Luna met Azriel in the silent court just as dawn's pale light filtered through the towering stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the marble floor.
"Good morning, Your Majesty."
Azriel did not look up at once. He sat in the carved oak chair below the throne dais—not the throne itself, but close enough to remind any onlooker of the power he carried.
A thick leather-bound book rested in his hands, long fingers steady against the worn edges.
"What brings you here, Luna?" he asked calmly, eyes still scanning the page.
Her hands tightened within the folds of her gown.
"I wish to ask for your pardon, Your Majesty. I would like permission to visit my family."
Only then did he pause. The quiet stretched thin.
Azriel lifted his gaze slowly, studying her over the rim of the open book.
His dark eyes were sharp—too sharp. They missed nothing.
"Why?" he asked. "If I remember correctly, your parents were present at the debutante ball."
"They were," Luna answered carefully. "But there are matters I must discuss with my mother."
He closed the book halfway, keeping a finger between the pages—as if unwilling to set aside what occupied him more than she did.
"How long will this take?"
"I will return before sundown, Your Majesty."
Silence again. The court seemed colder.
"Very well," he said at last. "But if you are not back by then… your family will pay for your actions."
The words struck like a blade laid gently against her throat.
Luna inhaled slowly—but restraint shattered.
"My family has already paid for the sins of one person. Is that not enough?" she demanded, voice low but trembling with fury.
Azriel's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
She stepped forward despite herself.
"I said my family is suffering for the sins of another. Isn't that enough? Must we commit murder before you are satisfied? How long will you continue punishing us? We have lost our title, our lands, our dignity."
Her voice echoed faintly against the vaulted ceiling.
"I am tired of pretending everything is fine while my family lives in disgrace. Forgive me if I do not sip tea with the other contestants while my mother struggles to hold our house together."
Her breath came unevenly.
"I need to see them. We must decide what future we have left… whether leaving this kingdom is our only salvation."
The final words lingered like treason.
"Forgive my manners, Your Majesty."
Azriel slowly closed the book and placed it on the table beside him.
The sound was soft. Too soft.
He rose to his full height—unhurried, deliberate.
Descending the dais steps, he stopped only a breath away from her.
For a moment, he simply looked at her.
There was no anger in his expression. That frightened her more.
"You may leave," he said.
No threat. No warning. Just permission.
Luna turned toward the doors, she felt it—the weight of his gaze following her.
Not dismissive. Not indifferent. Calculating.
For the first time since entering the court, she wondered if permission had been the most dangerous thing he could have given her.
The doors closed behind Luna with a hallow thud.
The sound echoed longer than it should have.
Azriel did not move for several heartbeats.
"Follow her." The command was quiet.
From the shadow between two pillars, a figure stepped forward and bowed.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Azriel's gaze shifted to the stained-glass windows where fractured sunlight painted the floor in shards of red and gold.
"She believes permission is mercy," he murmured.
"Let us see whether it is loyalty… or betrayal."
The spy vanished without another word.
Azriel returned to the oak chair, but he did not open his book again.
Instead, he stared at the place where Luna had stood.
There had been fire in her.
Grief. Defiance. And something else. Resolve.
Most courtiers broke under pressure. Luna sharpened.
That made her dangerous. Or useful.
Meanwhile—
Luna's carriage wheels rolled over the cobblestones as she left the palace gates behind.
Only when the towers disappeared from view did she allow herself to exhale.
Had she said too much. Leaving the kingdom. She had spoken the words aloud. In his court. To his face.
She could not swallow her anger any longer. Not when her family bore humiliation meant for someone else.
Yet what unsettled her most was not his threat. It was his lack of one.
Azriel had watched her the way a chess player watches a piece move across the board— not to stop it but to see where it would lead.
Luna could not shake the feeling that the game had only just begun.
The carriage wheels groaned as they rolled over the gravel drive, the sound grinding and deliberate, as though the earth itself protested Luna's return.
Iron gates had opened at her approach. They always did.
Beyond them stretched the estate—vast and austere beneath a bruised afternoon sky.
The manor rose from the hill like something carved from winter itself. Pale stone.
Tall windows. No warmth. No welcome. It was not a home. It was a stronghold.
The carriage came to a halt at the foot of the wide marble steps. Before the door stood Coraline.
Perfectly composed. Hands folded. Spine straight. Expression unreadable.
"Welcome, sister."
Luna descended without haste. Her dark skirts whispered against the stone as her boots touched the ground. The air smelled of coming rain.
"Thank you, Coraline," she replied smoothly. "Where is everyone?"
"They're waiting inside." Of course they were.
They had not summoned her for pleasantries. The parlour swallowed her in shadow.
Despite the early hour, the curtains were drawn, smothering the room in dim, heavy light.
Lavender lingered faintly in the air, an attempt to disguise something sharper beneath it—anger perhaps, or humiliation.
Every chair was occupied. Her aunt. Her brother. Her father. Her mother.
Luna crossed the room without faltering and took the empty seat beside her mother with effortless grace.
