The Queen's Mage

Chairs scraped. Merrow stood too quickly. Yvander began asking Daravan, in an undertone, whether dormant offices accrued unused stipends and whether this meant the crown had been sitting on perfectly good money while he cut barley forecasts. Harrek approached Verya with a grimace and the words “private review,” which appeared to pain him physically. Marielle snapped her scroll case shut and announced to no one in particular that if a Night Fae mage blew up her test chamber, she would bill the old Faeries directly.

Hagen lingered.

Allandra did not sit.

Daravan remained at her shoulder.

Hagen came around the table slowly.

“Well,” he said. “That was stirring.”

“Was it?”

“Very. Recognition, mercy, frightened people crossing borders. You nearly made Merrow grow a conscience.”

“A temporary condition, I’m sure.”

Hagen smiled.

For a moment, he looked almost like her brother again.

Then he glanced down at the amended page in her hand.

“She wrote that clause herself?”

“Yes.”

“How interesting.”

“It is.”

“You have taken a great risk for her.”

“I have taken a calculated risk for Avalusia.”

“Of course.”

Allandra’s fingers tightened around the papers.

Hagen stepped closer, voice lowering. “Be careful, sister.”

It would have sounded like concern if she did not know him so well.

“I always am.”

“No,” he said softly. “You are controlled. It is not the same thing.”

Daravan’s gaze sharpened.

Allandra did not move.

Hagen looked between them, smile faint and unreadable.

“Three days ago, she was a prisoner. Today, she is nearly your Royal Mage. I wonder what she will be by the end of the month.”

The bond surged so abruptly Allandra almost reached for light.

Daravan saw.

Hagen saw Daravan see.

And smiled.

Allandra made her voice cold. “You are excused.”

He bowed. “Majesty.”

He left her with the title, the smile, and the faint scent of amber oil in his wake.

Only when the doors closed did Daravan speak.

“I dislike him.”

“He is my brother.”

“I am aware.”

“He is also often correct.”

Daravan’s mouth tightened. “That is what I dislike.”

Allandra looked down at the papers again.

Conditional approval.

Not victory.

But not defeat.

A door.

A narrow one, with knives on both sides and councilors measuring the hinges.

Still a door.

“I have to tell her,” Allandra said.

Daravan nodded. “Yes.”

“And then prepare her.”

“Yes.”

“She will hate it.”

“Almost certainly.”

“She may throw something.”

“I recommend not the statute. We need that.”

Despite herself, Allandra breathed something almost like a laugh.

Then she looked toward the eastern wing, though stone and corridors and half the palace stood between them.

Somewhere, Serali was waiting for the shape of her future.

Allandra held the amended oath close.

“Come,” she said.

Daravan fell in beside her.

This time, he did not offer to give her privacy.

Serali knew before the door opened that they had decided.

Not what. Not whether the decision was mercy or execution dressed in court silk. Only that the shape of the room had changed before either of them entered it.

She had spent the morning in the chair by the writing desk. Mara had left with the breakfast tray, and Serali had been alone with Everly’s card, her list of questions, and the sharp metallic taste of waiting.

The hairpin rested under her sleeve.

Not because she expected to use it.

Because not having it would have felt like stupidity.

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When the lock turned, Serali’s fingers curled around the arm of the chair.

Allandra entered first.

Daravan followed.

The sight of him steadied something in her, which was annoying. He looked tired. More tired than Allandra, somehow, though Allandra herself looked as if she had been carved from discipline and sleeplessness. He carried the statute book beneath one arm like a weapon he deeply resented.

Allandra held a folder of papers.

Serali looked from one to the other.

“Well,” she said. “No one is smiling. That seems either very good or very bad.”

Daravan’s mouth twitched. “Historically, Majesty’s council produces little cause for smiling.”

“Does it produce executions?”

“Less often than the public thinks.”

“Comforting.”

“I considered saying never, but accuracy restrained me.”

Allandra gave him a look.

Serali leaned back. “How did they enjoy finding out they have a Royal Mage-shaped problem?”

Daravan shut the door behind him. “With grace, wisdom, and admirable restraint.”

