Chapter 4
Iam summoned to dinner just as the red sun begins to dip beneath the horizon.
The dining hall is gilded in firelight, its vaulted ceiling dripping with crystal orbs that catch the glow and scatter it across the room, reminiscent of falling stars.
Tapestries line the walls – Mars victories woven in crimson thread against gold backgrounds, battle scenes frozen mid-strike.
The air is warm, almost stifling, scented with roasted spices and the faint metallic tang of polished bronze.
I fidget with my long sleeves as I stand in the entryway.
I chose an all-black, modest court dress from the wardrobe, long in every aspect and sprinkled with a few swirling patterns of signature House Mars gold.
The fabric is finer than anything I’ve ever worn, but it feels like a costume.
I hate that all the clothes I’ve been given have a hint of gold. Reminds me too much of the sun. Of him.
In the middle of the decadent room lies a beautiful mahogany table too large for two people. Crystal goblets and silver cutlery sit next to ornate plates, all arranged perfectly and equally to the other.
Lord Zevran stands when I enter, unfolding to his full height with controlled grace.
I don’t know if it’s courtesy or calculation, but it unsettles me all the same.
His coat gleams bronze at the seams, fitted perfectly across his shoulders, and his wavy dark blond hair is swept back from his face.
His expression is unreadable, eyes tracking my approach.
“Miss Cyra,” he says smoothly, not blinking as he studies me.
“Your Grace,” I manage, keeping my voice even.
He gestures for me to sit opposite him. Servants appear like shadows, uncovering platters laden with Mars delicacies – golden paella studded with saffron-infused rice underneath, sliced chorizo beside roasted red peppers, everything drizzled with olive oil that catches the firelight.
I notice the way the servants move with barely contained excitement, stealing glances at us when they think we’re not looking.
One young man nearly drops a silver platter, catching it just in time with flushed cheeks.
Another whispers something to her companion as they retreat, their eyes bright with curiosity.
This doesn’t happen often, I realize. Perhaps it doesn’t happen at all.
It’s as if the servants aren’t used to serving two.
I wonder if Mother ever sat across from him like this when she first arrived, or if she was simply told her duties without ceremony.
There’s something deliberate about this dinner, something that feels like an effort he’s making, though I can’t fathom why.
I have no appetite. My eyes keep catching on the faint tremor of his left hand where it rests near his crystal goblet, the tightness in his jaw as if he’s grinding back pain.
We eat in silence. Or rather, he eats. I only push food around my plate, trying to find words that won’t betray how badly I’m shaking.
At last, I whisper, “Why am I here, Your Grace?”
His gaze flicks up. “Because you’re hungry, I assume.”
“Th-That’s not what I mean.” The words scrape out sharper than I intend, but once they’re loose, I can’t call them back. “You took me from my home under guard. My mother is gone. I need—” My voice catches. “I need to know where she is.”
He cuts into a slice of meat, unbothered. “It appears she left.”
Anger surges up to drown my fear. “She wouldn’t leave me. Not like this.”
For the first time since entering this room, something shifts in his expression … a shadow across his features, too quick to name. Then it’s gone. “Believe what you wish.”
I clench my napkin in my lap. Every instinct screams to stay quiet, keep my head down. But the thought of Mother alone and afraid burns louder than fear. “You brought me here to replace her. She isn’t one to discuss patients and their private matters, but you needed her here every day … why?”
His knife stills. He doesn’t answer.
“I know you’re sick.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. My chest tightens with panic at my own boldness. “I see it. The tremor. The way your face pales when something hurts. You try to hide it, but—”
“Enough.” His voice cuts sharp.
I should back down. I know I should. But grief drives me forward. “If you want my help, Your Grace … then tell me the truth. Tell me what happened to her.”
His hand slams the table. The sound makes the servants flinch, and my own fork clatters against porcelain.
“You are here,” he snarls, “to heal me. That is all.”
