The sweet scent of lilac water couldn't quite mask the other smells of The Gilded Lily—sweat, cheap wine, and the cloying musk of desire. Lyra Koll adjusted the ledger on her desk, squinting in the dim light as she recalculated the week's earnings. The numbers weren't as promising as she'd hoped.

  "Mira, fetch another candle," she called, setting down her quill. "I can hardly see the figures."

  A slender young woman with dark curls appeared in the doorway, balancing a fresh taper. "Business is slow again tonight," she said, lighting the candle from the dying one. "Three customers in the last hour, and two were just looking for drink."

  Lyra massaged her temples. "It's the same across the Dregs. No one has coin to spare these days."

  The war had changed everything. Once, The Gilded Lily had catered to merchants and minor nobility seeking discretion. Now, with trade routes severed and purses tightened, their clientele consisted mainly of soldiers spending their meager pay, or the occasional Upper Ring resident slumming for cheap thrills.

  "Will we need to let anyone go?" Mira asked quietly.

  "No," Lyra said firmly. "We look after our own."

  It was the principle upon which she'd built this place—a haven for women who had few other options. Unlike most brothel madams, Lyra ensured her girls kept most of their earnings, received regular care from a physician, and could refuse any client who made them uncomfortable. The Gilded Lily might be situated in the lowest ring of Highcrest, but it maintained standards that many establishments in finer quarters did not.

  Lyra knew what it meant to be cast aside, after all.

  She glanced at the delicate timepiece on her desk—an old gift she'd never been able to part with. Nearly dusk. Tarek should have returned by now. Her son had a knack for finding trouble, especially lately with tensions so high in the city.

  "Any sign of Tarek?" she asked.

  Mira shook her head. "Not since this morning. He said he had messages to deliver in the Upper Ring."

  "When he returns, send him to me."

  Alone again, Lyra allowed herself a moment's respite, leaning back in her chair to study the room she'd built into her private office. Simple but elegant furnishings, walls lined with books—a collection that raised eyebrows among those who couldn't imagine a brothel madam having scholarly interests. A painted screen separated the office from her bedchamber, where a few precious keepsakes remained hidden from prying eyes.

  She caught her reflection in the small mirror hanging beside the door. At thirty-eight, her beauty hadn't faded so much as transformed. The vibrant red hair that once tumbled freely down her back was now kept in a practical knot at her nape, though no strands of gray had yet appeared. Faint lines framed her eyes—eyes that had seen too much and forgiven too little.

  Seventeen years she'd spent building this life from nothing. Seventeen years since she'd been forced from the Middle Ring when her neighbors discovered a fallen court lady had established a house of pleasure on their street. Before that, four years spent in miserable isolation after her banishment from the castle. Twenty-one years since she'd stood in the king's private chambers, trembling as she told him she carried his child.

  Twenty-one years since she'd watched love transform to calculation in Reymond Blackthorn's amber eyes.

  A soft knock broke her reverie.

  "Enter," she called, straightening her posture and her expression.

  Sera, one of her most experienced girls, peered around the door. "There's a man asking for you specifically, Madam Koll. Says it's business, not pleasure."

  Lyra frowned. "Did he give a name?"

  "No. But he's wearing castle livery. King's Guard, I think."

  Something cold and sharp settled in Lyra's stomach. The King's Guard had no business here, especially after sundown. Had something happened to Tarek?

  "Show him to the private parlor," she said, keeping her voice steady. "Offer wine, but don't linger."

  After Sera departed, Lyra moved swiftly to the carved wooden box on her shelf. Inside lay a slender dagger with a jeweled hilt—another relic from her previous life. She tucked it into the hidden pocket of her skirts before checking her appearance one final time.

  The private parlor was reserved for wealthy clients seeking absolute discretion—minor nobles or merchants who couldn't risk being seen in the common room. Its separate entrance and heavy curtains ensured privacy, while elegant furnishings maintained the illusion that one was visiting a respectable establishment rather than a brothel.

  The man standing by the window was tall and broad-shouldered, his posture unmistakably military. He turned as she entered, and Lyra felt the years fall away in an instant.

  "Captain Frost," she said coolly. "What an unexpected honor."

  Damen Frost had aged well, silver streaking his dark hair at the temples, his face lined but still handsome. His expression betrayed nothing as he offered a formal bow.

  "Lady Koll."

  "I haven't been 'Lady' anything in a very long time, Captain," she replied. "What brings the King's Guard to my establishment? I pay my taxes and keep a clean house."

  "I'm not here on official business. At least, not the kind you're thinking of."

  Lyra gestured toward the decanter on the side table. "Wine?"

  "No, thank you."

  She poured herself a generous measure, needing the fortification. "Then speak plainly. What does the crown want with me after all these years of silence?"

  Damen's eyes—those keen gray eyes that had watched her from the shadows for two decades—studied her face. "The king didn't send me to speak with you."

