9. Elena
The library is still the next morning when I meet Zoe there, the light falling in soft, perfect bands across the polished shelves. She wastes no time.
“Tell me again what happened.”
I draw a breath and start from the beginning, the strange woman in the bathroom, that eerie pull in my gut, the sense that I know her even though I’m certain we’ve never met.
Then the fragment of a vision follows, slipping through me like a half-remembered dream.
Too quick. Too thin. Not enough to grasp its meaning or why it came to me at all.
“It was a picture,” I tell Zoe. “Two girls. I couldn’t see their smiles, but I could feel them.
And the crack running through the photo…
” My fingers fidget with a loose thread on my sleeve.
“It made me uneasy. There’s more to it, I’m sure there is.
But what does it mean? How does it connect to the other visions? ”
Zoe’s tapping foot comes to a stop. “It could mean a couple of things,” she speculates. “Two girls suggest a bond, family, friendship, or even a symbol of joy.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with Hannah and me?”
One of the reasons I wanted to train without Hannah today: the last thing I need is to worry her over fragments I don’t understand.
Zoe peers at me, her eyes keen, yet soft. “You’re concerned that it could.”
I nod. “Wendell hates Hannah. Every chance he got, he wanted her gone. When I made that deal… when I offered myself so she could be safe and happy here?—”
Her foot falters again. “It could,” she tells me softly.
I frown. Zoe leans forward, placing her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, child. I won’t be anything less than honest with you.”
I give her a small, sad smile. “I know. That is why I trust you.”
She pulls her hand back. “I think now might be the right time for another session. If you’re only getting fragments because decisions haven’t been made…perhaps they have now.”
I sit a little straighter now, excitement sparkling. “You think so?”
“One way to find out.” She shifts closer. “Close your eyes.”
I obey. Her voice goes soft, cadence now, conducts my breathing, relaxes my shoulders. I bring the bathroom vision forward in my mind.
“Focus on the faces,” Zoe murmurs.
Everything else dissolves. Their faces stay blurred. I reach out, my instinctive fingers touching the hazy image as if to clear it.
“Don’t force it,” she warns.
I unclench my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut for strength before taking a step back inside the vision, even though something in me aches to push forward.
Then…it shifts. The blur trembles, sharpening at the edges. The girl on the left comes into focus first, brown hair, chocolate-brown eyes, familiar in a way that makes my stomach dip. She has similar facial features to my own. So much like me, she could be…
Me.
I turn toward the other girl, but the right-hand side of the image resolutely stays blurred, fighting me.
Coward. Show your face. The words echo in my mind.
“What do you see?” asks Zoe.
“A girl,” I whisper. “She looks like me… but not.”
“Your mother?”
I swallow. “I think so…” I chew on my lip. “When I try to clear the second person in the photo, it pushes back. Almost like whoever is beside my mom doesn’t want me to know who they are.”
“Or maybe your mom is using the picture to send you another message,” Zoe speculates. “Focus on the surroundings. I need to know…you felt that before, didn’t you?” Zoe asks, and even with my eyes close, I can feel her watching me a little too closely.
“Felt what?”
She pauses. Her next words are softer, more certain. “Not just the vision. Them.”
My brow pulls in, and I lose the vision.
I open my eyes.
“I always feel something,” I admit.
Zoe tilts her head. “No… this is different. You don’t see, you pick up on what lingers. Emotions. Energy. It sticks to you.” She looks up for a moment before looking back at me. “I think you might be a sensitive.”
I shift, uneasy that I might have some additional ability to contend with. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you don’t walk into a room unnoticed, not really. You read people without trying. And sometimes…” Her gaze sharpens. “Sometimes, you change them or their mood by being there.”
I let out a quiet breath. “How is that even?—”
She lifts a hand, stopping me. “Not my specialty,” she admits. “But what we’re doing… It’s opening something. Alongside your visions.”
I don’t like the way that sounds. “Opening… or making it worse?”
“Stronger,” she answers simply. “If you keep going, it won’t stay quiet.”
I can feel the silence stretch between us.
Then, gently, almost careful, she asks, “Are you ready for that?”
I don’t answer.
Because for the first time… I’m not sure I am.
I push that thought away for now and focus on the hope that flickers alive in my chest. “I can try again.”
I close my eyes, and the library door slams open.
Hannah stands frozen in the frame, pale and with wide eyes.
I’m on my feet instantly. “What is it?”
“Bray… Bray…” She clutches her side, breath stuttering.