The words ring in the silence. My throat tightens, but I manage to whisper, “And if I refuse?”
His jaw clenches so hard I hear the grind of teeth. For a heartbeat, his composure cracks – the faintest flicker of fear in his eyes, raw and unguarded. Then he shoves back from the table, chair scraping the floor.
“You won’t refuse,” he growls, voice lower now, almost ragged. “Because you need answers. And because … I will not lose you, too.”
The words leave me frozen, unsure if I even heard them right. Before I can speak, he strides from the hall, firelight trembling in his wake.
I sit there long after he’s gone, shaking so hard I can barely breathe, servants avoiding my gaze as they tidy.
The clatter of dishes being cleared sounds too loud in the cavernous hall, each clink of silver against porcelain making me flinch.
I excuse myself from the table, eager to retreat to my chambers and process everything that just happened.
I walk briskly, at first confident that I remember the way back to the tower the guards led me to only hours ago …
three turns, past the portrait gallery, down the stairs with the bronze railing.
I make it to the second landing before I realize the tapestry I’m looking for isn’t there.
I end up in a corridor I don’t recognize.
The doors here are plain wood instead of carved, spaced evenly along both walls like servants’ quarters or storage.
The air smells like lamp oil and old stone, cooler than the main halls.
My footsteps ring against marble, each one loud enough to announce me.
The wall sconces burn too dim and too far apart, shadows pooling between each circle of light.
One of the doors stands cracked open, yellow lamplight bleeding across the floor in a clean line. A man’s voice carries through, speaking fast.
“General Thane, we need a plan of action – the outer rim situation is deteriorating faster than we anticipated—”
I pause in the corridor, my pulse still hammering from dinner. I know I shouldn’t listen, but I can’t stop myself from taking a step closer.
“How much faster?” A deep voice replies, and I can only assume it’s General Thane speaking.
“Three more convoys attacked this week. The pirates are getting bolder, more organized. And Jupiter’s response—” the voice pauses. “Lord Castor deployed military forces without consulting Central Authority. The Cardinals are furious, but there’s nothing they can do about it.”
“And Saturn?”
“Lord Evander’s implemented new trade regulations that directly contradict system-wide policies.
And – to add fuel to the flame – Mercury’s threatening to cut communication access to any planet that doesn’t comply with their revised communication protocols.
” The sound of papers rustling. “The Houses are starting to act independently. The Cardinal’s authority is crumbling. ”
I furrow my brow, processing this information.
It’s been seventeen years since the Cardinals took power after the Sun King’s death – long enough for fear of tyranny to fade, long enough for ambition to ignite again.
Mars continues to carry the weight of defending the system, bleeding so the rest can sleep easy.
A long silence stretches between them.
“You think they’ll demand a ruler? Call a vote?” General Thane asks gruffly.
“I think they have no choice.” The voice drops. “They need a Sovereign to hold the system together.”
“Are you concerned about Lord Zevran’s fitness for this position, Commander Nael?”
The directness of the statement catches me off guard. I press closer to the door, straining to hear the response.
“Now that Liora has disappeared, I’m concerned his decision-making will be compromised. The pain affects his judgment, makes him unpredictable. If the Cardinals call for a vote, Mars needs to present a strong leader—”
“You’re questioning his ability to rule?”
“I’m questioning his ability to rule while suffering.” Commander Nael’s voice gentles slightly. “The new healer, Miss Cyra – perhaps she can help him the way Liora did. But keeping her here against her will, making her essentially a prisoner … that’s not the action of a clear-minded leader.”
My heart stutters at the mention of my name.
Commander Nael’s voice continues. “General, I’ve served Mars loyally for fifteen years. I’ve watched His Grace grow from a grieving boy into a strong leader. But this – this isn’t strength. This is fear.”
The conversation falls silent, and I quickly continue down the corridor before they emerge, Commander Nael’s words echoing in my mind: This isn’t strength. This is fear.