Fiora was alive. That thought alone sustained Dunban through the journey back to Alcamoth. She may not recognize him, but she was there. And that had to mean something. There had to be a way to get her back. If not, then what was all the sacrifice for?

He'd thought it wouldn't hurt, being unable to save the emperor's life. Yet, each time his gaze landed on Melia, pain lanced through his chest. She leaned on Sharla as they trekked across the hovering reefs. Shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. As if safeguarding the city - and everyone in it - had been a pyrrhic victory. Not worth what she'd lost.

Or maybe the pain was just an injury. The kick from Metal Face might've cracked a rib or two. With the battle ended, the adrenaline that once carried him waned, no longer masking his wounds. He could feel everything now. Every cut and bruise. So, surely, it was just normal, physical pain that made him wince whenever he glanced toward the princess. Not sympathy, not guilt. He couldn't feel that way. How could he when his sister was alive?

She might not be the same person anymore. It might not even be possible to restore her memories, her personality, her self. But none of that mattered to him then. He had hope. Something to hold onto.

If anything, he felt bad that he didn't feel bad. Not that Melia needed anyone's pity, but… His eyes strayed down to her hands, colored rust from trying to stop Sorean's bleeding. Another spike shot through his chest and he dropped his gaze back to the ground. The only thing he could do to make the unpleasantness subside. He'd really need to visit a doctor when they reached Alcamoth.

He refused to analyze the feeling or look too critically at himself. Because, if he did, he feared his optimism would turn sour, his victory spoiled. Or perhaps, what he really feared was his own judgment. The little failures, lapses in focus, the places where he should've done more. That voice in his head that told him he should've been better. It was his fault that they'd lost the emperor…

But he forced all those thoughts away - no, he hadn't thought them at all. He was happy and fine and satisfied with the battle's outcome. He had to be.

The ruse was impossible to maintain when they entered the city. Every eye that turned to them filled with horror first. Then despair. As if they knew exactly what had happened on Prison Island. Why else would the emperor not return with the rest of the party? They didn't need to be told. And they were more than willing to place all the blame on Melia. Despair cycled into disappointment, their minds inventing all the ways she'd failed to protect their ruler.

Cruel whispers almost reached his ears. It didn't take much imagination to work out the things they'd say about her, anyway. Anger rose in him, burning in his chest. He wanted to shut them up, make them understand that she'd done her best. She didn't deserve their insults. His arm prickled with the urge to hold her, shield her from the abuse. Let them direct their ire at him.

But he didn't move.

Several minutes passed before they crossed over the palace's threshold. And all that time, he grit his teeth to bite back venomous words. Clenched his fist until his nails drew blood just so he wouldn't strike the next person to speak ill of her. But he couldn't make himself walk at her side. He told himself that she didn't want him there. That she thought those things he forced himself to ignore. He was too weak and if he could have just fought harder, her father would still be alive.

He'd let her down in so many ways…

"Melia." Kallian's voice broke him out of his thoughts before he could spiral into self-loathing.

The prince swept across the Great Hall and took Melia into his arms. He held her the way Dunban had been too scared to, securing her against his chest. Creating safety. She welcomed her brother's embrace. Her forehead pressed into his shoulder, her arms encircled him tightly. For a moment, they stayed frozen as they exchanged urgent whispers. Then they broke apart. But she remained close to him, lingering as if she wasn't sure where to go. Where she was wanted…

"Your aid was much appreciated," Kallian said, addressing the rest of the party now. His voice was stiff. Almost like this was a routine diplomatic matter. Almost. When he continued, his face twisted in an uncharacteristic show of pain. "The outcome was—" He cut himself off, took a deep, shaky breath. "The outcome was unfortunate. But it would have been worse without you."

No one spoke. For too long, they all stood in silence, not quite looking at each other.

"If there's anything else you need…" Shulk said at last. He made a vague gesture with his hand as the others nodded their agreement.

