Magnus is already at breakfast when I enter, seated at his usual place, his usual warmth: the easy smile, the amber eyes greeting me with comfortable familiarity.
I sit across from him and pour tea with hands that do not shake.
“Good morning, Kira. You look tired — rough night?”
“The twins were restless. Castiel’s teething again, and when he’s uncomfortable, Lyra picks up on it. Neither of them settled until past midnight.”
“Growing pains. My mother used to say that Ironridge children teethe like they’re preparing for war.”
He takes a bite of bread, then glances toward the empty chairs where the twins’ high seats usually sit. “I didn’t see them in the garden yesterday. Are they well?”
“Growing faster than I can keep up with. You know how children are.”
Our eyes meet across the table. The moment lasts two seconds, no longer than any ordinary glance between allies sharing a morning meal. But in those two seconds, the performance is absolute.
Two people wearing normalcy like armor, each aware the other is performing, neither willing to drop the mask first.
“Children are resilient,” Magnus says, returning to his breakfast. “They adapt faster than we expect.”
He doesn’t ask anything else. A man who stops asking questions has either lost interest or started finding his own answers.
I track the shift: the casual tone a fraction too casual, the way he accepted my answer without follow-up. He’s calibrated his behavior, aware that his questions were noticed.
Damon joins us ten minutes later. He greets Magnus warmly, discusses a trade dispute, asks about the Ironridge boundary negotiation. The masks hold.
After breakfast, I find a quiet moment with Damon in the corridor.
“He asked about the twins,” I say.
“He’s testing the air, checking whether their absence has been noticed, whether anyone will volunteer information about where they are.”
“I’m going to give him something to chase. A false trail — see how he responds.”
“What kind of?”
“The twins are with a healer in the eastern wing. Mild fever, nothing serious, just precautionary observation. If Magnus is genuinely uninterested, the information dies at the breakfast table. If he’s actively tracking them, he’ll verify.”
“And if he verifies?”
“Then we have our proof that he’s looking for them, and the confrontation timeline accelerates.”
“Do it.”
I mention the healer’s visit to Elara over lunch, loud enough for the nearby courtiers to overhear: the palace gossip network that Magnus has been monitoring since his arrival. By mid-afternoon, the information will have reached every ear in the building, including the ones I’m targeting.
“The twins are resting in the eastern wing,” I tell Elara. “A mild fever — the healer wants to observe them through the day. Nothing alarming, but you know how cautious I am.”
“Of course… Should I visit them? I could bring the picture book Lyra likes.”
“Perhaps tomorrow. The healer prefers minimal visitors while they’re running temperatures.”
Elara meets my eyes with the understanding of a woman who knows exactly what I’m doing and why. She plays her part with the same steady composure she’s maintained since the archive discovery, holding the weight of what she knows beneath a surface of scholarly calm.
The results arrive by evening.
Malik’s watchers report by evening: one of Magnus’s personal wolves was seen in the eastern wing corridor. The wolf lingered twelve minutes, checking doors, peering through windows.
Castiel’s first sentence echoes through the empty nursery every time I pass: Mama stay.
VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABEL
Comments
The readers' comments on the novel: Reject me twice (Kira and Theron)