Chapter 7 #2
“Power. Influence. A higher position at court.” He crosses his arms. “Everyone else in every room is angling for something. Building alliances, positioning themselves for advancement. You’re just trying to survive.”
The bluntness of it catches me off guard. “And that makes me useful?”
“It makes you honest. You see things clearly because you’re not trying to manipulate the outcome in your favour.” He pauses. “That’s rare. Especially here.”
I don’t know what to say to that. He’s right – I don’t want power. I don’t want influence. I just want to understand what happened to my mother and figure out how to live with an addiction that’s embedded in my bones.
“Keep attending the sessions,” he says. “I need advisors I can trust. Right now, that list is very short.”
He’s standing by the window now, backlit by the morning sun, and I let myself look at him.
Not as the Lord who summoned me here, not as the patient I heal each night, but just as him.
The way his shoulders have relaxed slightly now that we’re alone.
The faint lines around his eyes that suggest he doesn’t smile as often as he should.
“What?” he asks, catching me staring.
“N-Nothing. I just—” I stop, unsure how to finish that sentence. I feel a rush of heat rise up my neck.
He crosses back to the table, close enough that I can see the faint luminescence beneath his skin, the veins that mark him as different. Close enough that when he reaches out and adjusts one of the map markers I’d moved during the discussion, his hand brushes mine.
It’s brief. Accidental, probably. But neither of us pulls away immediately.
“You’re good at this,” he says quietly, his eyes on the map but his hand still near mine. “You pick up on things quickly. Faster than I expected.”
He looks up then, meeting my gaze. “You do belong here, Miss Cyra. Whether you believe it yet or not.”
Maybe belonging here has nothing to do with court manners or bloodlines. Maybe it has everything to do with what you’re willing to see and refuse to ignore.
There’s so much that I’ve seen … the broken bodies, the starvation, the apathy … is it possible for me to help in a real, tangible way, if I involve myself like this more?
“Can I ask you something, Your Grace?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Lord Zevran meets my gaze again, his head tilting slightly. “Go ahead.”
I take a breath, tasting copper from where I’ve been biting my lip. “You must know what your people are facing. The starvation. No medicine, no supplies. But here...” I gesture at the room around us, the carved ceiling, the imported tapestries. “Here it seems like nothing’s missing.”
His eyes go dark. Not angry – something else. He sets down the map marker and turns the answer over before speaking. “Miss Cyra, do you understand how resource allocation works in this system?”
“The Cardinals control distribution.”
“The Cardinals control everything.” He moves to the window, staring out at the dusty horizon.
“For over a decade I’ve petitioned them.
Requested increased shipments, explained that Mars defends every outer approach to the system, that we bleed for the Core worlds’ comfort.
They respond with the same message every time: our defence budget is generous.
They send us weapons. Sometimes food, but mostly weapons.
They don’t care that every year our climate gets hotter, that our planet is slowly growing inhospitable.
They don’t care that our population growth can’t sustain our armies or economy. ”
I watch his jaw work, the only sign of tension he allows himself.
“This palace?” He gestures at the walls. “It’s theatre. My jacket’s been patched twice this year. We haven’t hosted a proper diplomatic dinner in decades because we can’t afford to feed that many guests.”
The admission sits heavy between us.
“What else have you tried?” I ask quietly.
“Everything.” The word comes out flat. “Redirected military funds to civilian aid until Commander Nael told me we’d lose critical defences.
Opened the palace grain stores to the refugee districts.
Sent physicians into the slums on my own coin.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough.” He turns back to face me. “I don’t know what else to do.”
I’ve been watching him for weeks now – watching him hold court, manage crises. I thought I understood what that meant.
I was wrong.
This isn’t negligence dressed up in gold thread. This is a man trying to stop a hemorrhage with his bare hands while the system that’s supposed to help him sends him more weapons instead of bandages.
The servant girl’s hollow cheeks. The boy in the alley with exposed bone. The cook’s bitter words about seventeen years of Cardinal rule. They’re not his fault. They’re his burden.
The realization doesn’t come with fanfare. It just sits there, undeniable, changing the shape of everything I thought I knew about this place.
“I believe you,” I say.
He looks at me then. Really looks, like he’s trying to determine if I mean it. I do.
Silence washes over us, and I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, how the morning light catches gold in his hair, how easy it would be to—
“Your Grace.”
We both step back. Commander Nael fills the doorway, spine rigid, expression carved from stone.
“There’s been an incident at the northern outpost. Casualties. You’re needed immediately.”
Lord Zevran’s entire demeanour shifts, hardening into something sharp and focused. “How many?”
“At least a dozen. The reports are still coming in.”
He’s already moving toward the door. “Assemble the officers. I want full reports within the hour.”
Then he’s gone, Commander Nael following close behind.
