Chapter 16 Snakes and Vermin
Snakes and Vermin
The doors swing open before Aunt Petunis can strike her staff again, and instead of order, something entirely different bursts into the room.
A small child charges through the threshold with two wooden swords raised high, his movements wild and triumphant, as though he has just claimed victory over an invisible army. He swings them in broad, uncoordinated arcs, then plants his feet and points both blades toward the gathered court.
“Death upon you all, royal vermin!”
One of the swords answers him. A bolt of light shoots from its tip, cutting cleanly through the air toward the nearest courtier.
“Oh my—”
The man jerks backward just in time, the light striking the place where he had been standing and scattering across the floor in a harmless burst. No one moves at first. I look toward the young man with the golden hair. He is choking back a laugh.
“I am a snake,” the child continues with complete conviction, “and I will use my venom to destroy you all!”
Before I can make sense of it, a female child appears at my side so suddenly that I nearly startle. “I am the one bringing death. Snakes are worthless,” she says, sticking out her tongue.
"Better a snake than a fucking puff cloud," the first child glares at the girl, then drops his swords. His body collapses inward, reforming until a snake coils where he stood, its length winding rapidly around the legs of the pale man who had just ordered me to leave.
“Get off me!” Balkton shouts, his composure shattering as he tries to wrench himself free, his movements sharp with something dangerously close to panic.
“Don’t kick my brother, you fucker!” A cloud of shimmering color begins to gather around the girl beside me, something like smoke, something like light, something that refracts into soft bands of color that ripple outward from her small frame.
These children curse like sailors and behave as though they own the room. I stand there, exhausted beyond reason, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Before I can decide, another voice enters the room. “Elsarin, do not curse at your elders. That is not how a lady must speak. Vinkarin, unsnake yourself at once. And Amasin—what did I tell you about making yourself invisible and spying on others?”
The voice is weary but calm. It carries a weight that cuts through the chaos more effectively than any command.
A man steps into the throne room, handsome in a way that feels worn down by time and responsibility, his features strikingly similar to the woman on the dais.
There is no mistaking the connection. Her son.
As he enters, a soft sigh sounds near my feet, and I glance down in time to see a small boy lying flat on the floor between my legs as though he has been there the entire time.
His hair is a bright, defiant orange. Several of his teeth are missing. He grins and shoves a finger up his nose before jamming it into his mouth.
My stomach turns.
“I was going to appear soon anyway,” the orange-haired child mutters, not bothering to move. “The Queen Heir smells like shit.”
Queen Petunis responds instantly. “Parshin,” she says, her voice cutting across the room, “I keep telling you that your children curse as though they were raised on Vaelor ships. No wonder their mother has no interest in them.”
“She likes us,” the girl with the shifting colors says immediately, lifting her chin. “She just doesn’t like Papa. Lord Orpinar tells better bedtime stories, Mama says.”
Before I can process this information, a servant woman rushes into the room, her hair disheveled, the front ties of her dress loose. Her expression is strained as she moves quickly toward the children. “Oh, Majesty, I am so sorry. Come along, all of you, come—”
“Children run along,” Parshin mutters under his breath, as the three of them run through the doors, though his voice carries just enough to be heard.
Queen Petunis turns to Parshin. “My son, if you must bed the hired help, then do us all a favor and hire a separate servant to care for the needs of your children. How is she supposed to look after them if she is constantly serving you?”
The golden haired cousin says in my head, “Parshin is the Minister of coin. Dreadfully boring. He likely isn't even fucking that woman. Word is he has her disrobe and makes her listen as he reads aloud the ledgers.
“What?”
“He does it so Korvis won't tease him. Korvis beds everyone,” he adds with a light laugh as though that explains everything.
From beyond the doors, a smaller voice shouts back, “Mama says she prefers all the lady servants keep him company so she doesn’t have to listen to his boring stories about numbers and coin!”
Parshin turns an impressive shade of red. Behind me, I hear Nyara cough, the sound suspiciously close to laughter.
