Page 127 of Dare

My hesitation motivated Briar. “Whatever secrets you keep, we can’t guard them without knowing what they are.”

I pinned my gaze on Flare, who nodded in encouragement. The confession sat on my tongue, then took a nosedive off the edge. “I am a born soul.”

All semblance of noise fled the room. No one spoke. No one breathed. While focusing on Flare, it came out in fragments, from the virus that stole my parent’s health, to the siren shark, to my condition.

Fear. Panic. Irrationality.

Terrified fits that sent me to the floor. Hunching over and venting to myself.

By the end of it, Briar’s hand covered her mouth. Poet’s lips had parted, shock numbing his tongue. Aire gaped, and Aspen peeked beneath her hood.

Flames from the hearth tossed an orange glow through the room. The meal sat untouched.

The princess swerved her gaze from me to the woman at my side. “Flare?”

In that tentative voice, the meaning was clear. I was a born soul, but what about Flare? Despite Summer branding her with a so-called “feral madness,” I’d long since dismissed that notion. Yet I also hadn’t perceived her actual condition, and based on Poet and Briar’s demeanors, they had trouble defining it as well.

Then again, having such a condition wasn’t the same as wearing a bandage. Unless the person displayed their behavior openly, as the jester and princess’s son did, everything was otherwise locked inside, where people couldn’t see it.

Pain, torment, and guilt flashed through Flare’s eyes. I had witnessed this happen on numerous occasions, starting with the day I’d cut into her arm, and we spoke about her past. There was more to the tale, details that plagued her, and I fucking hated seeing her deal with that. I wanted Flare to open up, but she hadn’t yet. Even now, she was not ready.

That much was evident when she swallowed and turned away. Briar and Poet watched Flare, seeming to draw the same conclusion. They cared, but they would not pry.

Instead, the princess offered Flare an understanding smile, then redirected her attention to me. “Your Highness. You have our support.”

“And our silence,” Poet assured me.

I frowned. So easily?

Their expressions spoke for themselves. They would not discount the horrors I had committed, but they would grant me leave to atone for them. Of all people, this group knew firsthand the gravity of such knowledge.

Poet and Briar, as parents of a born soul. Aire and Aspen, who appeared to harbor their own unspoken connections to the subject.

Their response disarmed me, anxiety draining from my veins. Grateful. Humbled. At length, I cleared my throat. “If Rhys learns of this, he’ll use it to harm my family, discredit the monarchy, and dismantle Winter. With my court in disarray, he could then seize the opportunity to go after Autumn.”

“There was a time when we believed he wouldn’t incite a war.” Aire’s gaze strayed to the abutting rainforest. “But if Winter suffered a breakdown in leadership, if civil unrest the likes of Reaper’s Fest were to occur there, and if Summer became unhinged with little left to risk, carnage across the continent would be likelier.”

Poet nodded grimly. “And bloodier.”

Flare needed time to find her key, assuming it existed here. I needed time to plot my return to Winter, including all contingencies. This clan needed time to establish a Seasonal alliance without causing an uproar. We also needed time to find out what Rhys would do next, to predict his moves and set up countermoves. The king needed time to either find out my secret or go on a delusional rampage once learning of Winter’s reformation and Autumn’s evident influence.

Who succeeded first remained to be seen. Thus, my idea. During the meeting with Rhys, he’d made a defensive comment that had stuck with me.

I have no other spawn.

Not that anyone would give a shit if Rhys was concealing illegitimate heirs. Certainly not enough for me to quote him. Although Summer’s queen didn’t deserve an adulterous husband, she barely tolerated the man, and technically infidelity wasn’t a ruinous crime in the eyes of their subjects.

Yet the thought prompted me to consider what else the king kept secret. This notion, I brought up to the group, which inspired a debate. A man with a penchant for spying was a man who believed every leader was like him. Dishonest. Traitorous. In his mind, all sovereigns had skeletons to bury. Hence, whatever he was hiding could be an effective weapon.

Flare took up the pen, knowing what I would suggest. He spied on everyone else once.

Briar’s features alighted. “So we spy on him back.”

“Correct,” I said. “With a notable player.”

Poet’s trickster gaze sharpened. And as the only Summer citizen present, Flare’s pupils blazed.

“Giselle,” they said in unison.