  "Yet here you are, in royal livery, in my parlor." She took a deliberate sip of wine. "Let's not play games, Damen. We're both too old for that."

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  A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Still direct as ever."

  "A necessity when one runs a brothel."

  His expression sobered. "How is the boy?"

  The question hung in the air between them, loaded with unspoken history. Damen had been there from the beginning—the loyal guard who had escorted her from the castle that final day, who had delivered the king's stipend each month until it stopped coming, who had occasionally appeared in the market when Tarek was small, watching from a distance.

  "My son is well," she answered carefully. "Though I suspect you know that better than most."

  "I've kept my promise. Watched over him, but never interfered."

  "Until now?" A cold dread crept up her spine. "Why the change, Captain? What's happened?"

  Damen moved away from the window, his voice dropping lower. "The king is dying."

  The words shouldn't have affected her. Reymond Blackthorn had been dead to her for years—the moment he'd chosen his crown over their child, he had ceased to exist in her heart. Yet something twisted painfully in her chest.

  "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, surprised to find she meant it. "But what does the king's health have to do with me? Or with Tarek?"

  "Both legitimate heirs are gone. The council presses for a succession plan."

  Understanding dawned, sharp and terrible. "No," she whispered. "Absolutely not."

  "It's not your decision to make."

  "He's my son!"

  "He's also the king's son," Damen countered. "The last of the Blackthorn bloodline."

  Lyra set down her glass, afraid she might shatter it. "He doesn't know, Damen. I kept my word to Reymond. Tarek has no idea who his father is."

  "The king is aware. He doesn't blame you for keeping the secret."

  "How magnanimous of him," she said bitterly. "Twenty-one years of silence, and now he wants to acknowledge his bastard? Now that he's desperate? Now that death is coming for him?"

  Damen's expression hardened. "The alternative is civil war. The noble houses will tear the kingdom apart fighting for the throne."

  "That's not my concern. Not Tarek's either. He has a life here."

  "Running messages and sleeping above a brothel?" Damen shook his head. "You, of all people, know he was born for more."

  The truth of his words stung worse than any insult. Lyra had always known Tarek was meant for better than the Dregs. Had seen flashes of his father in him—the quick mind, the natural charisma, the amber eyes that sometimes seemed to pierce through falsehood. But she'd also protected him from the knowledge that might have destroyed him, as it nearly had destroyed her.

  "What does Reymond intend?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

  "To bring the boy to the castle. To tell him the truth. To prepare him to rule."

  "And if Tarek refuses?"

  "That's between him and the king."

  Lyra laughed, a hollow sound devoid of mirth. "You think Reymond will give him a choice? The man who banished me from court when I became inconvenient? Who paid me to keep silent about my son's heritage? Who stopped sending support the moment his precious queen died?"

  She moved closer to Damen, close enough to see the conflicted emotions in his eyes. "Tell me, Captain, did the king mention what happens to Tarek if the nobles reject a bastard heir? Did he speak of the knives that will come for my son in the dark?"

  Damen's silence was answer enough.

  "I won't let you take him," she said. "Find another way to save your kingdom."

  "I have my orders, Lyra."

  "And I have my son."

  They stood at an impasse, the years between them heavy with shared secrets. Damen had been kind to her once, in his own stoic way. Had shown small mercies when delivering the king's edicts. Had perhaps been the only person from her old life who had seen her as more than a fallen woman.

  "The king asked me not to approach you," he said finally. "He wanted the boy first."

  Understanding clicked into place. "Yet here you are. Warning me."

  He didn't confirm or deny it. "I will find Tarek tonight. I will bring him to the castle as ordered."

  "And if I interfere?"

  "Don't make this harder than it must be." His voice softened slightly. "The boy deserves to know his heritage, Lyra. And Lore needs a Blackthorn on the throne."

  Before she could respond, a commotion erupted from the main hall—raised voices, hurried footsteps. Sera appeared at the door, her face pale.

  "Madam Koll, forgive the interruption, but there's trouble. Royal guardsmen in the common room, questioning the girls about Tarek."

  Lyra's eyes snapped back to Damen. "You didn't come alone."

  "A precaution," he admitted. "In case the boy returned while I was here."

  "Get out," she hissed. "All of you. This is still my house."

  Damen moved toward the door, pausing only briefly. "I'm sorry, Lyra. Truly. But this was always going to happen someday."

  After he left, Lyra sank onto the velvet settee, her legs suddenly unable to support her. The dagger pressed against her thigh through the fabric of her pocket—a useless weapon against the forces now in motion.

  Twenty-one years of careful secrets, of building walls between past and present, of protecting her son from the legacy that had destroyed her own life. All crumbling in a single evening.

  She needed to find Tarek before the guards did. Needed to explain everything before he heard it from strangers. Needed to give him the choice that had been denied to her.

  But as she rose to gather her cloak, a terrible certainty settled in her heart. She was already too late.

  Royal blood always claimed its own in the end.