“He was raised by a doting mother, who only wanted what was best for him, but she was too poor and too sick to be of any real use. She couldn’t take care of the boy or give him what he needed.”

Ashwood circled the table, running a hand along the back of Zekia’s chair. She stiffened in response.

Zekia, Wesley whispered again.

To Wesley, she said, Hello! There you are! You didn’t forget about me. And smiled into the very corners of her mind.

“The little boy was fascinated by magic and one day he met a busker who promised him wonders,” Ashwood said. “He begged the crooked fellow to give him something to help his mother. Then the busker pulled out a vial, bright as the sun, and told the boy it was the secret to happiness. And so the boy ran home as fast as he could and poured the elixir into his mother’s soup and watched her drink it. He waited for the moment it would fix all of their problems.”

Ashwood paused with a long sigh.

“The elixir did not fix anything,” he said. “It only made the boy’s mother sicker, until one day she died. The busker had called it happiness, but it was the destroyer of happiness.”

Zekia had never heard this story before, but it echoed with familiarity. Ashwood had named her elixir the Loj because of ljoisi uf hemga—the light of happiness. She had never questioned why he’d chosen that name, but it made sense now.

Zekia had finally given him what nobody else had been able to.

It’s not your fault, kid, Wesley said. Don’t listen to him. Listen to me. Listen to my voice.

Zekia bit down on her lip.

“Before the boy’s mother died, she told him a secret,” Ashwood said. “She told him his father’s name with her dying breath. Magnus Robertsson.”

The old Realm Doyen. Zekia knew the name just as anyone in Uskhanya did.

“He knew he was my father and he didn’t care. He turned his back on his family just like he turned his back on the realm. He tried to erase my destiny.”

“But leaders aren’t chosen by blood,” Zekia said. “They’re elected.”

She knew the words were dangerous as soon as she spoke them, because good little warriors knew when to stay quiet.

Ashwood spun Zekia’s chair around and slammed his palms on the armrests. When he leaned in, close enough that she could smell the ash on his breath, he said, “My story isn’t finished yet.”

It’s okay, kid, Wesley said. I’m going to get you out.

There is no out, she whispered back. There never was.

Ashwood righted himself and adjusted his suit in a way Zekia had seen Wesley do so many times.