"That is very kind. For now, please rest, take care of yourselves. I can handle the rest."

Dunban resisted the urge to voice his doubt. Not that he didn't trust Kallian. He just… With the prince's health in decline, he wasn't certain it was wise to let Kallian take the reins. But it would only be a short term arrangement. Melia needed time to recover from the shock. And from her injuries. In the meantime, he supposed Kallian couldn't cause too much damage. Especially if he kept an eye on him.

The prince seemed to have the same idea. As the others dispersed, each heading toward their respective rooms, he turned to Dunban. "I plan on summoning the ministers for an emergency council this evening. If you're able, I'd like you to attend."

"If I'm able?" He raised an eyebrow. He knew it was the fatigue, the vague sense of jealousy, that sharpened his tone — jealousy? Yet, he could do nothing to soften it.

"You haven't slept," Kallian said with a frown. "So I would understand if you chose to spend the day resting instead. That's all."

He narrowed his eyes, scanning for any sign of deceit. Or, more accurately, signs that Kallian was making a joke of him. But he couldn't see beyond the redness of the prince's eyes, the shadows beneath them. Had he been crying? Dunban felt the suspicion drain out of him. They may not agree with each other's methods - they could scarcely get along at times - but they were both weathering the same storm. Sleep deprived and still fighting, doing what they could to save Alcamoth. And support Melia.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed…"

"No, it's alright." The prince's tone was light but the frown stuck to his lips. "You're right to be wary of me." He glanced away, toward the corridor leading to the Villa's transporter. But before Dunban could turn, his gaze shifted back. His voice lowered to just above a whisper. "To be honest, I've been meaning to apologize for my behavior towards you. I wasn't in my right mind."

"And you are now?" He hadn't meant for the words to sound so accusatory. But he couldn't take them back, adjust his intonation.

Kallian scoffed, though he tried to pass it off as a laugh. The noise was too sharp to hold any humor, even with the brilliant smile he accented it with. Then his expression darkened. Just a fraction, barely enough to register the change. "I am… better off than I was then."

"Good to hear." Tension pulled at his shoulders, sending pain through his back. Which reminded his ribs that they might be fractured. He clenched his teeth as he resisted the urge to hunch over. He couldn't let Kallian see him hurting. Instead, he shoved the pain aside and stood taller. "Well, if that's all, I'll see you at the war council. Your Highness."

The prince knit his brows together. "You don't have to— Never mind." He brought a hand to his throat, rubbed at the bruises Dunban had been too tactful to mention. "We'll meet in Whitewing at the change of the guard. If that's agreeable to you?"

"Of course."

They said stiff goodbyes then parted ways. The prince headed out of the palace - a detail that struck Dunban as strange. Kallian had likely slept even less than the rest of them, if the bite marks on his neck were anything to go by. So why did he insist on gathering the ministers himself? A rested messenger would be more efficient. Then he remembered how he'd felt when he'd lost his own parents. It would've taken more than sleep deprivation to stop him from putting himself to work. He'd had Fiora to care for. And he doubted sleep would've come easily to him anyway. The same happened when he'd thought she… Perhaps he and Kallian grieved in similar ways.

Still, he was too happy to conclude their conversation. Before he said something he'd regret. Not that he had any insults in mind at the moment. Though with his exhaustion and all the other emotions threatening to overwhelm him, he figured a diplomatic blunder wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

He visited the palace's infirmary first. The physician on duty dropped all other tasks to tend to him. She unbuttoned his bloodstained shirt, fingers steady yet… tentative. As if she was nervous. A sympathetic grimace twisted her features as she examined the large bruise that stretched across his abdomen.

She pressed two fingers into the discolored flesh. Until she reached the injured rib and he gasped in pain. Her palm replaced her fingers, eyes slipping shut as she willed healing ether into him. Then she pulled away. "There, that should do it. How does it feel, Your Highness?"

