The morning we leave the island, the sky wears a soft gold. The sun rises slowly and warm like it knows we need this peace to last a little longer. Cassian holds my hand in the car, and I don't pull away. There's no need for words. We've said all the ones that matter already, in the quiet, in our laughter, in our touch.
But as the gates of the palace rise before us, I feel something shift.
It's subtle, not an alarm, just an absence. The usual flurry of activity… isn't there. The maids aren't lined up like before. The guards at the entrance stand rigid, unsmiling. Even the wind feels different, like the walls themselves are withholding breath.
Esther meets us at the main entrance, her face calm but her eyes too still.
"Welcome home, Your Majesties."
I smile, then pause. "What's wrong?"
Cassian looks at her too, frowning. "Where's everyone?"
Esther hesitates. "The palace has been quieter than usual. The Queen… hasn't left her chambers in days. She refused meals twice. No official word yet, but everyone's noticed."
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. Cassian straightens slightly, all traces of the relaxed man I vacationed with now gone. The prince is back. The heir. The son.
"I'll go to her now," he says sharply, and strides off, his footsteps echoing through the stone.
Esther turns to me. "We didn't want to disturb you. But something's not right."
"I can feel it," I say. And I can. Not just in the air, but in my bones.
As I enter the grand hallway, I pass the giant portrait of King Lucien in his judge's hood, my quiet strength. His eyes follow me as they always do. I don't stop, but I nod.
Back to duty.
Back to the shadows.
And possibly, into the heart of a storm.
***
I follow Cassian up the grand staircase, my footsteps quiet but firm. I don't ask for permission, not from him, and definitely not from the silence that's wrapped itself around the palace. Something in me needs to see her. To feel what this absence means.
He doesn't stop me.
Outside the Queen's chamber, two guards stand stiff, looking uncomfortable. One glances at the other, but they say nothing. They bow and step aside.
The Queen's apartment is quiet and dim, as though the walls themselves are holding their breath. The moment Cassian and I step into the private lounge, the rich scent of frankincense and lavender oils hits me, sharp and medicinal. A gentle hush blankets the space.
The suite is a world of its own with velvet drapes half drawn, candle sconces flickering low. It smells like sickness wrapped in luxury.
A nurse rises as we enter, bowing her head. "Your Highness. She's awake."
We move through the lounge, past the gilded screen that separates the Queen's master bedroom. The light changes here, it's thinner and washed with morning gray. Morgana lies reclined against a mound of pillows, a thick quilt draped over her legs. Her hair is wrapped in silk, and though her face is paler than I've ever seen it, her eyes remain unreadable.
Cassian quickens his steps, moving straight to her bedside. "Mother…"
She lifts a hand, skeletal and slow. "Don't look at me like that, boy. I've survived worse."
I linger at the doorway, quietly watching, as the palace physician, Dr. Halsten, a tall man with cool eyes and a Scandinavian accent, steps forward, adjusting the tablet in his hand.
"She's stable, for now," he says calmly. "But I've confirmed the diagnosis."
Cassian turns toward him. "Which is?"
"Osteomyelitis. A rare and deep-seated spinal bone infection. It has taken root in her lower vertebrae and has been progressing over the last few months."
My breath catches.
The Queen says nothing. She just closes her eyes, as though disinterested in the discussion of her own fragility.
"What does this mean?" Cassian asks, tone controlled but tight.
"She'll need immediate treatment," Dr. Halsten replies. "High-dose intravenous antibiotics to start. Pain management. A reduction of physical movement. No stress, no formal duties. If we're aggressive, the infection can be contained."
He pauses, then adds more gently, "She'll need full rest, and regular observation. If symptoms escalate, we may need to consider advanced imaging or hospital monitoring."
Cassian nods solemnly. "Understood."
"She should remain in the palace quarters, but isolated from royal duties," Dr. Halsten finishes. "And surrounded by very few, trusted aides."
The Queen scoffs. "Don't you start planning my replacement, Halsten. I am still Queen."
"You're still human," he replies simply. "And bone infections have no regard for titles."
Her eyes flash, but she turns her face to the window.
Cassian sighs, rubbing his temple. "We'll begin treatment at once. I'll handle the council."
This is where it begins, I can feel it. The shift in the air. In the way Cassian's posture tenses, in the way the Queen refuses to meet my eyes.
She doesn't speak to me. Not a word.
But I can feel her discomfort. Her fear. And underneath it all… the quiet threat of what's coming.
And I realize this is only the beginning.
***
I return to my chambers before Cassian. The conversation with Dr. Halsten still lingers in the folds of my thoughts. Osteomyelitis. A name that sounds like rust in the bones. I can still see the Queen's face, composed, unreadable, yet drained of its usual fire.
The air in my room is cooler. The windows are cracked open, and the breeze dances through the silk curtains, brushing against my arms like a whisper.
Esther walks in with a tea tray, her movements brisk, her face softer than usual.
"She's unwell," I say quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "But still burning with pride. Did you see her eyes?"
Esther sets the tray down and nods. "She won't let anyone see her break. Not even her own son."
I stare at the steam rising from the teacup, then glance up at her.
"I didn't see Shea," I say, voice low. "She wasn't in the Queen's lounge. Not even lurking in the background."
Esther hesitates. Just briefly. Her eyes dart away for the smallest second.
"She's still in the palace," she finally says. "Just… not around the Queen lately."
"Why not?"
"I don't know, my lady. She's been keeping to herself. Hiding, maybe."
"Hiding?" I repeat, sitting straighter. "From what?"
Esther lowers her voice. "She's clever. Knows when to vanish before things turn sour. And things have been… strange."
I blink at her, waiting.
She folds her hands. "Servants say she only moves at night. That she's been avoiding the Queen's quarters. It's not like her."
A coil of suspicion tightens in my chest. "And the Queen lets that happen?"
"She's too sick to notice. Or too proud to ask."
I stare out the window, watching the wind bend the roses in the garden.
"People hide when they're guilty," I murmur. "Or afraid of being caught."
Esther says nothing. But the silence between us speaks volumes.
I reach for the cup and take a slow sip, though the tea tastes like ash.
Something is wrong. More than illness. More than secrets.
And I intend to find it.