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Laurel

The Prophecy of the Thayarian Queen has many variations, though the most common reads as follows:

A Queen shall rise whose strength matches the powers of old. Born to a daughter of mortals under the blood moon bloom—unbounded, limitless, her might will see no equal. Blood-to-Blood, the Queen and her fated love will unite what has been torn apart.

A Brief History of Modern Thayaria

The light filters in through the curtain on the balcony as wet, scratchy licks pepper my face. Groaning, I roll away from Lunaria and hide my eyes under the silken sheet of my bed. Undeterred, the large feline nuzzles my neck, purring so intensely it vibrates my vocal cords.

“I’m getting up. You can stop fretting over me,” I grumble back at her. Slowly blinking in the light of the morning sun, I stare up into the intelligent, golden eyes of the wolf-sized cat I consider my pet but who absolutely considers herself my keeper. She leaps from the bed, satisfied that I won’t go back to sleep. I want to do just that to annoy her but instead fling my feet off the side of the bed. Lunaria has always had a keen understanding of my needs, and today’s early wake up is no different.

The air is brisk and biting. I left the doors to the balcony wide open last night so Lunaria could prowl outside before collapsing into bed. It’s early autumn in Thayaria, and the nights are growing colder and colder. Slipping on a robe, I quickly attune myself to the aether pulsing strongly around me, willing the floors to heat and the air to warm. With another thought, the fireplace across the room is roaring, and I sigh in contentment. Much better.

My large bedroom is all soft throws and comfortable leather chairs. The bed is covered in almost as many blankets as pillows, and the pillows take up half of the bed. In the corner is a large palette for Lunaria, though she usually sleeps in the bed with me or on the balcony. Her sleek black body prowls to the curtains blowing in the light morning breeze, and she pauses to invite me to follow her before walking outside.

I part the curtains and step onto the balcony, looking down upon Arberly, the capital city of Thayaria. It’s early, so the city is still yawning awake, only a handful of citizens buzzing in the soft morning light. Beyond the city, the rolling hills of Thayaria glisten with dewdrops, the dark green mounds dotted with swaths of deep crimson and rust from the last months of the thayar flower bloom. This far from the coast, Thayaria is hazy from the barrier of mist I accidentally erected around the kingdom during the war with Velmara, but not so hazy that visibility is impacted. I take a deep inhale, appreciating the smell that only comes with autumn mornings—pine and petrichor, with sweet notes of dew. With one final glance across the pink-hued sky, I turn back to my chambers.

Somehow, Amaryll has already drawn my bath and laid out a breakfast tray, the stealthy housekeeper always one step ahead of even Lunaria. On my way to the bathing chamber, I take the steaming cup of tea and add in a heaping pour of cream.

The large space is one of the few luxuries I allow myself as Queen of Thayaria, with a large sunken tub nestled next to a set of floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking a view of more of Thayaria’s rolling, misty hills. A plush rug covers most of the floor, and there are pipes to pump water into the tub and a small basin tucked against one wall. After undressing and sinking into the steaming water, I sip my tea while watching the verdant hills slowly lighten in color as the sun fully rises.

Twenty minutes later, the water sluices down my wide hips and luscious thighs as I leave the bath. Wrapped in a towel, I gingerly step into the attached closet, looking at the gowns and tunics lining the walls. Choosing a black velvet gown that accentuates my figure, I will the water in my hair to evaporate into the already humid room, then set about braiding my wavy, auburn hair into a single braid down my back. Amaryll will be angry that I didn’t call for her to send in attendants to fix my hair, but most days I prefer it pulled back from my face in a simple style and don’t need servants to do things like braid my hair. I line my eyes with dark kohl and paint my lips a deep red. Returning to my breakfast tray, I refill my mug with more tea and make myself a plate. An awareness washes over me, like a quick prick of a needle to the back of my neck.

Someone is trying to leave Thayaria.

With a sixth sense I still don’t fully understand, I instantly know that they aren’t a port worker attempting to cross the barrier that surrounds Thayaria to haul in goods from a merchant ship. If they had been, I would extend my will and allow them to leave. The mist that has surrounded my kingdom for three hundred years after my accidental surge of power at the Battle of Moormyr has a consciousness to it, representing me while also being separate from me.

