Evening settled over the palace like a bruise.
The sky outside Lysandra's window bled into shades of deep violet and ash, the last light of the sun slipping away as if it, too, wanted no part in this place.
She sat on the floor in the corner of her chamber, knees drawn to her chest, fingers wrapped tightly around a thin shawl. The crown lay discarded on the table nearby—untouched, unwanted.
For once, there were no screams.
That silence frightened her more than the noise ever had.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Controlled.
Not the soft, hesitant taps of a maid.
Not followed by any announcement.
No Your Majesty.
No warning.
Her breath caught.
Her heart began to pound.
No one came unannounced. Not here. Not ever.
Fear crawled up her spine as she rose slowly, each step toward the door heavy with dread. Her hand hovered over the handle.
If it's him…
She swallowed.
And opened the door.
Maverick stood there.
Young. Composed. Dressed in dark court attire, his posture flawless—but his eyes… his eyes were far too calm for a man standing uninvited before the queen's chambers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The corridor behind him was empty, shadows stretching long and watchful.
"My Queen," he said finally, bowing his head just enough to be respectful—but not enough to be submissive.
Her fingers tightened around the doorframe.
"You didn't announce yourself," Lysandra said, her voice quiet but steady.
"I know," Maverick replied.
That answer alone sent a chill through her.
She glanced down the corridor, then back at him. "You shouldn't be here."
"I shouldn't," he agreed.
Another pause.
Then, softer, "But if I don't speak now, I may never get the chance again."
Every instinct told her to close the door.
To protect what little safety illusion she still had.
Yet something in his voice—measured, deliberate, careful—made her hesitate.
"What do you want?" she asked.
Maverick lifted his gaze.
And for the first time, she saw it.
Not fear.
Not loyalty.
But something dangerous.
Awareness.
"I know you heard the screams today," he said quietly.
Her throat tightened. "Everyone did."
"Yes," he replied. "But not everyone listens."
A long silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Finally, Lysandra stepped back.
"Come in," she said.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded far too final.
Maverick didn't sit. He stood near the wall, as if careful not to claim space that wasn't his.
"You've tried to stop him," he said. "More times than anyone knows."
Her eyes flicked sharply to his. "You speak dangerously for someone so young."
A faint smile touched his lips. Not amused—knowing.
"I learned early," he said, "that silence keeps you alive… but it doesn't change the world."
Her chest tightened.
"You think I don't know that?" she whispered.
"I think," Maverick said gently, "that you've been surviving when you were meant to rule."
The words struck deeper than any blow Edward had ever given.
Lysandra turned away, her voice trembling despite her effort. "Nothing changes him. I've tried everything."
"I know," Maverick said.
She faced him again. "Then why are you here?"
He met her gaze fully now.
"Because the king's cruelty will never fade," he said.
"But yours—your restraint—has been mistaken for weakness."
Her breath caught.
"And because," he continued, lowering his voice, "there are others in this palace who see what you see… and are waiting for the moment you stop enduring."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Dangerous.
Alive.
Lysandra's heart pounded—not with fear alone this time, but with something sharper.
Hope.
Terrifying, fragile hope.
"You should leave," she said quietly.
"I will," Maverick replied. "But not before you answer one question."
He took a single step closer.
"When the moment comes, my Queen—"
His eyes darkened.
"Will you still choose silence…
or will you choose fire?"
The candle beside them flickered violently.
And somewhere deep within Lysandra Elira, the queen who had once shattered the world stirred again.