The honorific caught him off guard, turned his mouth dry. "I, um, fine."

He retreated before the doctor could say anything more. It was official, wasn't it? The last time someone had called him that was before the wedding, in Minister Fannar's office. And it felt just as unpleasant now as it did then. A reminder of his dubious character. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, his thoughts constantly circled back to that dark place. He didn't deserve the title or the power that came with it. But the wedding… Legally, Melia was his wife; he couldn't blame the people for trying to show him the respect their culture claimed he was owed.

A chill ran down his spine at the thought. Though, he wasn't exactly sure which one unnerved him to such a degree. That he had a wife or that people wanted to treat him like royalty?

Without allowing himself the mental space to deliberate, he headed back to the Villa. He needed a bath, fresh clothes, and the chance to deaden his senses for a while. If that meant sleep, he would be lucky… But he wondered whether there would be nightmares awaiting him when he closed his eyes. Lingering doubts and fears and connections he didn't want to make.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he reached the suite. He froze, glanced down the hall both ways then stared at the door until he could place what was wrong. No guard. Melia was the empress now. The entrance to her rooms should be swarming with them. Especially since the transition from one reign to the next wasn't always smooth.

And the assassination attempts.

Heart racing, he drew his sword. His fingers clenched around the hilt too tightly. He'd drop it otherwise. Fatigue crashed down on him but he couldn't falter. He had to… She had to be safe.

He threw open the door and a maid squealed, brandishing a stained washcloth as her only defense. Blood, he realized. Wrenching his eyes away, he scanned the sitting room. Everything seemed to be in place. No sign of a struggle. He sheathed his sword and apologized to the servant he'd startled.

Melia materialized in the doorway to her bedchamber, leaning all her weight against the sturdy metal frame. A nightgown hung loosely off her body. But it was mostly hidden beneath the blanket she'd wrapped herself in. She stared at him a moment - or, through him - then turned to her maid. "Please forgive His Highness; our nerves are frayed from a tough battle." She paused, eyes flicking back to him. This time, he knew she really saw him, but she feigned disinterest. "And draw him a bath."

"Yes, empress." The girl bowed before scurrying into the bathroom.

A faucet squeaked then the roar of rushing water filled the air.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," Dunban said, a little louder than was comfortable. But suddenly, everything was so loud, and all he wanted to do was sink into hot, soapy water and listen to nothing. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. A headache was already setting in. "There were no guards outside and it worried me."

"We still don't know who we can trust." Her voice barely rose above the sound of the tub being filled. She didn't even try. "I'd rather have no one than someone who might— I just need more time."

The water cut off before he could reply and the maid returned to usher him into the bathroom. She stood by the door, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. Expectant. He blinked at her, unsure what else she could want. Another order? He glanced back to Melia for help. The princess - empress - cocked her head to one side, as if she didn't know what his questioning look meant. Then it struck her. A ghost of a smile flitted over her lips. So fleeting, perhaps he'd imagined it. After all, how could she find any happiness right then? Everything had gone wrong…

"I believe the First Consort would be more comfortable washing himself," she said, somehow transforming the mundane into something almost unheard of. It was that airy tone she'd taken on. Regal and disconnected. Like she'd fallen into her new role perfectly.

And he was still grappling with his. Even though he'd known that this would be his fate for days. Insecurity nagged at him. She'd had an hour to accept the most significant loss of her life and the resulting change in her status. Why was he failing to adapt?

The maid bowed again - to him this time. He didn't know how to react, didn't know how to swallow the discomfort. So he remained still and silent until she'd left the suite.

His eyes settled on Melia again. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, any trace of regality draining out of her. Damp hair clung to one side of her face, tangled into knots on the other. Her headwings drooped. He stepped forward, aiming to help her back to bed, but she shook her head. It was a small movement, almost imperceptible. He hesitated.

"You should hurry," she said, bracing herself against the doorframe to appear stronger than she really was. "Before the water cools." Then she spun around and retreated into the bedroom.

