The king’s pallor was ghostly, his breathing shallow enough to make her chest tighten in sympathy. Carolena had seen illness before, but nothing this insidious. After visiting him, Ryker had dropped her off at the healer's quarters, silent and brooding. He had glowered if she dared to speak. Her chest tightened further—Gods, how she missed the captain's warmth.
She rummaged through the disorganized healer's wing. Every overturned drawer and abandoned journal seemed to whisper of a hasty departure—or something worse. A shiver ran down her spine. Bastian’s ruthlessness forced its way into her thoughts unbidden. He wouldn’t have let them leave alive. Bastian didn’t believe in loose ends.
Carolena skimmed over the note in her hand—the only record of the king’s treatment. Dated two years prior, the ink was so faded it seemed to vanish in places. Squinting, she traced the symptoms with her finger, piecing together what little she could.
A knock startled her, breaking the oppressive silence. She looked up sharply to see Soren’s familiar figure leaning in the doorway. His easy grin chased away her unease like a sudden beam of sunlight. His scar caught the light, a silent badge of resilience.
“What’s this? Playing detective now, are we?” he teased, sauntering in and claiming the couch as if it were made for him.
"Come to see the latest rabble?" she countered, a wry smile tugging at her lips. The sharp exchange broke the tension in her chest.
Soren had changed out of his riding gear, opting for more casual attire. He swung his feet onto the arm of the sofa, utterly at ease. "Lucky for you, I get to see the rabble every day now," he replied.
Carolena raised an eyebrow. “Oh, do you now?”
“Don’t sound so excited,” Soren quipped, rolling his eyes with exaggerated drama. A grin softened the mock annoyance. “I’m under strict orders to make sure you don’t poison the royal family.”
Scoffing at the absurdity, Carolena turned back to the note. The levity faded as her eyes refocused on the faded ink. Soren sat up slightly, leaning over her shoulder to read along.
“Two years?” Carolena’s voice was hushed as if speaking too loudly would erase the fragile words on the page. “How does a king fall ill for so long without answers?”
Soren leaned closer, his expression darkening. “Bastian doesn’t ask for answers—he demands results. I doubt the last healers had time to figure it out before they were... replaced. Even the priestesses refuse to hold a prayer for the king now.”
Her mind reeled. Two years of rapid decline, six months of those becoming completely bedridden. Fever, fatigue, fainting—all accompanied by unrelenting weight loss. Carolena had ruled out pox and purge, but the hallucinations were harder to explain.
A deep weariness settled in her bones. She pinched the bridge of her nose, laying the note flat on the desk. Closing her eyes, she tried to drown out the creeping noise in her mind. The fire within her stirred in response—warm, familiar—but she stamped it back to embers.
"I think you need a break," Soren murmured, his tone coaxing but firm. Gently, he guided her away from the chaotic desk. "It’s only the first evening. If you burn yourself out now, you’ll be no good later."
Carolena hesitated but finally nodded. Soren led her through the palace halls, the cold night air crept in through ajar windows, biting at her skin and filling her lungs with sharp clarity. Below, the town square lay stark and still, its bare trees casting skeletal shadows. Winter teased at its edges; autumn had felt far too brief.
He turned into a side room and opened the heavy doors, revealing a magnificent rehearsal hall. Mirrors doubled the vast space, and a grand piano stood proud alongside a cello tucked into a corner. The wooden floors gleamed under the light, echoing their steps as Soren guided her inside.
Sliding out the piano bench, Soren settled in front of the keys. "When it’s all too much," he whispered, his voice low and confessional, "I come here. Playing helps me let it go."
Carolena’s gaze drifted to the cello. Its golden swirls shimmered like an invitation. Her fingers twitched, memories of Ma’s lessons pulling her forward. She lifted the cello, settling it between her thighs. The bow felt foreign in her grip, but her hands instinctively found their place.
"Don’t," she warned, cheeks heating under Soren’s grin. “Don’t say a word if it’s terrible.” Her heart pounded as she hesitated, the bow hovering above the strings.
Then she began. A tentative note filled the room, rich and trembling. The melody took shape—a lullaby, one she had hummed countless times but never learned.
The notes unfurled, each pulling her deeper. Her fingers faltered occasionally, but the music swelled around her, soothing the ache in her chest.
A tear landed on the cello’s surface, startling her. She hadn’t realized she was crying. The warmth in her chest flared suddenly, her fingers brushing the medallion hidden beneath her dress. The coin was hot—searing, almost.
Soren broke the silence. "That," he said softly, reverence thick in his voice, "was a gift—for both of us."
***
The music lingered in her mind long after Soren walked her to her suite. Ryker followed shortly after, his arms laden with books the librarians had sent per Carolena's request. When Ryker first opened the door, her jaw had dropped to the floor. A private suite with a balcony overlooking the royal city and the bay. She could have fit the entire cottage in the bedroom and receiving rooms alone.
Soren must have sent her dinner ahead of her, still steaming on the small table near the fireplace when Ryker shut the door behind her. A small smile slipped over Carolena's lips at the gesture. Is this how Soren treated his sister Ophie? She didn't think Shep would ever go this far to make her comfortable, but somehow, it felt like the same sense of adoration.
The plate was picked clean within minutes, leaving Carolena wishing she had been gifted with a larger stomach. Her body ached in protest as she stood up, her trousers slightly tighter than before and a new stain on the shirt she wore from the delicious syrup her duck had come drenched in. Frowning at the spot, Carolena wandered over to the bedroom to see what she could find in the closets. Carolena rummaged through the wardrobe, silk dresses and frills spilling out at every turn until her fingers brushed soft black silk. It was plain but perfect. A sharp contrast to the finery around her—and a reminder that she didn’t belong.
