Chapter 22
Maya
When Saffron reveals our final destination, I don’t believe her. Not until I see it for myself.
The summer palace rises before us like something from a fever dream, all gleaming white stone and soaring towers against the cloudless blue sky.
It’s nothing like the modest safehouse where Cillian and I spent the past three days.
This is a statement of power and wealth, designed to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
“Breathe,” Cillian murmurs beside me as our carriage approaches the ornate gates. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. I exhale slowly, trying to loosen the knot of tension between my shoulder blades. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.” His voice carries no judgment, just quiet understanding. “Remember, we’re guests here, not prisoners. If you want to leave, we leave.”
The promise should be comforting, but we both know it’s not that simple. Nothing has been simple a single day in my life.
The truck slows as we reach the gates, where guards in the Queen Mother’s colors—silver and midnight blue—stand at attention. They inspect our papers with practiced efficiency, their faces revealing nothing as they wave us through.
“The Queen Mother’s security is impressive,” Cillian observes as we pass beneath the stone archway. “I’ve spotted at least two dozen guards since we entered her lands and she wouldn’t let anyone not loyal to her step foot on the property.”
“Is that unusual?” I ask, genuinely curious. My knowledge of royal security protocols is limited to what I’ve gleaned from books and the brief, disastrous time I spent at the palace before fleeing.
“For a dowager queen in semi-retirement? Yes.” Cillian’s pale eyes scan our surroundings, cataloging threats and escape routes with the habitual vigilance that never seems to leave him. “She’s preparing for something.”
Or someone, I think but don’t say. The rebellion, perhaps. Or the possibility that her son—the king—might decide his mother has outlived her usefulness.
The truck follows a winding path through meticulously maintained gardens, each more elaborate than the last. Fountains spray crystalline water into the air, catching sunlight and transforming it into rainbows.
Topiary animals stand frozen mid-leap among beds of flowers so perfect they almost look artificial.
It’s beautiful and so extravagant that it borders on obscene.
And the last place anyone would look for the heart of a rebellion.
As we pull up to the palace entrance, a small welcoming party awaits us. Three attendants in the Queen Mother’s colors, standing in perfect formation on the marble steps.
“Welcome to the summer palace,” the lead attendant says, offering a perfectly calibrated bow—deep enough to show respect but not so deep as to suggest we outrank him. “Her Royal Highness awaits you in the Blue Salon. If you’ll follow me?”
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that Cillian and I haven’t bathed in days, wearing clothes that haven’t been washed for even longer than that.
We’re led through the palace, each room we pass more opulent than the last. Crystal chandeliers hang from ceilings painted with mythological scenes.
Priceless artwork adorns walls covered in silk damask.
Furniture that belongs in museums sits casually arranged, as if inviting visitors to risk the wrath of conservators by actually using it.
I try not to gawk, to maintain the facade of a well-bred Omega accustomed to such surroundings. But it’s hard not to feel overwhelmed by the sheer excess of it all.
“The Queen Mother appreciates beauty,” Cillian murmurs, close enough that only I can hear. “But don’t mistake her aesthetic sensibilities for frivolity. She’s one of the most politically astute women in Melilla.”
“Is that a warning?” I ask under my breath.
“An observation.” His hand brushes mine briefly, a fleeting touch of reassurance. “It seems like she’s on our side, but just remember that every conversation with her is a chess match. Choose your moves carefully.”
Before I can ask what he means, we arrive at a set of double doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The attendant knocks once, then opens them with a flourish.
The Blue Salon lives up to its name. Every surface seems to shimmer with varying shades of blue—from the palest ice to the deepest midnight. The effect should be overwhelming but is instead oddly soothing, like being underwater in a sunlit pool.
At the center of the room, seated on a delicate sofa that looks like it might collapse under the weight of a particularly heavy thought, is a woman I immediately recognize as the Queen Mother.
Eleanora Corellian doesn’t look like a woman in her seventies.
Her silver hair is arranged in an elegant coiffure that emphasizes her high cheekbones and remarkable bone structure.
Her posture is perfect, spine straight as a sword blade despite her age.