She left the door open.

Dunban grabbed a change of clothes from his bag beside the couch. The bed creaked as Melia laid down, shifted into position after position until she was comfortable. He listened a moment more. When no other sounds came, he returned to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Steam floated above the tub. He pulled off his belt and the attached sheath, followed quickly by his bloody shirt. Another hesitation. His gaze caught the mirror. The bruise along his ribs looked worse from this angle, inky purple and stretching from his hip up to his breastbone. He frowned and traced a hand along it. He'd dodged too late. Better than not dodging at all, but still… It could've killed him. And for what? Metal Face was still alive and so was Fiora and the emperor wasn't. He grit his teeth.

The rest of his clothes hit the floor. He left them where they fell, grabbed his sword from its sheath, and leaned it against the side of the tub. Just in case.

He sank into the perfumed water, letting the hot water ease his tense muscles. An assortment of soaps and glass bottles lined the nearby counter. He selected a bar at random. It was pale yellow in color and smelled faintly of honey. Good enough.

Scrubbing away at the blood and dirt that caked his skin, he found his mind wandering. Back to the battle. Back to the moments of peace before it. The guardian of Prison Island lay slain, Sharla's angry words reverberating through his head. Not that he could understand any of her complaints. He'd been too focused on the fight that awaited them. On his revenge. Even seeing Melia on the ground - motionless - hadn't knocked him out of it. But she'd been fine.

So it was okay.

The soap slipped from his fingers, disappearing into the water. He cursed and struggled to snatch it back up. Once he'd secured the soap, he went back to mechanically washing himself. As his thoughts submerged themselves in the past again.

Melia regaining consciousness, her panic, falling into Reyn's arms when she tried to stand. The moments replayed themselves in disjointed flashes. He didn't know how she'd kept going. No one would have blamed her for returning to Alcamoth to recover. She'd earned it. There was nothing left for her to prove - not to him, anyway.

And then she was on her feet again, exhausted but her determination remained intact. Her eyes aflame, burning into his, challenging him.

He remembered the sound of her voice: I promise. Soft like a prayer. Or a confession. Heat rose into his face at the thought, though his mind didn't stop to consider the reaction in depth. It wanted to think of her, with her hand against his cheek and her lips—

He jerked out of the reverie. Water sloshed out of the tub, spilling over the tiled floor. He must've… fallen asleep. Fingers shaking, he combed through his hair, wet it down enough to wash it.

His mind didn't wander again; he didn't let it. He didn't let himself wonder what might've happened if they'd been alone. If the others had gone ahead to Prison Island without them. It was only the adrenaline – the fear of losing her, the fear of what would come – that pushed them together. Nothing more than that.

The bathroom was too quiet…

She'd been sitting on their bed, the back of her nightgown unlaced as the doctor inspected the knife wound there. Already vulnerable and more than a little irritable. Then a flood of guards rushed in. She'd braced herself for another attack, grit her teeth against the flare of pain between her shoulder blades. But their weapons were sheathed, their expressions soft, pitying.

Sorean was dead. Her Sorean.

"I see." Was all she'd said before sending them all out. Even the healer.

Now, despite their protests, she was fully dressed in the drab, grey mourning veil and a plain dress in the same color. She hadn't been expecting— She wished she had something nicer to wear for her first public appearance. Something that didn't hang off of her like rags. But at least her face was hidden. They wouldn't see the tears she couldn't suppress.

She snatched the spear from the guard at their door, used it as a crutch. He followed along with her wordlessly. She glanced over her shoulder, wincing as she did so. Could she trust him with her back? While the aim of the attack on Melia's wedding was still unclear, it was obvious that she'd been the primary target. But perhaps she'd miscalculated. Perhaps her injury was a mere distraction. If she hadn't been indisposed, she'd have marched up to that wretched island herself. Sorean wouldn't have been able to stop her.

