Chapter 8: Mirrors Edge
Sleep was a foreign concept.
Violet lay in her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across the plaster as the hearth fire guttered and spat. The quilt was thin. The pillows were flat. Her apartment, which usually felt like a warm embrace of herbs and books and familiar comfort, now felt like a cage.
She closed her eyes.
And immediately, unbidden, she was back there. Back in the guest wing of Thornhold Palace, in that absurdly large bed with its four posts carved from ancient oak, the furs piled so high she'd nearly drowned in them. Cassian's warmth had been against her back—solid, steady, his breath stirring the hair at her nape. And her cheek had rested on Evander's chest, rising and falling with each slow heartbeat, his arm heavy across her waist, anchoring her to something she hadn't known she needed.
She had felt safe.
Not the cautious safety of locked doors and warded windows. Not the practical safety of a witch who could level a building if she chose. Something older. Something bone-deep. The safety of belonging. Of being held by people who would burn the world down before they let anything touch her.
Violet's eyes snapped open.
"Stop it," she muttered to the dark. "Just stop."
But her body remembered. Her skin remembered. The ghost of Cassian's fingers tracing lazy patterns on her hip. The rumble of Evander's laugh against her ear. The way they had both stilled when she'd shifted closer, as if afraid she might vanish if they moved too quickly.
She threw off the quilt and sat up.
The clock on the mantel read half past four. Dawn was still hours away. She could brew tea. She could read. She could reorganize her ingredient shelves for the third time this week. Anything to stop her mind from circling back to them.
Instead, she sat there, feet bare on the cold floor, and let herself feel it.
The bond.
It was there. Aneara had been right about that. It had been there all along, maybe, lurking beneath the surface of her awareness like a current under still water. But now that she knew what it was, she couldn't unfeel it. The pull toward them was constant—a low hum in her chest, a warmth in her blood, a quiet certainty that said they're there, they're waiting, they're yours.
She didn't know what to do with that.
She'd spent three hundred and forty-seven years building a life that didn't depend on anyone. She had her work. Her books. Her tea. Her tiny apartment with its creaking floors and stained-glass window. She had Mira, and Aneara, and a handful of other friends who drifted in and out of her life like seasons. She had purpose and independence and the quiet satisfaction of a life well-ordered.
She did not have this.
She did not have two kings looking at her like she was the answer to a question they'd been asking for two hundred years. She did not have the weight of a bond that wanted to reshape everything she was. She did not have the terrifying, exhilarating possibility of being someone's favorite person—of being two someones' favorite person.
Violet pressed her palms against her eyes.
"This is fine," she said out loud. "Everything is fine."
The fire crackled in response, distinctly unimpressed.
---
Morning came grudgingly, gray and damp, the kind of day that made you want to burrow back under the covers and pretend the world didn't exist.
Violet did not burrow. She got up. She washed her face in cold water. She pulled on her most practical dress—dark blue wool, high neckline, nothing that could be misconstrued as an invitation—and braided her hair into something severe. She brewed tea. She ate a piece of toast standing at the window, watching the village wake up below.
She looked, she imagined, like a woman who had slept perfectly well and was ready to face the day.
The lie felt necessary.
By the time she reached Thornhold Palace, the sun had managed to claw its way through the clouds, casting weak light across the cracked marble floors of the grand hall. Violet walked quickly, head down, clutching the stack of correspondence she'd collected from the village post. She knew the way to Cassian's wing by heart now—the winding corridor, the tapestry of a hunt scene that was almost certainly older than she was, the guard at the door who nodded as she approached.
"Morning, Liam."
"Morning, my lady."
She wasn't a lady. She'd told him that a dozen times. He kept saying it anyway.
The door to Cassian's study was ajar. Violet pushed it open and found him at his desk, hair still damp from a bath, sleeves rolled to his elbows, frowning at a stack of reports. He looked up when she entered, and his face did something complicated—surprise, pleasure, and something more guarded beneath it.
"Violet." He straightened. "You're early."
"I'm always early." She set the correspondence on the corner of his desk. "Mail from the village. You've got three letters from the northern territories, a request from the Mages' Guild for an audience, and what appears to be a very passionate complaint about the state of the roads between here and the eastern border."
Cassian's lips twitched. "Passionate?"
"There are illustrations." Violet tapped the envelope. "Graphic ones. I'd recommend not opening it until after you've eaten."
"Duly noted." He leaned back in his chair, studying her with those golden eyes. "You look—"
"I'm fine."
"I was going to say 'tired.'"
