In the morning, Varia is long gone. What would I even say? That I saw her on the balcony being objectively unsettling? That I, too, dream of a tree? In the cold light of morning, my fear seems childish and unreal. So I push it away to focus on the reality in front of me.

I wait for the king to call on me. Waiting is the worst part of life; it feels like walking on a bed of rusted nails, every step painful.

But the king doesn’t call for me. First, he calls for his army.

King Sref sends for the bulk of the Vetrisian army to gather at the capital. He also calls the farmers and the tradesmen to consolidate resources in Vetris—in no time the streets crowd with grain wagons moving back and forth to storage towers. It’s a grim reminder that I can cocoon myself in my worries all I want, but the war outside will move forward inexorably.

Varia barely returns to her room—either in meetings with ministers or with Fione spending time together in the library—which means I have free rein of the apartments. If I wanted to appear proper to the court, I would go back to Y’shennria’s manor to live. And I’m sure Varia would be fine with it. But living in that empty mansion, full of so many memories, would gnaw at me. I know that. So I stay among the silks and the marble, watching the darkwood manse from afar. The nobles approve insomuch as they can—praising Varia for taking pity on me when Lady Y’shennria’s all but “abandoned” me.

Fione avoids me at all costs, darting out when we enter the same rooms, making muttered excuses to flee any social situation I exist in. Malachite still won’t look at me straight when I’m around. Lucien, on the other hand, acts the opposite. He looks up when I pass and makes a point to shoot me the most grating, placating smile I’ve ever seen each time we meet in the halls. The sort of smile he gives to people he dislikes. It itches, burns like an acidfire under skin—a fire I can’t escape no matter which way I turn or how far I get. He addresses me once, as we meet on the stairs of the palace entrance—me going to the valkerax, and him returning from riding, his hair sweat-beaded and his cheeks flushed.

“Lady Zera.” He smiles bitterly, his shed riding jacket under his arm. “I hope I find you well.”

It’s such a trite thing to say, a furious laugh starts to bubble up in me. It’s for girls much more gullible than I am. Girls much younger than I am. Girls much more human than I am. It’s not a pleasantry; it’s an insult. And we both know it.