Page 20

Everly

I t was two more days before I realized that I had forgotten something crucial.

Maybe it was the head wound, or maybe it was the distraction of rotating visitors and the lingering guilt that I hadn’t done enough to save anyone.

Seventeen had died in the attack. Three more were recovering in the infirmary, tucked at the far end of the wing, well out of sight. The East Gardens had been all but decimated, but the Bloom Stewards were already working to restore what was lost.

Soren was the only one who would even tell me that much since Nevara was being even more tightlipped than usual, and Mirelda had insisted that I needed to focus on healing.

Draven didn’t come.

Not that I’d expected him to sit at my bedside, but his absence still felt…intentional.

I knew he was in the palace. The snowstorms assaulting the palace at all hours of the night were evidence enough, even without the volatile pulse of his mana in my periphery.

It was a distraction in itself, which was the only excuse I had for failing to notice the missing weight on my thigh.

The dagger had probably been flung into the trees with the wave of Draven’s mana, where I could at least deny any knowledge about it if it was discovered.

As long as no one had actually seen me throw it, which was likely enough since we were all pretty focused on the whole ‘not getting eaten by the creature that was slaughtering the courtyard’ thing.

But where in the hells was my sheath?

I swallowed back a wave of foreboding. I might be able to deny association with the dagger, but I would have no defense at all if someone had seen me wearing the sheath.

When the healer came to check on me to finally clear me to leave this place, I braced myself to ask him, even though it felt a lot like carving the darkest part of my insides out and putting them on display for the male.

Healer Amias had already seen so much more than I wanted him to.

The robe they gave me was thin and open to the back. It didn’t leave much to the imagination—least of all when it came to the roadmap of scars that littered my back. Ugly, unglamorous truths I didn’t want to explain.

He had never asked me about them. Maybe it was because, like all healers, he was from the Spring Court, and they were generally more reserved than the rest of the fae. Or maybe it was that healers took vows of secrecy, and he was weary of having things rest on his soul that were his to bear alone.

It was enough to make me feel guilty for bringing up the sheath and putting yet another secret on his back, but I had no choice. I waited to ease into it, greeting him as politely as I could with bile rising up in my throat.

“Are you ready to crawl up the walls yet, Your Majesty?” he asked with a patient smile.

As always, he looked like he’d stepped out of a moss-covered grove, his hair and lashes the deep green of wet forest, eyes to match. His kindness seemed genuine, if somewhat detached in the way that healers tended to be.

“More than,” I told him truthfully.

He gave me a patient smile, moving to begin his daily examination of my head.

His long, slender hands moved with an artful precision that only came from decades—maybe centuries—of practice. Pale green skin, soft as new leaves, stretched over long fingers marked by slow-moving vine tattoos that curled and shifted with every motion.

His touch was gentle, studying without prodding. Though my experience with healers in the past had been marred by the circumstances that landed me there, I had to admit I would much prefer the quieter nature of Spring Court to some smug Winter noble with frost in his veins.

He murmured about the lesion on my scalp being all but gone, and was moving along to my shoulder when I finally dredged up the nerve to ask him about the sheath.

“Could you tell me what happened to the things I was wearing?” I made an effort at discretion, at least.

Amias paused, pulling back to look me in the eye with a solemn expression. “Your maid took your gown, your shoes, and your underclothes to clean.”

The list was specific. Intentional.

My throat went dry, my fingers numb with dread.

“And my…other things?” I rasped.

“Seem to have gone missing shortly after your arrival.” Sympathy flooded his gaze, edged with something close enough to pity to make my blood run cold.

Batty trilled in concern, and I pulled her onto my shoulder, the opposite of the one the healer would need to examine. Turning back to him, I nodded mutely, and he studied me for another moment before continuing his ministrations.

Warmth spread from his hands, infusing the injuries and encouraging them to heal. A cooler wave followed, like dipping into a river on a warm summer day. It was usually comforting. Soothing.

But all I could think about was how few people would have had access to the queen’s clothing in the infirmary. Healer’s assistants were from Winter. They could be reporting to anyone in the court, so that was a horrifying thought.

