Chapter 18
Mother didn’t vanish. She chose to leave.
That thought should hurt more than it does, but right now, all I can focus on is the hum building at the base of my skull.
The craving is back … it’s not as bad as the night after the Furnace, but it’s building.
I can still move. For now. It seems each time it returns, it hits harder, the interval between collapse and control shrinking until I can barely tell where one ends and the other begins.
The Conclave is feeding on me faster than I can recover …
but I don’t have time to process any of it. Today is the first day of training.
It begins at dawn.
Ren leads me to a private sparring room deep within the arena’s training section, a space equipped with weapons racks, practice mats, and various unrecognizable-to-me equipment.
She’s changed into fitted black leather that emphasizes her lean strength, and the way she moves suggests she could kill me in three seconds if she wanted to.
I find myself watching how she walks, the way she radiates strength.
“You should know some basic hand-to-hand combat,” she says, moving to stand in front of me. “You’re no longer anonymous. That means every public appearance is a performance, every interaction a potential trap.”
She demonstrates a defensive stance, both fists held close to her face, her movements fluid. “Your body language speaks before you do. Right now, you’re broadcasting uncertainty.”
I try to mirror her posture, my hands trembling from withdrawal.
Ren moves behind me to adjust my stance.
Her hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my training clothes.
She shifts my weight, one hand sliding down to my lower back to correct my posture.
The touch is professional, but I feel steadier under her guidance.
Grounded in a way I haven’t felt since the withdrawal started clawing at me again last night.
“There,” she says quietly, close enough that I can smell a delightful waft of vanilla. “Hold that.”
When she’s satisfied with my positioning, she steps back and raises her fists again. “Now, try to hit me.”
The next hour is a humbling exercise in just how unprepared I am for physical confrontation. Ren deflects my clumsy attacks with ease while providing constant correction. She never makes me feel foolish. Every adjustment comes with patience, every failed attempt met with steady encouragement.
“Don’t think so much,” she advises after I stumble through another failed combination. She demonstrates again, and I watch the way her body coils and releases. “Fighting is instinct, Lady Cyra … not analysis.”
I try again. This time my fist comes closer to connecting before she redirects it.
“Better,” she says. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and I feel an unexpected warmth in my chest at earning that approval.
Halfway through a series of defensive blocks, my vision blurs.
The room tilts. I stumble, and Ren catches me before I hit the mat, one arm around my waist, the other steadying my shoulder.
For a moment I’m pressed against her, held upright by her strength, and my body registers the steadiness of her …
a comfort distinct from anything I’ve felt before.
“Easy,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
She helps me to the wall, her hands careful. I catch myself swallowing bile, the hum in my skull drowning out everything else.
“Are you alright?” Ren asks. There’s no judgment in her voice, no impatience. Just concern.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She hands me a metal cup filled with water from the water station in the training room, and waits until I can stand without swaying. She doesn’t hover, doesn’t press, but she doesn’t leave either. Just stands there while I pull myself back together.
“We can stop.” She offers gently.
“No.” I straighten, though my legs feel hollow. “Let’s keep going.”
Her ice blue eyes hold mine for a long moment. “Alright.”
By the time we finish, I’m dripping with sweat and achingly aware of muscles I’d forgotten I had. But there’s also a growing confidence in my own body, a sense that maybe I’m not as helpless as I’d always believed.
“Better,” she says, offering me a towel. “You have good instincts when you trust them.”
“Thank you.” I take the towel, and our fingers overlap for a moment. Her hands are calloused, warm. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, the shared space of exhaustion and sweat, the way her eyes drift over my body even when she’s not looking to correct my posture.
“I asked for this assignment, you know,” she says as she puts away the water cups. “When the Cardinals were deciding who to send, I volunteered.”
I furrow my brow. “Why?”
She’s quiet for so long I think she won’t answer. Then: “Because I’ve met your mother. She saved my life once, during the final days of your father’s reign. I owe her a debt.”
The room seems to tilt.
