Chapter 17
The craving lives deeper than hunger. It’s carved into my bones … this need to heal, to feel that rush of euphoria flood my veins. My body remembers what it was like in the arena. How the sun sigil blazed to life, pain pouring out of me while experiencing an otherworldly high.
I lie in the impossibly soft bed, sheets clinging to skin gone clammy with sweat. My fingers twitch against the fabric … small, involuntary spasms that travel up my forearms. The nausea sits low in my stomach, a constant churn that threatens to rise. I curl onto my side, waiting for it to pass.
It doesn’t.
Home feels impossibly far. No Mother humming while she makes tea, the particular melody she always chose when she was thinking through a problem.
No Astrid’s quiet laugh at something I’ve said, the way she’d cover her mouth with her hand and shake her head.
No smell of bread baking in the morning, or the weight of familiar routine holding everything in place.
Just silence that presses against my skull until I can’t think straight.
Lying still only makes it worse.
I need air, I need distance.
I throw back the covers and cross to the balcony doors, my bare feet cold against the stone floor. The latch resists for a moment before giving way, and then the night air rushes in, carrying the scent of dust and iron oxide.
Outside, the balcony stretches wide, easily ten paces across with room to move.
The railing is wrought iron, worked into geometric patterns that catch the light from below.
Talis spreads beneath me, a moon of cities glowing across the pearl-coloured surface.
From this distance, the settlements look small, clusters of light separated by vast stretches of darkness.
The buildings are squat and functional, built to withstand the thin atmosphere and the relentless wind.
Above it all, stars burn cold and sharp, more vivid here than they ever were back home.
The fresh air out here helps. Barely.
I lean against the railing and focus on breathing: Four counts in. Hold. Six counts out.
The iron is cool under my palms, grounding me.
Then a shiver crawls across my skin, familiar and unwelcome. The air shifts, pressure changing in a way that couldn’t be caused by the wind.
I’ve felt this before…
I turn before he speaks.
He’s standing at the far end of the balcony, near the corner where the shadows are deepest. I didn’t hear him arrive, didn’t see the door open … he’s just there, emerged from the darkness itself.
“You can’t sleep either,” he says.
He steps forward as ambient light catches on white porcelain.
The masked figure from the alley.
Up close, he’s tall … lean beneath black robes that seem to drink light.
If I had to guess, I would say he’s in his early thirties – only a few years older than I am.
The mask covers the right half of his face – smooth white porcelain, featureless except for a single eyehole that reveals nothing but darkness within.
But the left side is bare, and it’s that contrast that makes my breath catch.
Sharp cheekbones, almost severe in their definition, cast shadows across pale skin.
His jaw is strong, angular, leading to a chin with the faintest cleft.
Dark hair falls across his forehead in disheveled waves, black as the void between stars.
Where the mask’s edge meets skin, I can see the beginning of scarring – raised tissue, silver-white and twisted, disappearing beneath the porcelain.
The scars continue down his neck, vanishing into his collar, a map of violence written on flesh.
His lips are full, expressive in a way the rest of his half-hidden face can’t be. Right now, they’re pressed into a thin line, tension written in every angle of his visible features.
But his eyes…
Dark. Nearly black, the kind of brown so deep it almost has no colour at all.
Framed by thick lashes that should soften his appearance but somehow make him more intense.
His eyes are infused with knowledge that shouldn’t fit in a single lifetime, holding depths I don’t understand.
They look at me like they’ve been waiting, like they’ve counted every second until this moment.
“You,” I whisper.
“Me.” The faintest hint of amusement touches his voice. “Though I suppose formal introductions are overdue. I am Lucien, Lord of Pluto. Or what remains of it.”
Pluto. The empty throne. The missing representative.
“Your entire kingdom fell over a decade ago.” The words escape before I can stop them.
“Fell, yes.” He steps closer. I breathe in his scent – winter air, and something floral. “Rumours of our complete demise were exaggerated. We survive … after a fashion.”
The way he says survive makes me think there was a price to pay.
“You’ve been watching me.” I state.
“I have.” No deflection.
“Why?”
