The room they had given her was too nice.
June stood in the doorway for a long moment before entering, as if crossing the threshold might trigger some invisible alarm—as if the very act of accepting this space meant accepting everything that came with it.
A bed with actual linens. A window that opened without sticking. A washbasin with clean water and a bar of soap that smelled like lavender, of all things, and wasn't that just the universe's idea of a cruel joke.
She laughed. The sound came out hollow.
This is my brother's house, she thought. My mother's house. My family's house.
The words didn't feel real yet. They sat in her chest like stones dropped into water, sinking slowly toward some bottom she couldn't see.
She crossed to the bed. Sat on its edge. The mattress gave beneath her weight—soft, yielding, nothing like the hard ground she'd slept on for months. Nothing like the forest floor, or the barn lofts, or the cramped corners of strangers' homes where she'd curled up fully clothed with one hand always near a knife.
A princess's room, she thought bitterly. Or close enough.
The door opened behind her.
June's hand moved instinctively toward her belt—toward the knife that should have been there, that she'd been asked to surrender at the door out of courtesy to the other guests. Her fingers found only empty leather.
Carmine stood in the doorway.
Not a threat. Not even close. But June's body hadn't received that message yet—her shoulders were hunched, her breathing shallow, her eyes tracking the other woman's movements with the hyperawareness of prey.
"May I come in?"
June nodded. Once. Sharp.
Carmine entered. Closed the door behind her with a soft click. She didn't approach immediately—instead, she moved to the window, looked out at the view of the grounds, and seemed to give June space to breathe.
"I know you don't know me," Carmine said eventually, still facing the glass. "And I know that you don't know that I knew about this." She turned. "About you."
June's jaw tightened. "What gave it away?"
Carmine almost smiled. Almost.
"The crest."
June went very still.
"In your hidden trunk," Carmine continued gently. "The one you've carried everywhere since you were old enough to carry anything at all. Inside it—the robe. Dark blue velvet with the Everhart crest embroidered across the chest. The twin lions. The crown of thorns above them."
How did she—
"I recognized it the first time I saw your things," Carmine said, answering the question June hadn't voiced aloud. "When I first came into this family—when I started serving Colden properly—I learned every crest, every sigil, every mark of the noble houses. Part of the job. And yours..." She paused. "Yours was unmistakable. The embroidery alone would have cost more than most families make in a year. That's not something a commoner carries. That's not something a servant owns. That's bloodline. That's birthright."
June's hands had curled into fists on her knees.
"So you knew."
"I suspected. For a long time, I only suspected. But when Lady Isabelle called us together this morning, when she told us what she was planning to reveal—" Carmine shook her head. "I wasn't surprised. I'd known, in some part of me, since the day I first looked through your belongings and found that robe folded so carefully, like someone was preserving something precious."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Carmine moved.
She crossed the room—not quickly, not threateningly—and sat down on the bed beside June. Close enough that their knees almost touched. Close enough that June could smell the road dust on her clothes, could see the exhaustion lines around her eyes, could recognize another person who had carried too much for too long.
And then Carmine reached out.
Took June's hand.
Held it.
"There's something else, isn't there?" Carmine's voice was soft. Not probing. Not demanding. Just... open. Like a door left unlocked. "Something you haven't told anyone. Something that's keeping you awake at night even now, even here, even surrounded by people who want to help you."
June stared at their joined hands. Carmine's fingers were calloused—from needlework, from sword training, from years of work that nobles never had to think about. They were warm. Steady. Real.
"The Lavenders."
The word fell out of her like a stone dropping into a well.
Carmine's grip tightened. Just slightly. Just enough.
"They're hunting me." June's voice came out flatter than she intended. Detached. As if she were discussing someone else's problem. "Have been for months. Ever since everything happened at the estate—ever since Arthur escaped, ever since the whole network started unraveling—they've been sending bounty hunters. Trackers. People who know how to find someone who doesn't want to be found."
"Why?"
"Because I know things." June finally looked up. Met Carmine's eyes. "Things about their operations. Their connections. The names of people who paid for services that can't be written in ledgers. If I ever talked—if I ever stood before a court and told everything I witnessed while I was hiding in those woods—the Lavender family wouldn't just lose power. They'd lose heads."
Carmine's expression didn't change. But something shifted behind her eyes—a calculation, perhaps, or a repositioning of pieces on an internal board.
