek noticed facts.

He generally had the decency not to invent explanations until he possessed evidence.

“We may have found where they went,” Harrek said.

Daravan looked up. “Where?”

Harrek smiled.

This was unfortunate.

Harrek smiled when nervous, concussed, or when he had discovered something interesting enough to become temporarily insufferable.

Daravan had known him too long to confuse the categories.

“Lower west quarter.”

“You just said west was wrong.”

“I said leaving west was wrong.”

Daravan stared at him.

Harrek rose carefully. “Come look.”

“Mistress Lia cleared you?”

“For this inspection,” Harrek said. “Apparently healing a head requires several visits and an unreasonable amount of patience.”

“Yours or hers?”

“She was not specific.”

The inspection had a time limit. No climbing roofs, no searching cellars, and a lieutenant who had been instructed to bring him back.

Daravan approved of the lieutenant.

The building had once housed a cooper.

Daravan knew this because the sign remained over the alley door, though half the painted barrel had peeled away.

Harrek knew because he had asked.

That was another difference between them.

Daravan entered a building and found the places someone could hide.

Harrek first wanted to know who had paid the rent.

Two Watch officers waited outside.

Another stood on the roof.

Daravan glanced up.

“Roofline secure?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Rear alley?”

“Covered.”

Harrek waited.

Daravan looked at him. “What?”

“Finished?”

“For now.”

“Good.”

They entered.

The front workshop smelled of old wood, dust, and something faintly chemical beneath both.

Empty racks lined the walls.

Shavings remained caught between floorboards.

Nothing useful.

Daravan checked the rear door.

Bolted from inside.

Window.

Narrow enough to defend.

Staircase.

One person could hold it against several.

“Poor exit,” he said.

Harrek stopped halfway across the room.

“For someone planning to stay.”

Daravan looked over.

A Watch officer knelt beside a gap in the floorboards. Harrek watched while she checked it.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That sounded promising.”

“It isn’t.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am.”

The officer shook her head. Harrek continued toward the stairs.

They had done this during the war.

Not in workshops.

In ruined farmhouses.

Abandoned camps.

Burned supply posts.

Daravan would secure the perimeter.

Harrek would wander through the wreckage looking mildly irritated until something offended his understanding of events.

Then he would point at it.

Usually, unfortunately, he would be right.

Allandra had learned very early to give them different questions.

Daravan: Can we hold this?

Harrek: Why did they leave it?

They climbed.

The upper room was smaller.

No furniture except a table and two chairs.

A washbasin.

An empty cupboard.

A cold brazier.

Daravan stopped. “No beds.”

Harrek nodded.

“No blankets.”

“No food.”

“Not enough for a hideout.”

Daravan crossed to the window.

It opened onto the adjoining roof.

Easy step across.

Then another roof.

Then three possible alleys.

Better.

“This was temporary.”

“Yes.”

Harrek moved to the table.

“Watch found ash in the brazier.”

“Clothing?”

“Some.”

A Watch officer opened an evidence packet and showed Daravan a folded scrap of cloth.

Dark grey wool.

Cheap.

Avalusian weave.

Daravan turned it over.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“One of ours?”

“Civilian. Bought locally.”

“Blood?”

“On another piece.”

Harrek pointed toward the basin.

The water had been removed for testing, but a faint rusty stain remained around the drain.

Daravan’s jaw tightened.

“Someone was injured.”

“At least one.”

“Several were.”

“Yes.”

Harrek crossed to the cupboard.

“More interesting.”

Inside were six wooden pegs.

Nothing hung from them.

Beneath them sat an empty rectangular case divided into narrow compartments.

Daravan crouched.

“Charms?”

“Probably.”

“Veil stones?”

“Possibly.”

“You don’t know.”

“No.”

Daravan looked at him.

Harrek shrugged.

“I am practicing intellectual honesty.”

“You could practice silently.”

“Less educational.”

Daravan examined the box.

