“We’ve all sorts of strange creatures, I suppose. The Sirens, the Harpies. There are occultists in the city. The proximity to death draws them from all over the courts. The Descendants reside in caves along the cliffs.”
“The Descendants?”
Yallara’s eyes moved toward the window, searching for the words.
“They are not human, but nor are they gods. They’re believed to come from somewhere between here and the Court Below—half alive, half dead. They have a foot in each world.”
Lunelle held her breath, the thought quite paralyzing.
Yallara’s sapphire eyes wandered back toward her. “Things seem to be shifting quickly, don’t you think? Every morning I wake up and it feels like another piece of some horrible puzzle has fallen into place.”
Lunelle nodded, understanding her all too well. She decided now was as good a time as any to test the waters.
“We’ve had an increase in rebel activity in our cities. Our courtiers are unsettled, to say the least.” And she had done exactly that, said the least she could on the subject in the hopes that it might spark something within Yallara worth noting.
“What sort of rebels?” Her onyx brows tucked inward, her eyes darting to the door.
Lunelle ran her finger over her invitation’s severed seal, letting the cracked wax warm against her fingertip.
“I’m not sure,” Lunelle lied. “We haven’t been able to infiltrate and identify who they’re in service to.”
Yallara’s tongue pushed at the edge of her lips, debating on how much to reveal to the demigoddess before her.
“My brother is cautious with my exposure to what happens outside of these opulent walls.” She stretched her neck, eyes slipping from the window to Lunelle’s face. “But I hear things, of course.”
Lunelle expected more to flow from the young princess’s mind, but she seemed hesitant to divulge more.
So Lunelle did what she did best.
She waited.
“He thinks I don’t hear the whispers amongst the soldiers as they return from our southern territories,” Yallara finally admitted, her velvet voice falling into a hushed whisper. “We’ve lost control of Charon and Sephonia. It’s why he was so sure that the man the other night?—”
“Hold that thought,” Lunelle said, the hair on the back of her neck prickling as she heard the clamor she’d learned to associate with Arcas and his unending posse of advisors and bodyguards bouncing off the hall. She rose from her seat and crossed the library slowly, like a beam of moonlight brushing silently over the ornate rug. She wrapped her fingers around the bronze handle and pushed it shut slowly, aware that a slamming door drew more ears than hushed gossip.
She turned to Yallara. “Your brother and his council certainly make their presence known.”
Yallara giggled. “Arcas is not what one would call… graceful.”
Lunelle tucked herself onto the plush couch across from Yallara, mirroring her relaxed position in the hopes it would ingratiate her to the young princess. She wouldn’t call the prince gracious, she supposed, but he wasn’t without a certain air about him.
“Whatwouldyou call him?” Lunelle asked.
“Scared,” Yallara laughed, her gemstone gaze hardening as she stretched her shoulders. “I’m curious whatyouwould call him?”
Lunelle folded her hands in her lap, weaving her fingers together as she thought about the smartest answer. The answer her mother would give.
“I think your brother is up against a myriad of forces that would scare any man.”
“But not a demigoddess,” Yallara snorted. “Excellent, Princess. Your mother would be proud.”
Lunelle dropped her shoulders, melting her posture into something less curated, less calculated.
“Scared leaders make brash choices in order to appear decisive.”
“So you agree, then? You think he’s scared?”
“I know he is,” Lunelle sighed. “Because we all are, Yallara. Anyone who claims otherwise is worse than scared—they’re arrogant. Arrogant leaders get innocent people killed.”