Serali looked at Allandra.

Allandra said, “Merrow objected strenuously.”

“Ah.”

“Verya attached conditions.”

“Of course.”

“Marielle demanded engineering oversight.”

Serali blinked. “For me?”

“For any magical workspace you are given.”

“I don’t have a magical workspace.”

“You might.”

That should not have interested her.

It did.

Serali folded both hands in her lap before either of them could notice.

Allandra noticed.

“Prince Hagen abstained,” Daravan said.

Serali’s brows rose. “That sounds worse than objecting.”

“It is more irritating,” Daravan said.

“It means he wants his hands clean if it fails,” Allandra said, “and his mouth available if it succeeds.”

Serali gave a low whistle. “Charming family.”

“Yes,” Allandra said. “We’re beloved for it.”

Daravan’s gaze flicked to her.

“He is wondering whether humor before giving you council news is wise,” Allandra said.

“It is not,” Daravan said.

Serali’s mouth twitched despite herself. “I appreciate being eased toward doom.”

“It is not doom,” Allandra said, too quickly.

Serali looked at her.

Allandra noticed that too, and seemed to steady herself with visible effort. She crossed to the writing desk and set the papers down, not too close, not too far. Daravan remained near the door for a moment, then came forward with the statute.

No one sat.

That made the room feel like a sentencing.

Serali stood, because she refused to be the only person below eye level.

Allandra’s gaze moved to her wrist.

No tether.

No bandage either. Lia had left the wounds uncovered that morning to let the skin breathe. The marks were still red, ringed and ugly, but closing.

Allandra looked away first.

Good, Serali thought.

No, not good.

“What did they allow?” Serali asked.

“Conditional approval,” Daravan said.

The phrase landed with the dull weight of bureaucracy.

Serali stared at him. “That sounds like a yes wearing armor.”

Allandra opened the folder. “The council approved provisional appointment under several conditions. The oath must be reviewed by Lady Verya before signature. Your appointment remains conditional until you demonstrate magical competency in a controlled setting.”

Serali folded her arms. “So I have to perform.”

“You have to show that the title is not fictional,” Daravan said.

“The title is fictional.”

“All titles are fictional,” Allandra said.

Serali looked at her sharply.

Daravan looked toward the ceiling as if asking the beams for patience.

Allandra continued, “The demonstration will be private. Daravan, Lia, Lady Verya, Lady Marielle, and myself.”

“Prince Hagen?”

“No.”

That answer came from both of them at once.

Serali looked between them again.

“Hm.”

Daravan’s expression turned pained. “Please do not make that sound.”

“What sound?”

“The one that suggests you have noticed things.”

“I notice many things.”

“Yes. It is becoming a problem.”

Serali almost smiled.

Almost.

“What else?” she asked.

Allandra looked back to the papers. “No iron restraints. No ordinary civic charges for the market incident. Your personal history remains sealed unless you consent to disclosure. You will not be surrendered to Lyehira or any foreign claimant without your express consent. The clause stayed exactly as written.”

Serali’s throat tightened.

She looked down at the desk.

Her own handwriting stared back from the copied page, dark and angular amid the elegant court script.

She had expected it to be softened. Translated into some royal fog. Smoothed until it could mean anything and therefore nothing.

Serali swallowed. “Verya allowed that?”

“Reluctantly,” Allandra said.

“Good.”

Daravan nodded. “Reluctance means she understood it.”

“That is a bleak view of law.”

“It has served me well.”

Serali traced the edge of the page but did not touch the words. “And my additions about disclosure?”

“Accepted,” Allandra said. “Private history disclosed in confidence cannot be entered into public record or council testimony without your consent.”

Serali looked at her.

Allandra met her gaze.

No flinch. No softness offered to make the answer prettier. Just a promise placed in plain sight.

Serali hated that she trusted it more than she wanted to.

“And my ability to resign?” she asked.

“Thirty days’ notice,” Daravan said. “Crown obligated to arrange safe departure, relocation, or alternate protected status.”

Serali’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Verya did not object?”

“She has not seen that line yet,” Daravan said.