Somehow, the dress fit like a glove, buttery silk flowing over every curve. The medallion peeked over the neckline, the glint of gold shimmering over the dark fabric. Carolena's fingers traced the markings engraved into the coin, some ancient symbol. Did Pa ever learn what these meant?
A sharp knock at the door knocked her back to the stillness of the palace. Smoothing out her skirt, Carolena hurried to the door. She hadn't expected any guests after Ryker dismissed Soren to escort her to the room, and none of the help or any of the priestesses seemed to bother her. Tugging at the door, Carolena's brows knitted together at the visitor standing with his arms crossed expectantly.
The prince didn't wait for her invitation before striding into the receiving room and sitting in the largest chair near the fireplace. Heat rising to her head, Carolena glared at Bastian as she closed the door and glided over to him. "Well, good evening, Your Highness."
"Really?" Bastian cocked his head, that foxlike gaze piercing through her. "I thought you’d be more welcoming, considering I arranged for one of our best suites—and ensured the kitchen made something special just for you."
Carolena's eyes flicked to the plate. "Fine." Her posture softened, but her gaze still sparked. "How may I be of service tonight?"
She hated the way his teeth glinted in the firelight. Shadows danced around the room to unheard macabre melodies as the prince leaned forward in the chair. His eyes raked over once more, taking in what Carolena had chosen to wear tonight, and stopped at her chest. Her skin crawled under his gaze, the medallion growing impossibly icy against her chest. A burning sensation flooded her core, and she had to fight the feeling of fire filling her bones. Not here, not now.
"I was…" Bastian swallowed and found his way back to her eyes. "I was just wondering what you had found so far regarding my father's state."
Other than he will die? Carolena bit her tongue at her words, and the sensation of claws tickling down her spine agreed in response. "If I may be blunt, your father's condition is not favorable."
"I know."
Carolena blinked. "Has it really been two years? Or has it been longer without anyone noticing?"
Bastian studied her for a moment, narrowing his eyes at her question. After a moment of consideration, he shrugged his shoulders and leaned backward into the chair. Shaking her head, Carolena sat in the chair nearest to herself. "How could you not know?"
"My father has always been a secretive man," Bastian sighed, digging his nails into the arm of the chair. "He could have hidden many symptoms before admitting they were an issue."
Biting her lip, Carolena looked into the flames, licking at the bricks in the wall. "There is a great chance he may not live to see the next month."
Crackling embers filled the void in the room. Even the shadows had paused to listen. The chair groaned as Bastian shifted, his gaze heavy and unrelenting. Carolena had not dared to look at him. Avoiding the emeralds that would do everything in their bring her to her knees.
"I suppose you have a month then," Bastian said, his voice as cold as the frost in his eyes. "If he dies, you will be executed. I'm sure you'll do everything in your power to make sure my father fully regains his health."
With his words slamming into her, Bastian stood and made his way back to the doors. He paused when his hand grasped the knob and turned to look at Carolena, or rather, at her chest again. A low chuckle slipped out. "Perhaps a bonfire would be the best course of action. Good evening, little bunny."
Bastian vanished through the doors, and as the lock clicked into place, Carolena could not stop the tightness in her chest from spreading. Her fingers flew up to her chest, thumb tracing over the medallion, over the symbols etched into the metal.
The symbols on the coin.
Carolena’s hands flew to the medallion, her chest tightening as if a noose had slipped around her neck. Her mind raced, retracing every detail of their interaction with Bastian. Could he have recognized the markings? The possibility clawed at her thoughts, her father’s warnings echoing in her mind. As if in response, the medallion burned hot against her skin, the heat matching the firestorm in her chest.
Her breathing hitched, and she cursed under her breath, Mael’s name leaving her lips like a plea. Fumbling with trembling hands, she locked the door, the sound of the bolt sliding into place louder than she intended. Sliding to the floor, Carolena pressed her back against the wood, her fingers wrapped tightly around the medallion.
Tears streamed down her face unbidden, a mix of exhaustion, frustration, and the crushing weight of the prince’s threat. Not tonight. She could hold on for one more night. She had to.
Her magic sparked faintly beneath her skin, a warm, pulsing reminder of her strength—and her danger. She focused on that sensation, using it to steady herself as her tears slowed and her breathing evened. Stillness tugged at her, dragging her down into its depths as the room grew still and silent.
Then, cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk, a voice spoke.
Low and smooth, laced with genuine curiosity, it seemed to hum against her very bones. “How fascinating you are, little one. Such fire, yet so fragile.”
Carolena’s eyes snapped open, her heart lurching in her chest. The medallion flared against her skin, sending a jolt through her body like molten silver, sharp and undeniable.
“You’ve hidden yourself well,” the voice said, its tone almost admiring, but there was a subtle edge—like teeth hidden behind a smile. “Do you know what you are?” It paused, almost as if waiting for her to answer. “No, not yet. But you will.”
The warmth of the medallion ebbed, leaving behind a cold, tingling sensation as the voice faded into the air. How did she know that voice?
For a moment, she stayed frozen, her breath shallow, her hand still clutching the coin as if it could anchor her. The shadows in the room seemed darker now, their edges sharper, more alive.
And then the realization struck her like a thunderclap: whoever—or whatever—that voice belonged to, it knew her. It knew what she was.
And it was watching.