"Also fine." Violet stepped back, putting distance between them. "I've got tea to deliver to Evander. And then I'm spending the afternoon in the records room. The ambassador from the Western Isles arrives next week, and I want to make sure we have accurate maps of the trade routes before he starts making demands."
Cassian was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded, slow and deliberate.
"Of course," he said. "I'll be here if you need anything."
She was already at the door. "You always are."
She didn't look back.
---
Evander's wing was quieter than Cassian's. Fewer guards, fewer servants, fewer distractions. The King of the Ironveil Pack had carved out a space for himself that felt more like a scholar's retreat than a monarch's domain. Books lined the walls. Maps covered every available surface. And in the corner, a small stove kept a kettle perpetually warm.
Violet found him standing by the window, looking out at the courtyard below. His silhouette was all sharp angles and broad shoulders, his dark hair still tousled from sleep. He didn't turn when she entered, but she knew he sensed her—the slight shift in his posture, the way his breathing changed.
"Tea," she announced, setting the tray on his desk. "Black, no sugar, steeped for exactly four minutes. I know you don't believe in proper steeping times, but I refuse to enable your barbarism."
That earned a huff of what might have been amusement.
"You've been talking to Mira," he said, finally turning. His ocean-blue eyes caught the weak morning light. "She's the only one who insults my tea."
"I'm a fast learner." Violet busied herself arranging the tray, adjusting the cup, straightening the napkin. "I've also got your weekly agenda. Council meeting at noon, inspection of the eastern watchtowers at three, and a dinner with the trade delegation from the coastal settlements at seven. Cassian wanted me to remind you not to glower through the entire meal."
Evander raised an eyebrow.
"Those were his exact words," Violet said. "Paraphrased. Slightly."
"He's been saying that for two centuries." Evander moved away from the window, settling into the chair behind his desk. His gaze followed her as she continued to fuss with the tea tray. "Violet."
She froze, cup in hand.
"Yes?"
"You're hovering."
"I'm not hovering. I'm preparing your tea."
"You've already prepared it. Twice." He reached out, gently taking the cup from her fingers. "Sit down."
"I have work to do."
"You have work to do in this room." He gestured to the stack of parchment on the other side of his desk. "Maps. Trade routes. Supply manifests. I know you don't trust me to organize them correctly."
"I never said that."
"You don't have to." The corner of his mouth curved. "Sit."
Violet sat.
The chair was softer than she expected. She'd spent enough time in this office over the past five years to know it well—the ink stains on the desk, the worn rug, the way the fire popped and hissed in the grate. But she'd never noticed how it felt to be on this side of the desk, facing him, with the morning light catching the silver threads in his beard and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
She looked away.
"I'm not avoiding you," she said.
Evander took a sip of his tea. "I didn't say you were."
"You were thinking it."
"Were I?"
"You had that look. The one that says you're reading someone's mind even though you're not actually a telepath."
"I'm not reading your mind," Evander said. "I'm reading your posture. There's a difference."
"And what does my posture say?"
"That you're tired." His voice was quiet, not accusing. "That you didn't sleep. That you're here, doing your job, because you think it will prove something."
Violet's jaw tightened.
"I'm here doing my job," she said, "because it is my job. I'm the Royal Magical Advisor. That means advising. Organizing. Tea-delivering. I don't know what else you think I should be doing."
"Nothing." Evander set his cup down. "I don't think you should be doing anything else. I think you're doing exactly what you need to be doing, and I'm glad you're doing it."
She blinked.
"That's... not what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something about the bond. Something about last night. Something—" She stopped, frustrated. "You said you could wait. Cassian said the same thing. I'm trying to take you at your word."
"We meant it."
"Then stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm—like I'm something precious you're afraid to break." Violet's voice cracked slightly. "I'm not fragile, Evander. I've lived three hundred and forty-seven years without anyone treating me like I was made of glass. I don't need you to start now."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Evander didn't look away. He didn't flinch. He simply sat there, in his chair, with his tea growing cold, and let her words settle between them like stones dropped in still water.
"All right," he said finally.
Violet frowned. "All right?"
"All right. I'll stop looking at you like that." He paused. "But I won't stop looking at you. That's not something I can do."
She opened her mouth to respond—
And a knock on the door cut through the tension like a blade.
"Enter," Evander said.
The door swung open to reveal a young servant, breathless and disheveled.
"Your Majesty," they gasped. "There's been an incident at the eastern watchtower. A messenger just arrived. The patrol found something."
Evander was on his feet in an instant.
"What kind of something?"
The servant's face was pale.
"Bodies," they said. "Three of them. And a message."
Evander's eyes met Violet's across the desk.
The bond hummed between them.
"Get Cassian," he said.