Son of the year

"Have the cup of tea," Celia says, placing the steaming cup in front of me with a delicate clink. Her movements are precise, practiced, and overly gentle, the way one might handle a wounded animal. She's been acting like this more and more lately—extra motherly, almost smothering—and it's hard not to notice. I narrow my eyes slightly, suspicious. What exactly is she up to?

It's been a month since I arrived in the capital, and the restlessness in my bones hasn't faded, not even a little. If anything, it's only grown sharper, more suffocating. The knowledge that Noelle is somewhere nearby makes it worse, makes the air feel tighter, like I'm standing on the edge of a knife. I'm supposed to be patient, to focus on my duties, but how can I when the one thing I've been searching for feels so painfully close?