A faint smile curled her lips. He'd always treated her like something fragile. Like shattered glass that he'd painstakingly glued back together. All that effort just so he could break her himself later. Her smile faltered. She supposed that analogy was a little too close to the truth and she set the thought aside. Serene, unbothered. Certainly not lingering on the unpleasant memories of her past.

It didn't matter. She wasn't that Yumea anymore.

The scenery of Alcamoth seemed to fly by, though she couldn't have been moving that quickly. Even with the spear clutched in her hand, she hobbled along like an old crone. She paused at the entrance to the Ministry of Investigation, huffing. Her guard stood tall at her side and pretended he didn't notice her exertion.

She hated him. She hated the uneven streets that hindered her progress and the ugly, bulky architecture of the Tower of Investigation and Minister Fannar. A child's laughter pierced her skull. Distant chatter raked down her skin as sharp as an assassin's blade. She almost expected to see blood trailing down her arms if she pulled back her heavy sleeve. Her wrist prickled and she resisted the urge to scratch it. Even in mourning, she wouldn't allow herself such an unseemly display. She had to hold it together. Hold everything together.

"I will be meeting with Minister Fannar," she said as she strode up to the receptionist desk on the ground floor. Her tone left no room for questioning, betrayed none of her true emotions.

"The minister is in his office. May I guide you, Your Highness?"

Yumea rolled her eyes - an effect that was dampened by the nearly opaque veil. "I assure you, I haven't forgotten where it is. No need to trouble yourself."

The receptionist recoiled as if she'd been spat on. "Please forgive my insolence, Your Highness…"

She gave a vague wave of her hand, ignoring the flash of her diamond ring. A custom Sorean had picked up from the Homs. And who was she to reject such a precious gift from the emperor? She switched her makeshift crutch to her other hand, so she wouldn't have to see the ring again. It was… distracting. But she refused to take it off. Never again.

"Well, lucky you, I'm feeling charitable today. Forgiveness granted." She utilized her venom like it was the tool of her trade and she was a master. But the usual satisfaction didn't reach her. It wasn't the same without a worthy opponent.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and set off toward the transporter to Fannar's office. She instructed the guard to wait outside the door. Then she forced it open without knocking. She'd hoped to glide in, an ethereal creature moving through fog. But her movements were jerky, uneven. Still, Fannar seemed too shocked to register her lack of poise. He flipped a file facedown on his desk, leapt to his feet.

"Your Highness!" He slid around the desk to pull out a chair for her. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"There's no need for that," she said with a scowl. She remained standing despite the pain radiating out from her shoulder. "I've come to inform you that I will be dropping the charges against Lucio. I expect you to release him immediately."

Fannar's eyes darkened behind his round spectacles. "I understand you have suffered a great loss and you have my condolences. However, I think you overestimate your influence within this ministry." He sat down behind his desk once more, maintaining eye contact. "You may have certain ministers wrapped around your finger but never me."

"Where do your loyalties lie then?" she asked, checking her nails. As if she'd only asked him what he thought about the weather.

He chuckled. "If only it were so simple…" Then he leaned back until his chair tilted precariously. "But I suppose it would behoove me to humor you. What was it you told my receptionist? I'm feeling charitable."

She flashed a sharp smile, closer to something feral than a gesture appropriate for polite company. "It's well known your generosity comes with a price. What do you want?"

"The empress came for a visit the night before her wedding. Requested to see Lucio privately." He selected another file from his endless pile and skimmed through it. His glasses set low on the bridge of his nose. "I wonder what that was all about." He spoke in an almost sing-song voice, mocking.

Yumea pursed her lips, if only to prevent the grimace that attempted to surface. She had eyes and ears all over the city, but she hadn't known that. Then again, she hadn't known about Kallian's condition either. Until it was too late… This was a fool's errand. The last thing she needed was to place herself in Fannar's debt. A dangerous place to be, at the mercy of a viper.

