The knock on the heavy oak door was answered not by words, but by the slow creak of hinges.
A maid's silhouette lingered in the threshold, her head bowed just enough to appear respectful. Alina stepped inside, her fingers brushing the folds of her skirt as though smoothing away invisible creases. She had been summoned before the lamps were even lit in the west wing. It was not the sort of summons one refused.
Prince Rian sat near the fire, his long frame angled lazily in the chair, the glow outlining the sharp lines of his jaw. He didn't rise, didn't greet her. His gaze simply trailed from her head to her feet—once, slowly—as though weighing and measuring her before deciding if she was worth speaking to at all.
"Close the door," he said, voice deep and unhurried.
She obeyed. The sound of the latch falling into place echoed far too loudly in the room's stillness.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Her pulse quickened, though she refused to let it show. "No, Your Highness."
The faintest smirk tugged at his mouth. "You've been watching her, haven't you?"
"Her?"
"Elara." The name lingered on his tongue, not with affection, but with curiosity. "You hover near her like a shadow that thinks it can decide where the light falls."
Alina stiffened. "I've simply done my duties."
He rose, each step deliberate, closing the distance until the air between them felt too thin. His shadow fell over her, his presence swallowing the space.
"Duties," he murmured, the word almost mocking. "I've seen the way you look at her. Not like a friend. Not like an ally. More… like a vulture circling."
Alina kept her chin up, though her breath had quickened. "If she falls, it will be because she tripped, not because of me."
His hand rose—not to strike, but to catch her chin between his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was firm, bordering on cruel, as if testing how much pressure she could take before she'd flinch.
"You'd like to see her fall, wouldn't you?"
Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Silence was safer.
"I could make that happen," he said softly, the heat of his breath brushing her skin. "I could make her disappear so completely that no one would remember her name. But…" He let the word drag. "…everything has a price."
Her throat tightened. "And the price?"
"You." His voice was a blade sheathed in velvet. "Your loyalty. Your obedience. Without hesitation, without question."
He released her chin only to trail his fingers lightly down her jaw, to her throat—a gesture that felt less like affection and more like possession.
Alina's heart hammered. This wasn't courtship. It wasn't even seduction. This was a claim.
"You'll find that serving me is very different from serving the others," Rian continued, stepping back just far enough to make her feel the loss of his shadow. "You won't be praised. You won't be coddled. But you will be protected."
Her mind raced. Protection, in the palace, could mean survival. It could also mean chains.
"And if I refuse?" she asked, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
He smiled then, slow and almost beautiful—if one could ignore the cruelty coiled behind it. "Refusal is a word for people with choices."
The fire popped in the grate, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then he turned away, settling back into his chair with the same lazy grace he had worn when she entered.
"You may go," he said, as though dismissing a servant who had merely poured wine. "We'll speak again… soon."
Alina curtsied, every muscle taut, and slipped out of the room. Her lungs felt tight, her palms damp.
Whatever this was, she had stepped into something dangerous—something that could destroy Elara… and perhaps herself.