“Peter,” Leon says with a stony smile. He steps away from me, leaving me blushing with embarrassment and glaring hatefully at Peter.


    “I have to talk to the queen,” Peter says, his grin falling away as he storms over to me and takes my arm with surprising gentleness, before then pulling me roughly along with him.


    “You know of each other?” Leon’s previous joy has been washed away and replaced with genuine confusion. He can’t seem to decide if he doesn’t like how Peter is handling me or if it’s none of his business, but he doesn’t react fast enough because now we’re halfway down the hall.


    Peter ignores him and drags me along until we catch up to Martin, who lets out a weak oof as Peter loops his arm with his and begins yanking him too down the hall. Martin huffs and puffs as he tries to turn his back on the both of us, even while being dragged, but Peter’s hold on us is strong. He pulls us into a dark room and deposits us there, then turns and shuts the door. As my eyes adjust, I glance around. There are a few wooden tables with bowls of water on them, organized at the center of the room. Lining the walls is a large, wide stone step with holes carved into it. What is this place? Then, I catch a whiff of something vile and my question is answered. Never mind.


    Before I can complain, Peter points from Martin to me and snaps, “Control your woman.”


    “Excuse me?”


    “She’s not ‘my woman,’” Martin grumbles.


    “If I am to be your advisor,” Peter says—to me now, “let me advise you right now: do not kiss men who are not your husband in a public hallway. And since you don’t have a husband, that makes things even simpler—do not kiss anyone at all.”


    Bossy little fucker! I can’t help but jeer, “Jealous, Peter?”


    With a scoff, Martin rolls his eyes, finally turning enough for me to see his face, which is ruddy and flushed. What is he so embarrassed about? “Don’t be childish,” he says.


    Peter gives me a mean smile and leans in to say, “Maybe,” at the same time.


    Martin’s jaw drops at the two of us. “Are you being serious?” he asks, incredulous. “Oh, you’re both helpless idiots.” He tugs his cloak back in place, mumbling in annoyance. It had been pulled up to his neck earlier, when Peter had grabbed him and me. He looks beyond flustered and uncomfortable, but frankly, join the party.


    “It would make more sense, wouldn’t it?” Peter says, leaning against one of the tables. The water in the bowls sloshes loudly.


    “What are you saying?” Martin sighs.


    “You and I,” Peter says. He’s not talking about Martin. He’s tapping his foot quietly, his gaze trained on me. “We married, and Alvione’s problems were solved, were they not? War with Ward was prevented. Why not do what we already know will work? Then you and your wizard can focus on the magical problem of”—he waves his hand vaguely at me—“whatever it is that’s happening to you.”


    My instinct is to say, Absolutely not, but the thought of at least the politics of Alvione settling into an easy sense of normalcy is undeniably reassuring. Martin turns to me, and I glance at him in return. He’s leaving it up to me to respond. As he should. But I wish I knew what he was thinking. The look on his face is unreadable, and the redness in his cheeks has faded. He’s as still as a statue, expressionless and tired. He’s so tired all the time.


    Peter’s tapping gets louder. “Well?” he asks gruffly.


    His hard, dark eyes remain unmoving, focused on me.


    From courting and kissing a sweet prince to getting proposed to by an asshole in a stinky bathroom. Didn’t expect this to be such a hard decision.


    “I need time to think about it,” I say finally.


    A hint of relief flashes across Peter’s face before he nods sternly. “I understand.” He looks like he has more to say, his mouth still hanging open slightly, but then he shuts it and leaves it at that.


    When a guard comes into the room, fiddling with his pants, Peter rises from the table and steps between us to block me from view. I feel someone’s hand on my wrist and suddenly I’m back in my bedroom. There’s no whoosh, no glamor about it, no confetti, nothing. Martin lets go of me and sits down on my bed.


    “Whoa! That was so—” My excitement over being teleported for the first time dies on my tongue as I notice the way Martin is sitting, his head buried in his hands. I fall silent and cautiously approach him. When he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up at me, I sit down on the bed next to him. “What’s wrong?”


    He just shakes his head. “He attacked you. Do not marry him.”


    “Well . . . only sort of. ‘Attack’ seems a bit extreme.”


    His head snaps up, and he glares straight at me, his anger bleeding together with flashes of fear, confusion, frustration, a whole medley of upset. “You did not see your face when he grabbed you. When he was . . . holding your neck.” Gritting his teeth, he spits out, “You looked terrified.” Still holding fierce eye contact, he gives his head a little shake. “You can do this on your own. I believe you can. He is sufficient as an advisor. He is chained to Alvione now. Do not let him take your power because he asked politely. You are a queen, and he is the third son of Paulo Ward—he needs you more than you need him. Do not forget that. Do not forget your value.” A soft, pained expression settles onto his face, and his hands find mine. His touch is gentle. It always is, isn’t it? “You can do this, Rose. Without marrying him. I promise you that. Perhaps Eliana could not, but you can. You are smart, capable, articulate, kind—you are already better than King Roburn ever was, and you are still so new to all of this. I did not know at first what you would be able to achieve, but I know you now, and I see you. I believe in you.”