I close my eyes, focusing on the western coast where I feel the disruption. The mist perks its head up at my magical gaze and whispers to me. Rebel. Bad Intentions. Kill. The person attempting to shove their way through the barrier is wrapped in a blanket of dew and hauled into the center of the hazy wall. I hesitate for a moment, considering whether to give whoever this is a second chance. But the mist insists, practically screaming in my head the need for justice. While I may not know what this person has done, I trust the mist’s judgement, even if I can’t explain why. With a deep inhale, I unleash my fury, their bones and organs evaporating instantly. The mist settles, content and humming once again, and I bring my consciousness back into my body.

Anger courses through me as I finish my breakfast, and I use it to bury any guilt I may feel from my merciless decision. How dare someone attempt to breach my mist. A rebel, no less, and when I was having a relaxing morning. I rip apart the sweet bread in my hands with more vigor than usual. Remembering the rebels currently sitting in chains far below me, I aerstep to the palace dungeons.

The Thayarian palace is built into the side of a mountain named Verdeshorn, and our holding cells are buried deep below its peak. The damp and earthy space is dark and ominous, and I use the water in the air to gather an eerie mist around me, then dim the lights emanating from the torches on the wall. I will the temperature to drop—I want the prisoners to know I’m coming. Most fae can’t use their magic down here because of the iron the floors and walls are made with, but those rules don’t apply to me, and they’ll be all the more terrified because of it.

“Your Majesty.” The guards on duty see me and bow deeply. “We didn’t realize you were coming today.” Their eyes are wide in apprehension at my surprise appearance. “Would you like us to send someone for the Captain?”

“That won’t be necessary. Captain Carex is busy with other duties. Please, bring the prisoners to the interrogation room.”

When the first prisoner is brought in, a fae male with blonde hair, I direct the guard to chain him to the wall before dismissing him. My steps echo as I prowl closer to the prisoner, eyes unblinking in a stare meant to make him squirm.

The male spits at me. “I won’t tell you anything, Witch.” I only smirk.

“Now, now, surely you can come up with a better insult than that,” I murmur. “My moniker is the Witch Queen, after all. It’s hardly even an insult. But, no matter, I will overlook your unremarkable intellect and get right to the point. Tell me who you take your orders from and what the rebels’ plans are. Why are you trying to get out of Thayaria?”

He only glares at me, and I sigh. I could force the confession from him, could use the aether-voice that commands any fae with less power than me—which, in my case, is every fae—to do as I command. One order to tell the truth and he’d be spilling all his secrets. But it’s a skill I use infrequently, uncomfortable with the idea that I have the power to remove someone’s agency and free will, especially considering what’s been done to me with this power by other monarchs. Not to mention, I do enjoy a little bit of torture.

“Fine, we’ll do it the hard way.” I tap into the aether around me, letting it guide me to the ivy growing along the stone walls. The vines creep toward the rebel, then wrap up and around his body, covering his mouth and eyes. They squeeze him tightly. At the same time, I force the air from his lungs. He struggles against the bindings, choking sounds filling the room. After a few moments, I release him slightly. “Ready to talk?” He remains silent.

The vines burrow into one eye socket, piercing and then crushing the eye within. His screams grow louder. For good measure, I send one tentacle snaking down his throat, gagging him, before ripping the air from his lungs once again. His knees collapse, and he dangles from where he is chained against the wall. When his body begins to convulse, I release the magic. With a snap of my fingers the light in the room vanishes except for an unearthly glow around me. As I approach him, the smell of piss wafts over me.

“We’ve only just begun, and already you’ve pissed yourself. Surely you knew the risks of angering the Witch Queen. Surely your leaders told you what would happen if you were caught unleashing a magical bomb in my kingdom that injured dozens of innocents.” I practically growl the words, my fury rising. With clenched fists, the control I have over my magic slips slightly, and I feel the room quiver around me.

The Sons and Daughters of Thayaria have been around for about fifty years, challenging my rule and spreading the same propaganda of the Golden King—that I’m a witch, that Thayaria’s isolation is due to my own need for power and control, and that I deny Thayarian citizens the safe harbor Velmara offers. It’s a small subset of the population, but those who believe in the rebellion’s narrative are certain a better life awaits them in Velmara, if only I would surrender to the Golden King. If I didn’t know that Mazus was as barred from Thayaria as the rest of the world, I’d think he had started the rebellion himself to undermine me. For most of their history, I was content to leave the rebels to their ideology and peaceful protest, believing in the right of my citizens to free speech and belief. But over the last five years, they’ve turned violent, and that I will not tolerate.

