Chapter 5
Iwake to the sound of bells I don’t recognize.
They aren’t the sharp, clanging alarms from the slums or the market’s desperate call for attention. These are deep, a heavy series of drums that vibrate through the air. A Martian battle cry in a way.
I sit up in bed – too rough, too unfamiliar – and for a moment, I don’t know where I am. Then it comes back: the dinner … Lord Zevran’s vague threats and the feeling of palace walls pressing in on me … the fact that my mother is still missing, and no one will give me answers.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the marble floor cold beneath my bare feet.
Suddenly, there’s a meek knock at the door. It creaks open without waiting.
A servant enters, a girl with warm brown skin and short curls tucked under a golden head wrap. She bows, a set of clothes folded neatly in her arms.
“Miss, you’re expected in the atrium. His Grace wishes you to begin your formal duties today.” Her fingers tighten slightly on the folded clothes, as if she knows better than to linger.
I blink. “Formal duties?”
She doesn’t elaborate, just places the neatly folded outfit on the nearby divan.
It’s not a dress like the one from last night, instead it’s a tunic, fitted trousers, and a sash with the sigil of House Mars stitched in shimmering red thread.
I change after she leaves, trying to shake the feeling that I’m slipping into someone else’s skin.
After asking a few servants for directions, I find the atrium.
Sunlight pours through glass and crystalline arches, bathing plants that grow lush and strange.
It smells like warm spice and hot earth, and a slight humidity hangs in the air.
It seems as though this space has been treasured …
every plant labelled with a shaky hand, every pot meticulously watered.
It’s entirely opposite of our garden at home, a hodgepodge Mother kept of healing herbs and spices planted in whatever free inch of soil was available.
Lord Zevran stands at the centre of the room, posture rigid. He’s flanked by two guards and a man with copper skin wearing a dark red uniform. When the man turns to face me, his eyes catch the light streaming through the glass arches, flashing red like polished garnets.
“This is Miss Cyra. She’s to serve as my personal healer.” Lord Zevran doesn’t turn when I approach. All I get is a view of the back of his head, where wavy dark-blonde hair flops to one side. His stance is disciplined, but as he shifts, I catch the faintest hesitation in his movement.
“And this,” he motions to the man beside him, “is Commander Nael. He oversees military intelligence on Mars.”
I recognize the name immediately. Commander Nael’s red uniform clings to his broad-shouldered frame, the fabric stretched across a physique built for brute strength.
He’s roughly the same height as His Grace, but older – in his late forties at least. His bald head gleams in the filtered sunlight, and there’s something severe about the way he carries himself. He gives a respectful bow.
“I am very sorry to hear the news of your mother.” He says with the same deep voice I heard through the door last night.
“As soon as His Grace was alerted of her disappearance, he had search teams out night and day to try and find any trace of where she might have gone. They’ve been able to search the palace and surrounding cities, but I’m afraid they haven’t found anything yet. ” He lowers his head solemnly.
I feel my eyebrows raise in shock. I didn’t realize Lord Zevran cared this much about Mother, considering the way he’s talked about her to me.
Commander Nael continues, “Will you be joining us for our next strategy meeting, Miss Cyra?”
I shoot him a look of confusion.
Strategy meeting?
“No. I’ve decided against it.” His Grace interrupts, voice edged.
“Apologies, Your Grace, I only thought – because Liora was always in attendance—” Commander Nael ends abruptly, realizing he’s said too much as Lord Zevran gives him a look sharp enough to silence a room.
“You will only be needed once per day,” His Grace turns to me stiffly. “At nightfall. I require your attention then, and only then, here in the atrium.”
An unoccupied room would have done. Choosing this secluded, carefully tended space feels deliberate, as if he wants as few eyes on our work as possible.
He continues. “You will make it a point to be on time. You may do as you please outside of this appointment … but you will continue to live in the castle.”
His tone leaves no room for argument. His Grace turns on his heel and walks out, Commander Nael and the guards quickly following. I’m left in the atrium alone, a question still lingering on the tip of my tongue: how much did Mother really do here?
The rest of the day stretches endlessly.
