“Come, Lor,” he says. “When they heard you were here, they just had to meet you.”

“Heard?” I ask.

“Well, I sent a message. They’d just returned home from the chaos in Aphelion.”

I glare at Cyan and then at D’Arcy, the queen of Celestria, and Bronte, the queen of Tor, who are both eyeing me with a curious mixture of intrigue and distrust.

The Star Queen, with her pale skin, long silver hair, and eyes so dark they’re inky puddles, is draped in a silvery dress that looks like it’s been literally sewn from moonlight.

Bronte is the Star Queen’s complete opposite with her dark, gleaming skin, and waist-length hair that’s also silver but in an entirely different way. It’s like iron and layered with streaks of black, like she was chipped from the heart of a mountain rather than scooped from a falling star.

She wears a set of grey leathers that look soft and supple and obviously designed for ease of movement. She’s the epitome of a warrior queen if I ever saw one, and I already love her. Even if she’s looking like she wants to pick me up and toss me over the balcony. It’s a love borne of admiration, not warmth.

“What’s going on?” I ask as Cyan drags me towards the table. I voice my protest, but I’m surrounded by royalty, by three of the most powerful people in Ouranos, and I’m still the wild girl they stole from Nostraza and stuffed into a golden dress.

“We just wanted to say hello,” Bronte says, sitting forward, scrutinizing me from head to toe. Despite her fierce exterior, I see a softness reflected in her eyes. “Is what Cyan says true? Are you really Serce’s granddaughter?”

I nod. The secrets I’ve kept for so long have been spooling apart for months now. Pieces of cotton teasing away on the tips of thorny branches. There was no keeping the lid on this. Do I even want to? If my goal is truly to reclaim my legacy, that task is impossible without proclaiming the truth out loud for everyone to hear. Whatever happens, this was always inevitable. At some point, the mask had to come off.

“It’s true,” I say, a tight stitch releasing in my chest at the admission.

“And where have you been all this time?” Bronte asks.

With a sigh borne of an exhaustion that has nothing to do with a lack of sleep, I run through the same abbreviated version of events I gave to Cyan. I’ve retold this story so many times now that I should have it tattooed on my forehead. I understand why everyone is curious, but is this all I’ll ever be?