The male is blubbering now, blood running from his eye socket and vomit on his chin. “I don’t know anything else that’s planned, I swear,” he whimpers. “My only contact was captured with me. He’ll know more.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to determine if he’s telling the truth. His body shakes, and something like regret flashes across his eyes. I release him and open the door, motioning the guard to come in as I walk away from the prisoner.

“Remove him. He’ll stand trial for his crimes tomorrow. If he’s found guilty, he’ll be executed.” The male begins to sob and plead, but I cut him off, looking over my shoulder to speak to him. “Be grateful I provide swift executions for those found guilty of treason. Bring in the next prisoner.”

My morning continues in this way, torturing fae after fae in increasingly creative ways. The male who organized the attack was a powerful plant channeler and somehow used the ivy to slit his own throat before I could question him despite the dampening of fae power in these cells. No others were able to provide any real information, and I leave the cells even more frustrated than when I entered them.

“Now to everyone’s favorite topic of the decade—the upcoming Forum of Royals,” Nemesia says to my Council of Advisors. After cleaning up from questioning the prisoners, I had to attend a meeting with my advisors. The Council chamber is a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city of Arberly. Being only a few feet down from my rooms, it’s the same view I see every day when I wake. Late afternoon light illuminates the massive round table where over thirty fae and humans sit. Papers and tea mugs litter the tabletop. “We need to discuss which advisors will accompany Her Majesty to Delsar for the conference and what the security detail will look like,” Nemesia continues.

I sigh, knowing exactly what she’s going to propose, and knowing exactly what my response will be. We have this argument every ten years when the decennial meeting of monarchs and other kingdom leaders occurs. It’s still called the Forum of Royals, despite the fact that the Republic of Reshnar implemented a democratic government over two hundred years ago.

“What are the parameters?” Admon, one of my advisors, asks. The old fae male was an advisor to my father, and even grandfather, and is the leymaster my parents brought in to teach me to use my magic all those years ago. He’s tall and sturdy looking, with blue eyes that sparkle when he knows he’s telling you something you need to hear. His hair and beard are both gray and long. For a fae to look that old, they have to have been alive for over a thousand years, maybe more.

“Two advisors and four guards,” Nemesia informs the room. “As Her Majesty’s Chair of the Council of Advisors, I’ll obviously be accompanying her. We must discuss and vote on which additional member of this Council will attend. My proposal is—”

“You aren’t the obvious choice,” I interrupt. “This is the twenty-ninth Forum of Royals in my time as Queen, and not once have I agreed to nor even suggested that you attend with me, as you well know. Your history with the King of Velmara—”

“Is nothing compared to your own, Your Majesty,” Nemesia adds.

I give her a pointed stare before adding, “That may be true, but my presence is, unfortunately, required. Yours is not.”

The rest of my advisors look on in boredom, many of them witness to this exact argument several times over, knowing that Nemesia will insist, and I’ll rely on my station as Queen to overrule her. It’s one of the rare instances where I do it, and the guilt eats me alive every time. Even my oldest friend and most trusted advisor feels the shackles I’ve placed on my people with the mist and the tension between Thayaria and the rest of the Four Kingdoms. I can’t help but wonder who she would have become, with her brilliant mind and penchant for politics, had she grown up in a world where Thayaria wasn’t isolated. But I won’t—can’t—allow Nemesia to be in King Mazus’s presence, especially with so few guards. Even three hundred years later, the sting of grief is fresh when I recall how I felt thinking that blade was going to land in her heart during the Battle of Moormyr.

“This year is different, Laurel, and you know it,” she adds with a quiet intensity.

Now the advisors’ eyes widen in shock, staring between Nemesia and me. Admon’s eyes twinkle, alone in his lack of concern. Nemesia may not shy away from giving me direct and honest feedback but using my given name and not my title during a formal Council meeting is unheard of.

Nemesia stands tall, hazel eyes burning with a fire I haven’t seen in her since she was the General of my armies. Her jaw clenches and unclenches, and her hands are balled into fists.

After the Battle at Moormyr, Nemesia abandoned life as a warrior, unable to fight or even spar for many decades after. She blamed herself for our loss. Instead, she devoted herself to politics, philosophy, and helping me put the pieces of my kingdom back together. She’s the most learned scholar in all of Thayaria, and her mind for political strategy is a valuable asset to me. Despite the centuries since that awful battle, Nemesia’s scars and guilt remain. And while she keeps her fighting skills sharp, she has sworn to never lead armies again.

“Make your case, Nemesia,” I concede, gesturing for her to continue. She nods in silent gratitude, then stands before the round table.