I’m paraded around by court nobles who treat me like an exotic pet, fascinating for about five minutes before they lose interest. My self-guided tour of the lower gardens is quickly interrupted by Lady Maren, a woman dripping in large rubies, who introduces me to her circle as “the little healer girl” with a patronizing smile.
The words land lightly, almost playful on the surface, but her gaze strips me down to the mud on my boots and the knot in my hair.
By contrast, Lady Maren is the epitome of timeless elegance.
Her dark hair is piled high in an elaborate style threaded with ruby pins, and her gown is deep burgundy silk that probably costs more than our cottage.
Her skin is pale and powdered, her lips painted crimson to match the jewels at her throat.
Her followers cluster around her like lesser moons.
One is a younger woman with auburn curls and too much rouge on her cheeks, her laugh high and grating.
Another is older, with iron-grey hair pulled back so tightly it seems to stretch her skin, a thick pair of glasses pressing down on a button nose.
A third looks to be middle-age, with long flowing brown hair and emerald green robes, who every now and then nervously glances at Lady Maren as if seeking approval for every expression.
“Miss Cyra, such a pleasure. Your mother was … quite devoted to her work here,” Lady Maren begins, her jeweled fingers playing with her wine glass.
“Devoted?” I ask carefully.
“Oh yes, always in the strategy rooms, always asking about the outer planets,” Lady Maren’s eyes glitter like the rubies she wears. “Such unusual curiosity for a healer. She was always so determined to understand the bigger picture.”
“What kind of bigger picture?” I ask.
Lady Maren exchanges glances with her followers, a silent conversation passing between them.
“Political alliances,” she says finally. “Your mother was particularly interested in which Houses might support whom if … certain situations arose.”
“Such as?”
Lady Maren’s smile becomes brittle. “No matter, it’s ancient history dear. Though your mother did seem to think it might not remain history for much longer...”
“Such simple hair!” the auburn-haired follower suddenly exclaims, reaching out to touch my blonde head with fingers heavy with rings. I shoot them a look, taken aback.
“Well, what can you expect from the slums...” Lady Maren replies with false sweetness, her painted lips curving.
Before I can correct her or say anything else, they drift away in a rustle of silk and clicking heels, but I catch fragments of their whispered conversation: “ …too many questions…” “...just like her mother...” “...could invest in a better comb...”
I decide to continue to tour the halls, the withdrawal gnawing at me constantly.
My skin feels too tight, and I have to concentrate to keep my hands from shaking.
Every few minutes, a wave of nausea rolls through me, making me grip doorframes a little too tightly.
The craving sits beneath my ribs, demanding in nature.
I’m surrounded by people, by conversation, by the polite performance of court life, but all I can think about is how desperately I need to heal.
The library walkthrough is a welcome distraction, a massive hall with spiraling towers of books that stretch toward stained glass ceilings.
At one point during my meandering between bookshelves, a young servant boy approaches me.
He can’t be more than twelve, with sandy hair that sticks up at odd angles and wide, earnest eyes that dart nervously down the hall before settling on me.
“Miss,” he whispers urgently. “Your mother, she helped my family. Gave us medicines when my sister was sick, never asked for payment.”
My heart skips a beat, eager to hear more. “That sounds like something she would do.” I shake my head, desperate for more information. “Do you have any idea what happened to her?”
The young boy looks down, dejected. “No, Miss, but … she was different the last few weeks. Scared. She kept asking about old records, and about the outer rim.” The boy’s eyes widen even more. “She was collecting favours, making friends – she said if anything happened to her, someone would—”
Before he can finish, footsteps echo towards us and he scurries away.
Outer rim attacks … power shifting between Houses … the Cardinals losing grip...
Mother knows something is coming.
As the sun begins to slowly fade beyond the horizon, I make my way back to the atrium.
The massive windows spill fading sunlight across the marble floor, lighting the wild greenery from a different angle than earlier.
The shadows of the plants stretch long and soft, curling over the walls like reaching hands.
Everything here feels alive, lush and untamed in a way the rest of the palace isn’t.
I pause just inside the entrance, taking in the sheer scale of the space now that it’s quiet and deserted. The high ceiling disappears into darkness above the greenery, and all around various fountains murmur softly, a sound that should be soothing but only makes me more aware of how alone I am.
How exposed.