"Wear these," said Matias, holding out a pair of white, silken gloves as they walked. "Like you said: Fire won't be questioned, but light will." 

Cal took the gloves and pulled them on. "Thanks."

They walked into the Great Hall, Miles seated at the head of the table. Cal slid into her seat on his right, Matias sitting down across from her.

"You're awake," said Miles, not looking up from his breakfast. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel fine," she said, dumping heaps of sugar into her porridge. "Thanks for asking."

The murmuring of the other men and the clanking of dishes filled the room.

"I want to show you something after breakfast," said Miles, breaking the silence between them.

Cal halted drinking her orange juice. "And what is that?"

"You will see."

She looked over at Matias, who was more focused on cutting his breakfast sausages and glaring at Alastor Wolf and Cain Brennan of Apparatori. She glanced over at Alastor and Cain in time to catch them looking away and snicker to themselves. Cal rolled her eyes and finished her breakfast. 

"Come with me," said Miles, standing up. 

Cal stood up and followed Miles. He led her through the halls and up stairwells to a set of closed doors. Her brows furrowed as she watched him take a key out of his pocket and unlock the door. 

"What are we doing here?" she asked. 

Miles opened the door. "You'll see."

Cal slowly walked into the room. She recognized the room. It was her mother's room. She would crawl into her mother's bed after a nightmare when she was younger.

"Miles, why are we here?"

"Keep going," was all he said. 

She kept going at a snail's pace. One foot in front of the other. She turned the corner and—

"Mom?" she whispered, barely audible.

The Queen laid in her bed. Her red hair was fanned out around her head—faint streaks of grey in her temples. Her blazing gold eyes were closed. She looked more pale, and—upon further inspection—her hair was duller. 

"What happened to her?" asked Cal. "Why is she like this?"

"No one knows. One running theory is that—due to all of Tenebrarum's chaos and the threat of impending war—it's a curse from the gods."

"Didn't she try restoring peace? Why would the gods curse someone who would try to restore peace?"

"Again, no one knows. And this, I believe, belongs to you."

Cal turned around and beheld the sword in Miles's hands. The hilt was make of bronze, and egg sized ruby in the pommel.

"Azar," she muttered. She knew the sword, knew that Adramelech—the first Pyro and the King of Fire—had forged and wielded the sword during the Independence War. She knew that the sword was passed down from generation to generation.

"I want you to know that I brought you here because I'm trying to prepare you to take on your mother's responsibilities and the burden of the crown. And if you just wanted the answer to your question, all you had to do was ask," said Miles.

Cal looked at him in confusion. "Which one?" 

"You know which one."

Cal swallowed. "Are you—are you a killer?"

Miles's shoulders drooped. "Yes," he said quietly.

"How many?"

"Too many."

"How many?"

"Thousands."

Cal paled. "Does she know? Does my mother know?"

"She does. We're best friends after all."

Cal set Azar down on her mother's bed. Dread started filling her—dread and anger. "Did you hurt her?" she asked icily.

Miles closed his eyes, a single tear falling. "Yes," he said, his voice breaking. 

He's hurt her. He'd hurt his own friend. Miles had hurt the Queen.

"You tortured her," she said, her voice sounding foreign to her. Cal stalked towards Miles, flame flickering on her fingertips. 

Miles's eyes glanced at the dancing flames then back to Cal. "I did. I tried to kill her—twice." Miles started backing away from her. "I regret all of it, Cal."

There was regret—genuine regret—on his face. But she didn't care. Flames engulfed her right hand, turning the glove into ash. 

"I will kill you, you son of a bitch!" she snarled, and lunged for Miles.