Azrayel's hand closed around Metheea's forearm as they followed their father down the corridor.
The stone held the night's cool and breathed it against their skin. Lanterns burned with a steady gold that made the floor gleam.
The castle was quiet except for the soft drum of their steps and the whisper of Therion's cloak.
They had left the ball celebration after a while, avoiding unnecessary romors and curious eyes that might have lingered too long.
The door to the study opened without a word and Therion crossed the threshold first.
The room smelled of ink, candle tallow, and old cedar. A wall of maps waited behind the desk. Flags and sigils lay folded on a side table.
The fire had been banked to a red heart, enough to cast a low glow that filled every carved groove in the shelves.
This was the first time Metheea had entered their father's study.
"Sit," Therion commanded.
They obeyed. Azrayel took the chair to the left of the desk.
Metheea chose the one to the right, close enough to the hearth that its warmth touched her knees. Her brother's hand left her arm at last.
Yet the absence of his grip did not ease the tightness in her chest.
Therion rested his palms on the desk and looked at both of them. His voice carried calm authority.
Therion's voice cut through the room: "We will allow the Dythridian maid to live."
Metheea shifted uneasily in her seat, wanting to protest even if her tongue could not find the words.
Therion lifted his hand, commanding silence before either of them could speak further.
"Not because we trust her. Because refusing her is a declaration of war we are not ready to fight. Better she moves in our halls where we can see her than lurks beyond them, unseen, striking where we cannot."
Azrayel's jaw set. "We look weak if we keep her."
Therion's gaze sharpened. "No. To refuse her would be to brand Dythrid with shame and force them to act. Their next move would be blood in our halls."
He leaned back, his tone cold and certain. "Accepting her confines their threat, channels it where we can measure it. Every smile, every service she performs will be a signal we can read, not a knife in the dark."
Metheea's fingers twisted against each other in her lap. Her voice was soft, uncertain. "Better insult than a knife by my bed."
"Think beyond your chamber," Therion said. "The marriage treaty with your mother still binds us to them. Dythrid claims you are as much theirs as ours. If we deny them this maid, they will twist it and say we keep her locked here by force. Other kingdoms will answer that cry."
Azrayel's hands clenched against the armrests. "So we are chained by ink on parchment."
"By more than ink," Therion said. "By the weight of perception. If we refuse, they might twist it into rumors to start war. Such whispers cut deeper than blades. They would strip Metheea's legitimacy, weaken her claim, and make her seem a puppet of Katarthan alone."
Metheea lowered her eyes. The fire's glow made her feel smaller, exposed. "They would say I betray my mother's people," she murmured, as if the words themselves might cut her.
Therion inclined his head. "Yes. Accepting the maid shields you from those rumours. Refusing her would make you vulnerable."
Azrayel exhaled sharply. "She is still a danger we would invite into our walls."
"Better the viper in sight than the one hidden in the grass.""
Metheea's voice trembled. "If she serves me, every word I speak might end up in my mother's ear. How can I trust my own walls then?"
Therion leaned closer. "If you accept her, you turn their weapon into your shield. If you refuse, you give them grounds for war. We are still not ready. Your bonds still tie you to them, my daughter. A time will come when we may cast them off, but for now we tread carefully."
Metheea looked at the floor. She imagined the weight of those bonds dragging at her, each one tied to a kingdom, each one pulling until she could hardly breathe.
Azrayel's jaw worked. "I would choose neither."
Therion's eyes softened, just slightly. "Exactly."
Metheea's shoulders slumped. She drew in a small, shaky breath, her gaze fixed on the fire. "Then… we must bind her, so she cannot strike."
Therion inclined his head and rose. Exhaustion on his face.
"I am finished for tonight. I need rest. Azrayel, see your sister back to her wing."
Azrayel stood at once. Metheea followed, weariness pressing on her. It felt like the storm in the study had not ended but simply moved farther off.
At the door, Therion paused, resting a hand on Metheea's shoulder. "You spoke well."
They stepped back into the hushed corridors.
Guards stood like statues, torches painting the walls with restless light. Neither spoke for a while, their footsteps echoing.
They were silent on their way but Metheea's thoughts churned. At last she spoke, voice barely above a whisper.
"Father spoke of the marriage treaty. Why is it still standing?"
Azrayel glanced at her, sighing.
"Because they are still married on paper. That treaty still binds the kingdoms, keeping open war at bay. If we are seen as the ones to break it, Dythrid and their allies will claim reason enough to strike."
Metheea stopped walking. "But why me? Why am I the one bound by it? You are also of both kingdoms, why are you spared?"
Azrayel's shoulders sank. He struggled with the words, as if each one cost him.
"The treaty named you their heir, Metheea. That was always the design. You were never meant to belong wholly to Katarthan."
Metheea froze mid-step. She had never been told this. The words struck her harder than any blow.
Heir of Dythrid? How?
Azrayel looked at her, puzzled by the shock in her face.
Slowly, realization dawned. She had never been told, never taught the full truth about Dythrid and Katarthan.
Metheea pressed a hand against her chest, her breath tight.
How could she even begin to tell her brother all that had happened to her?
The heir?
She was supposed to have been crown princess then? How had their mother managed to twist it so?
Her anger deepened as she thought, how could Katarthan have allowed her to suffer like this?
Her hands trembled at her sides, nails digging into her palms, shoulders rigid as if holding back a shudder.
She turned away sharply, clenching her teeth so Azrayel wouldn't see her expression. Her voice was low and tight.
"Why haven't you sent for me even once?"
She looked back at him and caught his sad expression. Azrayel's voice came low.
"We did but our mother held you hostage, Metheea. Even Katarthan's soldiers were pulled back from the borders just to make sure they let you live. We were bound too."
Her breath hitched, then broke into fury.
"Bound? I nearly died a hundred times, Azrayel. I was beaten and healed only so the scars would not show. Told I was lower than an ant beneath their feet. Starved whenever they thought I was acting too high."
Tears streamed down her cheeks, unstoppable now. Her voice broke as she went on, louder, angrier.
"How could you let me suffer in that forsaken place while you lived here, pampered, safe, the proud prince everyone admired? And now they send me a maid, a spy, as if bonds were not enough. As if my life is theirs to leash."
Azrayel flinched, eyes widening at her words.
Anger and guilt warred on his face, his fists clenching at his sides as though he wanted to strike the walls themselves.
He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. "Enough, Metheea."
But she pushed against him, shaking, her voice cracking through sobs. "Don't you dare calm me. This is on you. You left me there. You let it happen!"
Her crying grew harsher, her words spilling between sobs. "How could Katarthan, the bloody warmonger, let their own princess rot in that place?"
Azrayel kept holding her, his jaw tight, offering no answer.
He simply held her until her sobs slowly began to fade.
Metheea sagged against him, drained. Her whole life felt like a lie, and now she could not seem to climb out of the mud that pulled at her with every breath.
She clung to Azrayel, his steady breathing the only thing that seemed to calm her storm.