Six compartments.

All empty.

Harrek said, “We found traces of illusion powder in two.”

That mattered.

“A prepared change point.”

“That is my assessment.”

“They entered the square veiled.”

“Yes.”

“They expected survivors to come here, change appearance, treat injuries, take new concealment materials—”

“And leave as someone else.”

Daravan stood.

Four missing agents.

One prepared room.

Civilian clothes.

Water.

Veiling supplies.

A roof route designed to scatter movement across three districts.

Not escape.

Transition.

He disliked this more.

“They planned for failure.”

Harrek’s humor disappeared.

“Yes.”

Silence settled between them.

Daravan looked around again.

The room changed once you knew what it was.

Not refuge.

Procedure.

Someone had selected it because it was anonymous, defensible for minutes, not hours, and connected to multiple routes.

Prepared before First Sun.

Waiting.

“How did we find it?”

“Landlord.”

“That quickly?”

“He was annoyed about his property.”

Daravan looked at him.

Harrek’s mouth twitched. “Justice has many servants.”

“Who rented it?”

“Man calling himself Edric Vale.”

“Verified?”

“Not yet. No one at the address he gave has heard of him.”

“Description?”

“Middle-aged. Brown hair. Forgettable face. Presented himself as Avalusian.”

“Magic.”

“Probably.”

“When?”

“Eleven days before First Sun.”

Daravan absorbed that.

Plenty of time.

Harrek continued. “Paid three weeks in advance. Asked no questions. Never slept here, according to the neighbors.”

“Then how did the landlord connect it?”

“He came to complain because someone left blood in his basin.”

Daravan looked at the basin.

Harrek spread his hands. “Civic responsibility.”

“Property damage.”

“More reliable.”

Daravan almost smiled.

Almost.

Something near the window caught Harrek’s attention.

He crossed to it.

There it was.

The shift.

Harrek did not become tense when he noticed something.

He became quieter.

“What?”

Harrek drew a chair toward the window and sat. An officer pointed out the marks the search team had found near the sill.

A faint scrape marked the dust.

Then another.

Not a footprint exactly.

The edge of one.

The officer traced its direction toward the window. “Someone favored one leg.”

Daravan came closer.

A shallow drag.

Left side.

Once.

Then again.

“Could be injury.”

“Yes.”

“From the square.”

“Possibly.”

Harrek looked up. “Or older.”

Daravan nodded.

No conclusion without evidence.

Good.

“Can we track it?”

“Not from here. Roofs were wet before dawn. Then market traffic started.”

Daravan looked toward the window. “Still worth checking.”

“Already being checked.”

Of course.

Daravan stood.

“If you find an occupied property linked to this, I want a response ready,” Daravan said.

Harrek’s expression changed. “Maybe.”

Daravan looked at him. “Maybe?”

“If we find one occupied.”

“Yes.”

“I would rather watch first.”

“No.”

Harrek sighed. “There he is.”

“If four trained Lyehiran operatives are inside a building in Myrae, I am not leaving them there for observation.”

“And if one courier enters?”

“You arrest both.”

“And lose whoever the courier was going to see next.”

Daravan folded his arms.

Harrek leaned against the table. “Your job is to stop the next attack.”

“Yes.”

“My job is to find the network that allowed the first one—and prevent another in the city.”

“And if your investigation gives them time to kill someone?”

“Then I was wrong.”

The answer came without defensiveness.

Without hesitation.

Daravan hated that about him.

Also trusted it.

Harrek continued. “But if we kick every door the instant we find it, we may catch four people and never learn who rented the rooms, bought the supplies, moved the messages, or helped them cross the city.”

“Assuming anyone did.”

“Yes.”

“You think they had local support.”

“Someone rented this room and stocked it before First Sun. Whether that was one of the operatives or someone helping them is a question worth answering.”

Daravan stared at him.

Harrek shrugged. “Current assessment.”

Daravan looked around once more.

