Tristan
The Consuls didn't ask.
They commanded.
And in return, they demanded obedience sealed in blood and silence.
The list came that morning. Slid across the polished mahogany of my father's office like a noose in gold ink.
Seven names.
Seven daughters of power.
My eyes skimmed past houses I knew too well—Barclay, Virell, Nyx—until they stopped.
Michelson.
Lyra.
I said nothing. Just let the name settle like ash in my lungs.
She was a myth wrapped in scandal. Cursed. Dangerous. Raised by one of the most influential men in the Council—and yet always a step away from falling into ruin. Her bloodline was old. Her legacy... complicated.
Exactly the kind of distraction the Consuls would use to cage me.
"I expect you to choose wisely," my father said without looking up. "The marriage must solidify your future—our future. One misstep, and everything I've built turns to dust."
I stared at him. The mask of authority. The illusion of control. He had no idea that the very empire he believed in was already laced with fire under his feet.
"I'll think about it," I said.
He stood, crossing the space between us like a man bestowing a kingdom. "You've had time. Now, you will act."
I met his gaze, cold and unblinking. "I've built more in silence than you ever did shouting."
He slapped the list against my chest. "Then let your silence make the right choice."
Later that night, I burned six names.
Only one remained.
Not because I wanted her.
Not because I believed in this game of thrones and legacies.
But because the Consuls thought she was his piece.
And I never let anyone play me twice.
If I was going to burn, I'd take every last one of them with me.
And it would start with Lyra Michelson.