"So you need to leave," Carmine said slowly. "Get as far away as possible. Cut all ties. Disappear again."
"That was the plan." June pulled her hand back. Wrapped both arms around herself. "That's *always* the plan. I only came here because—I don't know. Because I was tired of running. Because I wanted to see her face, my mother's face, just once before I disappeared forever. Because I wanted to know if the stories were true. If the brother I'd heard about from a distance was really worth all the trouble everyone went to protect him."
"And now that you've seen him?"
June didn't answer immediately.
"He's angry," she said finally. "He has every right to be. And he's hurt. And confused. And I made it worse by—I shouldn't have said what I said. About the knights. About him wanting me dead. That wasn't fair."
"No." Carmine's voice was firm. "It wasn't fair. But it was honest. And honesty, even ugly honesty, is better than the pretty lies we tell ourselves to avoid conflict."
More silence.
Then Carmine stood.
"You should come to the funeral."
June blinked. "What?"
"The funeral. In Velloria. For Lady Viremont." Carmine's tone was casual, as if she were suggesting a walk in the garden rather than a two-day journey into hostile territory. "We're leaving in two days. You should come with us."
"I—that's not—"
"It'll give you time to think." Carmine cut off her protest before it could fully form. "Time to decide what you actually want, instead of running from what you're afraid of. And besides—" A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I basically raised that stubborn idiot downstairs. I've seen him at his worst, his best, and every embarrassing moment in between. He'll come around. He always does. It might take time. It might take yelling. It might take him storming off and slamming doors and saying things he doesn't mean. But eventually—he'll come around."
June swallowed hard.
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then at least you'll know you tried." Carmine moved toward the door. Paused with her hand on the frame. "At least you'll know you didn't run without giving him the chance to surprise you."
She left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
June sat alone in the too-nice room with the too-soft bed and the too-clean air, and thought about strings.
Strings attached. Strings tied. Strings knotted so tightly that cutting one meant unraveling everything.
I have to get out, she thought. I have to get as far away as possible. Before the bounty hunters pick up my trail. Before the Lavenders realize where I've gone. Before anyone else gets hurt because of decisions I didn't make and secrets I never asked to keep.
But underneath that thought—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore—another voice whispered:
What if this time you stayed?
The door to Colden's chamber hit the wall with a bang that rattled the window frame.
Marco followed two steps behind, closing the distance with the resigned patience of someone who had done this before and would do it again.
"What was that?" Colden spun around, arms gesturing wildly at the door—at the corridor beyond it—at the entire mansion and everyone in it. "What was that whole—you just let her stand there and accuse me of—of *wanting her dead*? And nobody said anything? Nobody defended me?"
"She was upset."
"*I'm upset!"
"I know." Marco's voice remained maddeningly calm. He crossed to the chair by the window—the one Colden had sat in that morning watching him sleep, though neither of them mentioned that now—and lowered himself into it with easy grace. "Which is why I'm going to sit here while you yell about it, and then I'm going to remind you of things you already know but have temporarily forgotten."
Colden stared at him.
"How are you so—how do you just—" He made an incoherent sound of frustration. "I'm the king now. I'm supposed to take responsibilities. Make decisions. Handle things. And instead I'm standing here feeling like a child who wasn't invited to a party that was happening in his own home!"
"You are taking responsibility." Marco's amber eyes caught the afternoon light filtering through the glass. "You're feeling your feelings. You're processing something enormous. That *is* responsible. The irresponsible thing would be pretending none of this matters."
Colden opened his mouth to argue.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"But everyone knew." The words came out smaller than he intended. Younger. "My mother knew. Francis knew. Carmine knew. Even Gladis probably knew, and she's only been properly part of this household for a few months. Everyone looked at me this morning like—like I was the last to arrive at my own life. Like I've been performing a role while everyone else held the script."
Marco was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Come here."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't quite a command either—something in between, something that existed in the space where their relationship had learned to live.
Colden crossed the room. Let himself be guided down onto the window seat beside Marco, until they were close enough that their knees touched, close enough that Colden could feel the warmth radiating from Marco's body.
Marco took his hand.
"It doesn't matter," Marco said quietly.
"How can you say that? How can you possibly—"
"It doesn't matter that they knew and you didn't. It doesn't matter that you're angry, or that you feel betrayed, or that you spent your whole childhood unaware of someone who shared your blood." Marco's thumb traced circles on Colden's palm. Grounding. Anchoring. "What matters is what you do next. How you choose to treat her. Whether you let this become a wall between you—or a bridge."
