Chapter 26 #2
“The king’s vision for Melilla is unsustainable,” I say finally. “His treatment of Omegas is not merely cruel but shortsighted. A society that consumes its most vulnerable members eventually collapses under the weight of its own corruption.”
“A political assessment,” she observes. “Not a personal one.”
“The personal and political are often inseparable, Your Highness. Especially for those of us who serve the crown.”
She laughs, the sound startling in the quiet night.
“Well parried, Poe. You’ve clearly learned from my grandson’s diplomatic training.
” Her golden eyes fix on mine, suddenly serious.
“But I’m not interested in diplomatic answers.
I’m interested in understanding the man who might soon be advising the next king of Melilla. ”
The implication—that she sees me continuing in my role should Logan take the throne—catches me off guard. Given recent tensions, I’m not entirely certain of my place in Logan’s future court, assuming he survives long enough to establish one.
“You assume much about the future, Your Highness.”
“I assume nothing,” she corrects. “I calculate probabilities based on available information. And my calculations suggest that despite whatever... tensions may currently exist, you remain essential to my grandson’s success.”
I say nothing, unwilling to reveal the extent of those tensions or my own uncertainty about what comes next.
The Queen Mother sighs, a sound of genuine weariness rather than theatrical effect.
“Let me be direct, since you seem determined to match evasion with evasion. I need to know if you are fully committed to this rebellion, to placing Logan on the throne. Not just in word, but in deed. Because what comes next will require absolute commitment from all involved.”
“And if I’m not?” I ask, testing the boundaries of her tolerance. “If my loyalty has limits?”
“Then you should leave now,” she says simply. “Take whatever supplies you need and disappear. Because half-measures and divided loyalties will get you killed—and possibly my grandson as well.”
The blunt assessment is refreshing after the verbal sparring. I consider her words, weighing them against my own conflicted feelings about Logan, about Maya, about the rebellion we’re building on such uncertain foundations.
“I’m committed to overthrowing the king,” I say finally. “To ending the fertility clinics, to creating a Melilla where Omegas aren’t treated as property to be exploited. Whether that means Logan on the throne or someone else... that depends on Logan himself.”
The Queen Mother’s eyebrows rise slightly, genuine surprise flickering across her features. “You would consider supporting another claimant?”
“If necessary,” I admit. “Though it’s not my preference.”
She studies me for a long moment, her golden eyes unreadable in the moonlight. Then she nods, a single sharp movement that seems to settle something in her mind.
“Good,” she says, surprising me. “Blind loyalty is a weakness in a king’s advisor. Critical support, tempered by principle, is far more valuable.”
“You’re not angry that I might abandon your grandson for another candidate?”
“Abandon? No.” She shakes her head, silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. “You’ve just told me you’re committed to the cause, even if Logan proves unsuitable. That’s not abandonment—it’s pragmatism. And pragmatism is what will win this war, not romantic notions of undying fealty.”
I reassess the Queen Mother, seeing her in a new light. This is not just a dowager seeking to place her favorite grandson on the throne. This is a political strategist playing a much longer game, with objectives that may not entirely align with Logan’s own.
“What exactly do you want from me, Your Highness?” I ask, cutting through the remaining pretense.
She smiles, apparently appreciating the directness. “Information, for now. An accurate assessment of our position, our resources, our chances. And later, perhaps, action of the kind you’re particularly suited to perform.”
Assassination, she means. The removal of obstacles that can’t be overcome through political maneuvering alone. It’s what I’ve always done for Logan, but hearing it suggested so casually by his grandmother gives me pause.
“And in return?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
“My continued support,” she says simply. “My resources, my connections, my protection. All of which your rebellion desperately needs if it’s to have any chance of success.”
She’s right, of course. Without the Queen Mother’s backing, our chances of successfully challenging the king drop from slim to virtually nonexistent. We need her—or at least, we need what she offers.
But alliances built on mutual necessity rarely survive once that necessity passes. And the Queen Mother strikes me as someone who plans several moves ahead in any game she plays.
“I’ll consider your proposal,” I say, careful not to commit either way. “And discuss it with Logan.”