Serali looked at him.

He looked back.

A slow smile pulled at her mouth. “Captain, you hid a clause from council?”

“I declined to invite premature commentary.”

Allandra’s mouth twitched.

For a second, the room warmed.

Then Serali remembered what this was.

A cage. A title. A council deciding how bright to paint the bars.

She stepped back from the desk. “So I am approved, but not appointed.”

“Yes,” Allandra said.

“And until the demonstration?”

“You remain under crown protection.”

“Locked in this room?”

Allandra’s jaw tightened.

Daravan answered before she could. “Not locked.”

Serali went still.

“What?”

“Not locked,” he repeated. “Guarded.”

Serali looked at the door.

Then at Allandra.

Allandra’s voice was quiet. “Beginning now, the door will not be locked from the outside except during active security events or by your request.”

The words did not fit into the room at first.

Serali stared at the door as if it might open its own mouth and deny them.

Not locked.

Guarded was not free. Guarded meant watched. Guarded meant permission could still be withdrawn by people with swords.

But not locked meant if the room burned, she would not have to beg.

Not locked meant the click she had heard every night would stop being the last word.

She realized her hands were shaking and folded them before anyone could be decent about it.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because Royal Mage is a royal office,” Daravan said. “And because Her Majesty has grown unusually opinionated about the distinction between custody and imprisonment.”

Allandra’s gaze slid to him.

Daravan looked blandly ahead.

Serali pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth.

Do not thank her.

Do not thank them for making the cage bigger.

Do not.

“Still guards,” she said.

“Yes,” Allandra replied.

“Still watched.”

“Yes.”

“Still not free.”

“No.”

There it was again. That brutal little honesty.

Serali hated it less every time, which was alarming.

“And the oath?” she asked.

Allandra unfolded a separate page and set it down. “Draft only. You will read it. You may mark it. You may refuse to sign until the wording is acceptable.”

Serali looked at the page.

Daravan shifted.

“May I offer one recommendation?” he asked.

Serali eyed him. “Is it good?”

“Rarely my specialty, but I will attempt it.”

“Go on.”

“Do not make your first objection in council to the phrase ‘honor of the Crown’ simply because you find it irritating. Lady Verya will not appreciate it.”

“I already object to it.”

Allandra looked between them. “You object to honor?”

“I object to unnecessary decoration.”

“It is an oath.”

“It is paperwork with witnesses.”

Daravan lifted a finger. “That distinction will not help us.”

Serali almost laughed again.

The sound died when her gaze returned to Allandra.

Because Allandra was looking at her.

Not openly. Not hungrily. Not in a way Daravan could reasonably object to, probably. But the look was there: a tension under restraint, a carefulness that had become its own kind of intimacy.

The room remembered the kiss.

Serali felt it in the sudden awareness of her own mouth, the warmth beneath her skin, the awful exact placement of Allandra across from her.

Daravan looked at the window.

Then the ceiling.

Then, with the expression of a man watching a battle line collapse in slow motion, he closed the book.

“I should review the guard change,” he said.

Allandra’s head snapped toward him. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“The guard change is not for another hour.”

“That is why I should review it.”

Serali bit the inside of her cheek.

Allandra’s eyes narrowed to green slits. “Daravan.”

“Majesty.”

“You are abandoning the field.”

“I am tactically repositioning.”

Serali failed to hide the sound that escaped her.

Daravan glanced at her once, deeply betrayed.

“Royal Mage,” he said, “I hope you enjoy statutes.”

“I am not Royal Mage yet.”

“Then enjoy them provisionally.”

Allandra’s glare could have cracked glass.

Daravan was either brave or very, very tired.

He moved to the door.

At the threshold, he paused and looked back, not at Allandra this time, but at Serali.

“The door will remain unbolted,” he said. “There will be two guards outside. They have orders not to enter unless you call, unless Her Majesty calls, or unless something explodes.”

Allandra said, “Daravan.”

He opened the door.

“I will be outside,” he said, “but not listening.”

“That is impossible,” Serali said.

“Then I will be outside and pretending to be a better man.”

He left.