Empty room.

Prepared route.

Blood.

Civilian cloth.

Six empty compartments.

“You watch first,” he said. “I can make palace reinforcements available if they threaten the Crown.”

Harrek nodded.

“My response team will be within one street,” Harrek said.

“Half.”

“One.”

“Half.”

Harrek considered. “Three quarters.”

Daravan stared. “This is not a market.”

“Everything is a market if both parties are sufficiently annoying.”

“Half.”

Harrek sighed. “Fine.”

Agreement.

The word did not need saying.

It rarely did.

Back at Watch headquarters, the four black pins remained near the center of Myrae.

Harrek added one red pin to the cooperage.

Then stepped back.

Daravan studied the map.

“During the war,” Harrek said, “you hated maps.”

Daravan looked at him. “I did not.”

“You said they encouraged officers to believe the ground was flat.”

“That was accurate.”

“You threw one into a fire.”

“It was raining.”

“We were indoors.”

“The roof leaked.”

Harrek smiled.

There it was.

Not nervous this time.

Memory.

They had both been younger then.

Not young.

War had cured that early.

Allandra had worn armor more often than silk. Daravan had spent his days securing her position while Harrek brought back reports with an irritating number of unanswered questions.

They had learned to work with the difference.

Some things had changed very little.

Harrek touched the red pin. “I thought they left.”

“You revised.”

“Yes.”

“You usually do.”

“That’s because I am frequently wrong.”

Daravan looked at him.

Harrek added, “Initially.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The part where humility becomes arrogance.”

Harrek considered. “Efficient, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Harrek’s smile faded.

His eyes returned to the four black pins. “We will find them.”

Daravan did not answer.

Promises without evidence were not useful.

Harrek knew that.

After a moment he amended: “We know more than we did this morning.”

“Yes.”

“That will have to do.”

For now.

Daravan looked at the map.

Four agents.

One presumed commander with a cut beneath his eye.

At least one fugitive favoring a leg.

A prepared fallback point.

A false renter.

Six empty compartments, two bearing concealment residue.

No evidence the four had left Myrae.

The shape of the problem had changed.

That mattered.

Daravan reached for the next report. “Show me the landlord statement.”

Harrek handed it over.

No ceremony.

No reassurance.

Just work.

It was one of the reasons they had survived the war together.

It was probably how they would survive this too.

Chapter 8: Peaceful Avenues

On the fifth morning after First Sun, the letter from Lyehira arrived.

It was six pages long.

Allandra disliked it by the second sentence.

By the fourth, she wanted to burn it.

By the end, she had developed several opinions regarding King Vulmar’s ancestry that could not appropriately be entered into the diplomatic record.

Verya finished reading aloud.

Silence followed.

Serali sat perfectly still beside Hagen.

That worried Allandra more than anger would have.

Verya lowered the letter. “To summarize,” she said, “King Vulmar denies ordering the First Sun attack.”

Hagen leaned back in his chair. “How surprising.”

“He states that the armed individuals responsible acted without sanction of the Lyehiran Crown.”

“While announcing his authority in the middle of the square,” Serali said.

Verya glanced toward her. “Yes.”

Serali folded her arms.

Allandra looked toward her. “You expected this?”

Serali hesitated.

Not because she did not know the answer.

Because she was deciding how much she knew. “I hardly knew Vulmar personally.”

Her voice remained even. “I met him formally once.”

Allandra knew.

Once had been enough.

“But I lived in his court for more than a century.”

Serali looked toward the Lyehiran seal. “You learn how a court speaks even when no one speaks to you.”

Hagen’s expression sharpened. “And this is familiar?”

“Yes.” Serali’s mouth twisted. “Not the exact words. The structure.”

She tapped the first page. “Deny what can be denied. Reframe what cannot. Force the other side to defend itself.”

Hagen nodded slowly. “So the attack becomes secondary.”

“If we let it.”