“With the thayar flowers in decline, and us being no closer to understanding why or uncovering a solution, it’s critical that I go.” A fresh wave of guilt and fear wash over me at the reminder of the danger my kingdom is in. But I don’t let it show on my face, keeping my calm and unwavering demeanor firmly in place as I listen to Nemesia’s speech. “We need to assess—carefully and delicately—whether any of the other kingdoms have experienced their own magical irregularities and if the rulers have ideas as to why this could be happening. I’m the most knowledgeable on the subject, not to mention my skill as a courtier, and we need this information. We don’t have another ten years to wait for the next Forum.” She looks at me, pleading in her eyes. I give her a slight nod, indicating I understand what she isn’t saying, though not willing to concede just yet. “Laurel,” she whispers quietly. Something about the desperation in her expression softens my resolve. I know she cares as much about the people of Thayaria as I do. If she’s letting her own fear show, she’s serious. I let out a huff of air and wave my hand.

“Fine. What do others think?” I ask, searching the eyes of those around me. Only nods and soft murmurs of agreement greet me. “If none are opposed, then I’ll follow the Council’s guidance. Nemesia will accompany me,” I decide. “Are there nominations for the second advisor to attend?”

Several advisors speak up offering a few names of seasoned diplomats. Carex, one of my youngest advisors and the current Captain of the Royal Guard, advocates strongly for himself. Nemesia’s eyes narrow. She’s never forgiven Carex for the failed romantic relationship with me, even though it ended mostly amicably after decades of courting. He has swayed a large contingent of advisors to his side when Nemesia offers another name.

“Admon should come as our second advisor. He’s attended many times, and his familiarity with the other kingdoms will prove useful in gathering information,” she says. I wonder how much of her suggestion is driven by her genuine desire to have Admon there and how much is to protect me from traveling for several weeks with a former lover.

Admon is an interesting choice. While he has attended many times in the past, he’s the eldest advisor on the Council, and doesn’t leave the capital, or even his rooms, often. More than half of the advisors nod their heads in agreement. Carex fidgets in frustration, eyes filled with annoyance he doesn’t try to hide.

“Admon, are you willing to go?” I ask.

“It would be my honor, Queen Laurel.” His warm smile softens something inside of me. I look around the room, offering the Council ample opportunity to disagree or challenge the decision.

“Your Majesty,” Carex starts. “I believe I’m an excellent choice. Not to mention I’ll be a fifth guard for you. I think you should consider—”

Nemesia cuts him off. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, Carex, you’re new to this Council, and very new to foreign relations. This is not a decision we should make lightly. We’ll vote.” She has a point. Carex has only been on the Council one year, while most of the other advisors have served for decades or even centuries.

“Those in favor of Admon?” Nemesia asks the room. At least two-thirds of the room raise their hands.

“Then it’s decided,” I say. “Nemesia and Admon, please work with Carex to bring me a shortlist of guards who should accompany us.”

They both nod, and Nemesia adds, “It will be to you by the end of the day.” Carex only fumes. I’m sure the two of them will battle it out again over who the guards will be, Carex insisting he attend himself as a guard. What I would give to watch that verbal sparring match…

Nathaniel, a towering and lanky fae male who has served for thirty years, clears his throat. His dark black eyes lock on several other advisors, as if he’s seeking their support for what he’s about to say. I notice several heads nod almost imperceptibly. This is planned, then.

“I’d like for us to discuss the matter of the barrier,” Nathaniel says, voice wavering slightly, likely because he knows this is a sensitive subject. I stiffen, not wanting to get into this conversation now. Several heads now nod enthusiastically in agreement with Nathaniel, encouraging him to continue. When he speaks again, his words are steady. “Surely after three hundred years, it’s time to lower it. The people want to be able to leave Thayaria. Our isolation causes unnecessary fear.”

“I’m not discussing this matter with the Council,” I say firmly and with all the queenly command I can muster. “This is my decision. It’s not time.”

Tension fills the air, the unsaid remarks as loud as if they’d been yelled. The Council has advocated strongly over the years to drop the mist—it’s the only topic we regularly disagree on. But they don’t know—can’t know—why the mist won’t come down any time soon.

“If you won’t drop it entirely, then perhaps we should allow more people to leave. You have the ability to let small groups cross the barrier. Surely, we can let those who’d like to leave do so without dropping the barrier entirely,” he adds. More murmuring and head nods make their way through the Council.