I stand alone in the war room, the sudden silence pressing down on me. Tonight there will be no healing session. Lord Zevran will be in the command centre until dawn, managing the crisis.
The realization hits me harder than it should.
No healing means no magic. No magic means the craving will build, unsatisfied, clawing at me until I can’t think straight.
I need a distraction … anything that keeps me moving is safer than sitting still and letting the craving crawl further through my veins.
I spend the afternoon restless, pacing my room, trying to focus on anything other than the itch beneath my skin. By evening, I can’t stand it anymore.
I slip out into the corridors, letting my feet carry me where they will. I end up in the east wing again, in the maze of servants’ quarters and storage rooms I’ve been searching for weeks.
But tonight I take a different turn, following a corridor I haven’t explored before. It’s narrower here, older, the stone walls showing their age in cracks and water stains.
At the end of the corridor, there’s a door. Unmarked, unremarkable, but something about it catches my attention.
The lock is newer than the door. Someone replaced it recently.
I try my hairpin first, working it into the mechanism the way I’ve done with other doors before, when I would need to break in somewhere to reach a patient who fell unconscious, or worse.
But this lock is different – more complex, with tumblers that won’t budge no matter how I angle the pin.
After ten minutes, my fingers are cramping and I’ve made no progress.
I sit back on my heels, frustrated. I need to get inside. I need to know what’s behind a door someone thought was important enough to secure with a new lock.
I head back through the corridors, my mind working. There has to be another way.
Then I remember – the guard with the scar on his jaw. The one who nods at me when I pass. I’ve seen him making rounds through this wing in the evenings.
I find him two corridors over, standing at his post near the servants’ stair.
“Excuse me,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I think I’ve gotten myself turned around. I was looking for the old storage rooms – the steward said there might be some medical supplies stored there from years ago?”
He looks at me, his expression uncertain. “The storage rooms are mostly locked, Miss. I’m not sure—”
“I know, I found one, but the lock is newer and I can’t seem to get it open.” I give him what I hope is a helpless smile. “I don’t suppose you have keys for this wing?”
He hesitates. I can see him weighing protocol against the fact that I’m the Lord’s healer, that I have some authority here, even if it’s unclear how much.
“I have a master key,” he says slowly. “For emergencies. But I’m not supposed to—”
“I understand. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” I pause. “His Grace has been asking me to review the palace’s medical inventory. Make sure we have adequate supplies in case of emergency. You know, with the incident at the northern outpost…”
The mention of the crisis tips the scale. He reaches for his belt and produces a heavy iron key.
“I can let you in, Miss. But I’ll need to stay while you search it. Protocol.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
He leads me back to the door at the end of the corridor and unlocks it. The mechanism clicks smoothly, and the door swings open.
Inside, the room is small and dusty, lit only by the moonlight streaming through a single narrow window. Shelves line the walls, most of them empty. A workbench sits in the corner, its surface scarred and stained.
This was a workshop. A healer’s workshop.
“I’ll just be a moment,” I tell the guard, who positions himself in the doorway.
The shelves sit empty except for dust and the ghost-shapes where bottles once stood. Even the workbench has been wiped clean, its scarred surface bare.
I’m about to tell the guard there’s nothing here when I notice the gap.
The workbench sits flush against the wall, but there’s a crack between the bench and stone – narrow, easy to miss in the dim light. Something pale shows in the darkness. I move closer, pretending to examine the bench’s surface, and crouch down as if checking the lower shelves.
My fingers find the edge of parchment wedged behind the bench leg. It’s been shoved there hastily, crumpled, the corner torn. I ease it out carefully, keeping my body between the paper and the guard’s line of sight.
That’s my mother’s handwriting.
It’s a list of names – nobles, servants, merchants – with notes beside each one:
Lord Vance – owes favour for his daughter’s fever
Lady Maren – two favours, pneumonia treatment
General Thane – one favour, battlefield injury
Archivist Ewan – wife’s childbirth complications
She was keeping track of debts and favours owed. Protection, maybe, or leverage. My mother was building something here – a web of obligations, a safety net.
“Miss?” the guard calls from the doorway. “Find what you needed?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. I tuck the paper inside my robe against my skin where it won’t be visible. “No medical supplies here, unfortunately. But thank you for your help.”
He locks the door behind us, and I make my way back to my quarters, my heart still racing.
The workshop has been stripped, deliberately cleared. Someone wanted to erase my mother and everything she’d built here.
But they missed this paper.
Back in my room, I lay the page across my bed and study it in the lamplight. Names I know. All of them owing my mother something, all of them bound to her by debts of gratitude.
What was she planning? What was she building toward?
And why did someone need to stop her badly enough to erase her completely?
The craving is still there, gnawing at me, but it’s quieter now. Pushed aside by something stronger: purpose.
Someone tried very hard to make my mother disappear.
I’m going to find out why.