Verya opened the second folder and glanced at Serali. “I’m quoting his wording here: ‘Avalusia’s continued unlawful detention of Princess Serali Xuiven.’ He formally renews his demand that you be returned to Lyehira.”

Serali’s jaw tightened. “How considerate of him to renew it.”

Hagen reached for the Lyehiran letter.

Verya moved it six inches away from him.

He stared at her. “I was going to read it.”

“You were going to annotate it.”

“I can do both.”

“You may not.”

Hagen sighed.

Allandra said, “What is his argument?”

Verya folded her hands. “Birth.”

Serali made a faint sound of disgust.

“He has formally acknowledged you as his daughter.”

“I noticed.”

“And as a member of the House of Xuiven.”

“I noticed that too.”

“Which permits him to claim that you remain subject to the authority and protection of the Night Crown.”

Serali stared at her. “I am one hundred and forty years old.”

“Yes.”

“And apparently require paternal collection.”

“Legally,” Verya said, “age is not the problem.”

“Excellent.”

Hagen’s mouth twitched.

Verya continued. “The difficulty is sovereign status. Vulmar is not framing this as a father requesting the return of an adult daughter.”

“He is framing it as one crown demanding property from another,” Serali said.

Allandra’s magic stirred.

Verya paused. “He would object to the word property.”

“I would not.”

Neither would Allandra.

She kept both hands flat against the table.

Queen.

Not mate.

Not here.

Verya said, “He is framing it as a dispute regarding the status and custody of a member of a sovereign royal house.”

Serali’s expression went very quiet. “Does he mention that I have refused to return?”

“No,” Verya said.

“Then our response should. I will sign it myself.”

Allandra felt something painful and proud settle beneath her ribs.

Verya uncapped her pen. “Very well.”

Hagen was no longer smiling. “If he can make this a dispute between crowns,” he said, “he gains something even if no one agrees Lady Serali should be returned.”

Verya looked toward him. “Go on.”

“He changes the question.”

Serali frowned.

Hagen tapped one finger against the table. “Before this letter, the question was whether Lyehiran agents entered Avalusia and attempted to abduct our Royal Mage.”

“They did,” Serali said.

“Yes. An unpleasant question for Vulmar.”

His finger tapped again. “So he offers everyone another one. Whether Avalusia has lawful authority to retain a Lyehiran princess.”

Serali’s mouth flattened. “I am not a Lyehiran princess.”

“I know.” Hagen’s voice was calm. “But foreign courts will still have to decide whether they recognize his claim.”

Allandra understood.

Verya did too.

“Which moves attention away from the attack,” she said.

“And onto our conduct,” Hagen finished. “We spend the next six months proving we are not kidnappers instead of asking why twelve armed agents crossed our border.”

Verya gave him a small nod.

Approval from Verya was rarely dramatic.

It still mattered.

“We do not allow the record to separate those issues,” Allandra said.

“No,” Hagen agreed. “Every response begins with First Sun.”

Verya made a note. “Twelve agents. Five prisoners. Three dead. Four missing. Public demand for the Royal Mage’s return during an attempted abduction.”

“And Lady Serali’s public refusal,” Hagen added.

Serali looked at him.

He held her gaze. “That matters more than anything Vulmar calls you.”

A pause.

Then Serali nodded.

Verya wrote that too.

“What happens if neither side yields?” Allandra asked.

Verya closed one folder and opened another. “At present? Correspondence.”

“And after correspondence?”

“Pressure.”

Hagen said, “Then everyone else begins becoming helpful.”

Serali looked suspicious. “Helpful.”

“Foreign policy helpful.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It frequently is.”

Verya ignored them. “Formal mediation would be the next peaceful step. If that failed, one or more neutral Fae crowns could be asked to arbitrate.”

Serali looked between them. “They would decide whether I am allowed to live here.”

“No,” Allandra said.

Too quickly.

Everyone heard it.

Verya’s gaze moved toward her.