Then there was Soren, who had a way of talking himself into every space, and Nevara who, shards, had probably Seen it by now anyway. Mirelda was a possibility, but why would she take the sheath before the rest of the clothes?

In the back of my mind, I saw aurora eyes staring down at me from underneath moonlit hair.

My breath seized in my lungs. But that couldn’t be true. If Draven had taken the dagger, I would know by now.

I would be dead by now.

Amias cleared his throat gently, like he knew I was lost in my own head.

“Your injuries have healed. Thank you for your patience over the past two days. I know no one loves an extended infirmary visit, but head wounds can be cunning. It’s always better to heal them slowly.” He said the words evenly, methodically.

It helped me to pace my breathing and slow my heartbeat, which I suspected was his intention. I nodded, and he went on.

“The bruising on your shoulder is gone as well, so you’re free to leave, but I would encourage you to return to your quarters to rest.”

He said that last part just as Mirelda strode in. Shards.

There went any hope of going to the gardens to subtly search for my lost dagger.

I thanked the healer and changed into the clothes Mirelda had brought before hurrying the hells out of the infirmary.

Whether I liked Healer Amias or not, I still didn’t like the smell, the feel, or the look of that room.

My loyal guardian was waiting to escort me. Lumen had a bandage wrapped around one of his paws but appeared otherwise recovered, which was a relief.

On the way back to my chambers, I couldn’t help but examine my maid, looking for signs she had discovered the sheath.

She did seem more tense than usual, but her dark eyes were neither angry nor accusatory. Still, I was cautious all the way up to my suites, cradling Batty against me like I could shield her from whatever was coming.

A storm howled outside, coating the windows in frost and sweeping gusts of wind all the way through the palace. Wherever Draven was, he was furious.

And Mirelda was tense.

And my sheath was missing.

The morning brought neither answers nor relief.

Just lingering nightmares and a maid who was uncharacteristically silent while she ushered me through our familiar song and dance of breakfast, bath, and dressing for the day. She didn’t even comment on the fact that I had finally slept in the bed.

I had been too exhausted to face another night in the chair, and the king had given me no reason at this point to suspect he might come uninvited to my bed. It was something Mirelda normally would have made at least one sarcastic remark about, but there was nothing.

“What am I to be doing today?” I asked for at least the third time, my tone just this side of brittle.

She pursed her lips, letting out a slow breath.

“His Majesty didn’t say. He only told me how to dress you, and where to escort you.” Her voice was strained, but for once, I didn’t get the feeling the emotion was directed at me.

Rather that it was…on my behalf.

Would he dress me so well for my execution?

Just in case, I ordered Batty to stay behind, ignoring her high pitched protest.

Unease was curled low in my gut by the time Mirelda and Lumen led me to a set of towering doors. They were flanked by two frozen trees, their branches arcing up and over the frame to form a familiar symbol.

A rune. Heart—or love ? Was that meant to be ironic?

The king didn’t strike me as the type to decorate with hearts, unless they were freshly carved from the chests of his enemies and mounted as a warning. I swallowed hard, forcing the image away, but it lingered alongside the growing list of things that didn’t feel right.

The halls had been empty all the way here. Silent, too. That alone might have been enough to put me on edge, but then there was the low hum of mana pressing against the edges of my senses, bleeding from behind the ornate doors.

And the gown that he had apparently chosen. Swaths of sapphire fabric threaded with silver, far too formal for an average day at the palace, punctuated by the icy crown.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. “Where are we?”

Mirelda’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t answer. Not verbally. Instead, her gaze shifted to something, or someone , just behind me.

I turned slowly, pulse ticking just beneath my skin.

Not that it was necessary for me to catch sight of my husband when his power was already assaulting my skin. But, it was edged with something darker today, something that felt a lot more like his mana from our first meeting.

It did nothing for my nerves.

Draven stood at the end of the corridor, surrounded by all four of his other wolves.

A crown of jagged frost gleamed atop his head, and he was dressed in formal finery that matched mine too precisely to be accidental; deep blues and silver, all sharp lines and harsh elegance.

He looked like winter had tailored him from its coldest storm.