Every servant in the corridor was going to tell this story tonight. By dinner, the kitchen would have it. By morning, the stables. By lunch tomorrow, every wolf in Drakenfell would know that the Crown Princess had told the Queen to fuck off.

Whether that killed the Queen was still to be determined.

She stood there. Twenty feet away. Breathing hard. Eyes red. Heart hammering. She had just delivered the most honest, the most overdue, the most cathartic speech of her entire life, every wound, every insult, every humiliation laid bare in a public corridor, and the woman she had delivered it to had responded by fainting.

The one goddamn time. The one goddamn time she stood up for herself and let Bellatrix have every last word she had been choking on for months, and the woman dropped like a stone in front of witnesses.

Serena closed the distance.

“Is she dead?”

The question was asked with the specific tone of a woman who had just verbally destroyed someone and was now standing over the body.

“No clue,” Elara replied.

“Should we check?”

“One of us should.”

“You have the healing magic.”

“You’re the one who did this.”

“That’s fair.”

Elara gave her a pointed look. “You don’t seem sorry that you did it either.”

“I’m not. Unless she’s dead, then in that case, my bad,” Serena replied with a shrug. “That’s one hell of a way to accidentally kill someone. With words.”

“I don’t think words are lethal, Serena.”

“Mine felt lethal.”

“Yours were honest. I’ve heard better insults the day you stood up to Agnes. But this is a close second,” Elara commented. “Solid eight out of ten.”

“Gee, thanks,” Serena replied dryly. “Should we get Alaric?”

“We should.”

Neither of them moved.

“Check her pulse before we start planning a defense,” Elara said.

Serena dropped to her knees beside Bellatrix. Her fingers found the queen’s neck. Pressed. Found a pulse. Strong. Steady. The pulse of a woman whose cardiovascular system was performing at full capacity.

“She has a pulse,” Serena said. She glanced around. Omegas and guards were staring with their jaws in various stages of descent. The grand hall had become a theater and the theater had an audience and the audience was frozen.

Wonderful.

Elara knelt beside her. Her hands flared silver, healing magic blooming from her palms. She gently touched Bellatrix’s arm.

She frowned.

“That’s odd. Her energy is reading normal. Definitely Alaric should take a look.”

Serena looked at Elara. “Did she have a heart attack or faint?”

“I’m not a healer, Serena. I am a Beta Luna with emergency magic.” Elara looked down at Bellatrix. “But she seems fine to me.”

Serena looked at Bellatrix. Looked at the door. Looked at Elara.

“I say we leave her.”

“Serena.”

“She has a pulse. We mindlink Alaric and go.”

Elara stood, brushing off her knees. “Good point. She can breathe on the floor. The floor has air. Let’s leave.”

At that moment, footsteps rounded the corner.

Tiberon Drakenfell and Hyran Thornfell stopped dead.

The scene that greeted them was as follows: the Crown Princess of Drakenfell kneeling on the stone floor of the grand hall over the prone body of the Queen of Drakenfell. Servants were frozen mid-task. Guards were frozen mid-patrol. An omega was frozen beside a dropped tray.

Tiberon’s expression did not change. His expression was the expression he wore when his brain was processing information faster than his face could translate, and the information was significant and the significance was escalating.

“She fainted,” Elara said quickly, because saying it first controlled the narrative and controlling the narrative was Elara’s professional mandate.

Hyran was already moving. He crossed the corridor in four strides, dropped to one knee, and pressed both palms against Bellatrix’s chest. Gold light bloomed from his hands. The Master Mage’s healing magic was no substitute for Alaric’s, but his was pretty damn close.

His frown appeared three seconds into the scan.

The frown was the frown of a man whose diagnostic magic was telling him something and the something was producing a conclusion that required careful handling.

“I don’t sense anything,” he said after a moment. “Alaric is on his way.”

He looked at Tiberon.

Tiberon looked at Hyran.

The look between them lasted two seconds. Both men were equally perplexed by what the actual fuck was happening.

Serena stepped back. “We’ll stay out of the way.”

Elara stepped with her. Shoulder to shoulder. United front.

Tiberon didn’t blink. “What was she doing before she fell?”

Both girls froze.

Serena looked at Elara. Elara looked at Serena. The look was brief, loaded, and carried the specific communication of two women deciding in real time how much truth the situation required.

“I think she was having some kind of episode,” Serena answered. “A stroke likely. She walked up to us smiling and invited me to her parlor for tea.” She paused. “Voluntarily.”

Tiberon’s eyebrow moved by a fraction.

“So either she was stroking out,” Serena continued, “or she was trying to poison me again. I’d check the parlor tea before anyone drinks it.”

She said it the way someone mentions a leaky faucet. Flat. Unbothered. The zero-fucks version of Serena that had been activated in the corridor and was apparently not turning off.

Elara’s palms were burning. The clap was right there. Right there in her hands, begging, screaming for release. She held it. She held it with the discipline of a woman whose professional training was the only thing standing between her and a standing ovation in front of the King of Drakenfell.

Tiberon studied his daughter-in-law for two seconds. Whatever he saw, he kept to himself.

✦✦✦

SIX MINUTES LATER

Alaric’s hands hovered over Bellatrix.

Bellatrix’s eyes opened. Wide. Glassy. Confused. The confusion was a performance so committed it deserved funding.

Then she gasped.

“OH.” Her hand slammed against her chest. “Oh gods. My CHEST. Something is WRONG.”

Alaric froze. “Describe the sensation.”

“PAIN. Pressure. Like something is squeezing.” She gasped again, louder, ensuring the gasp reached every ear in the corridor. “It happened so suddenly. One moment I was talking to Serena, being KIND, and the next, everything went BLACK.”

Alaric’s hands lit gold, doing a full body scan.

“Your Grace, my scan is showing—”

“I am telling you what I FEEL, Alaric. Are you going to trust your magic over your QUEEN?”

Alaric paused. “I am more concerned by the fact I am not detecting anything, Your Grace. That usually is a worse sign.”

“Oh no,” Bellatrix said. “Don’t worry about me.”

She tried to stand, but her legs wobbled. Serena and Elara watched with detached fascination.

Tiberon moved to her side. His arm went around her waist. The support was immediate, structural, the automatic response of a future ex-husband.

“Full examination in the queen’s chambers,” Tiberon ordered.