"Has any man won for himself more than the shadow of happiness, a shadow that swiftly fades away?"

—From Oedipus the King,

By Sophocles

JOVANA WOKE UP feeling like someone had sunk their teeth into her neck. Feeling foolish,—knowing no such thing had happened—she touched her throat anyway. And gasped, pulling her fingers away immediately.

Quickly, she scrambled out of bed and snatched up a hand mirror, holding it to reflect her neck: pale with a red mark, in the shape of someone's mouth. She had to keep from screaming in horror and shock. Had she been assaulted? The rest of her felt fine, untouched and her bedclothes were still, unruffled except when she had moved them aside in her haste to get out of bed. The door was still locked and when she asked her maids if anyone had been allowed entry in the middle of the night, both their answers were no.

She rubbed her eyes, swollen and red from crying, and swallowed, her throat dry from the aforementioned act. Saints. Jovana never cried. But she had done that almost all night before collapsing from emotional and physical exhaustion. Some said crying made a person feel better. Jovana only felt worse as she traipsed to the bathroom before telling a maid to draw her a bath. You are not your father's daughter... Not the heir to the Mordanian throne...

Was that why Ilyas Durand had been so insistent on gaining the Regency? Had the man wanted to reveal that she was not really Mordanian royalty and instead Atlan spawn so that he could finally wrest control away from her for once and for all? Only... only the throne was not even her birthright, now. It was not even hers.

Had she been the one to start that fire? If she was Atlan, she could have Atlan magic... The thought sickened her. These past few months seemed to be getting worse and worse: first Kaiden Thorne proposed to her, then Shania told her that she might be an illegitimate child, and now she had probably somehow been bitten in her sleep.

Maybe... maybe it was just an insect? Or an animal? She would prefer a rabid animal than a perverted letch somehow sneaking into her room and biting her neck. She shuddered at the mere thought as she heard water splashing. "Your bath is ready, Your Majesty."

She entered and shucked off her nightgown with numb, practiced movements, sliding into the silky water. Nothing can touch you, she told herself, played pretend as she had for so many years of her childhood. Nothing can touch you if you stay in the water. She slid beneath the surface and held her breath since she had always been good at it. Jovana wondered now if that was due to her Atlan heritage, or... Even now, in these moments that ought to have been peaceful, she was in pain because of him. Because of whatever sick, twisted, vengeful or demented plot that Ilyas Durand had concocted to make her life as miserable as possible.

Muffled voices pierced through the shroud of grief and pain and bath foams, and she blew bubbles before rising to the surface. She had no idea how long she had spent under the water.

"I think she's drowning..." one of the maids said, her tone hushed but panicked. "She was under for so long..."

"I'm fine." Her eyes scanned the room, wrapping an arm around her breasts though they were hidden beneath the milky water. She had to be sure because Carlyle Lambert was present. One of her servants must have summoned him in a blind panic. "If you would like to be useful, then go fetch my breakfast."

Carlyle turned to go with her maids but she put up a hand. He turned back and then his hazel eyes locked on her throat, where the bite mark was. She noted that his hair was damp as if he had recently bathed himself. "G-good day, Your Majesty."

She frowned at the greeting, picking up a cake of soap to keep from meeting his probing gaze. "Is it not morning? Have I slept in?"

A nervous swallow bobbed his throat before he replied. "It is half past noon. The Lord Regent instructed us not to wake you, Your Majesty."

She laughed darkly. That would be the straw that broke the camel's back if the camel were an extremely distressing week. "Of course he did."

He raised a dark brow. "Pardon me... Jovana?"

Her heart ached a little to hear him say her name; no one ever did, these days. Not like that. "There is a council meeting today. Of course, he would not bother to wake me for it. He will likely use it to justify my incompetencies and stake yet another claim to the throne."

Carlyle sighed, rubbing a hand across his face and walking closer to the clawfooted tub. "The delegates have yet to arrive. Would you like me to tell them to postpone the meeting when they arrive, or to..."

She shook her head immediately. "What do you mean, they have yet to arrive? The meeting is meant to begin at eleven."

"For some reason..." he leaned against the wall. "The weather is rather... uncooperative."

Jovana rubbed the soap idly between her fingers, getting the dirt out from beneath her nails. "I see."

Was that her doing? Her making? Had she managed to control the weather subconsciously, to manipulate it into doing her bidding and benefitting her? The thought was both revolting and darkly alluring.

"There is still time, Jovana," he said finally. He raked a hand through his brown hair, eyes still fixed on her neck like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "You can still prove yourself to be their worthy queen."

That, she could.

Even if she was not actually the queen.

///

The hallway was cold and she sensed eyes on her person. Just one set this time, but enough to make her agitated and uncomfortable in ways that decimated her guards instead of raising them higher. 

"Why do you keep looking at my neck?" she snapped at Carlyle, having covered the mark with a scarf and high-necked dress. "Are you trying to drink my blood or something equally monstrous?"

