Chapter 26
Poe
The night air carries the metallic promise of rain, though the sky remains stubbornly clear.
I move along the perimeter wall of the summer palace, my footsteps deliberately silent on the ancient stones.
Three hours into my watch, and so far I’ve cataloged seventeen potential security vulnerabilities, four guard rotations with predictable patterns, and one gardener who’s either terrible at his job or deliberately creating hiding spots among the topiary.
I make a mental note to mention the gardener to Cillian. He’s been obsessively reviewing the Queen Mother’s security protocols since we arrived, finding flaws where even I see none. The man never rests—a quality I’d admire if it weren’t slowly killing him.
A shadow moves on a second-floor balcony, drawing my attention like a beacon. I freeze, instinctively melting into the darkness beneath a gnarled oak. The figure is draped in flowing fabric, face obscured, but the posture speaks of advanced age carried with dignity.
Not an intruder, then. Something far more dangerous.
The Queen Mother.
I debate my options. Continue my patrol, pretending I haven’t seen her? Announce my presence and risk her displeasure at being observed? Neither choice appeals, but protocol demands acknowledgment of the royal presence.
“Your Highness,” I call, pitching my voice just loud enough to reach her without alerting the entire palace. “Forgive the interruption.”
She turns, the movement surprisingly fluid for a woman in her seventies. “Ah, the shadow emerges.” Her voice carries easily on the still night air. “Come closer, Poe. Let me see you properly.”
I approach with measured steps, stopping at a respectful distance below the balcony. “You’re outside alone at this hour, Your Highness. The security implications—“
“Who said I was alone?” she interrupts, amusement coloring her tone.
The blade presses against my throat before I register the presence behind me—cold steel kissing my skin with deadly promise. I don’t move, don’t even breathe. Not from fear, but from the professional recognition that whoever holds the knife is exceptionally skilled.
“Your instincts are getting soft,” a female voice murmurs in my ear, close enough that her breath stirs my hair. “You’ll need them sharper if you want to take on the king’s personal guards.”
The knife withdraws, and I turn slowly to face my assailant.
The woman standing before me is compact but muscular, her dark hair cropped close to her skull in a style that speaks of practicality over fashion.
She wears the Queen Mother’s colors, but her stance is pure military—balanced, ready, dangerous.
“Dani,” the Queen Mother calls from above. “You’ve made your point. Let the poor man breathe.”
With a mocking smile, Dani steps back, twirling her knife with casual expertise before sheathing it at her hip. “Sorry about that. Orders.”
“Testing me?” I ask, my voice deliberately neutral despite the lingering sensation of steel against my skin.
“Obviously,” she replies, not bothering to deny it. “And you failed. If I’d been an assassin, your prince would be short one shadow.”
I could argue that I hadn’t expected Eleanora to be accompanied by an assassin, but it would be a flimsy excuse.
The assessment stings because it’s accurate. I should have detected her presence, should have sensed the threat before she got close enough to place a blade at my throat. The fact that I didn’t speaks to either her exceptional skill or my diminishing edge.
Possibly both.
“Dani is my head of security,” the Queen Mother explains from her balcony perch. “She takes her duties very seriously.”
“As do I,” I reply, meeting Dani’s evaluating gaze without flinching. “Which is why I’m concerned to find Your Highness exposed on a balcony at this hour.”
The Queen Mother laughs, the sound surprisingly warm in the cool night air. “Your concern is noted, if unnecessary. Dani, leave us. I wish to speak with Poe privately.”
Dani hesitates, her expression shifting to one of professional concern. “Your Highness—“
“That wasn’t a request, dear.”
The security chief bows stiffly, then gives me a look that promises violence if any harm comes to her charge. “I’ll be within earshot,” she says, the warning unmistakable.
Once she’s melted back into the shadows—an impressive feat given the open grounds—the Queen Mother gestures for me to join her. “There’s a service staircase to your left. Third door past the rose trellis.”
I find the entrance exactly where she described, a narrow door nearly invisible against the stone facade.
The stairs beyond are steep and winding, clearly designed for servants to move quickly between floors without being seen by noble guests.
At the top, another door opens onto the balcony where the Queen Mother waits.
