Chapter 3
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Wen
The banquet was going about as well as could be expected, which meant it was a barely controlled disaster wrapped in formal pleasantries and passive-aggressive small talk.
I sat at the main table between Killian and Daphne, trying very hard to look like I belonged here.
Like I was born to navigate political dinners with seventy werewolf royals instead of serving coffee to college students in a small-town bookstore.
The main table held the kings, queens, and their most trusted advisors, while several other tables filled the hall with dignitaries and nobles who all seemed to have opinions about everything.
Fun times.
Daphne leaned toward me, her voice barely a whisper. “Is it just me or is Silvermane glaring?”
“Not just you,” I whispered back, taking a sip of wine. “They’ve been glaring all night.”
She pulled out a small piece of paper from somewhere in her dress and scribbled something, passing it to me under the table like we were teenagers in detention instead of queens at a formal state dinner.
I unfolded it. That Valoryn’s hat looks like a dead bird.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. She was right. The elaborate feathered thing perched on one of Valoryn’s noble head absolutely looked like roadkill. Expensive roadkill, probably, but roadkill nonetheless.
I wrote back: It might BE a dead bird.
Daphne read it and her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. She scribbled another note. Should we tell him?
Absolutely not, I wrote back.
Think anyone would notice if we left early?
Everyone. Immediately.
Damn.
I tucked the note into my napkin, catching Mal’s eye. He raised an eyebrow at us, clearly aware we were being ridiculous, and I gave him my most innocent smile. He shook his head, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
This was how Daphne and I coped. I’d only been queen for about two years or so longer than she’d been, which meant we were both figuring out how to navigate this world of formal dinners and political landmines.
Passing notes and making jokes about stuffy nobles kept us sane.
Without it, I probably would have stabbed someone with a salad fork by now.
Seven forks on this table. Seven. I still didn’t know what most of them were for.
“How do you handle the constant judgment?” Daphne asked quietly, her smile never wavering even though her eyes were serious.
“Wine,” I said, taking another sip to demonstrate. “And imagining them all in ridiculous underwear.”
She choked on her wine. “What?”
“Makes them less intimidating. Silvermane definitely wears tighty-whities. The old-fashioned kind with the yellowing elastic.”
“Oh my god,” she wheezed, pressing her napkin to her mouth. “I can’t unsee that now.”
“You’re welcome.”
She took a steadying breath, composing herself. “I still feel like I’m faking it. Like any second someone’s going to point and yell ‘fraud.’”
“Same. We’re all just winging it and hoping no one notices.”
“That’s actually comforting.”
“Right? We’re all frauds together. The secret sisterhood of queens who have no idea what we’re doing.”
The banquet’s purpose was to strengthen the alliance between the seven kingdoms and discuss any issues that had arisen, from border disputes to trade agreements to common enemies. Political stuff that made my head hurt but was apparently very important.
But mostly I was watching Killian.
My son was fielding questions from what felt like every single person in the table, some even walking past just to talk to him. It was fucking weird. They kept addressing him directly, leaning toward him with expressions that ranged from curious to calculating to barely concealed judgment.
At first, he loved it. My extrovert was thriving on the attention, answering questions with the kind of enthusiastic honesty that only four-year-olds possessed.
“Tell me, young prince,” Valerius Crescentborn said, his voice as imposing as his ridiculous hat. “What can you do? Can you shift yet?”
Killian’s face lit up. “I can make my ears come out!”
“Show us.”
“Um...” Killian looked uncertain. “Mama says not at dinner.”
“Surely for us you can make an exception.”
Killian turned to me, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Mama?”
“Maybe later, when it’s less crowded,” I said gently. And when you’re not surrounded by people who’d use any sign of weakness against us, I didn’t add.
His face fell. “Okay.”
“What else can you do?” Valerius pressed.
“I can count to ten! Well, almost ten. I get stuck at nine.”
“I meant wolf abilities.”
“Oh.” Killian thought hard, his forehead scrunching up adorably. “I can howl!”
“That’s not quite what I...”
“Wanna hear?”
“Not at dinner, sweetheart,” I said quickly, imagining seventy werewolf royals subjected to my four-year-old’s enthusiastic but not exactly melodic howling.
Mortimer Goldridge leaned forward, his expression kind but his question pointed. “What are your expectations for the heir, Your Majesty?”
“The same as any parent,” I said carefully. “That he’s happy and healthy.”
“But surely you have hopes for his abilities?”
“I hope he grows into whoever he’s meant to be.”