He flinched at the accusations, a hint of defiance coming into his eyes; though he hid it well, she recognized the same expression she had seen in Ilyas Durand many, many times. "I would never dare, Your Majesty."

And he was back to addressing her with her epithet. The formality was like an itch that she always had to refrain from scratching; Jovana missed the intimacy that came with casual conversation. The intimacy that came with a hand holding hers, a pair of eyes that dared to meet her green ones without fear of reproach, a voice that was bold enough to speak her name and not her title. "There are many things I think you would dare, Carlyle."

He bristled again like she had struck some chord deep within him, had closed her fingers around a nerve and yanked. "There certainly are, Jovana."

Her heart thudded a mite harder than usual at those words. Had he known so easily what she wanted—a friend? Had her wanting and desperation so brazenly been splashed across her face? She doubted it. Still, it bothered her. She ought to inject more coldness into her tone, to rein herself in, to remind him and herself that she was the queen, not a common woman that a man could flirt with and fall in love with. But the way he looked at her made her want to be more, to be both. To be a woman that sat on a throne and then lay by his side every night.

Or not him. Perhaps anyone. Perhaps she was just lonely and he was just there, attractive and caring and saying her name in a way that did unspeakable things to her.

"Your Majesty, the delegates have arrived. The council is about to be held shortly," he intoned, his voice clinical now, professional and lacking any warmth it had held before. It hurt her when it should not have. "Would you like me to wait outside?"

"Yes, please." She summoned all her remaining strength and walked into the room, feeling her hastily eaten breakfast threaten to make a second, unwelcome appearance. "Greetings, gentlemen."

They echoed the sentiments back to her as she took a seat at the head of the table. Ilyas Durand was late, she noted with vengeful satisfaction. "You may be seated."

"I now call this meeting to order. Will the chairman please list the items to be discussed at this meeting?" Jovana requested, resisting the urge to drum her fingers on the table or fidget in a far from regal manner as she listened to Lord Beaufort drone on about budgets and weapons before she caught an interesting phrase: Atlan magic. "Let us first discuss our enemies, then."

Hushed whispers sprang up all around her like a gust of wind hurling up clouds of dust. She picked one of the men and said, "One by one, please. Levesque, you may speak first."

"The Atlans stand accused, Your Majesty, of conspiring to assassinate you via their magic. They set a fire in your private chambers, correct?" Brandon Levesque said, stroking his wiry patch of blond beard. The skull-and-crossbones insignia of his house was embroidered on his clothing, and she called to memory the motto of the Levesque's: offence, never defence. She had a feeling he would advocate for execution of the foreign royal. "Why has he not been tried and placed in a cell? Or better yet... interrogated?"

"Hate him as I do, it would only anger our enemies enough to begin a war against us if word got out that we were treating our royal guest with anything less than respect." Jovana felt a headache throb behind her temples and hoped that her application of cooling creams to her puffy eyes had made her look less tired than she felt at the moment.

"So, you are agreeing with Lord Durand? That we should make allies of those would sooner levy weapons at us than smile at us?" Brandon pressed on. "What a pity. Durand is such a stoic bore not to mention a foolish coward, I would be quite sad to—"

"You were speaking of me?" Ilyas Durand entered the room silently, his navy cape flapping behind him in the slight breeze. "What a delight. Care to repeat yourself, Bran?"

Brandon and the rest of his ilk were hotheaded ogres but they did not deserve the Durand wrath. "I—"

"He said you were right to be cautious about the Atlans," Valerie Clement, Brandon Levesque's wife, interjected. The Clements were a great deal more subtle but still stubborn and would never forget even a centuries-old feud; their house words were we live even after the heart stops beating. Together, they ruled Beauchamp with an iron fist but a steadier temper. "They are troublesome but doubtless you know that and keep a watchful eye on them."

That threat to his pride now nullified, Ilyas now looked for new dangers to it and found it in Jovana. Of course he would take issue with her sitting in his seat but he would say nothing. He would find ways to punish her for it later.

"I certainly do. It was in fact the queen he advocated for the royal and his guard to be treated more humanely. One pampered youth to another," he said, a false glint of humour coming into his eye with a forced smile.

She bit her lip to keep from contradicting him because it would make the realm unsteady. But one day Jovana would see his head roll, she vowed. "We know not of anyone's guilt or innocence. I would prefer not to assume that based on lineage and nationhood, would any of you?"

All of them were silent, realizing their blunder. Ilyas looked at her as though this were a chess match in which she had made a good move, but there were still many more chances for her to slip up.

"No, certainly not. We mustn't dare question someone based on their parenthood," he said.

He knows. Of course he knows.

"Of course not. Moving on..."

She could barely focus. Her heart was in her chest and her death felt imminent. Jovana needed allies, strategy, and to secure her throne before it crumbled beneath her and was restored by Durand.

But how?