Chapter 25
Logan
The Blue Salon feels like a cage despite its opulence. Grandmother has always had exquisite taste—every surface gleams with polish, every fabric chosen for both beauty and comfort. Even the air smells expensive, perfumed with the subtle scent of fresh flowers and beeswax.
I hate it.
I stand before the massive windows overlooking the immaculate gardens, my hands clasped behind my back to hide their restlessness. My ribs protest the formal posture, but I refuse to show weakness. Not here. Not with her.
“You look terrible.”
I don’t turn at the sound of my grandmother’s voice. Queen Mother Eleanora Corellian doesn’t require acknowledgment—she simply assumes it, as she has for the seven decades of her formidable existence.
“I’ve had worse,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral despite the throbbing pain in my nose and ribs. Maya’s ministrations helped, but nothing short of time will heal these injuries completely.
“Yes, I imagine you have.” Her voice draws closer, the soft rustle of expensive silk accompanying her approach. “Though usually at your father’s hands, not your brother’s.”
That makes me turn. Grandmother stands a few paces away, resplendent in midnight blue that makes her silver hair gleam like polished steel.
Despite her advanced age, she carries herself with the rigid posture of a much younger woman.
Only the fine network of lines around her golden eyes—eyes I inherited—betrays her years.
“You know about Willam,” I say, not bothering to phrase it as a question.
She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I know everything that happens in this kingdom, Logan. Particularly when it involves my grandsons trying to kill each other on public roads.”
“I didn’t try to kill him,” I correct her. “If I had, he’d be dead.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.
You’ve never been one for half measures.
” She moves to the ornate tea service laid out on a nearby table.
“Sit. You look like you might collapse at any moment, and I refuse to have the servants gossip about me letting you bleed on my carpets.”
I obey, not because she commands it but because my body demands it. The chair is as comfortable as it looks, and I sink into it with poorly concealed relief. Grandmother pours tea into delicate porcelain cups, her movements precise and elegant despite her age.
“Your Omega has quite the healing touch,” she observes, handing me a cup. “Though I imagine her skills were honed through necessity rather than choice.”
I accept the tea, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “Maya’s history is not a topic I wish to discuss with you right now.”
“No?” She settles into the chair opposite mine, studying me over the rim of her cup. “And yet she is the reason you’re here, is she not? The catalyst for this rebellion you’re so determined to launch?”
“The rebellion was inevitable,” I say, meeting her gaze directly. “The king has gone too far. The fertility clinics are just the latest evidence of his deteriorating judgment.”
Grandmother’s expression hardens at the mention of the clinics. “Yes,” she agrees, her voice taking on an edge I rarely hear. “Those abominations are a stain on our family’s legacy.”
“Which is why we need to focus all our resources on overthrowing the king,” I say, seizing the opening. “The clinics are a symptom, not the disease. Once we remove the king from power, we can dismantle his entire system.”
She sets her cup down with a sharp click of porcelain against porcelain. “And how many women will suffer while you plot your grand strategy, Logan? How many Omegas will be experimented on, violated, transformed against their will while you gather your forces?”
I set my own cup aside, leaning forward despite the protest from my ribs. “Every day my father continues his rule increases the risk of our failure. If we strike at the clinics now, we alert the king to our presence, to our intentions. We lose the element of surprise.”
“And if we do nothing, we are complicit in their suffering,” she counters, her golden eyes flashing. “Just as we were complicit in what happened to your Maya.”
I feel my jaw tighten at the mention of Maya again, at the casual way my grandmother wields her name like a weapon. “What happened to Maya was—“
“Was preventable,” she interrupts, her voice cutting like a blade. “Had someone acted sooner, had someone prioritized the safety of Omegas over political strategy, she might have been spared a year of torture.”
The accusation hangs between us, heavy with implication. That I should have known. That I should have acted sooner. That my failure to protect Maya was not just a personal failing but a political one.
“I didn’t know,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “By the time I discovered what had happened, the damage was already done.”
“And now that you do know?” Grandmother presses, relentless as always. “Now that you’ve seen firsthand what your father is capable of? Will you still prioritize your coup over the immediate suffering of those in the clinics?”
I stand, unable to remain seated under the weight of her judgment.
Pain flares through my ribs, but I ignore it, pacing to the window and back.
“You don’t understand the complexity of what we’re attempting,” I say, fighting to keep my voice level.
“A direct assault on the clinics would be suicide. We don’t have the numbers, the resources, or the intelligence necessary for such an operation. ”
“I understand more than you think,” she replies, her voice suddenly weary. “I was fielding would-be assassins and navigating potential coups were still learning to walk, Logan. I know the cost of revolution better than most.”
I turn to face her fully, studying the woman who has been both mentor and adversary throughout my life.
The Queen Mother has always been a force to be reckoned with—the power behind the throne for decades, the architect of alliances and destructor of enemies.
Her support for my claim is not insignificant.
But neither is her judgment.
“The clinics are well-guarded,” I say, offering facts instead of excuses.
“They’re located in populated areas, making direct assault risky for civilians as well as our forces.
And most importantly, they’re just the visible part of the operation.
The research, the real damage, is happening elsewhere, in facilities we haven’t yet identified. ”
“All true,” she acknowledges. “And yet, every day they remain operational is another day women are suffering. Women like your Maya.”
