Chapter 117 117
Zephyr and I went hunting before returning to the palace.
Ezriel hummed happily beneath my skin. He seemed happy about the wild boar he got.
By the time the palace walls rise before us, I've already folded the beast back into silence.
The guards at the side entrance bow as we pass. The corridors swallow us in cool marble and gold-veined stone. Servants move about with trays, linens, and scrolls, each bowing quickly and respectfully.
For a while, neither of us speaks. Zephyr walks half a step behind me, as he does in public spaces.
"That improvement today," Zephyr says at last, voice low enough not to carry. "It matters."
"It has to," I reply. "The blue moon is in a few days. I can't relent."
"Yes, your majesty," something in his tone shifts, and his ease thins.
I glance at him. "Say what you're circling."
He exhales once. "The palace is splitting."
I almost laugh. "The palace is always splitting. Nobles survive on disagreement."
"Not like this."
That catches my attention. I slow slightly, and he matches my pace.
"They want you to declare your future," he continues. Zephyr never gets directs. That's just the way he is.
Yet, I already know where this is going, and irritation pricks at the back of my neck.
"They want me to name an heir," I say flatly.
"Yes.”
A servant passes us with a lowered gaze. We wait until she's gone.
"My sons are infants," I mutter. "They can barely hold their own heads up. Why do things have to get political with them? The court needs patience."
Zephyr's look is sympathetic but unyielding. "Patience is a luxury rulers rarely get, your majesty. The moment you call them your children is the moment they seep into the political world. They can't escape it."
I click my tongue. "I need more time to think."
"Do you?"
We round another corner.
"Your father named you his heir the moment you were born," Zephyr says. "There was no doubt. The kingdom grew around that certainty."
"I am not my father." I tried to block the thought of Darian from my mind. Darian, the wild beast who hunts little girls.
"No," Zephyr agrees quietly. "But the kingdom wants the same hands."
That lands heavier than I expected. My father's shadow still stretches across these halls: his decisions, his authority, the way people still measure me against his ghost.
I run a hand through my hair. "Ares and Drathen deserve time to be children. I won't let anyone turn them into pawns."
"They are pawns already," Zephyr says. "You just haven't moved them."
I stop walking. He stops too.
"Choose your next words carefully," I warn, though there's no real heat in it.
His gaze stays steady. "If blood alone decided it, many would lean toward Drathen."
I scoff softly. "Because he's Catherine's?"
"Because he's undeniably yours by blood and queen-born."
I resume walking, slower now.
"But Catherine ruined her advantage with the other half of the courts when she started executing people," Zephyr continues. Over 5000 people are dead now because of a slight. Nobles don't forget when their people, high or low, vanish."
I scoffed. "So Ares has a chance because Catherine ruined hers with the people?"
"People fear Catherine. Fear brings tolerance, not love."
I can't fully argue that.
Zephyr's expression shifts again, more complicated. "The people love Ares."
A small warmth flickers in my chest. That doesn't surprise me. Ares has a bright, gentle presence. He is the sort of child whom servants smile at without realizing.
"But," Zephyr adds, "love isn't the same as support."
I glance at him sharply. "Explain."
"Many hesitate to rally behind him because he isn't your blood."
My steps are slow.
"And the rumors," he says carefully.
I already feel irritation rising. "Rumors are wind."
"These ones have teeth."
I turn my head fully now. "Say it plainly."
He does. "Some believe Ares might be a werewolf."
A short breath leaves me. He indeed is, but no one must know.
I wave it off. "He's a child. A beloved one. That should be enough."
Zephyr doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push further. The corridor opens toward the residential wing. The scent of milk and herbs from the nursery halls drifts faintly, but I could hear Ares' voice in any of the rooms.
"They'll grow," I turned to Zephyr. "When they do, the choice will be clearer."
"If the court lets you wait that long," Zephyr replies.
I was about to answer when hurried footsteps slapped against marble.
A nurse rushes down the hall toward us, face pale, breath uneven. Her hands tremble as she clutches her apron.
My instincts sharpen instantly.
She stops before me, dropping into a frantic bow that barely holds form.
"Your majesty!!!" Her voice shakes.
A cold thread slides down my spine.
"Ares isn't breathing!"