I resist the urge to sigh. This is yet another thing I can’t be fully honest with my advisors about. Yes, I can grant entry to small groups or merchants entering and exiting the mist, but it’s draining. Not to mention it makes me feel a little like I’m losing a part of myself every time I do it. The mist is an extension of me, and I think when I part it, I’m somehow altering or slicing open some magical source deep within me. But it’s hard to explain to a room of advisors that I fear allowing mass crossings might have negative impacts on my psyche. Instead of admitting all this, I give the hollow excuse I’ve given hundreds of times before.

“As I’ve explained multiple times, I’m not capable of allowing more than a few crossings a day, and we need to reserve those for dock workers bringing in shipments.” The looks of skepticism turned in my direction make me inwardly squirm, but I keep my expression unwavering.

“We have no more topics for today’s meeting,” Nemesia offers quickly, saving me from questions I can’t answer. Wary eyes study me, but I ignore them, despite the angry side conversations I know the dismissal of this topic will cause once the meeting adjourns.

After nodding to the Council to dismiss them from the session, they slowly filter out of the room, conversing amongst themselves. I stand back from the group, locking eyes with Nemesia and giving her a pointed look. Then I sweep out of the chamber and back down the short hallway to my suite. She follows, understanding my desire to continue the conversation in private. We walk into my sitting room turned makeshift office, Nemesia collapsing into her favorite chair. I settle into a worn leather sofa that’s seen too many conversations like this one, its supple leather familiar and comforting despite being older than most of the other furniture in the room.

“Out with it,” Nemesia says. “I know you’re going to try and convince me not to go, but I have more reasons I did not share in the Council meeting.”

“Do those other reasons have anything to do with Mazus Vicant? And a fear that he’s somehow behind the disappearance of the thayar?” I ask.

She smiles conspiratorially, a grin I’m so familiar with after three centuries of friendship. “So, you share my concern? If that’s the case, I don’t understand your hesitancy to bring me with you to the Forum. It’s on Delsar this cycle, and you know Velmara won’t try anything there. Their relationship is too tenuous.” Velmara and the kingdom closest to them, Delsar, located just south of Velmara’s capital city, have almost as bad a relationship with one another as Velmara and Thayaria.

I sigh. “I agree that we need to use everything at our disposal to uncover the truth, even you. It doesn’t make me any less nervous for your safety, but as you once told me, sometimes I have to be the Queen my people deserve.” I smile. The tension falls away from Nemesia’s body. “Why do you think Mazus is behind our declining flower population?”

She walks to the bar cart I keep along the back of the room and pours herself a glass of amber whiskey. “I don’t have any conclusive evidence, just a gut feeling. There’s been nothing in any of our archives to suggest that this has ever happened before, or that any of the scholars of the past were even worried about something like this happening.

“But I’ve been corresponding with a scholar located south of us, in Reshnar. I didn’t tell him the flowers are declining. I said that we—well, you, since I thought telling him the Witch Queen wanted this information would terrify him into helping—want any information the Reshnar archives have on the thayar. He probably thinks you’re planning to use them in a spell or some other evil ritual people make up in their minds.” Nemesia pours a glass of wine and then hands it to me. “He confirmed everything we already know—the flowers only grow in Thayaria, are somehow connected to the magic of the leylines, and are likely the result of so many leylines flowing through and converging here. He suggested he’d love to learn more about the extent of their magic-enhancing properties, but I didn’t engage in that conversation. The only information Reshnar had that we didn’t is a unique drawing of the flowers from an old text.”

She hands me a sheet of parchment. My eyes scan the sketch, and I frown as I study it. It’s a depiction of the thayar flower, done with painstaking detail and perfect accuracy. The top third of the stem looks like it’s been dipped in crimson paint, with dozens of soft fuzzy petals arcing out from the deep green stalk. But the drawing is titled, ‘ Depiction of the thayar flower found in Velmara.’ My eyes return to hers, searching for a clue about why the flower that only grows in Thayaria is labeled as found in Velmara.

“The Reshnar scholar believed it was a mistake when the book was transcribed from its original. He asked me to confirm whether we have the same book and whether the drawing exists with this label or not.”

“And do we?”

She nods slowly. “Yes, we have a copy of the book and the drawing. But it’s labeled correctly.” She pulls a large tome from her bag, flicking to a page before handing it over to me. The same crimson and green drawing is depicted, but the label now says, ‘ Depiction of the thayar flower found in Thayaria.’

