The proof existed. Real, physical, portable proof. It simply sat inside Lealdo's tower, filed among the records of a faction that had just tried to kill everyone who knew where to look.
"We need to get into that tower," Sylviana said, pale and steady, at dawn.
"We need to survive until noon, first," Viktor said.
The queen's improvement could not be hidden.
The healers reported it at first light because healers must, the breath deepening, the color returning, the dimming slowed, and the court received the news in the middle of its breakfast like a faceful of cold water, and word of it ran up the spiral halls ahead of any rider.
By midmorning, the factions were in open turmoil. By the time the moot's council reconvened at noon, Faelor sat the regent's seat with visibly whitened knuckles, and everyone in the packed hall watched a prince recalculate his entire inheritance in real time.
He did not disappoint them.
