Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
Emerald velvet lies in wait, draped across a nearby chair. Sylara’s.
The ceremonial cloak carries not only weight, but history. The silk lining shimmers. It is fit for a queen.
We may not have a fully-fledged plan, but we are prepared to make an impact.
Soria’s hurried movements—collecting what must be sent ahead before the day draws on, signaling what will follow and what will remain—swirl around me, but my gaze stays fixed on the heirloom before me.
Tomorrow, we return—and I will look the part. The sovereign beside her beloved king. We will not move quietly through a side entrance. We will ride triumphantly through the front gates with the full strength of the crown behind us.
And I, their queen, will be seen.
It will not be a spectacle. When Vale first shared his intent, I feared they might posture me in some ornate, overwrought gown. The thought of wearing such finery for half a day left me frozen—until he lifted the cloak from the trunk and showed it to me.
It was his mother’s. And now, much like the title of queen, it will be mine.
This will be our first truly public appearance since the night of the wedding banquet. The perfect opportunity to present power and unity—just enough to inspire loyalty, and perhaps enough to unsettle anyone harboring thoughts of treason.
I begin to sense the tremor of nervous energy beneath my resolve. Soria’s frenetic activity does little to soothe it.
Realizing that standing still will only worsen the feeling, I retreat to the private library.
The journals do not offer direct instruction on the use of magic, but they grant me a sense of its presence—something still new to me at this depth.
Skimming past their covers, I set several aside to be sent to the palace.
It pains me to leave the manor without knowing when we might return.
At last, I reach for the crooked-spiked tome from the Sanctum. I’ve found an unexpected comfort in reading its prose, each poetic line like a riddle. When I imagine not only its meaning, but the destinies it once spoke to, I can almost forget the fate I myself must soon face.
I read a page that speaks of a lover’s loss and a newfound hope, and I can’t help but wonder about that person’s journey.
When they heard those words—if in fact they did—did the promise of a brighter tomorrow soften the sting of the loss at all?
Did the warning linger like a dark cloud and tarnish their love story?
I close the book sharply, angry at the cruel ways prophecy might trap or shackle its subject. Setting it next to the journals, I close my eyes and breathe slowly.
I think of Vale. Of the way he carries hope in his heart. How he speaks of having waited for love—not impatiently or with doubt.
To hear them tell the tale, he had all but given up on finding it.
At least, that’s what Soria and Ace have shared.
And yet… I see the way they hold back. The words left unsaid.
I get the impression it was others who gave up—who stopped pushing their king toward a match, too afraid to pressure him when he seemed so resolute.
In his heart, I believe he knew it would come when the time was right.
I’m so moved by him. The way he not only waited—but was so sure when we came together.
It’s so vastly different than the path I took to love. He knew in his heart a great love was promised. I had resigned myself to living alone. Where it seems he found what he had been waiting for, I found something I didn’t even know I wanted until it was within my grasp.
Both certain, but for entirely different reasons.
Gods, I wish I could feel as certain about anything else.
No, Mira. I chastise myself. Letting out a heavy sigh, I try to remember what is really true. Unknown dangers, yes—but also family and love. Home.
Why is it that every parting leaves me so morose?
Leaning against the desk in the library, I want to hold on to the very walls and not let go.
When I left the village, I knew I’d never go back. When we rode through the night and the forest dwelling grew distant, it was clear—even if I did return, things wouldn’t be the same.
I look around the suite. The ancient carved wood of the bookcase, the rich tapestries in the bedchamber, the unwavering love of this place. I hold on to the comfort and tell myself: You will return.
Taking time to cherish the near-permanence of the manor, I make my way outside to the near edge of the valley. Not far off the manor property, I wander through the trees. I’d let Vale know I would be taking a little time for myself as preparations continued inside the residence.
There among the fallen trunks and freshly grown greenery, the cyclical nature—both fleeting and unmoving—is clearer than ever. Flowers may bloom and wilt, but the stones hold strong. Seasons change, but life goes on.
I had thought a walk along the edge of these woods might give me peace, but I cannot shake the restlessness. Shaking out my limbs does little to quell the sensation.
