Chapter 11
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Wen
I woke up to the smell of coffee and my husband’s smug face.
“Honey, not sugar,” Mal said, handing me a mug. “Just how you like it.”
I took a sip and tried not to show how much I appreciated that he remembered. After years of marriage, he knew exactly how I took my coffee. Honey instead of sugar, because as I’d explained once at 2am during a particularly heated debate, “sugar is for quitters.”
“You remember,” I said, though of course he knew.
“I remember everything about you.”
“That’s either romantic or creepy. I haven’t decided which.”
“Both. It can be both. I am a creep for you.”
Before I could respond, a small tornado burst into our bedroom, running from his guards.
“I want my SCARY MONSTER shirt!” Killian announced at a volume that suggested the castle was on fire.
“It’s dirty, baby,” I said, setting down my coffee and bracing for negotiation. Because everything with a four-year-old was a negotiation. Lengthy, exhausting negotiations where the tiny dictator always had the upper hand.
“But it’s my FAVORITE!”
Mal and I exchanged a glance. We’d gotten so good at this over the years that we could have entire conversations without words. This one said: Here we go again.
“What about your dragon shirt?” Mal suggested.
“What about your dragon shirt?” I said at the exact same time.
We both stopped, looked at each other, and smiled. Totally in sync. Sometimes it was terrifying how well we knew each other.
Killian considered the dragon shirt proposal with the seriousness of a council member debating war strategy. “The blue dragon or the red dragon?”
“You have two dragon shirts?” I asked him, but looked at Mal.
“I may have purchased duplicates when you were not looking.” He said, smiling like an angel.
“You’re spoiling him.”
“He is a prince. He should have options.”
“He’s four.”
“A four-year-old prince with options. And excellent taste in dragons.”
Killian, sensing he was losing our attention, made a break for it. He was surprisingly fast for someone with such short legs. Mal went left, I went right, and we managed to corner him by the wardrobe in a move that required more tactical coordination than it should have.
“Dragon shirt,” I said firmly. “Red dragon. Final offer.”
“Can I wear my crown too?”
“You don’t have a crown yet. You’re not king.”
“I have the flower crown I made!”
Right.
“Fine,” I conceded. “Red dragon shirt and flower crown. But we’re brushing your hair first.”
“DEAL!”
Getting Killian ready was a contact sport. When he tried to escape during teeth-brushing, Mal blocked the door while I cornered him with the toothbrush. When he insisted his socks were “too tight” and needed to be changed three times, I handled the sock negotiations while Mal got his shoes ready.
We were a well-oiled machine. A slightly frazzled, coffee-dependent machine, but functional.
The tutors bowed as we approached, which still felt weird even after four years. Instructor Delphine, an elderly woman who’d wrangled noble children for decades, took charge of Killian with efficiency.
“Your Highness,” she said. “Ready for lessons?”
“I’m wearing a dragon AND flowers!” he announced proudly.
“I can see that. Very intimidating combination.”
“That’s what I said!”
Mal and I walked away hand-in-hand, listening to Killian chatter about the “ad-van-te-gees” of dragon-themed clothing. I had no idea where he learned that phrase. Probably from eavesdropping on Mal’s training sessions when he was supposed to be napping.
“We make a good team,” I said.
“The best team.”
“Even when we’re wrangling a tiny chaos agent?”
“Especially then.”
We were still smiling when Torin approached from a side corridor. His expression made my stomach drop. He was carrying a scroll sealed with dark wax, and from the way he held it, carefully, like it might explode, this wasn’t good news.
“Your Majesties,” he said, bowing slightly. “The reports from the spies we sent to Igryside. They arrived this morning.”
Mal took the scroll and broke the seal. I leaned in to read over his shoulder, my hand finding his arm.
The blood drained from my face as I read.
Igryside was mobilizing. They weren’t just hunting portal casters in general. They were hunting specific targets. Killian’s name was first on the list. Mine was second and last. Only the two of us.
“They are hunting you specifically,” Mal said quietly, his jaw tight. I could feel the tension radiating off him through our bond, that protective fury barely leashed beneath his calm exterior.
“And Killian.” My voice came out steadier than expected. Inside, I was screaming.
“We need a plan.” His hand found mine, squeezing hard enough to ground me. “A real one. Not just hoping they forget we exist.”
I nodded, forcing my mind to focus on what needed to happen next instead of spiraling into panic. “I have training with Casimya now.”