“But…” I prompt her to continue.

“But,” she adds, “his copy is older than our copy. Typically, scholars would assume the oldest copy is the more accurate, as there are less opportunities for translation mistakes. It could just be an error, but we shouldn’t overlook the possibility that it’s correct. If the flower did grow in Velmara, Mazus might’ve found information in Velmara’s archives that explains how it disappeared from Velmara. I’m worried he’s somehow using that information to influence its decline here.”

Silence lingers around us as I process the information. For the last hundred years or so, the magic-enhancing flower has had fewer and fewer blooms. In the last five years, the change has been dramatic. It’s part of the reason the rebels have turned violent and why their recruitment efforts are now more successful. The people are scared what will happen with less access to our most important resource.

“It’s a stretch, but I wouldn’t put it past Mazus. We certainly can’t rule it out,” is all I tell her, not willing to let my own fear show, not even to my closest friend. “We need to see if there are any opportunities to learn more during the Forum. We’ll have to be careful, but I can’t deny this year’s gathering is a good opportunity. You and Admon should see what you can uncover about this while we’re there.” I intentionally leave out my own reasons for suspecting Mazus, as some secrets are too big, even for Nemesia. “And what of the Sons and Daughters of Thayaria?” I ask. “Are you any closer to finding their leaders or intercepting their plans?” Nemesia tenses, avoiding making eye contact. “Neme… tell me,” I command. She sighs, taking another sip of her drink as she returns to her favorite chair.

“They’re growing. This year seems to be a tipping point. People are worried about the declining thayar populations, and the rebels are stoking those fears with claims that your magic is affecting the flowers.” It takes the centuries of practice I’ve had at hiding my emotions to stay silent at that comment, too close to the truth of my own fears. “They’re saying it’s true you practice witchcraft, citing the blood-to-blood line in the prophecy. There are murmurs that you, and by extension Thayaria, are being punished by the gods.” She pauses, waiting for my reaction. I only nod, my mask of cool indifference firmly in place, gesturing for her to continue. “I had hoped to keep this from you until I found more information, but…” She trails off. I look at her expectantly, tension coiling in my gut. “The Sons and Daughters have been telling new recruits that you used a group of powerful plant channelers to try and help the thayar grow, and that it was unsuccessful.”

I still, the tension in my gut expanding to my shoulders and neck. My mind races, realizing the implications at the same time as Nemesia says, “We have a mole.” Nemesia is tense, eyes staring at mine with fury and fear.

“We were so careful. Only a handful of advisors knew what we were planning, and even they didn’t know the dates or which channelers we used,” I say. My frustration begins to boil over, and I feel the aether building around me. I inhale, locking down the current with practiced control.

“It could have been one of the plant channelers, but they were all loyalists from before the War. Not to mention, I’ve had them all watched by my spies since, and not a single one of them has done anything out of the ordinary. I believe it must be someone on the Council,” she says with grim determination.

“Until we know more, we have to proceed as if the Council is compromised. And we must ensure no one at the Forum knows or finds out about the rebellion or the mole,” I command. Nemesia nods.

“I know you don’t want to consider this, but it might be worth revisiting the rebellion with the Council of Advisors. Even though it’s compromised, the discussion might reveal information about who could be the mole. And not every advisor has betrayed us—there are smart people on the Council who will have good ideas about how to deal with the rebels,” Nemesia suggests, shoulders squared for my reaction to yet another conversation we’ve had many times.

“No. The rebels are after me. This is my problem to solve,” I say with no argument in my voice. I won’t ask the Council to fix the results of my failures, my shortcomings as a leader. Not to mention, if there is a mole, I don’t want to give them any additional information to pass along to the rebels.

Nemesia looks at me, eyes churning with worry. “I know what you did this morning,” she says softly. “I may not be the Captain of the Royal Guard, but many of them are loyal to me and tell me everything.” When I only give her a challenging look, she sighs. “Did you at least uncover something useful?” My throat tightens, holding back the frustration and pain clawing my insides. I shake my head. Nemesia nods again, standing to leave. She pauses at the door, looking back at me. “I know you blame yourself, El. This isn’t your fault. You are, and have been, a good Queen. The majority of your people know that.”

I say nothing. Guilt and anger surge through me. Regardless of what Nemesia believes, I know that my people wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for me. At the heart of the rebellion’s fears is Thayaria’s isolation from the rest of the world, and that is all on me. I may not have swung the metaphorical blade, but the leader who gives the order is just as culpable.