Jaeros’s peppered hair hung loose around his shoulders, accentuating his pale blue eyes, and his thick beard covered most of his face, making Jaren’s freshly shaved one seem sharper than usual.

He wore a plum-colored tunic with silver embroidery on the collar, untucked over wrinkle-free, gray trousers. And if all that didn’t give away his capital origin, his scruff-free, pristine boots certainly did.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

The question had her eyes snapping up from his clothing, surprised he’d used the common tongue. She flushed, embarrassed to be caught staring.

“Um,” she started, but then paused. How did you politely tell someone you had no memory of them at all? “No,” she finally admitted, flushing a deeper shade of red. “I’m sorry.” But he just nodded, as if he’d already assumed as much.

“It’s not just you,” she continued, wanting to ease the sting of her words, even though she didn’t know why. It wasn’t like it was her fault. “I don’t remember anything apart from a few pieces. It’s taken me weeks just to get comfortable with Thyabathi again.”

He sat up straighter, setting the mug of tea he’d been sipping on the table. “Wait, you don’t remember anything?”

“No.”

“Not even him?” he asked incredulously, pointing a finger in Jaren’s direction.

She shook her head.

“Her soul recognized my own just fine. She just didn’t understand what it meant because my mate has been raised with fucking humans,” Jaren bit out beside her.

Jaeros’s expression tightened. “I’m sorry, Veralie. I don’t know why—”

“Unless you want to lose that tongue, I suggest you use her proper title when speaking to her.”

Puffing her cheeks out in a heavy sigh, she tipped her face up and rolled her eyes as father and son had yet another stare off. She could probably walk to the inn, nap, and walk back, and they’d still be staring at each other.

She grumbled, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, and released a small yelp when it tilted under her weight, rustling their dishes.

Both males twisted toward her, and she launched back, tucking her hands in her lap, and cleared her throat. At least she had their attention.

“Don’t you think kicking everyone out will only give them more reason to gossip?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from titles and torture.

Jaren grunted his agreement, but Jaeros was already shaking his head before the last word had passed her lips. “Not any more than your face will already cause on its own. By night, every Magyki here will have heard about the daż of the queen.”

“Daż?”

“It doesn’t translate well, but think along the lines of ‘remnant’,” Jaren said, his expression softening slightly when she met his eyes.

A remnant of the queen? “As in…like a spirit of her or something?” she asked.

“More or less. He,” Jaren said, curling his lip, “means they will think you are the queen and take it as an omen.”