Page 21 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

He’s already turning.

We leave the yard in silence, boots crunching over gravel as we head down the sloped path toward the throne room. I don’t speak and neither does he. His silence is a test, and I’ve learned not to fail it.

Like always, that unsettled feeling hits the moment we step into the atrium.

I miss when Hayes and I were kids, when this place still felt enchanted. A forest growing inside our home, the atrium soaring up to glass overhead, sun spilling down onto Father’s oaks, rooted straight into marble. We ran ourselves breathless between the trunks, playing hide-and-seek with wooden swords, one of us always a Savage, while our nursemaid scolded us for believing in fairy tales that she’d probably grown up fearing. Back then, Father’s magic felt wondrous.

Now, the wrongness hits me every time I step inside, subtle and persistent. The trees grow without soil, their leaves never browning or falling. And the sap. Most days it’s clear, sticky and ordinary, but sometimes I notice it’s darkened to a deep amber that catches the light wrong. The smell shifts, too, still sweet but threaded with something metallic.

I know what it reminds me of. I push that thought deep.

Father’s footsteps echo across the marble as he crosses the atrium. He pauses for a breath at his throne beneath the canopy, but he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at the empty space beside it, where the marble is a shade lighter from whatever used to be there. I used to think it was where my mother’s throne had been. Hayes told me once that Father never made her one.

He stares at that empty space like he’s waiting for something to return to it. His hand finds his pocket and the pearl comes out, turning it slowly between his fingers. Then his jaw locks. His fist closes around it, as he walks on without looking back.

We reach the far wall, where the narrow staircase curves upward past the library and the ballroom to his private study.

He takes his seat at his desk and gestures for me to sit.

I do. I learned a long time ago that in moments like this, obedience isn’t submission; it’s survival.

My eyes catch the portrait on the bookcase next to the dried sea holly, the one he never talks about. A woman in profile with dark hair swept back. I’ve seen the picture a hundred times and never thought much of it, but today it stops me. There’s something familiar about her face that I can’t place—the line of her jaw, the curve of her mouth. I almost reach for why, then Father’s voice pulls me back.

“When Hayesland loses control, that failure is yours.” Father’s voice is low and even, that careful calm he uses when he’s furious and determined not to show it.

“You let your brother lose his composure in front of the entire yard. Insulting six nobles, whose favor we’ve spent years cultivating.”

I say nothing. I know better.

“Those nobles hold real power,” Father continues. “Their families outnumber ours. Their magic makes them a threat. Their loyalty keeps us on the throne.” He leans forward slightly. “One outburst. One insult. And we risk losing years of careful work.”

Here it is, the familiar refrain.

“They see the realm’s people as lesser beings,” he says. “If they ever assume control, life for the commoners will be far worse.”

As if the current state with him ruling is a mercy.

“Yes, Father. I understand. I’ll do better.” I keep my voice calm and say what he needs to hear. I’ve learned that resistance only sharpens the blade.

“You will.” The edge in his voice dulls, appeased by my compliance. He studies me for a moment longer, as if weighing whether I still belong to him.

“Since you’re here,” he says, “there’s another matter.”

My stomach drops, like it always does when he says matter.

“A report came in this morning of a family in Millhaven, the Caldwells. They have twin sons posing as brothers born close in age.”

My pulse stutters.

“They live in the western quarter,” he continues calmly. “Last house on the left on Merchant’s Row.” A long deliberate pause. “I need you to handle it. Tonight.”

The words hit heavy and familiar. I know exactly what he’s asking.

I nod.

“You understand why it matters?” he says, quieter now. “Why this falls to you?”

He watches me as if checking for hesitation.