Colden's throat tightened.
"She accused me of wanting her dead."
"She was scared." Marco's voice didn't waver. "She's been hunted, Colden. By knights, by bounty hunters, by people who would use her existence as a weapon against you. Of course she's defensive. Of course she assumed the worst. The worst is mostly what life has shown her."
"I would never—"
"I know." Marco squeezed his hand. "I know you would never. But she doesn't know that yet. She doesn't know *you* yet. All she has is stories and suspicions and the evidence of a world that has given her every reason to expect betrayal."
Colden leaned forward. Rested his forehead against their clasped hands.
"I don't know how to have a sister." The admission came out raw. Stripped of pretense. "I don't know how to be a brother. I barely know how to be a king, or a partner, or any of the things everyone expects me to be. And now there's this whole other person—this whole other life—that I'm supposed to just... integrate? Accept? Welcome with open arms after decades of lies?"
"You don't have to do it all at once."
"But I—"
"You don't," Marco repeated, firmer this time. He lifted his free hand. Tilted Colden's chin up until their eyes met. "You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to be confused. You're allowed to need time. What you're not allowed to do is let this poison you. Let it turn you into someone who pushes away the family you wished you had, just because the way you got them wasn't fair."
Colden searched Marco's face. Looking for judgment. Finding only love.
"You make it sound simple."
"It is simple." A small smile curved Marco's lips. "Simple doesn't mean easy. Walking is simple. Running a marathon is hard. This—having a sister, building a relationship with her, learning to trust each other—it's going to be hard. But the concept itself? Simple. You treat her like a person. You listen. You show up. You keep showing up, even when it's uncomfortable. That's it. That's the whole secret."
Colden exhaled. Long. Slow. Some of the tension draining from his shoulders.
"You're annoyingly wise, you know that?"
"I prefer 'appropriately insightful.'"
"You're insufferable."
"And yet." Marco leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to Colden's forehead. Gentle. Brief. Devastating in its tenderness. "Here you are. Still talking to me. Still listening. Still trying."
Colden closed his eyes. Let the warmth of that kiss sink into his skin like medicine.
"I should apologize to her," he murmured.
"Probably."
"I should try to understand what she's been through."
"Definitely."
"I should stop acting like a child who wasn't invited to his own party."
"That would be a good start, yes."
Another long breath. Then:
"You said something earlier." Colden opened his eyes. "About being grateful. About having a sister giving me more than you could ever have. What did you mean?"
Marco's expression flickered. Something passed through it—quick, unguarded, gone before Colden could fully catch it.
"I'm an only child," he said simply. "My mother was my only family. And now she's—" He stopped. Swallowed. Continued. "She's gone. I have no siblings. No cousins that I know of. No one who shares my blood or my history or the particular shape of the hole she left behind."
"Marco—"
"So when I look at you, discovering you have a sister—someone who shares your face, your mother, your legacy, even if you didn't grow up together—all I feel is..." He trailed off. Searching for words. "Envy isn't right. It's more like—wonder. That that kind of connection is even possible. That family can expand in ways you didn't expect. That you can wake up one morning and find out the world is bigger than you thought, and there's still room in it for more people to love."
Colden's chest ached.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think about it that way. I was so focused on what was taken from me—the truth, the choice, the years I could have known her—that I forgot to think about what I was gaining."
"Now you're thinking about it."
"Now I am."
They sat in silence. The afternoon light shifted around them, painting patterns on the floor that changed moment by moment. Somewhere below, the household continued its quiet preparations for departure. Somewhere above, June sat in a room that was too nice, deciding whether to stay or run.
And here, in this small space carved out of chaos, two people who had fought for every moment of peace they'd ever found held onto each other and let the world turn without them for a little while.
"I'm going to talk to her," Colden said eventually. "Before we leave. I'm going to try."
Marco's smile was worth more than any kingdom.
"I know you are." He squeezed Colden's hand one final time. "That's why you're going to be okay."
Outside, the sun continued its descent toward evening. Shadows lengthened across the grounds. The distance between who Colden had been this morning and who he might be by nightfall felt both impossibly vast and surprisingly crossable.
One conversation at a time.
One choice at a time.
One moment of choosing connection over isolation, over and over, until the habit became second nature.
He could do this.
He had to.
to be continued...