She wears a gown of midnight blue that makes her pale skin glow like moonlight.
But it’s her eyes that capture my attention—golden, like Logan’s, but sharper somehow. More calculating. Those eyes have witnessed decades of court intrigue, have watched kings rise and fall, have seen through countless lies and manipulations.
Those eyes are fixed on me now, assessing and measuring in a way that makes me feel like I’m being weighed for market.
“So,” she says, her voice rich and melodious despite her years, “my grandson has finally got himself into more trouble than he can manage.”
I stiffen, caught off guard by the direct approach. Beside me, Cillian shifts slightly, a subtle movement that places his body partially between me and the Queen Mother.
“Your Highness,” he says, offering a perfect court bow. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Eleanora waves away his formality with an impatient gesture. “Save the courtesies, Cillian. We’ve known each other too long for such nonsense.” Her golden gaze shifts back to me, sharp as a blade. “Besides, I’m far more interested in speaking with Maya.”
I curtsy, the movement automatic after years of Enclave training. “Your Highness. It’s an honor to see you again.”
“Is it?” She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I rather thought you’d resent being sent here like a package to be stored safely until needed.”
The observation is so accurate it momentarily steals my breath. I straighten from my curtsy, meeting her gaze directly in a breach of protocol that makes one of the attendants inhale sharply.
“I do,” I admit, honesty seeming the better part of valor with this woman. “But I understand the necessity.”
A smile touches her lips, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “Good. I detest false pleasantries.” She gestures to the sofa opposite hers. “Sit. Both of you. We have much to discuss, and I find standing on ceremony tedious at my age.”
We obey, settling onto the sofa that proves sturdier than it appears. The attendants withdraw silently, closing the doors behind them with a soft click that somehow sounds final.
“Tea?” the Queen Mother asks, indicating the elaborate service on the table between us.
“No, thank you,” I reply, too tense to contemplate eating or drinking anything.
“Wise,” she says, surprising me. “Never consume anything offered in a royal residence unless you’ve seen it poured from a common vessel. A lesson my son’s wife never fully appreciated, to her detriment.”
The implication hangs in the air—that the former queen might have been poisoned, perhaps by someone in the palace itself. I glance at Cillian, but his expression reveals nothing.
“Now,” the Queen Mother continues, settling back against the cushions, “let us speak plainly. You, Miss Tantamount, have become the focal point of a very dangerous game. An Inquisitor is dead, presumably by your hand. The king’s guards are very concerned with hunting you down as he has declared you a treasonous fugitive.
And now you find yourself at the center of a rebellion that has very little objective chance of succeeding.
” She pauses, her golden eyes studying my face.
“Have I summarized your situation accurately?”
“You’ve left out the part where the Inquisitor spent a year experimenting on me like a laboratory animal,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “And the fact that the king is now implementing those experiments on a larger scale through his fertility clinics.”
Something flashes in the Queen Mother’s eyes—anger, perhaps, or determination. “Yes,” she agrees, her voice hardening. “That particular abomination has not escaped my notice.”
She turns her attention to Cillian, who has remained silent beside me. “And you, Cillian. Still loyal despite everything. How is your wound healing?”
The question catches me by surprise. How does she know about Cillian’s injury? We’ve told no one outside the pack about what happened at the doctor’s compound.
“Well enough, Your Highness,” Cillian replies, his voice neutral. “Thank you for your concern.”
“It wasn’t concern,” she corrects him, her tone sharp. “It was an observation. You look terrible.”
I blink at the bluntness of her assessment. Cillian does look better than he did a week ago, when fever nearly claimed him, but the shadows beneath his eyes speak of ongoing pain and exhaustion he refuses to acknowledge.
“The journey was long,” he says, deflecting with practiced ease. “I’ll recover with rest.”
The Queen Mother studies him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “I’m surprised you’ve managed to maintain your charade for so long,” she says finally. “Most would have been discovered years ago.”
Cillian goes perfectly still beside me, his body tensing in a way I’ve come to recognize as dangerous. “My apologies if the subterfuge is offensive to you, Your Highness.”