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“Youmusthold still, you’ll tear—”

“Wha—ouch!”

I’d pinched her arm cruelly. But it got her to hold still. “You must stay on your stomach. Your wings are healing, but the damage was…” I bit hard on my lip to still the trembling.

Ancestors. How I missed the cold emptiness of indifference.

Cyara slowly turned her head to peer over her shoulder. Her copper brow, turned darker by the low light in the small room, furrowed as she tried and failed to see the extent of the damage.

“It’s probably better that you can’t see,” I said bluntly. I’d never been much good at soft, comforting words.

Cyara swallowed, a wobbly smile rising to her mouth. “What a tender nursemaid you are, Majesty.”

“If you wanted flowery words, you ought to have been nicer to Parys.” I flicked my eyes toward the door. “He’s been here, by the way. Lyrena, Gwen, Gawayn, as well. And your sisters, of course.”

They’d come for me as much as Cyara, I suspected—to try and keep me from jumping off the edge where I’d teetered for so many months.

Arran hadn’t come, and I couldn’t blame him for it. Even if the organ in my chest ached at the knowledge. He’d surely realized what I’d known all along.

I was better off dead—for the good of Annwyn.

She rolled her eyes, the motion in her shoulders as well. She flinched at the pain, the wounds that were just now knitting together, even after all these days. “Blood makes Charis retch. And Carly has always been overly-sensitive where her wings were concerned. I apologize that they left the tending to you, Your Majesty.”

“I think you’ve more than earned the right to address me as Veyka,” I said, my chest tight. “And they couldn’t have pried me from your side. Did you see your attacker?”

I hated to ask, fragile as she was, even though I expected the answer.

She shook her head slowly, eyes clouding over. “I was knocked down, then I remember the pain,” she paused, gulping. “Then nothing.”

I reached out and took her hand in mind, squeezing gently.

Cyara smiled softly, appreciation in her eyes. It seemed like such a small, insignificant thing to offer her after what had happened. I forced myself to hold her gaze, even when the shame bade me turn away. I let her have that piece of me—my friend.

So, I saw the shift in her eyes before she said, “We must speak.”

About the rifts.

I sucked in a breath, easing myself back up into the chair that had been my bed for the last several days. My backside ached, the narrow wooden chair made for my delicate handmaidens and not my wide hips. But I’d take that and more, if I could spare Cyara the pain written on her face as she shifted to prop herself up on her elbows.

“I spoke with my father—”

“Hold a moment,” I said, forcing myself to my feet. My muscles ached from disuse. The cavity in my chest ached more. “I am not the only one who needs to hear. Would you like tea? I will bring you some tea. Rest.” The words tumbled out of me, awkward and unsure.

I’d never taken care of anyone. First, there’d been no one but me and my captors. After that, I had thoroughly isolated myself as a means of self-preservation.

“Tea would be nice,” Cyara said mildly, settling back onto the pillow.

I opened the door to my bedroom, finding it empty. No surprise there. Charis and Carly had taken up residence elsewhere in the goldstone palace, worried about disturbing Cyara. They checked on their sister every hour or so. But I knew that at least one of my Goldstones would be lurking in the antechamber, close enough to hear if I so much as squeaked. Surely, they heard me coming.

Which was why I was surprised to find the antechamber lacking a single gleaming goldstone badge. But that didn’t mean there was no guard.

* * *

I should have felt awkward. Or angry. Sad, at the tentative bridge between us that had shattered.

But when I looked at Arran’s dark face, closed off from me completely, I just felt tired.

It’s almost over.