I picture Mother, standing between my father’s empire and a girl I’ve never met. Saving someone who would one day be assigned to guard me. An eerie coincidence … or perhaps something more.
Ren pauses for a moment, then seems to reconsider what she wants to say.
“That’s not the only reason.” Her hand brushes mine as she takes the towel, deliberate this time, not an accident. “You have more allies than you realize, and not all of them have political agendas.”
The touch lingers in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
Before I can think about it further, Isolde appears in the doorway.
“Good morning, darlings,” she calls cheerfully. “Ready for your next lesson?”
Isolde’s idea of education involves a chamber filled with mirrors – not just on the walls, but floating in the air, creating a maze of reflections that show me from every conceivable angle.
“Perception is reality in politics,” she explains, positioning herself behind me so I can see both our reflections. “How others see you determines how they treat you.”
She demonstrates by changing her posture slightly, and I watch her reflection transform from friend to predator to victim and back again. The shifts are subtle but the outcomes are profound.
“Your turn,” she says. “Show me a queen.”
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, try to project the kind of authority I’ve seen in other leaders. But the reflection shows someone playing pretend rather than someone born to command.
“Not bad … but you’re performing rather than becoming.” Isolde moves closer. “Feel the power in your blood, Cyra.”
She guides me through a series of transformations: how to project confidence, how to mask uncertainty, how to make others want to follow rather than fear to disobey. It’s seductive and terrifying in equal measure.
In some reflections I look strong. In others, I catch the tilt of my chin, the set of my mouth, and for a moment I’m looking at my mother.
The same expression she wore when she was weighing a difficult decision, that particular focused intensity I watched a thousand times when she worked on healing a client…
Mother, who chose to leave…
I shove the thought down. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart right now.
My stomach clenches, and I grip the edge of a nearby table to stay upright.
“Cyra, are you alright?” Isolde’s hand touches my elbow.
“It’s nothing.” I force myself to stand straight again.
Isolde watches me for a moment, then nods and returns to the lesson. She adjusts my posture, tilts my chin higher, studies the effects of it all in the mirror. On the sixth adjustment, she steps back with satisfaction.
“There,” she says. “That’s someone who could rule.” Then her expression sharpens. “But remember – the moment you start believing your own performance, you become vulnerable to those who see through it.”
I meet her dark round eyes in the mirror. “How do you know when you’ve crossed that line?”
“You don’t. Not until someone uses it against you.” Her smile turns cold. “I had to learn that the hard way. Everyone around you wants something, and most of them are willing to destroy you to get it. The trick is remembering that, even when you’re wearing the crown.”
By the time evening falls, I’m hollowed out. Body aching, mind frayed, patience gone. Every nerve feels exposed.
When Zevran appears at my door carrying a training staff, I force myself upright.
“Last lesson of the day,” he says.
I follow him down into the depths of the arena. The air grows cooler as we descend, the sounds of the upper levels fading until all I can hear is our footsteps echoing off cold stone walls. He walks ahead of me, shoulders tense, and the silence between us is filled with everything we haven’t said.
He leads me into a circular room carved from dark stone. It’s empty except for training mats on the floor and a training weapons rack. Small alcoves in the walls hold torches, and the ceiling curves overhead, amplifying every sound.
He moves to the weapons rack and pulls out a second staff, the metal cores of both wrapped in reinforced carbon composite, designed to absorb and redistribute kinetic impact. Small indicator lights run along the shafts, currently dormant.
“Staff work,” he says, turning to face me. The dark linen of his training clothes makes his dirty blond hair look even brighter in the low light. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a tension in his jaw that tells me he’s working to keep it that way.
He gestures to the rack where his usual swordlike weapon rests, the blade’s edge gleaming with the faint shimmer of molecular bonding.
“All House leaders keep their primary weapons within reach. Always. Even during diplomatic functions, even while sleeping.” He offers me one of the staves. “We’re always on guard.”
I take it, surprised by its weight and balance. The composite wrapping is smooth, worn from use, but the metal core vibrates faintly under my fingers.