Hagen’s did too.

Allandra adjusted. “They would decide what obligations, if any, exist between the crowns.”

Serali stared at her. “That sounds like deciding whether I am allowed to live here with better stationery.”

Hagen coughed into one hand.

Verya said, “It may feel that way.”

“It is that way.”

This time Hagen answered. “Yes.”

Verya turned to him.

Serali did too.

Hagen shrugged slightly. “If the tribunal can recommend that Avalusia surrender you, then from your perspective, that is exactly what they are discussing.”

Serali’s shoulders eased by a fraction.

Not because the answer was comforting.

Because it was honest.

Allandra loved her brother a little for that.

Verya sighed. “Accurate. If inelegant.”

“I have other qualities.”

“Occasionally.”

Allandra said, “Who would arbitrate?”

Verya understood immediately. “The ideal mediator would be Aurenne.”

Of course.

Aurenne and Avalusia had been close allies for generations. Queen Celestine knew Allandra well, knew Avalusian law, and knew the history of the last war. Her kingdom lay roughly ten days away by sea, but traded with both Avalusia and Lyehira. Another war would give her ample reason for concern.

Which was precisely the problem.

Hagen shook his head. “So we should assume we do not get Aurenne.”

Serali frowned. “Why?”

“Because Vulmar gets a voice in the mediator.”

Verya nodded. “Arbitration only works if both crowns recognize the tribunal’s legitimacy.”

“And Vulmar will veto Celestine immediately,” Hagen said.

Allandra disliked hearing it aloud.

“He knows Aurenne is our ally.”

“He knows Celestine is yours,” Hagen corrected.

That distinction mattered.

“He will argue she enters the room already inclined toward Avalusia.”

Serali looked from Hagen to Allandra. “Would she?”

Allandra considered the question. “Toward us?”

“Yes.”

“Probably.”

Serali blinked.

Allandra added, “She would still try to be fair.”

“Those are not the same thing.”

“No.”

Hagen’s mouth twitched. “And that is precisely why Vulmar will reject her.”

Serali leaned back. “So he can reject Celestine because she is your ally, while asking everyone else to accept his authority over me.”

“He will certainly attempt to,” Hagen said.

Verya turned a page. “Which leaves the other major Fae courts.”

Serali looked toward her.

There was the faintest narrowing of her eyes.

Allandra recognized it.

Serali knew Lyehiran noble houses, court habits, military structures, magical customs.

She did not know Avalusia’s network of treaties and foreign relationships nearly as well.

Not yet.

Hagen noticed too.

He shifted slightly toward the map. “Vardheim first.”

Verya nodded.

“Potentially.”

Hagen considered. “They would like Lady Serali’s oath.”

Serali looked at him.

“Like?”

“Take seriously,” he amended. “Vardheim places considerable weight on sworn word. A public oath freely made by an adult carries political as well as legal force there.”

Verya added, “Which strengthens our argument that your office is voluntary.”

“And makes Vulmar less likely to approve them,” Hagen said.

Serali gave him a flat look. “I am beginning to understand the pattern.”

“Unfortunately, the kingdoms most useful to us are also the ones he is least likely to accept.”

Allandra looked toward the map. “Cyrathene?”

Verya’s expression became thoughtful. “More plausible.”

Hagen grimaced. “More complicated.”

Serali looked at him. “Why?”

“Because Cyrathene cares very deeply about precedent.”

Verya gave him a look.

Hagen lifted one hand. “I was going to say almost as much as you do.”

“That would also have been inaccurate.”

“Of course.”

He continued. “Their court takes dynastic status, titles, sovereign jurisdiction, and inherited obligation seriously.”

Serali’s face darkened. “So they might agree with him.”

“They might take his argument seriously,” Hagen corrected.

Verya nodded. “But they would also take First Sun seriously. Covert agents crossing another kingdom’s border, entering its capital, and invoking royal authority during an attempted abduction is not something Cyrathene will dismiss.”

