The Queen's Accusation
Queen Cirra doesn't shout. Her voice is worse than shouting — quiet and cold, like the top of the sky.
“Ninety-nine nights we trusted you, guardian. On the hundredth, the Pearl is gone, the sky is torn, the grey walks in two worlds — and you are found fled, hiding in a barn with a human child.” Her gaze moves to you and stops, and being looked at by her feels like standing in a walk-in freezer. “And what is this?”
“This,” you say, before your brain can stop your mouth, “is Madison. Ma'am. Your Majesty. And Sera didn't lose your Pearl — she saved it from Vespera, and got hurt doing it, and if you'd stop being freezing at us for one minute we could all figure out where it fell together.”
The whole court gasps. The boy on the steps stops smirking and sits up, delighted, like the show just got good.
For a long moment the Queen studies you. “The child has courage,” she says at last, “or no manners. In this court they are punished identically.” She rises, and thunder mutters politely somewhere below the floor. “Take them to the Feather Tower. At dawn, we will settle what is true — in the old way.”