Chapter 315
The first rays of sunlight filter through the coral latticework above my room, staining the pale walls in shades of gold and rose. It would be beautiful—peaceful, even—if my stomach weren’t twisted in knots.
I sit on the edge of the lounge-bed, gripping the edge with white-knuckled hands, still in the sea-silk shift Petra gave me. My hair floats gently around me in the still water. I haven’t moved since the first bell.
The taste of that tea still lingers at the back of my throat.
Star seed. Fertility stimulant. Aphrodisiac.
I don’t feel any different—but that doesn’t stop me from thinking I do. My skin’s too sensitive, my pulse too quick, my emotions stretched taut like harp strings ready to snap.
Do I tell Wake?
I close my eyes. I can already see the firestorm it would cause. He’d storm into the palace, blade drawn, likely challenge Lovelace to a duel or tear down the place brick by brick. Which sounds… actually kind of cathartic. But not useful. Not yet. We need the Conclave. We need stability.
We need control.
Just as I’m working up the nerve to breathe, Wake glides in from the corridor outside. He’s already armored—obsidian bracers strapped over his forearms, his dark-scaled tail trimmed with silver. Even after everything, he’s somehow calm.
I open my mouth, ready to spill everything.
“Another Clan just arrived,” he says before I can. “They’re flying Nu’s banner.”
I blink. “Miore is here?”
He nods once, sharp and satisfied. “And he’s brought a respectable force with him.”
The surge of hope that rushes through me almost makes me dizzy. “Then let’s go welcome him.”
“I was thinking the same.”
But of course, it’s not that simple. Nothing here is.
We barely make it past the main hallway before we’re intercepted—two of the palace guards flank us, golden-armored and rigid. One of them politely informs us that Lady Phoebe is not permitted to exit the palace grounds without permission from the House Elders.
I cock my head. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a matter of protocol,” the guard says, tone smooth and flat. “For your safety. All unwed royal women must be escorted by palace staff.”
Unwed. The word clangs like a bell in my head.
Wake growls. “She’s not unwed. She’s my mate.”
“I understand, my lord,” the guard replies, clearly not understanding anything at all. “But that bond has not been sanctioned by the Eastern Twilight.”
My tail flicks with a snap of irritation. “Sanctioned? I didn’t realize my bloodline needed to file paperwork to approve my relationships.”
Before the guard can dig a deeper hole, Wake steps in front of me, his presence suffocating the corridor like a storm rolling in.
“Let me speak to Lovelace,” he says, voice low but crackling with restrained fury. “Now.”
It doesn’t take long.
A few minutes later, we’re standing in a lower courtyard where Lovelace is surrounded by a handful of advisors and royal attendants, all of them dressed in pale robes and glinting jewelry. He looks up from some sort of scroll and smiles thinly.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You’ve posted guards to keep my mate from leaving her own home,” Wake says. No preamble. Just fact.
Lovelace has the audacity to chuckle. “A misunderstanding, surely. She is still in training, after all, and there are formalities we must observe.”
“Training for what?” I snap. “Being a prisoner?”
Lovelace doesn’t flinch. “You are the Heir of Electra. With that honor comes certain responsibilities—education, guidance, supervision—”
“She’s not a child,” Wake growls.
“No,” Lovelace says, still maddeningly calm. “But she is a symbol. A beacon. And there are many in this city who would use her position for their own ends. You can understand our caution.”
“What I understand,” Wake says, stepping forward until they’re almost nose to nose, “is that she is my mate. And in our world, that means something. I don’t need your permission to protect her, and she doesn’t need your supervision to roam the streets of her own city.”
There’s a tense silence. Even the attendants go quiet, waiting.
Lovelace adjusts a ring on his finger. “And yet, there are eyes everywhere. Ears, too. This Conclave has brought together allies and enemies alike. For all our sake, would it not be wise to take precautions?”
Wake’s eyes are lit with cold fire. “Careful, Lovelace. There’s a difference between protection and control. One builds trust. The other breeds war.”
Lovelace looks around at the gathered staff, clearly aware of how public this moment has become. “Of course. We would never dream of insulting Dagon’s Heir or Electra’s. Perhaps we can reach a compromise.”
Wake doesn’t say a word.
Lovelace lifts both hands, placating. “Until Phoebe completes her official introduction to the city and takes the mantle as Lady of the Line, we ask only that she take a house guard with her when she leaves the palace.”
“Just one?” I ask.
He nods. “Just one. For appearance’s sake.”
Wake turns to me. “Your call.”
I think for a moment, then nod. “Fine. One guard.”
Lovelace smiles. “Splendid. I shall have someone assigned to you immediately.”
“Don’t bother,” I say. “I’ll pick my own.”
The smug tilt of his mouth falters.
I don’t wait for his answer.
Wake and I leave before either of us explodes. He barely waits until we’re out of earshot before going off.
“He’s testing limits,” Wake says. “Trying to figure out what he can get away with.”
“Well, now he knows.” I pause, rubbing the back of my neck. “Thanks for stepping in.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I know. But I still mean it.”
He studies me for a moment, then asks, “Are you alright?”
I hesitate. I almost tell him everything. About the tea. The star seed. The girls.
But I swallow it back. Not yet. Not until I’m sure.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just ready to see Miore.”
Wake nods. “Then let’s go greet him like the rulers we are.”
A grin spreads across my face. “You know, that almost sounded like confidence.”
“What is it the humans say?” He smirks, “Fake it till you make it.”
We leave the palace together, this time with a single handpicked escort trailing us—a quiet, sharp-eyed guard named Syrin whom Wake said was competent enough for a spy.
As we swim out past the glittering spires and into the open current, the banners of Nu’s House come into view. Elegant blue-green fabric, swirling with silver thread, marked with the coiling symbol of the god of creation.
Miore’s people have arrived.
And the Conclave is beginning to take shape.
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