"I fail to see how that is relevant," she said.

Fannar shook his head at her as though she was nothing but a misbehaving child. "Always so quick to business. It's bad manners, Your Highness. But I don't have to tell you that, do I? Of course, I'll forgive you. Grief has a way of making us act out of sorts." He picked up the file he'd hidden when she'd entered the office. With a flick of his hand, he flashed the contents at her. Her eyes widened. "Now, please, have a seat and perhaps we can start over."

She glanced back to the door where her guard waited then sank down into the chair.

When Melia awoke, burnt orange sunlight streamed through her curtains, landing on her face.. She stayed still for a moment. Maybe, if she just closed her eyes again, she could pretend they'd never opened. She could pretend she was still submerged in sleep. There were no responsibilities for her to return to. No tragedies to confront.

But no. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up. Her muscles groaned in protest as she did so. Undeterred by the ache in her arms, she tossed aside the bedsheets that swaddled her. If anything, she wanted to push herself harder. That would prove that she was fine and the worrying of her brother and others was simple overreaction. The state she'd been in on the return journey was disgraceful. She'd been little more than a sleepwalker, ignorant to the realities that surrounded her. Unable to hold herself to the standards her forefathers had set.

A twinge of embarrassment twisted her stomach until nausea took its place. What did her people think of her now? Having seen her at her weakest, she wouldn't blame them for losing faith in her completely. Her own faith had been compromised too…

She'd always thought she'd keep it together when her father died, ascend the throne with dignity. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Or… well, it was, if the emperor's claims were true. I have known my fate for many months. Alvis must have had a vision. But then why didn't they tell anyone? Why didn't they try to stop this?

Pain shot up her wrist and she realized she'd been clenching her fists. Aggravating the cut she'd sustained when she fell. She released each finger deliberately.

Clumsy, she combed her hair, changed from her nightdress into a pale grey evening gown. The hem dragged across the floor as she strode into the sitting room. She expected to see Dunban there, asleep on the settee. But he wasn't.

He… He'd left her alone. Her body felt like it had been submerged in boiling water. She sat down, holding herself until the shaking subsided. She was fine. Nothing had happened. Besides, she'd meant what she'd told him before. She'd rather have no one than a guard whose loyalty hadn't been proven. Still, it would've been nice to have him there. They needed to talk.

She hauled herself back up to her feet. I am safe and at peace. The mantra repeated again and again in her head. Even so, her body wasn't so easily convinced. A little tremble clung to her hands. A pit in her stomach refused to close. But she managed to continue on, despite not knowing where she was going.

Where could she go? Anywhere beyond the palace was out of the question. She didn't need those prying eyes on her again, didn't need the weight of their judgment on her already heavy shoulders. Perhaps the garden, then, to visit with her mother. It was unlikely that anyone else would be there so late in the day. But she'd have to explain the events of Prison Island to her and she didn't think she could face that failure so soon after first experiencing it.

So, she set out with no destination in mind.

She didn't get very far. Once outside of her suite, a presence washed over her. She whirled around, throat constricting.

Lucio stood by the door, spear in hand. They stared at each other for several seconds before either reacted. Then he dropped down to his knees at her feet. The spear hit the ground with a sharp thud.

"Your Majesty." The words dripped with reverence.

She shook her head. No one spoke to her like that. No one looked at her like she was something greater than them. Any respect she'd received from her people had been for tradition's sake. Or because her father had demanded it. She'd clawed for it, begged for it. It wasn't just given. And never to that level - like he was giving himself over to a god.

"Get up." She couldn't manage more than a whisper.

How was he here? He was supposed to be imprisoned, awaiting trial. A trial that would likely never come with all the upheaval.

"I came as soon as I heard," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "About, well, everything. And I know I mustn't be the first but I wanted to formally swear my loyalty to you. Command me as you will, Your Majesty." He rushed through his sentences. Overeager or embarrassed, she couldn't tell.