And then—
“Disease!”
The word slices cleanly through the room. The woman in lavender has risen from her place, her expression curled into something sharp and disdainful as she points directly at Nyara.
“Sister,” she says, turning toward the dais, “you allow the Queen Heir and her…serving girl to enter this court unscoured, and now they bring their foreign sickness among us.”
“Venya is most unpleasant,” my cousin says in my head. “Don’t worry. Only your aunt through marriage.”
A pause. “I, unfortunately, have her as a mother.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay quiet.
She continues. “For centuries we have remained safe behind our wards, and now they arrive as messengers of death—”
She doesn’t finish.
Nyara laughs, and it is not polite or careful.
She steps forward through the tension as the guards begin to draw their weapons, her posture loose in a way that feels almost reckless in a room like this.
“First of all,” she says, her voice carrying without effort, “I’m no one’s servant.
I am the cousin of King Sevrin of Veynar and daughter of Duchess Finsara of the Eastern Court. ”
She pauses, then looks around the room with irritation. “I’ve had a long fucking journey, and I am tired. My cousin is the Queen Heir, and not one of you has offered her a drink or a seat.”
The room stills. “And I wasn’t coughing,” she adds lightly. “I was clearing my throat. I’m a singer. I do it frequently.”
Silence follows for what feels like eternity.
Then—
The staff falls from Queen Petunis’s hand.
“A singer?” she says. And then she laughs. It builds quickly, bright and unrestrained, her head tipping back as the sound fills the chamber. “A singer has arrived in Alarna’s court!”
I blink, unsure whether I have misunderstood something. She steps forward and takes Nyara’s hands in her own, her expression transformed entirely. “My dear,” she says warmly, “have you ever seen the great Alarnan Theater of Aurelin?”
Of course she hasn’t. We just fucking got here.
The woman in lavender steps forward again, though her tone has shifted, measured now, likely the friendliest tone she is capable of. “I would like to see our newest singer cleaned and properly dressed. Perhaps she might perform for us at dinner.”
A courtier rises immediately. “Majesty, I would be honored to attend.”
“I as well.” A man in bright golden robes stands.
“And I," another says. More voices follow, building quickly, the tone of the room shifting with startling speed.
In Veynar, singers are dismissed as low-born and lascivious.
Here, they are wanted. Celebrated, even, it seems. I glance at Nyara and see the faint warmth rising in her cheeks, the way her expression softens in a way I have not seen before, and something in my chest responds to it before I can stop it.
“A scouring must be done.” Balkton’s voice cuts through the rising chatter, cold and insistent.
I have already decided I do not like him.
The room quiets again. Queen Petunis turns back toward the dais, reclaiming her staff as though it had never left her hand. “Yes,” she says. “There must be a scouring. For both of you. Then we may dine.”
“What is a scouring?” I ask.
The woman in lavender turns her stare toward me, cool and assessing. “Do our practices displease you?”
Before I can answer, Nyara steps in again. “The Queen Heir has suffered greatly,” she says, her tone shifting just enough to carry weight. “While her husband, Prince Colsar, bravely fought the undead, she was assaulted. She is with child. If your scouring risks harm—”
I shoot her a look sharp enough to cut.
Really, Nyara? Announcing my pregnancy to the entire fucking court?
A small, tight feeling presses in my chest. I know she does not mean harm. She does not know. She does not know that I may have already lost it.
“A child,” a warm voice says.
“And a singer.”
It somehow seems as though my friend and my pregnancy are more interesting than me alone. I am unbothered.
It is then that a round-faced woman steps forward, her expression open, her eyes bright with something that feels gentle compared to everything else in this room. “How delightful,” she says.
She looks at me with unmistakable kindness.
“I am Princess Jularin, your mother’s youngest sister.
I would like to check your pregnancy, if you do not mind.
” A finer arrangement of gold traced her face, the design lighter, the stones fewer, but no less intentional.
She rests her hand lightly on my abdomen.
