"Only the invited may board," the guard said flatly.
Lerima looked at Metheea, then stepped back without another word. Refusing wasn't an option. The carriage waited with its door open.
Metheea packed her things quickly. She didn't want to go, but staying would only cause questions.
Her walk to the cart was quiet. Several girls stood by the balconies. Some stared. Others turned away too slowly. She boarded into the carriage without a word.
The palace was large and bright. The floor was polished and cold. Wall sconces held flame-crystals that gave off even light. Nothing flickered.
The same young man who had escorted her at the academy was already waiting when she stepped out of the carriage.
"I was sent by Prince Azrayel to show you the palace," he said.
Metheea's lips pressed together. "I want to join the others," she said quietly. This would start more rumors.
"They are already done with the main tour," he added. "You are the only one left."
She followed him silently.
Skarthan Palace. The place where she would have grown up if things had gone differently. It was nothing like Derya Palace in Dethryd. Everything here was sharper, colder, more precise.
They began in the west wing, passing through rooms lined with royal portraits—kings, queens, and princes, each marked with a gold plaque below.
"Queen Nysera."
"Prince Azrayel."
"King Tharion IX."
Metheea walked near the back. She wasn't paying attention to the paintings. She was looking for something that wasn't there.
Her mother's name. Queen Tilde. Or hers.
There was nothing. No portrait, no name. Not even in the wall where family history was supposed to be recorded.
Then she saw the space.
She stopped.
"Why is this empty?" she asked.
The court official hesitated. "It should contain Princess Metheea's portrait," he said, then trailed off.
"One day," he added after a pause.
Metheea turned to look at him. She wasn't sure if she heard it right. Was that hope in his voice? As if they were still waiting for her to return even after sending all those assassins since she was a child?
She stood there in silence, confused.
They moved on to the areas the girls would be allowed to use during their stay. Metheea followed quietly, still reeling from what she'd heard. She wanted to ask more about Princess Metheea—about herself—but stopped. Asking now would make her sound too curious.
"Velista!" someone called.
Metheea turned. Kalistra was waving as they reached the sunroom where the other students had gathered.
"Did you have a good travel?" she asked.
Metheea paused, watching her carefully. "You seem to expect me here."
Kalistra blinked, then smiled. "Of course. The prince wouldn't let you say no. Come, come. Let's have tea. They have a tea made out of roses."
Metheea followed her to the table, and they sat down among the others, joining the quiet chatter.
"Princess Metheea is still nowhere to be found?" one of the students asked. Metheea didn't react, but she listened.
"I believe she's taken as a hostage by those Dythridians," another said.
"Awful. The princess should've grown here, not in that land," someone else added.
"Well, the queen ran when the princess was conceived, so we don't even know what she looks like."
"More?" Kalistra asked, pouring another cup.
Metheea nodded and looked at her. "Do you know Princess Metheea?"
Kalistra picked out a scone. "Some say the queen fled because of a curse. That the princess had different fire in her blood, and the priestesses warned the palace."
"Different fire?" Metheea asked.
Kalistra lifted one shoulder. "Who knows? A dragon-born raised outside Katarthan. It's tragic, really."
These are just rumors, she told herself. But rumors came from something.
She remembered her mother's voice: Do not look at him as blood, but as your executioner.
She froze, confused.
Kalistra then lowered her voice. "There's a rumor she was betrothed. That's why the royal family is trying so hard to bring her back."
Metheea stared at her teacup. All her life, she'd believed Azrayel hunted her because she was a threat to the throne. She thought Katarthans hated her, saw her as the enemy.
Now, she wasn't sure.
They talked about her like she mattered. Like she was missing, not unwanted. Like they were trying to find her.
She kept her face neutral, but something cold settled in her chest. If they wanted her back so badly—why did they send blades instead of letters?
Her eyes misted. "Excuse me," she said quickly, rising before the tears could fall.
She was unraveling. Who was she supposed to believe? Her mother, who ran to save her? Or these people who now spoke as if they longed for their missing princess?
She left the sunroom, walking fast but not straight. Her chest hurt. She needed air.
She shoved a door open, lungs tight. The air was cooler, touched with roses and smoke.
Arms caught her.
"Where are you going?"
She looked up—and stood face to face with her brother.
Azrayel.
She didn't know what to believe anymore.