She’s seated now in an ornate chair that looks too delicate for practical use, a shawl of midnight blue wrapped around her shoulders despite the mild temperature.
Up close, the resemblance to Logan is striking—the same golden eyes, the same proud tilt of the chin, the same air of command that seems bred into the Corellian bloodline.
“Walk with me,” she says, rising with surprising grace. “These old bones need movement to keep from seizing up entirely.”
I offer my arm automatically, royal protocol ingrained despite my general disdain for such formalities. She takes it with a knowing smile, as if she’s read my thoughts and finds them amusing.
“You’re wondering why I insisted on speaking to you at this ungodly hour,” she says as we begin a slow circuit of the balcony. “Why not wait until morning for a proper audience.”
“The thought had crossed my mind, Your Highness.”
“I find that night conversations tend to yield more honesty,” she replies. “Something about the darkness loosens tongues that remain carefully guarded in daylight.”
I say nothing, recognizing the technique for what it is. The Queen Mother is fishing, creating space for me to fill with nervous chatter that might reveal more than intended. It’s a tactic I’ve used myself, though usually with a blade involved to expedite the process.
She smiles at my silence, apparently approving of my restraint. “You’ve served my grandson for many years now,” she observes.
“I’ve been loyal to Prince Logan since the Outlands campaign,” I say carefully. “As have all members of his personal guard.”
“Loyal,” she repeats, testing the word like a suspicious food. “An interesting choice of term, given recent events.”
I tense slightly beneath her hand, though I doubt she can feel it through the layers of fabric separating us. “Recent events have tested many loyalties, Your Highness. But not broken them.”
“Haven’t they?” She stops walking, turning to face me fully.
In the moonlight, her age shows more clearly—the fine lines around her eyes, the slight loosening of skin beneath her jaw.
But those golden eyes remain sharp as ever, missing nothing.
“Tell me, Poe. Does loyalty extend to helping a prince force a bond on an unwilling Omega?”
The question lands like a physical blow, though I maintain my neutral expression through years of practice. “I wasn’t present for that particular event.”
“But you’ve stayed with him since,” she presses. “Continued to serve him, to protect him, to carry out his will. Some might call that complicity.”
“Some might,” I acknowledge. “Others might recognize that loyalty doesn’t mean blind obedience. That true service sometimes requires questioning, challenging, even opposing when necessary.”
She studies me for a long moment, her golden eyes unreadable in the moonlight. “And have you? Questioned? Challenged? Opposed?”
I think of the confrontation in the safehouse, of standing against Logan for the first time in our long association. Of the growing distance between us, the fracturing trust, the choices that have led us to this precarious position.
“When necessary,” I reply simply.
The Queen Mother’s lips curve in a smile that contains more calculation than warmth.
“I’ve heard interesting rumors about your activities at court,” she says, changing tack with the abruptness I’m beginning to recognize as characteristic.
“Particularly regarding your...interactions with the female Omegas of court.”
I keep my expression carefully neutral, hoping to reveal nothing.
“Court is full of rumors, Your Highness. Most are exaggerated, if not entirely fabricated.”
“Indeed,” she agrees, resuming our slow circuit of the balcony. “But where there’s smoke, one often finds at least embers, if not a full conflagration. And the smoke surrounding you, Poe, suggests a man with a…complex history.”
I remain silent, unwilling to confirm or deny anything without understanding her purpose in raising the subject.
“Is that what drives your commitment to this rebellion?” she asks after a moment. “A desire to protect Omegas from the fate my son would consign them to? Or is it something more personal?”
The question is expertly crafted—a trap disguised as insight, designed to provoke either defensive denial or revealing confirmation. I sidestep it entirely.
“My commitment is to this pack,” I say simply. “To our collective survival.”
“How admirably straightforward,” she replies, though her tone suggests she finds it anything but. “And yet, I wonder if that’s the complete truth. Men like you—men accustomed to operating in shadows, to doing what others cannot or will not—rarely act from such uncomplicated motives.”
I consider my response carefully, weighing the risks of honesty against the potential cost of being caught in a lie. The Queen Mother has resources we desperately need—shelter, information, political connections. Antagonizing her would be tactically unwise.
But there’s something in her manner that suggests she values truth, however unpalatable, over comforting falsehoods.