Theron stepped out, and Kael, who had been leaning against the door, straightened at once.

"Where is her maid?" Theron asked.

Earlier, thinking Aveline might need company, he had arranged for a younger maid. But perhaps that had been a mistake. Not when she was talking about family. Not when she was sounding so achingly lonely.

She must be missing her mother.

The young maid stepped forward immediately, eyes lowered and head bowed, too careful to meet the royal gaze. That was how women like her survived in places like this; by becoming small, by becoming invisible.

"Get an older maid," Theron said. "Someone who knows medicine. And send for a physician."

The maid bowed even lower. "As you command, Your Royal Highness," she murmured, then retreated without ever turning her back on him.

Theron turned to Kael.

"Let her rest for a couple of days before bringing her into the city. And enroll her among the nobles."

Kael blinked.

"Take care of her," Theron said. "I need to return to the palace."

Then, before Kael could answer, Theron vanished in a flash of light.

Kael remained still for a moment, staring at the space where his liege had been. He had no idea why the prince had left Aveline in his care when he should have been guarding his liege himself.

Then the memory returned.

His liege had almost killed him. And then had stopped. Not because of mercy. Because Kael had sworn fealty to Lady Aveline.

So that was it.

Theron had left him alive because of that oath. And now he had entrusted Aveline to him.

But to let her enroll with the nobles... would it be right?

Kael exhaled slowly.

That woman was maddening. Infuriating. But her powers... her unusual strength... her very existence made him want to understand her more.

The maid returned shortly after with an older woman and a physician.

Kael waited outside while they entered.

Inside, Aveline had collapsed onto the floor from the sheer amount of blood loss. She almost lost her conscience. She clutched her heart, fearing she was dying.

The maids helped her up gently, and the physician examined her with calm efficiency. Only after a few questions did Aveline learn something she should have known long ago: her periods had not been regular for some time, and healthy women were meant to have them every month, not once in three months or six.

Well.

It seemed it was never too late to learn something new.

Medicine was given. Instructions were spoken. She was told to eat more properly and to take the prescribed remedies.

Aveline felt better after a while.

Much better.

The older maid had kind hands. Even the simple way she rested a cool palm against Aveline’s forehead made her feel cared for in a way she had not expected.

Her eyes grew heavy.

As she lay there, with the two maids watching over her, she found herself wondering whether Theron had been the one to ask them to stay.

For some reason, that thought made her chest feel unexpectedly full.

And with that warm, unfamiliar ache lingering in her heart, Aveline finally drifted off to sleep.

-----

Theron could hear the music long before he reached the hall—the bright sweep of strings, the clink of crystal, the loud, eager laughter of nobles trying far too hard to sound delighted.

It all made his jaw tighten.

"Your Highness," came a sweet voice from behind him. "Allow me to fix your coat."

Theron did not stop. He only quickened his pace.

"Leave me alone."

His fingers dragged once through his hair in a restless attempt to make himself presentable, though the gesture did little to ease the tension gathering behind his eyes. The easy curve that had lingered at his mouth for the past few days was gone now, stripped away until his lips had turned firm and flat.

The same hallways. The same music. The same people. And suddenly, he could not bear any of it.

"Your Highness..."

The woman caught up with him anyway and reached for his back.

Theron, already wound too tightly to remain still, turned at once. In one swift motion, he caught her wrist.

There was a sharp crack.

The woman screamed as her hand gave way beneath his grip.

Theron released her instantly, his expression cold as he finished buttoning his coat, then lifted his gaze to see other women slipping back behind the pillars and into the shadows, their faces drained of color.

"Scram."

The woman with the broken hand stumbled away, still crying out in pain, and the others looked on in stunned silence. The crown prince had always been impatient with them, always sharp and dismissive when they crowded too close, but this was the first time he had actually hurt one of them. No one knew what to make of it.

Before the silence could settle too heavily, another voice sounded from behind him.

"Son, you are here..."

The rustle of gems and the faint jingle of crystal ornaments accompanied the words.

Theron clenched his jaw, closed his eyes for a brief moment, and drew in one measured breath.

Then he turned.

His lips curved into a practiced smile as he faced the woman before him, dressed impeccably and perhaps a little too lavishly for the occasion. Her gaze was restless, darting here and there before returning, again and again, to a single point at the far side of the hall.

"Mother," Theron said, giving a formal bow.

Queen Margrethe came closer, her silk skirts whispering around her feet. When she spoke, it was in a hurried whisper meant only for him.

"Vaelor, where have you been all this time? Your royal father arranged this feast in your honor, and you simply vanished?"

Theron opened his mouth, though he already knew she did not want an answer.

Then her gaze shifted sharply.

"Look who is standing at your father’s side now," she muttered. "You never leave me with any peace. At times, I wonder if you truly want me dead."

Theron swallowed.

The same old words.

He had long ago gone numb to them.

"I do not want you dead, Mother," he said, because that was what a good son was supposed to say. Nothing more, nothing less. Anything beyond that would only feed the hysteria he could already see gathering in her eyes.

Her mouth tightened.

"Look at her," Margrethe said under her breath, her stare fixed on the woman beside the King. "Why is she not ashamed to be alive?"

Ingrid.

The King’s mistress. His favorite.

And beside her stood Alaric, the King’s illegitimate son, and yet somehow the favored one, as if that distinction had never once mattered.

"You should do something, Vaelor," his mother hissed. "You should do something to earn your father’s love. How can you let a mistress and her son behave as though they are above you? Challenge him. Prove you are better. Prove you are stronger than everyone else in bending."

Theron’s jaw tightened further.

This was not the first time she had spoken of Ingrid with disdain. She had mocked that woman for years. But tonight, for reasons he could not have explained even to himself, something about the words grated differently.

Aveline’s face came unbidden to his mind.

Take me as your mistress...

The memory struck like a splinter under the skin.

"Why are you not answering me?" Margrethe’s voice sharpened abruptly. Her expression wavered, the old hysteria beginning to surface. "Do you think I am unsightly too? Like your father does?"

Theron looked at her, and for one terrible moment, all he could feel was the ache splitting through his skull.

He wanted to disappear.

Truly, desperately disappear.

But where was he supposed to go?

He had nowhere to go.

And even the little hare he had left behind no longer wanted him.

For a moment... something inside him wondered what would happen if he stopped letting her choose.

What if I bring her here anyway? What could they do to her beyond me?