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    I’m not sure why, but his words hit deep. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me that leaves me feeling shaken—his faith in me, misplaced or not, is absolute in this moment. There’s none of the usual wry insults, none of the jabs that may or may not be playful—just pure, unapologetic, unwavering support. I don’t know what I did to earn his trust, but it seems I have it now, or at the very least, he wants to protect me. To keep me safe. It’s an overwhelming feeling and not one I’ve felt often, if ever. He doesn’t say it directly, but I know what he means: as long as he’s here, I won’t be alone.


    I swallow heavily and blink hard and fast as my eyes sting with tears. Without hesitation, he reaches out and grips my forearm, pulling me in a rough embrace that buries my face in his shoulder. With a small, choked sob, I cling to him, soaking his cloak with snot and tears. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I whisper pitifully.


    The truth is: I don’t want to marry Peter, but I don’t want to keep struggling either. It would be so much easier to share the weight of the crown. To focus on me, the dreams, and put Alvione in someone else’s hands. To remove the threat of Ward off my laundry list of queenly problems. Peter’s right. It makes sense. In The Tales of Alvione and its sequels, he was a good husband and king. Sure, he and I might not be pals—we might even fucking hate each other—but he’s not asking me to be his little wifey; he’s offering me an out. I don’t know if I can trust him, and I don’t know if that’s a problem that will ever go away. I don’t know if Eliana is the reason for his competence or if it never mattered who she was. Did she “fix him,” or did he find his way on his own? There’s no way to be certain, but I am sure, however, that it would feel really nice to trade in some of my power to get Ward off our backs.


    Because even though Martin will be on my side no matter what, I still don’t know what to do about Ward.


    Then a panicked thought runs through my mind. But what if Paulo doesn’t think it’s enough? In the original book, Peter successfully pulls off the crippling orc invasion of Alvione, even if it''s ultimately pushed out. He returns to his father in that time and who knows what happens then—Eliana’s point of view can’t capture the exchanges made in Castle Ward. If Peter and I got married now, would it seem too sudden? Would Paulo think of Alvione as a part of Ward, or would he think of Peter as a part of me—an unimpressive son lost to the influences of an enemy nation?


    Everything’s so fucking complicated.


    Martin’s touch pulls me out of my thoughts. He runs his fingers through my hair and rests his chin on the top of my head, his other hand rubbing the skin of my forearm gently. “Whether you see your life here as real or not,” he says quietly, “please keep yourself safe. That is all I ask.”


    That’s . . . all he wants from me?


    To be cared for, cared about . . . it’s all I ever wanted, really. He’s been here since the start, and he . . . he . . .


    I let out a few more broken sobs. “Stop saying nice things,” I complain, nuzzling into his shoulder and using his clothing as my personal tissue. “I’m trying to stop crying.”


    His hands still as he laughs softly. “All right. I will be unkind to you again.”


    “Well, I didn’t say that,” I mutter, giving him one last squeeze before I release him and he releases me.


    A gentle smile, the touch of his hand, my name on his lips—I’m not alone.


    No, I’m not alone. I’m with Trix again. Her stirring awake brings me back to my bed, back to my world. I feel a pang of loss that has me feeling guilty.


    “Hey, sleepyhead,” Trix murmurs, her voice even more gravelly than before, thick with morning grogginess. “Have another one of your wild dreams?”


    I nod. Martin’s going to see me faint again. That can’t be good for his stress.


    My quietness has Trix raising an eyebrow. She brushes a bit of hair out of my face casually, and I feel oddly exposed. A little too seen. Maybe I shouldn’t have told anyone about the dreams.


    “Hey,” she says. “Don’t be embarrassed. I won’t judge you.” Without another word, she slides out of bed and picks up her black bag off the floor. She digs around in it for a moment then pulls out her cell phone. She unlocks it then slides it into my hands. “Let’s do this again sometime.”


    Oh. She’s leaving. Her phone background is of some anime character. Somehow this is both surprising and unsurprising. I navigate to her contacts and put in my phone number under Rose, listing my profession as “crazy woman from park” then hand the phone back to her. She glances at what I put in and laughs.


    “Bye, bunny,” she says and heads out of the bedroom. I remain in bed, listening as she puts on her boots, then leaves, the front door to my apartment clicking shut behind her. It’s quiet.


    I don’t know how I feel about the nickname she’s given me. It feels too generous, too cutesy, but it also feels nice to be regarded that way. I lay back in my bed, my head sinking into the pillow, feeling the warmth her body had left behind slowly fading away.


    There’s so much to think about, and yet my head feels so empty.


    My phone dings. A text. I grab it from the bedside table and can guess who it’s from—an unknown number sending just a rabbit emoji? Who else could it be? The smile that flits across my face falters as I remember all that’s transpired in Alvione. Leon, Peter, Martin . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do with them. Don’t even get me started on Trix. At least I don’t have to worry about leading a country with her.


    Shit. I forgot to tell Martin about Leon’s dad knowing Alistria. I groan. Maybe I should do some Wiki research in the meantime. I let Google autofill The Tales of Alvione the second I write T, because this is my life now, and pause as multiple news articles appear at the top of the page. My eyes skim the headlines, and I start to laugh.


    Always fucking something, man. There’s always some new bullshit.


    Publisher confirms late New York Times bestselling author Alys Stone not dead, but missing.


    Missing.


    Maybe I’m crazy or maybe it just makes sense, but my first thought is a simple one: Is Alys Stone in Alvione right now?