Chapter Thirty-Six · The Regent in Mourning

The night before King Eryndar’s funeral.

In his study, High Commander Rogan drove his fist into the wall.

Plaster cracked.

“That’s not possible.”

He leaned his forehead against the stone, breathing hard.

“He was fine. And now he’s just… gone?”

Haris stepped closer.

“Our people report that… the Queen is being held in the Turquias Chamber.”

THUD.

Rogan struck the wall again, harder this time. His knuckles swelled.

“…Syveris.”

He turned, snatched up his sword, and headed for the door.

“Father.” Haris’s voice cut through the room.

Rogan didn’t stop.

“There’s nothing you can do right now.”

Haris raised his voice.

Rogan’s steps faltered. Just for a beat.

“If even the King couldn’t escape…”

Haris lowered his tone.

“What are you going to do alone?”

Silence.

Even their breathing felt too loud.

Rogan tightened his grip on the hilt. Veins stood out along his wrist.

“I can’t just stand here.”

“Then don’t. Not like this. Come sit.”

Haris pulled out Rogan’s chair at the table. He poured the tea, then slid the cup into place, right where Rogan usually sat.

“We don’t even know if the Queen is alive. The Turquias Chamber is sealed. No one gets in or out.”

Haris held his gaze.

“If it’s Syveris…

We could be next.”

A long silence settled over the room.

Rogan had made this mistake before. Acted too fast. Paid for it.

Haris was right. He needed to slow down.

Rogan forced the anger back and locked it down. He stepped to the table and clapped Haris on the shoulder, hard.

“Good. I trust you.”

He took his seat. His hand tightened and loosened over and over as his mind searched for a way forward.

The night stretched on, marked only by the steady tick of the pendulum clock.

Neither of them slept.

Morning came all the same.

The palace seemed to wear a new skin, the season’s first snowfall blanketing every path.

In the great courtyard before the Throne Hall, King Eryndar’s funeral dais stood draped in white.

His gilded coffin rested upon a raised platform. His sword and crown lay carefully arranged atop it.

Chancellor Syveris stood at its head beside the Royal Mages, his expression cold and heavy.

“The Queen is overcome with grief and cannot attend,” Syveris announced, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd below.

Members of the royal family, High Lords, and envoys of the fae courts filled the courtyard in silence.

No one spoke.

A bell tolled.

The Royal Mages raised their staffs. Rings of light traced into being around the coffin as they spoke in unison.

“May the gods guide His Majesty’s soul.”

Syveris bowed, precise and measured in the manner of a regent. The rites began.

With Luca absent from the royal line below, Haris stood at Orlas’s side.

Haris shifted a step closer to Orlas, his eyes never leaving the dais.

“Don’t you miss Lyra?”

Orlas stilled.

“…I still think about her.”

“That’s it?”

“We’re… just cousins.”

Haris flicked a glance toward the Chancellor. Syveris still stood with his head bowed before the King’s coffin.

“So you don’t want to know where she is?”

Orlas’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“I do… but…”

He glanced toward his father, then cut himself off.

Haris leaned in, close enough that only Orlas could hear.

“If you really care…

The day after tomorrow. After the funeral.

The library.”

From the dais, the old mage’s voice carried across the courtyard.

“The King has passed. The Princess has yet to return. Until her return, Chancellor Syveris will rule the Tharion court in her name.”

Snow settled in pale flecks across the mourning cloth.

The rite concluded. The Chancellor turned.

His gaze swept across the royal line.

Something in that look lingered.

Haris and Orlas were already standing straight. Neither looked at the other, as if no words had passed between them.

Around them, royals, courtiers, and envoys from the fae courts bowed their heads in unison.

After the rites, Orlas returned home. He shut his door and slid the bolt.

He crossed to his desk and pulled the drawer open.

The piece of leather armor lay inside. It had been there for two years.

He picked it up.

The leather was still soft beneath his fingers. The stitching, even and tight.

He remembered exactly when he had finished it.

He had meant to give it to Lyra.

But it had never left the place where it began.

He held it for a long moment, then set it back down and closed the drawer.

Orlas squeezed his eyes shut, his hand tightening against the edge of the desk.

I miss her…

Every day.

Every time the thought surfaced, he forced it down.

He leaned back against the wall and stared out the window.

For a long time.

Father was always watching.

There had never really been a chance to do anything.

Orlas returned to the desk and took out a bundle of letters on cedar paper, still faintly fragrant.

He didn’t dare read them again.

He dropped his head onto the desk.

I can’t keep living like this.

I have to do something.

Find a way out of this cage… little by little.