The gown Evelyne wore shimmered like blood in candlelight.
Not red.
Crimson. The color of power. The color of seduction. The color of someone who'd never had to bleed for anything in her life.
Lyra saw it the moment she entered the ballroom — how the crowd parted for Evelyne like she was royalty. The favorite daughter. The court's darling.
No one saw Lyra. Not at first.
She let them forget her — for one final moment.
Because when the game began, she wanted them to feel it.
The room smelled of lilacs, champagne, and something rotten beneath the perfume — like power curdled into decay.
Nobles glittered under the high chandeliers, their laughter bright and sharp like breaking glass. Every corner of the hall oozed opulence — golden trim, towering tapestries, violins humming some old love song.
Wrong choice, Lyra thought. No one in this room knew what love really was. Not the kind that bruised.
Thorne stood across the room, in black and silver, an unmoving shadow amid the sea of silk and smiles. He didn't blink. Didn't nod. But she felt him watching.
And she wore it.
Tonight, her gown was a deep violet that drank in the light. No frills. No jewels. Just the kind of fabric that clung like a second skin — soft as sin, sharp as defiance. The neckline plunged. The sleeves shimmered like smoke. It was a dress that said: I am not here to play by your rules. I came to burn your rulebook.
Eyes turned. Conversations faltered.
Now they saw her.
And Evelyne did too.
Their eyes met from across the ballroom — the golden daughter and the girl she once let burn.
Evelyne's smile held. But her grip on her goblet tightened.
Lyra moved through the room like a blade sliding between ribs. Graceful. Cold. Inevitable.
A noblewoman tried to speak to her. Lyra smiled, murmured something vague, and kept walking.
She wasn't here to make friends.
She was here to make Evelyne bleed.
Near the center of the room, a servant passed with a tray of champagne. Lyra plucked a glass without slowing. The liquid sparkled gold beneath the crystal. Her reflection shimmered in it — calm, composed, deadly.
A shadow drifted to her left. Cassian.
His voice came like silk soaked in venom. "You're the talk of the room."
She didn't look at him. "Am I?"
"They're already rewriting history." He sipped his drink. "You're no longer the girl who screamed on the pyre. You're the witch who rose from it."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be," he said softly. "Fear looks good on them."
She glanced sideways. "Is that why you came? To watch them tremble?"
His smile was slow, deliberate. "No. I came to see if you'd let me dance."
Her mouth curled. "I don't waltz with traitors."
He leaned closer, breath brushing her ear. "Then teach me how to beg, Lyra."
Her stomach twisted. Not from want. From the memory of poison. Of flames.
"Another time," she murmured, stepping away — not because she was afraid, but because Cassian didn't deserve a dance until she decided he'd earned one.
She crossed the ballroom and stopped at the edge of the dais, where Evelyne laughed too loudly beside Caelum.
Her former husband looked thinner. Haggard. Too many sleepless nights trying to keep up with a woman who never stopped playing pretend.
He saw her. Froze.
Evelyne turned.
And the room stilled.
Silence fell like a dropped goblet — sharp and shattering.
"Princess Lyra," Evelyne said sweetly. "You look… daring."
Lyra smiled. "You look desperate."
Evelyne's eyes narrowed. "This is my engagement celebration. You're a guest."
Lyra tilted her head. "Ah. Is that what we're calling it now? A celebration? Because it smells like a funeral."
Caelum cleared his throat. "Perhaps—"
"Shh." Lyra didn't even look at him. "You don't speak until I tell you to."
A beat. A breath. A flicker of stunned silence across the crowd.
And then Evelyne — perfect, poised, adored Evelyne — snapped.
She moved fast. Too fast.
A goblet of red wine arced through the air.
And crashed into Lyra's chest.
Gasps rippled like a wave.
Wine soaked through violet silk. It ran like blood down her stomach, dripping onto the marble floor.
The silence was alive now. Electric. Horrified. Hungry.
Evelyne's face went white.
She hadn't meant to do it. Not here. Not now.
But Lyra didn't flinch.
She looked down at the stain. Touched it lightly. Then raised her eyes — and smiled. Slow. Savage.
"I should thank you," she said, voice low and dangerous. "I was wondering how to end this party."
She stepped onto the dais, wine-darkened gown trailing behind her like a war banner.
She turned to the crowd — dozens of lords and ladies, all frozen in a moment they knew would echo for years.
And then she slapped Evelyne.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the air like a whip.
Evelyne reeled back, one hand flying to her cheek.
Lyra leaned in, her voice like silk spun with razors.
"That's for the wedding.
That's for the fire.
And that… was for the years I begged you to love me."
Then she turned, stepped down — and found Thorne waiting at the base of the stairs.
He held out a hand. No words. Just offer.
She took it.
The room parted before them like smoke.
Behind her, Evelyne's breathing hitched — like a sob, or maybe a scream.
Cassian watched from the shadows, eyes burning.
Caelum called her name once — Lyra — soft and stupid.
She didn't look back.
Not anymore.
Later, alone in the quiet of her chambers, she peeled the ruined dress from her skin.
The wine had dried like blood.
She traced the stain down her ribs. A reminder.
Not of humiliation.
Of power.
Because now the court had seen it. Not just a rumor. Not just whispers.
She bled once. And she lived.
She let the night soak into her bones, let the silence settle like snowfall. But her mind was already moving — calculating, unfolding.
Evelyne had struck first.
Now it was her turn.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a sealed letter.
The ink was still fresh.
The seal bore Thorne's crest.
It was addressed to the North — to a name whispered in taverns and rebel camps alike.
Kael.
And it read:
The fire is lit again.
Come see what we can burn together.