His dark eyes study my face.
“Because you matter, Cyra. More than you know. Beyond what any of them realize.”
My name on his lips sends a ripple through my chest.
“H-How do you know my name?” I ask.
“I know who you are, what your revelation has cost, and what will happen if you don’t win this Conclave.” He moves to stand beside me at the railing, careful to maintain distance. His voice drops. “If you don’t win, you’ll be dead within a week of its conclusion.”
My grip tightens on the railing. “What do you mean?”
“The Houses aren’t just choosing a new ruler.
They’re choosing whether to let the past stay buried …
or drag it into the light and burn it alive.
” Urgency sharpens his tone. “There are factions here that want you eliminated – not because you threaten their ambitions, but because you represent everything they’ve been trying to destroy since your father’s death. ”
I swallow hard. “I’m not my father.”
“I know.” The certainty in those two words steadies me. “But they don’t. Or they don’t care. To them, you’re a symbol that needs crushing before it inspires others.”
I blink. “Inspires others? What others?”
He turns to face me fully. “Those who believe in bloodline succession. Divine right to rule.” His dark eyes hold mine. “Your mother isn’t missing, Cyra. Nor has she been taken. She’s gathering them – building a faction that wants to see you on the Solar Throne by right of birth.”
I feel as if the oxygen surrounding me has disappeared into the void of space. The metal railing of the balcony bites into my palms as I grip tighter, steadying myself. “Th-that’s impossible … Mother would never…”
“Wouldn’t she?” His voice gentles. “You need the support of people to rule, not just a Conclave vote. Perhaps she thinks if you have a faction behind you, you’ll be safe.”
Somehow, Mother knew I could be exposed if a Conclave was called … maybe Astrid was right, maybe she can see visions of the future. Maybe she saw something and left on purpose, to make good on all the favours she was owed … a faction of supporters…
My knees threaten to buckle.
Trust no one.
“Why are you telling me this, Lord Lucien? What do you get out of it?” My voice sounds small in the crisp night air.
A flicker of vulnerability crosses the visible half of his face. “Because someone needs to warn you of what you’re truly facing.” He pauses. “And because I’ve been alone in the shadows for so long, I forgot what it felt like to hope. Until I saw you in that alley, choosing compassion over safety.”
The ache in his voice makes my chest tight.
“If what you’re saying is true, how do I survive this?” I ask.
“You win.” Command sharpens his tone. “You get every single House leader to vote for you as Solar Sovereign. Not just a majority – all of them. Leave no room for doubt, no opening for your enemies to claim the result is illegitimate.”
Before I can ask how, he steps back toward the shadows.
“I have to go.”
“Wait—” I start.
But he’s already fading. “You have more strength than you know, daughter of the Moon and Sun. Trust yourself.”
Then he’s gone.
I stand alone, pulse hammering, drawing my attention to my physical state.
The withdrawal should be screaming through me … the craving should be unbearable…
Yet, I feel … nothing.
No tremors. No nausea. No desperate ache carved into my bones.
Gone – completely.
I press a hand to my chest, searching for the familiar pain. The ache that’s ruled over me my entire life has vanished like it never existed.
I turn toward where Lord Lucien disappeared. Only darkness and the faint hum of Talis below.
Then I see it.
On the balcony floor, a single red rose.
The petals are perfect, deep crimson that seems to hold inner light. The stem is long and thornless. When I pick it up, warmth spreads through my palm like it’s been infused with living fire.
You have more strength than you know.
I stand there, holding the rose as the calm begins to fracture.
My pulse picks up. Heat floods my face. The tremors return – small at first, then violent.
The craving slams back into me.
I double over, gripping the railing with one hand and clutching the rose in the other. Sweat breaks across my forehead as my stomach lurches.
It was gone … while he was here, the addiction – the withdrawal – was gone…
I stumble back inside, legs unsteady, and sink onto the edge of the bed. The rose rests in my lap, impossibly warm against my thigh.
Outside, the stars burn cold; inside, I shake, trying to understand what just happened.
If he can quiet the addiction itself – erase it with nothing but his presence – what else could he take from me?