Hagen leaned back. “They may be useful precisely because neither side would particularly enjoy being judged by them.”

Verya looked almost pleased. “That is frequently a sign of viable neutrality.”

Serali looked appalled.

Allandra understood.

Neutrality often meant locating someone capable of disappointing everyone equally.

“Rothmark?” Allandra asked.

Hagen answered this time. “Possible.”

His voice changed slightly.

Less conversational.

More strategic.

“Rothmark understands border warfare better than most. They will have very little patience for covert incursions.”

“So favorable to us,” Serali said.

“On First Sun.”

Hagen lifted one hand. “Less predictably afterward. Rothmark values regional stability almost above anything else. If they believed a concession could prevent another war, they would at least ask whether the concession should be made.”

Serali’s expression hardened. “I am the concession.”

“Yes.”

Hagen did not soften it.

Allandra appreciated that.

Serali was learning foreign politics.

There was no kindness in teaching it inaccurately.

Verya said, “Which does not mean Rothmark would support Lyehira. Only that their analysis would begin with security and stability rather than personal liberty.”

Serali stared at the table. “I dislike arbitration.”

“We have not agreed to it,” Allandra said.

“I dislike it preemptively.”

“That is allowed.”

Hagen nodded. “Possibly wise.”

Verya ignored him. “Kaishara remains another possibility.”

Serali looked up again.

Hagen nodded slowly. “That might actually be useful.”

Allandra glanced toward him. “Why?”

“Because Kaishara will care intensely about form.”

Verya added, “And about Lady Serali’s own formal declaration.”

Hagen pointed toward her. “Exactly.”

He turned toward Serali. “Their court is extremely procedural. Royal obligations matter, but so do petitions regarding personal status, residence, household authority, and dynastic duty.”

Serali’s attention sharpened. “So they would ask me.”

“Yes,” Verya said.

“They would insist on asking you properly,” Hagen said. “At length. With witnesses. Possibly in three different rooms.”

Serali considered. “I could tolerate rooms.”

“And seals.”

“I can tolerate seals.”

“Excellent. You are almost ready for international law.”

“I hate international law.”

Verya looked up. “Also an appropriate qualification.”

Allandra almost smiled. “And would Vulmar accept Kaishara?”

Hagen tilted his head. “Possibly.”

Verya nodded. “They sit far enough outside Avalusia’s immediate alliance structure that he could accept them without appearing to concede bias.”

Hagen added, “But once he understands they intend to let Lady Serali speak for herself, his enthusiasm may diminish.”

Serali looked at the Lyehiran letter. “I refuse return to Lyehira.”

The room quieted.

Verya’s pen paused.

Serali looked up. “And I refuse any claim by King Vulmar to custody over my person.”

No one moved.

Allandra wanted very badly to reach for her.

She did not.

Verya wrote the sentence exactly.

Hagen watched the words appear. “Keep that.”

Verya looked at him. “In the formal response?”

“Yes.”

His expression had gone completely serious.

“Not merely because it is strong. If this eventually reaches arbitration, we need a record showing Lady Serali stated her position before anyone proposed a tribunal.”

Verya considered.

Then underlined the sentence.

“Agreed.”

Allandra looked at her brother.

There he was.

Not merely the man who irritated Verya for sport or taught Everly to draw apologetic weapons.

The prince who had spent most of his life expecting that one day this work would be his.

The crown had not passed gently over him.

Allandra knew that.

The Mantle choosing her had wounded something between them that neither of them had fully known how to name at the time. Hagen had recovered with grace because Hagen did many difficult things with grace.

That did not mean it had not hurt.

And yet here he was.

Not standing behind her.

Beside her.

Still able to look at a diplomatic problem and see the entire board.

Still choosing to help her carry a kingdom he had once expected to inherit.

The thought settled heavily and warmly together.

Allandra looked back to the papers before he noticed.