“Hannah!”
“I was eating breakfast with him, before his shift, as we walked back for him to check in…” Her voice quivers. “The leader of the house, both Parliament leaders, they were speaking in urgent tones with Alexei.”
My shoulders snap rigid, like someone yanked a wire straight through me. My breath cuts short. “What did they want?”
Hannah’s face crumples. “Bray heard the words ‘under investigation’ and ‘theft and treason.’”
“Alexei?”
She nods.
Heat flares through me. “Take me there.”
I don’t walk, I tear through the hallways, boots echoing off stone floors as I aim straight for the war and strategy room. Hannah said that’s where they were last seen, and every step I take only winds the tension in my chest tighter.
When I push the doors open, the room goes silent. Fletcher, Alexei, the Leader of the House, and both Parliament leaders all turn toward me. They bow slightly.
I move toward Alexei immediately, instinct pulling me to his side. His expression is calm, too calm, but beneath it I can feel the weight in the room, thick and brittle.
One of the Parliament leaders opens his mouth, no doubt ready to soothe and downplay whatever storm I’ve just walked into.
I raise a sharp hand.
“Don’t,” I caution. “I’m not in the mood to be coddled. Tell me why you’re here, and what this has to do with my husband.”
Chester, the senior Parliament leader, late sixties, impeccably dressed, the kind of man terrified of aging out of power, steps forward.
“Your Majesty,” he begins, glancing apologetically at Alexei, “we received serious allegations against His Majesty… allegations of theft from the Crown and treasonous activity.”
Heat spikes through me so fast it nearly blinds me. My posture shifts, deadly and automatic, one step forward, shoulders squared, ready to tear the accusation apart with my bare hands.
Alexei’s fingers close around my wrist. A gentle but firm restraint.
Not now, his touch warns. Not like this.
The other Parliament leader, Allan, softer and nervous by nature, hurries to add, “No one is saying these accusations are true. But it is our job to investigate any concern brought before Parliament.”
“Who raised these concerns?” Fletcher asks, arms crossed.
Chester winces. “An anonymous report. They also provided… documents. Supporting the claim of theft.”
My eyes narrow sharply. “What documents? King Alexei would never steal from the crown.”
The house leader’s snicker is crisp and short.
Jasper, young, hungry, and all too eager to prove himself, was Wendell’s personal appointment during his lone year as king-regent, and he has never bothered to hide his dislike for Alexei or me.
The snake keeps his words polished and precise, always slipping around the truth of how close he and Wendell truly were.
I growl at the calculating twinkle in his own, recalling what Reid once told us: how Jasper made a habit of speaking against us, especially Alexei, whom he clearly views as the greater threat.
In his version of events, Alexei “lacks integrity,” a usurper who bent tradition by winning over a “naive little girl” to make himself king.
And now my husband is being accused of stealing. Coincidence? Hardly.
“Agreed,” says Fletcher at once.
“And the treason allegation?” I ask.
Chester exhales. “We received copies of documents allegedly sent by the King. Sensitive, classified documents. Being auctioned to enemy states.”
My gaze cuts back to Jasper, his supposed neutrality betrayed by the faint, smug curl at his lips.
Alexei is as steady as a rock, composed. “I have never done either of these things.”
Inwardly, fury coils tight. My jaw locks, my breath is short and sharp, my vision narrowing at the thought of anyone daring to stain his name. I drag in a slow breath, pinch the bridge of my nose, and force my voice to steady.
“The former Duke broke out a week ago. These charges are the very crimes he committed. Does it not seem strange to any of you that now, suddenly, the King is accused of these?”
Both leaders nod quickly. Jasper, on the other hand, loses some of his bravado.
“Yes, that thought has crossed our minds,” Chester admits.
“But,” Allan interjects timidly, “with what we all suspect, there’s ample evidence to call upon His Majesty to appear before Parliament for questioning.”
“What?” Fletcher and I snap together.
“This is ridiculous,” I say. “A ploy. A distraction from Wendell’s escape.”
Alexei’s eyebrows draw together, and though I’m not looking right at him, I feel the shift.
“Be that as it may,” Chester says, “our responsibility is to investigate. If the allegations are false, this will quickly resolve and fade into obscurity.”
I inhale, ready to unleash another objection, but Alexei speaks first.
“That won’t be a problem,” he says calmly. “I have nothing to hide. I will cooperate fully. But I ask that you wait outside so I may speak with my wife and the director of security.”
My jaw falls open. “Alexei?—”