“I have council meeting,” Mal said. “We will discuss this tonight. Properly. With options. I will not let them take either of you.”
He kissed my forehead, a brief grounding touch, and we parted ways. He headed toward the council chambers while I turned toward the training rooms, both of us carrying the weight of what we’d just learned.
My feet carried me through the castle corridors on autopilot. Killian. They wanted Killian. My baby who still couldn’t tie his own shoes and thought monsters lived under his bed. Real monsters were hunting him now, and they were far worse than anything his imagination could conjure.
By the time I reached the training room, I was wound so tight I felt like I might shatter.
Casimya noticed right away. Of course she did.
“You are distracted today,” she observed as I opened yet another portal to the wrong location. This one appeared to lead to someone’s chicken coop. A very confused chicken stared at us through the shimmering opening, clucking indignantly.
“Sorry,” I muttered, closing it quickly.
I tried again. Someone’s wine cellar. Better, but still wrong.
“Your focus is scattered,” Casimya said. “What troubles you?”
“The spy reports came back. From Igryside.”
“And?”
“And they’re coming for us. Me and Killian specifically. They know about our powers.”
Casimya was quiet for a moment, studying me with those ancient, knowing eyes.
“Then we need to find your coven. The ones who knew your family.”
I blinked. “My coven is gone, isn’t it? They died after my grandparents fled to Earth.”
“Not all of them. Tyreen, your grandmother’s second-in-command, might still be alive. Hiding, likely, but alive.”
“And she would know how to fight them?”
“She would know how your family survived as long as they did. What strategies they used. Maybe they’ve faced Igryside in the past and know some weaknesses.”
Hope flickered through me, immediately followed by doubt. “How would we even find her?”
“Blood magic. A tracking ritual.” Casimya moved to a shelf and pulled down an ancient-looking book. “But it would require your participation. Your blood and energy, since you are the link to her.”
She opened the book to a page covered in diagrams and symbols I couldn’t read. “The spell searches through dimensions for a specific magical signature. Since you share energy with Tyreen through your grandmother’s magic, you can act as a compass.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You would need to rest after. The spell pulls from your life force as it searches.”
“A day would be enough?”
“No. You need more.”
I stared at the complex circles and symbols. This was real magic. Serious magic. Not the small portals I’d been fumbling with. Not accidentally opening doorways into chicken coops and wine cellars and...
Actually, speaking of wrong portals.
I tried one more time, focusing hard on the garden. The portal opened…Directly into what appeared to be someone’s bathing chamber.
The occupant, a very naked, very surprised nobleman, shrieked.
I slammed the portal shut so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
“My apologies!” I called through the closed portal, my face burning.
Casimya was trying very hard not to laugh. Failing, but trying.
“Not a word,” I told her.
“I said nothing.”
“You’re thinking it very loudly.”
“I am merely noting that your portal accuracy improves dramatically when you are not spiraling about threats to your family.”
“That’s a word. That’s several words.”
“Consider it a teaching moment.”
I glared at her, but there was no heat in it. She was right. My control went to hell when my emotions were scattered.
“I need to think about this,” I said at last. “The ritual. Finding Tyreen.”
“Of course. It is your choice.” Casimya closed the book. “But consider this. Waiting for Igryside to attack is also a choice. And not necessarily a safer one.”
She was right. Damn it, she was right.
I walked back to our family quarters alone, turning the problem over in my mind. Find Tyreen. Use blood magic. Risk exhaustion and potential failure. Risk that she might not want to help, might not even remember my family.
But what was the alternative? Wait for Igryside to attack? Hope we could defend ourselves with no information and no plan?
No. That wasn’t acceptable.
By the time I reached our chambers, I knew what I had to do. I just needed to talk to Mal first.
***
That evening, I was in the library surrounded by books about Igryside when Mal found me. The sun had set hours ago. I’d missed dinner. I was pretty sure I’d missed several other things too, but I couldn’t stop reading.
He didn’t ask what I was doing or why I was stress-researching at this ungodly hour. He just sat down beside me and waited, patient as always, until I was ready to talk.
His fingers intertwined with mine on the table, an anchor when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
I closed the book I’d been pretending to read for the last ten minutes and finally looked at him. He had dark circles under his eyes, and I wondered how much sleep he’d gotten last night.
“Casimya thinks I should find my old coven. Someone named Tyreen.”