The palace was never quiet. Even at dawn, its halls whispered—faint footsteps, distant voices, the rustle of silk and suspicion.
I sat at my vanity, still staring at the note Alistair had left me. I'd read it a dozen times, trying to decipher all the meaning behind those few careful words. "They're watching. Be careful what mask you wear next." It wasn't just a warning. It was a reminder that I was still being scrutinized from every angle, still seen as a piece to maneuver—or eliminate.
A knock came, gentler this time. I expected one of the maids. Instead, it was Lyria.
"Can I come in?" she asked, head slightly tilted, her golden hair braided with silver ribbons today. Her expression was cautious—less like the bubbly confidante I'd known last year and more like the wary noblewoman she was raised to be.
"Yes," I said. "Of course."
She stepped in, her hands clasped behind her back. "You met the Queen."
I blinked. "How did you—?"
"The entire eastern wing knows by now," she said dryly. "Her servants talk. So do the guards. Apparently, your voice was calm but the Queen's... wasn't."
I gave a weak smile. "She didn't take kindly to being reminded I'm not entirely tame."
"I'd say you poked a lioness with a hairpin," Lyria said, folding herself into a seat near my chaise. "She's dangerous when riled. You knew that, though."
"I did," I murmured. "But I can't be who she expects me to be. I won't."
A beat passed before Lyria leaned in slightly. "Then you need allies. Real ones. Not whispered maybes and half-formed loyalties. You need names. Positions. Leverage."
"You sound like you've been thinking about this."
"I have," she admitted. "Because I've seen what happens to girls like us when we try to walk alone in this palace. We either break… or we vanish."
Her words struck something deep. I nodded slowly. "Then we stand together."
Lyria's hand found mine. "Together."
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
That afternoon, I accompanied her to the eastern gardens, where many of the noblewomen spent their free hours weaving gossip between embroidery and tea. I hadn't planned on engaging today—not after everything—but Lyria insisted.
"Visibility matters," she said. "They need to see you in control, not hiding behind drapes."
The moment we entered, the conversation shifted. Not overtly. But the air changed. Smiles became tight. Eyes flicked toward me and back again.
Lady Delphine was the first to approach. Dressed in peacock blue with matching jewels, she radiated entitlement and subtle malice.
"Lady Seraphina," she said, voice honeyed. "We were just discussing the Queen's latest decree. Something about restricting foreign correspondence. I'm sure you're exempt, of course."
"Of course not," I replied evenly. "But I imagine the Queen values discretion, not favoritism."
Delphine's smile faltered just a hair.
Lady Eliane piped in next, "And we heard you've been spending quite a lot of time with the Fifth Prince. Isn't it thrilling? Such drama, when all the court assumed you'd be Caelum's bride."
I smiled politely. "The court assumes many things. Most of them wrong."
A few gasps. A few muffled laughs. But it was Lady Nariel—quiet, pale, and always observing—who gave me a nod of respect from across the hedge.
Not everyone in this circle was a viper. Some were waiting. Watching. Just like Alistair said.
When we returned to my chambers, I sank into my chair, exhaling hard.
"Well?" I asked.
Lyria tilted her head, satisfied. "You didn't just survive. You baited the trap and walked out with their teeth."
I didn't feel triumphant. Only exhausted. But I was beginning to understand the game better.
Later that night, I was summoned to the Fifth Prince's private study.
Alistair wasn't alone when I arrived.
There were five others in the room, all seated around a long obsidian table: Lord Thorne, who controlled the eastern ports; Lady Maren, from the southern mountain strongholds; Sir Audric, the captain of the shadow guard; High Priest Virell of the Old Temple; and a younger noble I didn't recognize—dark-skinned, with bright eyes and ink-stained fingers.
"This is Riven of House Cyell," Alistair said, nodding toward the stranger. "Scholar. Strategist. And a bit of a genius."
Riven gave me a half-bow. "Pleasure, Lady Seraphina. I've read… quite a lot about you."
"Mostly good, I hope."
He grinned. "Mostly brilliant."
The others chuckled lightly, but the mood remained tense.
"We don't have long," Alistair said, his tone shifting. "Each of us here knows the risks. We meet in secret. We speak plainly. The Queen's network is vast, but not flawless. This alliance exists to dismantle her stranglehold on the court—and ensure the First Prince never takes the throne."
Lady Maren nodded. "Our forces are limited. But if we time it with the Gathering..."
Lord Thorne added, "A disruption. A message. A fracture in her control."
I listened as plans were laid out—diversions, spies, coded messages disguised as festival orders, even possible alliances with the border kingdoms.
Then Alistair turned to me.
"You will be our signal."
I blinked. "Me?"
"Yes. The Queen expects you to behave. To perform. To smile and bow and say nothing dangerous. But if you use your position—your proximity—you can send the first blow without lifting a sword."
"What would I do?"
Alistair's voice lowered. "At the ceremony, when the Queen gives her unity speech, you will rise. And you will toast not to her—but to the people of the realm. To their freedom. To their future."
My stomach twisted. "That's treason."
Riven cut in, "Not if phrased correctly. Symbolism matters. She can't imprison you for a toast. But it will show everyone watching that you're not hers. That you stand for something else."
"And once the mask slips," Alistair added, "Others will stop pretending too."
I was quiet for a long moment. Then I nodded.
"I'll do it."
The room pulsed with tension. Then Sir Audric gave a rare smile. "Braver than most men I know."
When I returned to my chambers, another note awaited me.
This one wasn't from Alistair.
It bore no signature, no seal—just a single line scrawled in deep crimson ink:
You think you're safe. You're wrong.
I froze.
The ink was fresh.
Whoever had left it had been here recently. Inside my room. Past my locked doors.
I stared at the note, fingers trembling slightly.
The storm had begun.
And I was standing in its eye.