Page 19 of Reaper’s Curse

Only, before he pursued the family matriarch, he needed to check in with Camilla. Unaware of his sudden change of plans, she would, no doubt, be on time to the pub, intending to meet with him and Raven.

Camilla might no longer be the royal seamstress, but she was his first choice when it came to working with Raven and designing her a meager, palace-appropriate wardrobe from which to choose.

He pivoted toward the stairs, heading for the exit and the palace grounds beyond, only to pause before descending a single step.

Valen’s words repeated on a loop in his thoughts, over and over again, slowing his pace. A necessary element in breaking the curse upon this city…cure our afflicted.

Those were the words Valen had used regarding Raven and her role.

Could Raven truly provide his citadel, his people, with such a gift, a monumental hope?

Cure our afflicted.

The last word had him adjusting his direction, and in a matter of minutes, with open rooms crossed and long hallways traversed, he found himself at the one room of the palace he too often avoided―his mother’s suite.

Willa Breathborne Arcane, daughter of Queen Diandre Spiritstar Arcane, occupied the second largest suite in the palace, set upon the second to highest floor. Lower and smaller than none other than the queen’s. And, unlike most, his mother spent more time in her rooms than elsewhere.

The guards posted outside the door gave him a cordial nod, and after a soft knock, he let himself into the room. At his entrance, his father spun to face him.

“This is an unexpected surprise,” his father said.

Winter’s eyebrows rose. “I could say the same.”

His father, Alaster, could rarely be found attending to Winter’s mother, the true, rightful heir to the throne…should his grandmother ever choose to step down. But, of course, these days, the Arcane line of succession was a jumbled mess.

His father was not an Arcane by blood (although he held the family surname ever since he married a royal Arcane) and was therefore not in line to inherit the throne…unless extraordinary circumstances arose.

Across the room, two attendants led Winter’s mother, Willa Breathborne, to the bath, their arms linked. They moved at a pace worthy of a ten-thousand-year-old ancestor.

Clearly not one of her better days.

Willa Breathborne. They rarely spoke the family’s middle names. He wasn’t even certain it was public knowledge that his brother was August Emberstorm or that he was Winter Frostfyre.

His father collected his mother's robe from where it lay across the bed and handed it to one of the attendants. Willa showed no reaction to the exchange, nor Winter’s or Alaster’s presence. What a broken family they were, with an uncertain line of succession.

In an ideal world, the line went from his grandmother, to his mother, to his elder brother, to his eldest brother’s eldest offspring. But his brother was missing, all of August’s children were illegitimate, and his mother…well…

“Hmm.” His father rubbed the back of his neck. “It is true. My timing isn’t ideal. Nor is yours, it would seem.” He turned and lifted his chin, indicating Willa’s retreating form. “Her royal attendants were summoned to see to her needs. It would seem she spilled her breakfast all over the front of herself this morning.”

Winter’s sorrowful gaze shifted between his parents. His feet lurched a step after her, almost involuntarily. As if his body acted of its own accord.

“Mother”―his hand reached toward her, seeking contact―“are you all right?”

Not that he expected her to be physically injured by a spilled breakfast incident. She never received food or drink hot enough that she might accidentally burn herself. And she never handled a fork or a knife.

The emotional bruise, though, the one that suggested his mother could no longer handle the simpler tasks, was the stab with which concerned Winter.

His mother stopped moving toward the bath chamber. And when she paused, so did her attendants still their forward tug. Willa turned her glazed-over gaze upon him. Her gray skin, limp hair, flat expression… None of those features spoke to the mother he remembered.

Cure our afflicted, sang again through his thoughts.

If Raven could somehow manage to return his mother to him, he would stop short of nothing to give the world, and then some, to the intriguing newcomer in return.

He strode across the room, stepped close to his mother, and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Are you well?”

She didn’t speak, yet he plowed forward as if it were a perfect conversation on a perfect morning and kissed her forehead.

“I love you and believe in you.”