Any hints of magic are fainter now. My own muddled thoughts cloud the connection. I still feel a trace—more than I did before these changes—but the whispers of doubt stifle the song.
The mood carries through dinner. Ace’s eyes linger on me longer after he speaks.
Be it sincere or comedic, he seems to be trying to hone in on how I react to each line with greater care.
Soria appears to be reaching as well. When running through the preparations completed and those still remaining for morning, she quickly pivots to lighter matters, and I cannot help but believe it is for my sake.
It pains me that I do not seem to meet her effort the way she may hope. Sitting deflated, I cannot help but feel responsible for everyone’s mood. On our last night together at the manor, this is not how I want it to end.
“You know what we haven’t done in ages?” Vale speaks across the table. He directs it toward Soria and Ace, but the added performance in his voice makes it clear it’s intended for me. Our companions look to him expectantly.
“Poppy’s Pyre.”
Ace lights up so brightly at the mention that he rises, only to sink back into his chair as if melting. “Yes,” he draws out the word slowly, exaggerated.
Even Soria perks up, raising a cautious brow in Vale’s direction. “I think that may well be exactly what we need.” She lets out half a laugh and raises her glass. “To Poppy.”
The men join in, and I find myself asking the question only I don’t know the answer to.
“Who’s Poppy?”
Poppy, it turns out, was the runt of the litter—a pup that a young Soria grew particularly attached to in her youth. As Ace and Vale gather wood for the fire, I sit beside her while she shares the story.
“My mother scolded me when she caught me sneaking scraps to the poor thing. Its brothers and sisters kept pushing it out of the way when they fed. I pleaded that if not for me, it might die.” She looks down at the mug of ale in her hands, holding it—and the memory—tight.
“She wasn’t unkind. Just… pragmatic. She told me that was the way things were sometimes. ”
I watch her shake her head, her voice tugging me back to a time when so many were still stitching together a life from what the war had torn apart.
“But you know me,” she adds with a soft smile. “I get things done. Always have. And that pup, Poppy, turned out to be one of the best guardians we ever had.”
Emotion pools in her eyes before she looks away. “I was still a girl when we lost her. She died protecting the rabbits from a predator. Took a hit she never recovered from.” She lets out a heavy sigh at the memory, laced with pain and pride alike. “I was devastated.”
Ace sets down a large bundle of sticks to be stacked atop the heavier logs. “It broke my heart, seeing her like that,” he says, glancing at Vale. “We had to do something.”
“And that is why two grown men held a funeral for a dog,” Soria adds, smiling toward them. “For the love of a sister they claimed as their own.”
I can see it then—how far back their bond stretches. Not forged in palaces, but in backyards and sorrow and stubborn devotion.
“I was ready to hold a proper funeral in the yard,” Soria continues.
“Gather flowers, say some words. My mother discouraged it. Said there was enough to mourn without shedding tears over an animal.” She swallows hard.
“She wasn’t wrong. But still. I grew up in the shadow of grief…
and in the glimmer of hope, alongside Aurienne. ”
Vale and Ace begin piling the sticks into a tall peak. When Soria’s voice falters, Ace picks up the thread. “So we did what any big not-actually-brothers would do: we built the first Poppy Pyre. Gave her a sendoff with flair.”
“The first of many?” I ask, the idea of more losses sending a flicker of unease through me.
Vale answers gently. “The rest were ceremonial. We needed it, too, that night. Ace and I were older—young men trying to find our way in the aftermath of war. So every time we were all here at the manor together, we lit a pyre. A reminder to show up for each other, no matter what the world throws our way.”
I feel the warmth surround me long before the fire is ever lit. No wonder they said this was exactly what we needed.
We stay out there for hours. Laughing. Drinking. Letting stories unravel in the safety of each other’s company. They let me in on the memories and mischief alike. I don’t feel like an outsider looking in, but a trusted ally being brought into the fold.
Vale’s arms come around me from behind, and I ease back into him just as Ace—wide-eyed and dramatic—launches into a story about the time he got caught naked behind a shrub by the groundskeeper.
“I knew exactly which tree I hung my trousers on before swimming, but when I got out… gone! You know I’m not shy, but I really did try to be careful sneaking back inside.”