“No,” she says, her voice suddenly sharp. “This arrangement remains between us. Logan has many admirable qualities, but subtlety in political matters is not among them. He would...misunderstand.”
The request confirms my suspicions—the Queen Mother is playing her own game, with objectives that may overlap with Logan’s but are not identical. She’s hedging her bets, creating contingencies in case her grandson proves unsuitable for the role she envisions.
“You’re asking me to keep secrets from him,” I observe. She doesn’t need to know I’ve been doing much the same thing on my own. “That’s a significant request.”
“I’m asking you to serve the greater cause,” she corrects. “To recognize that sometimes, the path to victory requires compartmentalization of information. Surely that’s not a foreign concept to someone in your position.”
Again, she’s right. I’ve kept plenty from Logan over the years—the details of certain operations, the methods used to acquire sensitive information, the identities of sources who would rather remain anonymous. But those were tactical omissions, not strategic ones.
This feels different. More significant. A potential betrayal rather than a simple withholding.
“I’ll need time to consider,” I say finally. “This isn’t a decision to be made hastily.”
The Queen Mother inclines her head, accepting this with surprising grace. “Of course. But don’t take too long. Events are moving more quickly than even I anticipated.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly alert to the implication that she knows something we don’t.
“My sources report increased activity around the fertility clinics,” she says, her voice dropping lower despite the apparent privacy of our location. “The first subjects have already been processed. The program is accelerating.”
We knew the clinics were operational, but the timeline suggested by the Queen Mother’s information is far more aggressive than we anticipated. If women have already been taken there, then our window for action is closing rapidly.
“How many clinics?” I ask, shifting mentally from diplomatic mode to tactical assessment.
“Three operational, with two more nearing completion,” she replies.
I process this information, mapping it against what we already know. The geographical spread suggests a coordinated effort to implement the program kingdom-wide as quickly as possible. The king isn’t testing the waters—he’s diving in headfirst, committing fully to the doctor’s vision.
“And the subjects?” I ask, though I dread the answer. “Where are they coming from?”
The Queen Mother’s expression hardens, genuine anger flashing in her golden eyes. “Orphanages. Debtors’ prisons. The lower districts. Anywhere vulnerable women can be found and quietly removed without causing too much outcry.”
Just as I feared. The most vulnerable, the most easily exploited. Those without families to protest, without connections to leverage, without voices that would be heard in the halls of power.
“How many?” The question comes out rougher than intended, emotion bleeding through my carefully maintained control.
“Dozens so far,” she says, her voice matching my own in barely suppressed rage. “Hundreds by month’s end, if the program continues unchecked.”
Hundreds. The number echoes in my mind, each digit representing a life destroyed, a person reduced to an experiment, a breeding vessel for the king’s twisted vision. The scale of it is staggering, even for someone who has witnessed the worst of what power can do when unconstrained by conscience.
“We need to move faster,” I say, thinking aloud now rather than engaging in careful diplomacy. “The timeline we discussed with Logan—it’s too conservative. We can’t wait months to build support, to gather allies. By then, it will be too late for too many.”
The Queen Mother watches me closely, something like satisfaction flickering across her features.
“Yes,” she agrees. “Precisely my assessment. Which is why I needed to speak with you directly, without my grandson’s knowledge.
Logan’s primary concern is the throne, as it should be, but he won’t want you diverting your attention to this with the risk involved. I disagree that it can wait.”
“Direct action,” I translate, understanding immediately what she’s suggesting. “Targeting the clinics themselves rather than building toward a formal challenge to the king.”
She nods, approval evident in her expression.
“The clinics first—disrupt the program, free the subjects, destroy the research. Undermining the promises he has made to the Alpha leaders of our neighboring provinces will destabilize his base of support. Only then, with the immediate threat neutralized, do we move against the king himself.”
It’s a sound strategy, one that prioritizes saving lives over political maneuvering. But it’s also incredibly dangerous, with a high likelihood of failure if not executed perfectly. And it puts Maya directly in the Inquisitor’s path again—something I’ve been desperately trying to avoid.