Chapter 26 The Return
The Return
The carriage waits at the edge of the theater steps, the lanterns along its sides casting a low, steady glow that feels softer than the brilliance we leave behind.
I follow Petunis inside without hesitation, gathering my skirts as I settle into the seat across from her, the door closing with a quiet finality.
The carriage begins to move.
The city slips past in fragments through the glass, light and shadow stretching into one another in long intervals that lose their distinction the further we travel. I do not try to follow it this time. Instead, I let my focus turn inward, away from the movement, toward something less visible.
I lower my eyes, not enough to lose the world entirely, just enough to quiet it, and reach the way Teorin taught me, not reacting, not bracing, but searching for the shift before it happens.
At first there is nothing. Only the carriage, the faint pull of nausea beneath my ribs, and the quiet presence of Petunis across from me. Then something changes. A tug pulls at my senses, a disturbance that does not belong to anything I can see. It gathers slowly, then more clearly.
Something is wrong. My eyes open. “I—”
The word does not finish when a figure suddenly appears over me.
He forms out of nothing, close enough that the cold reaches my skin before I can move.
His hand is already raised, something dark gathering at his fingers, something wrong in the way it moves, reaching without touching, drawing without contact.
"Consider this a welcome gift, little queen."
Before it can reach me, Petunis moves. The staff meets what stands between us with purpose, the force folding inward on his attack, breaking it before it can land. The darkness collapses into itself, snapping away as though it had never existed.
The man is gone and there is only absence where he had been.
The carriage does not stop. It continues forward as though nothing has happened.
I don’t move immediately, my breath caught somewhere between reaction and understanding, my body slower to follow than the moment required. “What was he?” I ask.
“Someone who wants you dead,” Petunis replies.
I roll my eyes. “No. I mean what kind of magic was that?”
Petunis looks to where he had been, then back to me. “It felt Alarnan at first,” she says. “But something beneath it was… off.”
"You can tell that?"
"You will learn," she replies simply.
I think of it then. Beneath the moment itself, something else had been there. Cold. Faintly wrong. His hand. I had not seen it clearly, only in passing. But the color had been wrong, the edges dulled in a way that lingered with me afterward.
Gray.
The carriage continues forward as though nothing has happened. The palace rises ahead of us, its outline familiar now in a way that feels heavier than it had when we left it.
I hesitate, then curiosity gets the best of me and I ask, “The staff you carry, what does it do exactly?"
“A Queen’s staff,” she says. “It is more than mere power, it is meant to control it, to shape it into obedience.”
I glance at it again, at the way it rests in her hand as though it belongs there.
“It can only be wielded by the one it is meant for,” she continues, “or by those its original bearer intended to use it.”
I lean back slowly, the tension leaving my body in uneven increments now that there is nothing left to respond to, and in its place something heavier begins to press in.
The nausea returns, stronger now, pulling through my stomach and throat at once, forcing me to swallow against it as I close my eyes briefly.
Three. The number forms without effort. Three attempts on my life in a single day. Breakfast, then the throne room, now this.
Teorin had lied about many things, but he had not lied about Alarna. A faint ache catches in my chest as I think of him, brief and unwelcome, gone almost as soon as it forms. I push it aside.
Another thought replaces it, deeper, more painful. Colsar. The ache there does not pass as quickly. It lingers.
He will come for me. The certainty forms without hesitation, not as hope, but as something I choose to hold. I refuse to believe the others who are so certain he has abandoned me. What we had was real. And if he is to come to me, he will need to pass through the wards.
My eyes open slowly. There has to be a way to weaken them so that I can allow passage. I know Colsar. He will fight through the undead to get to me. But he will be tired, weakened, and without royal blood there is no way to pass through Alarna's wards.
The carriage comes to a stop. The palace doors open. I step out into the cold air, exhaustion seeping into my body fully now, but beneath it something else has taken hold.
I will go to the library. And I will find a way.
Petunis steps down without waiting and I follow, the night air cutting through what warmth remained. My body feels heavier with each corridor, the nausea still present, my limbs dull with fatigue.
By the time we reach my chambers, Petunis stops and turns. "You will be in the throne room early," she says. "When you are required."
I incline my head.
"You will attend instruction afterward," she continues. "You will learn to wield your power with intention. You will study the history of this country until you understand it well enough to lead it without destroying what has held it together."
Her attention remains on me, assessing, precise. “Nyara tells me you are good with a sword,” she says. “That is not enough. You will be the best. Skill is not something you carry lightly and hope it holds when it matters. It must be absolute.”
She steps closer, just enough that her presence feels more intentional, more direct.
“You are a queen,” she says, and there is no ceremony in it, no softness, only fact.
“Queen Heir is a term used for a queen who has not yet fully taken her position, who still has a regent to assist while she concerns herself with other matters. Do not confuse the language with the reality.”
I hold her attention.
“I expect you to behave as a queen would,” she continues. “You will be cold when it is required. You will be calculating when it is necessary. You will make decisions that serve the crown, not your comfort.”
The weight of this does not feel too heavy. It feels just right. I lift my chin.
“You are in charge,” she says, her voice lowering slightly, not softer, but more focused. “Do not allow anyone to make you feel small. Not in word. Not in action. Not in implication. If they attempt it, you will correct them.”
I draw in a slow breath, holding her stare as the meaning of it takes hold. “I understand.”
Her attention remains on me, assessing, before she inclines her head once. “Rest,” she says. “Tomorrow will not be forgiving.”
She turns and leaves, her presence withdrawing from the corridor as quickly as it had filled it. I remain there after she leaves, the quiet closing in around me, her words moving through my thoughts, aligning with everything else the day has demanded.
I briefly wonder if I should tell Aunt Petunis about my intunar ability or that I am carrying two children, not one. But Jularin’s voice returns, quieter, but no less certain. Keep it to yourself.
I exhale slowly, letting the tension ease from my shoulders as I reach a decision that feels less like certainty and more like survival.
Not yet. For now, it remains mine.
When I return to my chambers, sleep comes quickly.
In my dream, everything is different. Warmth replaces the cold, the tension in my body loosening in a way that feels almost unfamiliar.
Colsar is there, as he had been when nothing stood between us.
Our children are beside us, small and laughing, their voices bright and untouched by everything that has come before this moment.
I let myself stay there.
Sleep pulls me deeper, and even that fades.