I fix my gaze on Iza, my voice a soft, sharp blade. She expects me to blush, to laugh out loud, and to wave her away. But I don't.
Her face twists, a flicker of fear bleeding into her eyes. "...Or to kill someone?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. She knows me too well. "If yes, then that's a no"
Iza steps in front of me, demanding a silent promise, her eyes pleading for reassurance. I sit straighter, letting out a slow, heavy sigh, feeling the weight sink deep in my chest. "Iza, I saw him. A pure legion-blooded. Alive, breathing, pressing buttons to kill an imperial prince, like it was nothing."
Her face drains of color, and she sinks to her knees, clutching her hands in her lap, bracing herself. I give her the truth, raw and unfiltered, the pieces I'd hidden from everyone else. Her worry tightens her usually happy face, her breath coming in shallow gasps, like she's one heartbeat away from breaking.
"THE murderer?" she asks, voice trembling as her hands cup her cheeks.
I nod.
"And… the crown prince?" Her tone sharpens, suspicion flashing in her eyes. She's already sensed the stink of politics and schemes.
I open my mouth to answer, but a knock on the door interrupts, shattering the tension. "My lady, shall I prepare your supper in the dining room, or would you prefer it in your quarters?" The head maid's voice is steady, neutral as ever.
Iza stands quickly, smoothing her face, masking the fear, and cracks the door to check.
"I'm not hungry," I reply, staring up at the painted roses on the ceiling. "I'll take my medicine and sleep."
"It's unwise to take medicine on an empty stomach, my lady. Her Ladyship insisted." A pause. "She's dining at Councilor Vespertine's mansion, but left orders to make sure you eat."
I click my tongue. "I'm not afraid of her," I mutter, though a strange relief unfurls in my chest. Her absence feels like stolen time, a weight lifted, if only briefly. "…Fine. Bring the food here."
"Yes, my lady," Iza responds, closing the door. She waits for the maid's footsteps to fade before grabbing my shoulders, her eyes fierce. "You're not serious about this, right? You know what happens if you act without permission. Solisra is as silent as a sleeping dragon. Promise me you won't do anything stupid."
"What if it's really him?"
"Promise me!" She snaps, hands gripping my arms like she could anchor me in place by sheer force of will. "You're all I have, my lady. The crown prince will handle this, he has to. They touched his only person in the world. But you—you're my only person in this world."
I can almost feel her heartbeat hammering through her hands. I know the hollow ache of loneliness, the helplessness she's trying to mask. I nod, defeated. "Fine," I say. "I promise."
"Promise what?"
"I won't mess with legion blood," I say, patting her shoulders.
"And the Undercity?"
"Yes, Iza."
Her relief is a weight lifting off both of us, though a flicker of irritation still gnaws at me. Every promise I make is another chain, another restraint to keep me from doing what I really want.
Does Mother even know about Xaden's little scheme? On the surface, it's a perfect plan—a clean way to eliminate inconvenient thorns, myself included. But I know better than to trust appearances. Mother wouldn't let him move against me, or hurt me. Still, I can feel it—he wouldn't hesitate to throw me to the wolves if it served his ambition. And I'm certainly not noble enough to lay down my life for the future of Highspire.
If Rhys were here, he'd do it, Xaden said. And it's true.
Sometimes, I wonder why I'm the one who always walks away unscathed. Why do I survive the bloodshed, the ambushes, the shadows from the Undercity? And why does that survival taste so bitter?
The bathwater is steaming when I slip in, sinking down until only my face is above the surface. Today, there's no perfumed oil, just plain water with a faint metallic tang. Iza's quiet revenge, maybe, for that time I dragged her out from under a falling chandelier she swears she could've dodged on her own. I let the silence settle, let the heat soak into my bones, sinking until the water closes over my head and everything goes silent, weightless.
When I resurface, I catch sight of my reflection in the foggy mirror. A blurry shape, almost unrecognizable. I can barely remember that first year after Rhysand vanished. I made it a point to avoid mirrors after that. A long time ago, Iza once joked that I was starting to look more like him than he ever did. Sometimes, I think it's true.
I get out, water streaming off my skin, pooling at my feet as I step onto the cold tiles. I stand in front of the mirror, wiping away a section to stare at the hollow-eyed figure staring back.
My gaze drifts over my own frame—thinner than I'd like, shadows under my blue eyes betraying restless nights and darker thoughts. Water dripping on my skin. My hair clings to my neck and shoulders, slick and heavy. Iza once told me that I don't have Mother's kind of beauty, the lush curves that could charm a room without a single word. I'm more… shadow than flesh. A wisp of a person, marked by the sharp lines of survival. Exhaustion etches itself into my bones, settling like a second skin.
My calm is a mask of thin glass—one wrong touch, and it'll shatter. Mother and I work hard to keep it the way it is. And I wouldn't know what happens next.
"You little prick," I mutter to the ghost in the mirror. "I'll find you… and when I do…" My voice trails off, the threat bitter on my tongue. I drain the last of the wine from the glass beside me, swallowing it like medicine. "Maybe I'll do the same to you."
Of course, he doesn't have wings I can clip. But he has other weaknesses. Pretty lips, for one.
I'm about to call for Iza when the door opens behind me. I whirl, heart pounding, clutching the bathrobe on my chest.
"You startled me," I say, voice sharper than I intended, defensive. I pull the robe tighter to my chest, feeling exposed in a way I can't explain.
Mother stands in the doorway, her gaze a cool blade, dressed in a dark purple gown I'd chosen for her weeks ago—silver chains draping her shoulders, pink pearls at her throat. She looks every inch the queen she imagines herself to be.
"Why?" she asks, her voice soft but edged, like a trap closing. "Have you done something wrong?"
Her eyes pierce me, cold and assessing, fingers idly turning the diamond ring on her hand.
"Have I?" I reply, busying myself with a towel, and drying my hair to hide the way my jaw tightens.
Her lips press into a thin line. She doesn't look away, and in that gaze, I can feel her judgment, her calculations, her quiet disappointment. "Dry off. Get dressed. Ten minutes."
She turns on her heel before I can respond, her words as good as a dismissal.
I blink, resentment twisting in my chest. "And to where?" I ask, trying to keep the edge from my voice.
She glances back, her expression unreadable. "To the palace."
And then she's gone, the click of the door like the snapping of a lock.