I clench my jaw at her continued use of Maya’s name. “Leave her out of it. You don’t get to use Maya as a weapon against me.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” Grandmother’s expression is all innocence, but her eyes remain sharp. “Or am I simply reminding you of what’s at stake? Of who is paying the price for your careful planning?”
The accusation cuts deeper than it should. I’ve always prided myself on my strategic thinking, on my ability to see the bigger picture beyond immediate emotions. It’s what makes me different from my brothers, what makes me a true heir to the throne rather than just another prince with ambitions.
But Maya changed that calculation. Her suffering—suffering I failed to prevent—has become a weight I carry, a debt I can never fully repay.
“I want to save them all,” I admit, the words quiet but firm. “Every Omega in those clinics. Every person who might be forced into designation change against their will. But I can’t do that if we fail in our primary objective. If the king remains in power, he’ll simply rebuild whatever we destroy.”
Grandmother watches me for a long moment, her golden eyes unreadable. Then she nods, a single sharp movement that seems to settle something in her mind.
“You sound like your father,” she says, the comparison landing like a slap. “He, too, was always focused on the bigger picture, the grand strategy. Always willing to sacrifice the few for the many.”
I feel my spine stiffen at the comparison. “I am not my father.”
“No?” She rises from her chair with surprising grace for a woman her age. “Then prove it. Show me that you understand what he never did—that true leadership requires both vision and compassion. That sometimes, the immediate suffering of the few outweighs the potential benefit to the many.”
“What would you have me do?” I demand, frustration breaking through my careful control. “Abandon our plans for the throne? Throw away months of preparation to launch a suicide mission against the clinics?”
“I would have you remember why you’re fighting in the first place,” she replies, her voice softening slightly. “Is it for the throne? For power? For revenge against your father? Or is it to create a better kingdom—one where Omegas aren’t treated as property to be experimented on?”
“Both,” I say finally. “I want the throne because it’s the only way to ensure lasting change. But I want that change because of what happened to Maya, because of what’s happening to others like her.”
Grandmother studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Then perhaps there is hope for you yet,” she says finally. “Though I remain unconvinced that your strategy is the correct one.”
I feel a flicker of irritation at her continued doubt. “You haven’t offered an alternative.”
“Haven’t I?” She moves to the window, gazing out at the manicured gardens with an expression I can’t quite decipher. “There are ways to strike at the clinics without compromising your larger strategy. Ways to save those Omegas without alerting the king to your true intentions.”
“How?” I ask, genuine curiosity overriding my frustration.
She turns back to me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I have resources you don’t, Logan. Connections your father knows nothing about. People who could act on our behalf while you continue your preparations.”
The offer is tempting—a way to address the immediate suffering without compromising our long-term goals. But I’ve learned to be wary of gifts that seem too perfect, especially from my grandmother.
“At what cost?” I ask, because there’s always a cost with her.
“No cost,” she replies, her smile widening slightly. “Consider it my contribution to your cause. My way of ensuring that when you take the throne, you do so with clean hands.”
I don’t believe her—not entirely. The Queen Mother has never done anything without calculation, without weighing potential benefits against risks. But I also can’t deny the appeal of her offer, the possibility of saving those Omegas without compromising our larger strategy.
“I need to know the details,” I say, unwilling to commit blindly. “Who these people are, how they would operate, what their objectives would be. And I’ll need time to think on it.”
“Of course,” she agrees easily—too easily. “I’ll have my head of security brief you tomorrow. For now, I think we’ve covered enough ground for one evening. You look exhausted, and I’m not as young as I once was.”
The dismissal is clear, but I’m not ready to let this go. “Grandmother,” I say, my voice hardening slightly. “I need your word that you won’t act without my knowledge or consent. Whatever resources you have, whatever plans you’re making—they need to be coordinated with our overall strategy.”
Her golden eyes meet mine, sharp with an intelligence that age has done nothing to dim. “You have my word,” she says after a moment, “that I will do what I believe is best for Melilla. Just as I always have.”
It’s not the assurance I wanted, but it’s likely the best I’ll get. The Queen Mother has never been one to submit to anyone’s authority, not even the king’s. Expecting her to follow my lead unconditionally was perhaps naive.
“Thank you for your support,” I say instead, offering the formal words like a peace offering. “Your resources will be invaluable to our cause.”
“Yes, they will,” she agrees, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Now go rest. You’ll need your strength for what’s to come.”
I bow slightly, the gesture more habit than genuine deference, and turn to leave. As I reach the door, her voice stops me once more.
“Logan,” she calls, her tone suddenly serious. “Remember that a king who cannot protect the most vulnerable of his subjects is no king at all. He’s simply a tyrant with a crown.”
The words follow me as I make my way through the palace corridors, echoing in my mind with uncomfortable persistence. A king who cannot protect the most vulnerable. A tyrant with a crown.
Is that what I’m becoming? So focused on the grand strategy, on the throne itself, that I’ve lost sight of why I wanted it in the first place?
No. I refuse to believe that. The throne is the means, not the end. The power to create real change, lasting change. To build a kingdom where what happened to Maya never happens again.
But grandmother’s words have planted a seed of doubt that I can’t quite shake. What good is a future victory if we allow present suffering to continue unchecked? What kind of king would I be if I prioritize strategy over the immediate needs of those I claim to protect?
These questions plague me as I make my way back to my chambers, each step sending fresh pain through my injured ribs. A physical reminder of the cost of confrontation, of the price we’re all paying for this rebellion.
A price that seems to grow steeper with each passing day.