I sigh, knowing exactly what she’s going to propose, and knowing exactly what my response will be. We have this argument every ten years when the decennial meeting of monarchs and other kingdom leaders occurs. It’s still called the Forum of Royals, despite the fact that the Republic of Reshnar implemented a democratic government over two hundred years ago.

“What are the parameters?” Admon, one of my advisors, asks. The old fae male was an advisor to my father, and even grandfather, and is the leymaster my parents brought in to teach me to use my magic all those years ago. He’s tall and sturdy looking, with blue eyes that sparkle when he knows he’s telling you something you need to hear. His hair and beard are both gray and long. For a fae to look that old, they have to have been alive for over a thousand years, maybe more.

“Two advisors and four guards,” Nemesia informs the room. “As Her Majesty’s Chair of the Council of Advisors, I’ll obviously be accompanying her. We must discuss and vote on which additional member of this Council will attend. My proposal is—”

“You aren’t the obvious choice,” I interrupt. “This is the twenty-ninth Forum of Royals in my time as Queen, and not once have I agreed to nor even suggested that you attend with me, as you well know. Your history with the King of Velmara—”

“Is nothing compared to your own, Your Majesty,” Nemesia adds.

I give her a pointed stare before adding, “That may be true, but my presence is, unfortunately, required. Yours is not.”

The rest of my advisors look on in boredom, many of them witness to this exact argument several times over, knowing that Nemesia will insist, and I’ll rely on my station as Queen to overrule her. It’s one of the rare instances where I do it, and the guilt eats me alive every time. Even my oldest friend and most trusted advisor feels the shackles I’ve placed on my people with the mist and the tension between Thayaria and the rest of the Four Kingdoms. I can’t help but wonder who she would have become, with her brilliant mind and penchant for politics, had she grown up in a world where Thayaria wasn’t isolated. But I won’t—can’t—allow Nemesia to be in King Mazus’s presence, especially with so few guards. Even three hundred years later, the sting of grief is fresh when I recall how I felt thinking that blade was going to land in her heart during the Battle of Moormyr.

“This year is different, Laurel, and you know it,” she adds with a quiet intensity.