We pass the guards standing outside my room and march down marble halls covered in white tile striated with hints of blue and gold and silver. Floor-to-ceiling arched windows line every available space, making it almost feel like we’re outside. Most are devoid of glass, covered with a network of lattices constructed of blue pearl carved into whorls meant to look like rolling waves. The effect is magnificent.

As we pad through the wide halls, I wonder where we are in relation to the throne room and the tank with the Alluvion Coral. Can I sneak in there tonight? How can I convince Cyan I’m not a threat and dispense with my guard?

“How are you feeling?” Cyan asks as we walk. “That was quite an impressive display last night.”

“Sorry about your bathroom. I didn’t mean to destroy your palace.”

He waves a hand as if it’s of no consequence. “It’s fine. This place has been through worse.”

I nod, and we continue walking. I can practically hear the questions he must be screaming in his mind. It’s very suspicious that I have so little control over my magic. I know that’s not normal for a High Fae of my age. Even if I hadn’t just come into my full power, I should have more control.

Cyan opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t want to answer whatever comes out of it, so I deflect his questions with one of my own. I hate always lying about everything, but I’ve spent so many years hiding who I am that the truth feels impossible. As long as no one knows too much, they can’t use it against me.

“So what’s with you and my aunt and Anemone? Doesn’t that get complicated?”

Okay. That wasn’t really what I was planning to say. Foot, meet mouth.

Cyan’s eyebrow arches as he gives me a cool look. I can’t tell if my question angers him or if he sees right through my pathetic attempts to hold on to my secrets.

“That’s perhaps a discussion for another day, Lor,” he says in a way that sounds like he’s speaking with a child who just asked where babies come from.

“Right,” I say. “Sorry.” I am sorry because that was kind of rude.

Cyan doesn’t reply as we round another corner and are greeted by a set of translucent crystal doors embedded with a design of pearlescent shells. He hauls one open and then ushers me inside. We enter a room that serves as a library and study, with shelves lining the walls and a large white table in the center.

I take two steps and then freeze, recognizing the two visitors seated at the table.

“No,” I say, and back up. This is an ambush. I’ve been tricked.

Cyan circles his large hand around my arm and holds me in place.