“I would prefer you not,” I say calmly.
“Rude,” Balkton mutters. “Just like the former Queen Heir. Ryaran.” He says the name like it is poison.
Was Ryaran my mother?
I look toward the dais. “So my mother was queen?”
“Your mother was Queen Heir. Ryaran. My older sister.” Queen Petunis exhales, the sound edged with something tired. “She was meant to inherit this burdensome role, but abandoned it for…disappointment.”
“Love,” the woman in lavender says, the word laced with open distaste.
If my mother was royalty, how did I end up as the Baron’s bastard? As his servant?
As though she has read my thoughts, Petunis looks at me. “Make no mistake. As disappointing as you are, I would have preferred our Queen Heir to be raised here, behind the safety of our wards. But your mother wished to keep you hidden, and she died before we could confirm your location.”
“I have spent a great deal of coin searching for you. A pity you were raised wearing that veil, or we may have found you sooner. It was Eravic who finally made the discovery.”
She looks up at me. “I hear you are married to a beast of some kind. It is a shame. Eravic Vaelor is well endowed, is he not, Lord Vaelor?”
A man steps forward and bows. “Yes, I have heard such rumors about my son.”
What the fuck?
Nyara leans in and whispers, “I had forgotten his father sits on Alarna’s council.” She nudges me. “Fix your face. Alarnans are known to be…bold with words.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say through gritted teeth.
I open my mouth to speak, but Queen Petunis lifts a hand.
“I dislike interrogation,” she says. “And I dislike discussion of my foolish sister even more.”
Yet you can discuss Eravic Vaelor’s girth in a throne room.
Her eyes find mine, cold and precise. “You are too old to grieve someone you have never met, and too young to think you can pester me, the queen, with questions.”
Nyara nudges me lightly. I close my mouth.
It is then that I realize Aunt Jularin’s hand is still on my abdomen. “The pregnancy is likely not viable, Princess,” I say quietly. “Lady Nyara is correct. I have been through much.”
“Please, call me Aunt,” Princess Jularin says gently. Then before I can stop her, warmth moves through me. It spreads through my body in a way that feels both foreign and deeply familiar at once, my skin beginning to glow faintly as something shifts beneath it.
My fingers tremble. I try to move, but I cannot. Her eyes are closed as she hums, the sound low and resonant, threading through the room in a way that seems to reach far deeper than it should.
“Stop,” I say, my voice cutting through it. “I did not give permission.”
She removes her hand and looks at me. “We will evaluate you further after the scouring.” Her voice is gentle.
“Just say it,” Queen Petunis snaps. “You speak so slow, Jularin. You always have, and I do not have the patience for it today."
Jularin smiles, unbothered by Queen Petunis. Then she turns to the court. “The Queen Heir carries a strong, healthy son,” she announces. “His heart is stronger than any I have ever listened for. He will be a great protector.”
I close my eyes, unable to disguise my relief. A strong heart.
She turns, then whispers in my ear. “He is a siakar.”
I hold back tears, wishing Colsar were here.
The room stills.
Then—
A man rises slowly. “Let all who hear it say her name.”
Another stands. “Let all who hear it say her name.”
The words spread. Voice to voice.
Until Queen Petunis stands tall above them all. “Let all of Alarna know,” she declares, her voice carrying through every corner of the chamber, “its Queen Heir has arrived, and its royal bloodline continues.”
Voices and cheers fill the room. I stand in the center of it, the weight of it pressing in from every direction as something quiet and disorienting rises beneath it all.
And then—
A soft laugh, inside my mind. The golden-haired cousin.
“Well, well, well,” he murmurs. “You, my cousin…”
A pause.
“…are royally fucked.”
I should respond. Ask why. Ask anything. But my mind has already gone somewhere else entirely.
He is going to be born into a war he did not start, in a country that does not know him, with a father who has never held him.
I do not know how to be a siakar. And I do not want to do any of this without you.
I close my eyes. “Find me.”