As soon as I landed at the port, I walked through the mist. Years ago, Laurel somehow spelled the magical barrier to allow me to come and go as I pleased, even though I rarely use the ability. Unlike many others, I didn’t need to wait for someone to collect me and quickly made my way into Thayaria. But not twenty minutes after I settled in by the fire at The Emerald Shell, soldiers arrived and arrested me. Mazus’s books were taken from me, and an air channeler aerstepped me directly into the palace cells. Carex arrived shortly after, giving me no information other than my arrest was on Laurel’s orders. His eyes held pity in them.

Surely Laurel had not ordered my arrest, or if she had, it must be part of some scheme I don’t yet understand.

After what feels like hours, footsteps echo off the rock hallway, the only noise I’ve heard since arriving other than the drip of water. I stand and smooth the pitiful excuse for clothing I’m wearing, ready to laugh with Laurel at whatever’s going on and tell her everything I’ve learned. The movement of my left arm makes me wince, but I ignore the stabbing pain, resolved to show Laurel the calm and put together demeanor she expects from me. But when she arrives, the Velmaran Prince at her side and expression cold and filled with fury, no amount of resolve can keep the emotion and panic from my voice.

“Laurel, thank god you’re here. I have so much to tell you. What’s going on?” Her face hardens and she bares her teeth, only adding to my confusion.

“Why don’t you answer that question first? Why are you here?” she demands. I recoil from the ire in her voice.

“What—I don’t—Laurel, I escaped Velmara. Barely. I need to talk to you. Privately.” There’s pleading in my voice, a crack in my exterior. Laurel doesn’t seem to notice, too consumed with her fury. My eyes dart to the Velmaran Prince next to her, and I try to convey with my eyes that he should not be part of our conversation, whatever scheme she’s playing at be damned. Prince Hawthorne stiffens by her side, subtly shifting his body to stand in front of her. So, they have grown close, as Mazus said.

“Traitors are not afforded a private audience with the Queen,” Laurel hisses at me, and my mouth actually drops open in shock.

“Traitor?” I whisper, my brows furrowing. Is this what Mazus wanted Hawthorne to do? Did the Prince grow close to Laurel so he could somehow convince her I’m a traitor? She’s too smart to fall for something like that, too calculating and distrusting. “Laurel, there’s been a mistake. I don’t know what you think you know—”