“A diplomatic answer.”
I smiled. “I’m learning to speak royal. It’s like English but with more subtext and passive aggression.”
He actually chuckled. “You’re doing well.”
“I’m faking it until I make it. So far no one’s called my bluff.”
In a table near us, nobles were talking just loud enough to be heard. They weren’t even trying to be subtle, which was incredibly rude and stupid.
“I wonder if he’ll be strong enough to rule.”
“Half-breeds are usually weaker than pure bloods.”
Killian’s head turned toward them, his face confused. “What’s half-breed?”
My hand tightened on my fork. Breathe. Don’t stab anyone. That’s not queenly behavior. “Nothing important. Just grown-up words. Eat your dinner.”
“But they said-”
“They’re just talking. Ignore them.”
“Okay, Mama.” His voice had gone small, and something in my chest twisted.
Kane Aurelius from Ebonvale addressed Killian directly, his tone clinical. Like he was examining a specimen instead of talking to a child. “How old are you, boy?”
Killian held up four fingers. “This many!”
“Fascinating.”
“I can run really fast!” Killian offered, clearly trying to impress him. “And I can jump off the big stairs!”
“That’s great. How are you doing in your classes?”
Killian brightened. “I can burp the whole alphabet! Papa doesn’t like it but Mama thinks it’s funny.”
I pressed my lips together hard. Don’t laugh. Do not laugh. This is a formal dinner with important political allies. Do. Not. Laugh.
“Killian-”
“Wanna see?” He offered kindly.
“No, thank you,” Kane said flatly.
Killian deflated. “Oh. Okay.”
The questions kept coming. More representatives approached him, asking him things he didn’t understand, expecting answers he didn’t have.
“Do you understand what it means to be heir?”
Killian looked confused. “Um... I’m special?”
“Yes, but what are your responsibilities?”
“I gotta eat my vegetables.”
I watched the noble’s face twitch. Killian wasn’t being difficult.
He was four. He didn’t understand political succession because he was more concerned with whether we’d let him have a puppy and why the sky was blue.
I bit my tongue at some questions. I understood I had to let them meet the heir, but I really didn’t appreciate so many people coming to speak to him.
“I meant as future king.”
“What’s a king do?”
“Rule. Make decisions. Lead armies.”
Killian’s eyes went wide. “That sounds hard.”
“It is.”
“Can’t I just… Train a puppy?”
The noble had no idea how to respond to that. Neither did I, honestly.
Time passed, and I watched my normally bouncy, can’t-sit-still-for-five-seconds son go quiet. His enthusiastic hand gestures disappeared. His excited wiggling stopped. He answered questions in shorter and shorter sentences, his voice getting smaller each time.
Above Killian’s head, Mal’s gaze found mine, concerned. He’d noticed too.
Xander Silvermane’s voice cut through the murmur of conversation. “Human blood does dilute the purity of royal bloodlines.”
Every eye turned to me. The table went silent.
I set down my wine glass very carefully, counted to three, and reminded myself that murdering a representative would cause a diplomatic incident.
“Funny,” I said, my smile never wavering. “I was thinking my blood adds adaptability and intelligence. Seems like an upgrade, actually.”
Someone gasped. Daphne’s hand found mine under the table, squeezing.
“After all,” I continued sweetly, “I’m managing to be polite right now. That takes considerable adaptability given the company.”
Silvermane’s expression went cold. “We shall see.”
Daphne passed me another note. DAMN. You didn’t have to murder him.
I wrote back: He started it.
But I wasn’t focused on Silvermane anymore. I was watching Killian, and my stomach was dropping.
He was just sitting there, staring at his plate. Not fidgeting, not talking, not doing any of the things that made him Killian. His shoulders had curved inward, making himself as small as possible in his chair.
And his dessert sat untouched in front of him.
Killian never ignored dessert. Ever. The kid would eat chocolate cake if the castle was on fire. Something was very, very wrong.
“Killian, are you okay?”
He didn’t look at me. “Yes, Mama.”
That voice. That wasn’t my son’s usual voice.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
He lifted his head and my blood went cold. He was pale. Way too pale. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, and his whole body was trembling.
“Mama...” His voice was barely a whisper. “My tummy feels yucky.”
I was out of my seat immediately, every maternal instinct firing at once. “What’s wrong?”
“It hurts.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Everything feels... loud.”
“Loud? What do you mean loud?”
“In here.” He tapped his chest again. “All the people feel loud in here.”
“I don’t understand-”