"Hello, Mother. How are you feeling?"
Her mother's hands trembled slightly in her lap. Once, those hands had commanded servants and silenced rooms.
Now they clutched a handkerchief like an anchor.
"I'm tired…" she murmured. The word sounded fragile. Expensive.
Luna inclined her head. Tiredness was the least of their afflictions.
A sudden crack shattered the stillness.
Hendrick's palm slammed against the polished table.
"I can't believe that witch survived!"
The fury in his voice rattled the glass decanter near his elbow.
"Father, that's enough," Coraline snapped, though her composure was thinning.
Hendrick, Duke of Giadaville. A man whose name once opened doors before he even approached them.
A man who stood beside the king of Giadaville as an equal in counsel.
Now whispers followed him. Now laughter trailed behind his shadow.
All because of Guinevere Whitestone.
"The plan was flawless," Thomas said, leaning forward, his voice low and bitter.
"We caused the building to collapse. We trapped her inside. She should have been buried alive."
His fingers curled against the tabletop.
"So why is she still breathing?"
Silence fell. Not empty.
Tight. Suffocating.
Lady Vivian's eyes—sharp as cut glass—shifted toward Zachary.
"Are you certain you carried out your task properly?" she asked coolly.
Zachary stiffened. "Of course I did."
"Then explain her survival," Coraline replied, her tone precise and merciless.
Zachary's jaw tightened. "What are you insinuating?"
"That you failed." Coraline said.
"That is enough." Zamel's voice cleaved through the rising argument like steel.
"I am weary of this bickering," he said, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled. His authority did not require volume. As expected of the first born. The room obeyed.
Vivian's gaze drifted at last to Luna.
"You are very quiet."
Every eye followed.
Luna allowed the silence to stretch. Allowed them to lean inward. Allowed anticipation to ripen.
Then her lips curved. Slowly. Deliberately.
"I am thinking," she said softly, "of other ways to make Guinevere Whitestone pay for ruining our lives."
Her fingers brushed the armrest lightly.
"I do not want her dead."
A flicker of surprise crossed Thomas's face.
"I want her to suffer," Luna continued, her voice silk over steel. "In ways no potion could ever save her."
A pleased smile touched Vivian's lips.
"Yes," her aunt murmured. "That is better."
"First things first," Zamel said.
"We must ensure the emperor despises her. If she loses his favor, she loses protection."
Protection was power and power was survival.
Vivian nodded once. "Zachary. Find everything you can about Guinevere Whitestone. Secrets. Weaknesses. Scandals. I care not what you must uncover—only that it can be used."
Zachary straightened. "This time, I will not fail."
He would have to hope that was true, because failure, in this room, was not forgiven.
Two days later, the palace felt impossibly calm.
The kind of calm that made one distrust the air itself.
Moonlight slipped through the tall windows of Anastasia's chamber, though evening had barely settled.
The sky outside glowed pale blue, fading toward silver.
Anastasia sat by the window, her posture elegant despite exhaustion.
In her arms, little Moon slept.
The child's tiny fingers curled into the silk of Anastasia's gown, her breathing soft and steady.
Each rise and fall of her chest seemed to anchor the room.
"How are you feeling?" Hannah asked gently from the doorway.
Anastasia did not look away from the child.
"Good," she replied softly, rocking Moon with slow, careful rhythm.
"Do you need anything?"
"Yes," Anastasia said after a moment. "Come sit with me."
Hannah crossed the room without hesitation and settled into the chair beside her.
For a while, neither spoke. They listened to the quiet. To the wind brushing the glass.
To Moon's soft breathing. Then Anastasia broke the silence.
"I didn't tell anyone this."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"But I saw Guinevere the day of the accident."
Hannah stilled.
"Are you certain?" she asked cautiously. "It was chaos. Smoke. Falling stone. Perhaps your mind—"
"I did not imagine it," Anastasia said firmly. Her gaze sharpened.
"We fought."
The memory darkened her expression.
"She wanted my place. She believed she could step into my life and take credit for everything I have built."
Hannah swallowed. "Do you think she trapped you?"
"No."
The answer came without hesitation.
"Guinevere does not possess such power."
Moon shifted in her sleep, releasing a soft coo.
Anastasia adjusted her gently before continuing.
"I saw someone else." Hannah leaned closer.
"A man. Blond hair. Watching from the shadows." Her brow furrowed.
"He reminded me of someone. I cannot place who."
"Have you told the emperor?" Hannah asked carefully.
Anastasia shook her head quickly.
"Heavens, no." Her voice softened.
"He would become unbearable in his concern. I know he means well, but…" She exhaled lightly. "It can be suffocating."
Hannah understood. Power came with watchfulness.
Watchfulness became chains.
Outside, the wind shifted. Somewhere beyond palace walls and guarded gates, decisions were being sharpened like blades.
In one house, vengeance was being perfected.
In another, suspicion was quietly blooming.
And between them stood an empire balanced on fragile loyalty. Neither side intended to lose.