The morning after the Tribunal, Elara awoke to silence.
Not the comforting kind.
The kind that waits.
Her chamber, usually stirred by the quiet hum of staff preparing her robes or guards shifting outside the door, was still.
Unnaturally so.
She rose and pulled the curtain.
No one.
Not even the air dared move.
She dressed herself in dark blue—the color of storms not yet broken—and stepped into the hallway.
And that's when she saw it.
Pinned to her door was a single black feather, bound in red string.
A warning.
Assassin's mark.
Not official. Not noble. Personal.
"When the chicken smiles at the hawk, its burial cloth is already sewn."
She did not run.
She walked.
To the Chamber of Blades, where court warriors trained and sparred under the eye of palace watchers. She wasn't trained—not in swordplay, not like the royal-born—but her instincts hummed like silver in moonlight now.
She picked up a training spear.
And waited.
The assassin didn't come that morning.
But someone else did.
Zela Ezima entered the chamber, robe flowing, eyes sharp as razors.
"I warned you," she said, tossing Elara a leather wristguard. "Every time you rise in their eyes, someone will try to dig your grave with a smile."
"They'll need a bigger shovel."
Zela grinned. "Good. Because we've got a new problem."
She handed Elara a letter—no seal, only a smear of dried blood and a crescent cut into the paper.
Inside were five words:
"The prince is not yours."
Elara's pulse quickened.
"Who sent this?"
Zela's jaw tightened. "Your new sister-in-law."
Princess Myra Dravemir, Caelum's half-sister, was not supposed to exist.
She had lived in quiet exile since the death of her mother, a foreign queen accused of treason and witchcraft. She was rumored to be mad.
And worse—gifted.
Moonbloods said she could hear the dead howl in moonlight.
She returned to court that evening. Unannounced.
Wearing white. Veil-less. Eyes gleaming with purpose.
And carrying a gift.
To Elara.
A glass box.
Inside lay a bone pendant, carved with runes, still dripping with red wax.
"The first bride of the Moonblood line wore this the night her head rolled beneath the altar," Myra said, her voice like silk hiding thorns. "May it bring you luck."
Elara accepted the gift without blinking.
"My luck," she said, "was sealed when I met your brother."
"He who greets a python with bare hands must be ready to dance or to die."
Myra's smile curled. "Oh, little heretic, I don't want to kill you."
"Of course not."
"I want to see if you'll kill him."
That night, Elara didn't sleep.
She stood at the edge of the Moonspire Tower's highest balcony, wind whipping through her hair, the cursed bone pendant heavy in her hand.
Below, the city sprawled like a sleeping beast—beautiful and oblivious.
Caelum joined her.
"You're bleeding," he said, eyes falling on her palm where the sharp edge of the pendant had sliced skin.
"I've been bleeding since the Mirror chose me," she said.
He sighed. "Myra moves faster than I thought."
"She said I'd kill you."
Caelum looked out at the horizon.
"I believe her."
Silence.
Not of fear.
Of resignation.
"The scorpion does not sting without knowing it will die too."
Elara turned to him. "Do you trust me, Caelum?"
"No."
"Do you trust her?"
"Even less."
She stepped closer, her voice low.
"Then teach me how to kill a princess."