She stared down at him, mind flooding with questions. He was clean-shaven, his uniform fresh, and his hair still damp. Though he couldn't entirely wash away the effects of his confinement. It hollowed out his cheeks, drained the color from his skin. Its darkness swallowed the mischievous light his eyes once held. He was a stranger yet again. Not that she'd ever really known him. But they'd been on the same side not long ago. She wondered if that was enough.

"Please, stand," she said at last.

He obeyed without hesitation, springing to his feet like he hadn't been chained down for days. How quickly he'd recovered… Physically, at least. His grey irises were void of emotion. A severity that contrasted with the expression in his voice. The almost frantic lilt.

"I will gladly accept you into my service. On one condition."

"Anything, Your Majesty." He hung on her every word, only replying when he was certain she had no more to say.

"You will keep no secrets from me. I will know everything about you, beginning with those rumors your father mentioned."

Fear flitted across his gaunt face. Then he clenched his jaw and nodded. He checked both ends of the hall, peered down the adjoining corridors. When he returned to her, his apprehension seemed to have melted away. His steps fell lighter, his muscles less tense.

"I'm surprised he didn't just tell you," he said, grip tightening on his spear for a moment. Even when he relaxed, he wouldn't meet her gaze. "But then, he's always cared for his pride more than anything else." He paused to run a hand over one of his headwings. Several feathers came loose. They floated down to the floor, languid. He sighed. "The rumors are true – I like men."

Melia didn't react right away.

"Romantically and… sexually." A blush spread over his cheeks, vivid against his sick skin. He risked a glance in her direction. But if he found what he was looking for in her eyes, his expression didn't change. "I know you may not understand. The purebloods certainly don't. They tell me it's such a waste not to pass on my perfect genes."

A hint of bitterness slipped into his tone. She couldn't blame him; she'd been subjected to similar pressure to reproduce. Too many expectations, unspoken questions, sidelong glances. Her position as crown princess had been almost fetishized. She knew men looked at her and wondered what it would be like to father the empire's next heir. But they'd never tried. They'd never forced her to listen to their fantasies either. Her genes weren't coveted the way Lucio's were. Only her power.

"It is never a waste to live life in a way that brings you happiness," she said softly.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, a fraction of their former light had returned. "I appreciate the reminder."

They both went silent for a few minutes. Melia didn't know how to respond to his gratitude. To be honest, she still wasn't confident that she'd handled his confession appropriately. Should she have been more blunt? Should she have said his sexuality was none of her concern and just left it there? She'd expected a sinister secret, something he would do anything to hide. Something that could be taken advantage of if necessary.

But this… While she had no experience with same-sex couples, a few of her mother's stories had included them. It was normal, even if it was rare in Alcamoth. And frowned upon in certain situations. Elsewhere, though, among the Homs, some women had wives, some men had husbands. They didn't care in the colonies. Why? What was so different there? And why couldn't Alcamoth be the same someday soon?

"Your Majesty?"

She focused on Lucio once more, letting his voice pull her away from her thoughts.

"Is there anything else you wanted to know?" He still wasn't really looking at her. His eyes flicked from the floor to the end of the hallway to a spot on the ceiling above her head.

There were too many things she wanted to ask, too many possibilities. She didn't have the time to stand outside her suite, interrogating him until all of her irrational worries were put to bed. So the last question had to satisfy her. Enough that she could be confident in her decision to trust him.

"My stepmother has never been one to get her hands dirty," she said slowly. Her eyes locked on him, analyzing every tiny reaction he made. "She prefers to let others handle the more… unpleasant aspects of her schemes. Since you were her guard once, I imagine she felt comfortable assigning these tasks to you."

"Yes." His wings fidgeted but the rest of his body was eerily still. Even his eyes had finally come to rest on her face. "But if you're asking for the worst thing she made me do, it pales in comparison to what I did for her. Of my own free will."