Lyra's heels echoed on the marble floors as she led the Virellan Guard from the grand ballroom. The sea of jeweled nobility parted around them—silent, curious, fearful. She felt the weight of eyes pressing against her back, but none dared meet her gaze.
As the doors closed behind them, Flick let out a low whistle. "So… I'm guessing the plan Stab-and-Go is off the table?"
Lyra didn't stop walking. The corridors of Drakmyr's palace stretched wide, lit by sconces casting golden flames against dark stone. Banners of ancient wars hung like silent witnesses. The hum of distant string music softened behind them—the ball carrying on, oblivious.
Calen fell into step beside her, his face an unreadable wall of steel. "Why?"
They reached the stairwell that spiraled toward their assigned guest chambers. Lyra finally stopped, turning to face them in the shadowed alcove.
"Because," she said, voice low but firm, "the Dragon King isn't who we thought."
Savi's eyes flickered with startled light. "You know him?"
Lyra met her gaze, sharp as a drawn blade. "I saved him."
Flick blinked. "You what?"
She exhaled, tightening the gloves at her wrist. "Years ago. I healed a boy—half-dead on a battlefield. That boy… is Kael."
A stunned silence.
"And if he's the same man who now sits on that throne…" Lyra's voice dropped, soft as a dagger's whisper, "...we won't win this with blades. Not tonight. Not like this."
Calen's jaw flexed. "So the mission changes?"
"The mission changes," Lyra confirmed. "We observe. We listen. We learn. But no one touches him. Not unless he makes the first move."
Savi gave a small, reverent nod. Flick, ever the jester, tossed a mock salute. "You're the queen, boss. Lead, and we'll follow."
Lyra offered a rare, faint, true smile. "Good. Because this isn't over. It has just begun."
(Kael Pov)
Kael watched her disappear into the crowd, the sway of her hips sharp enough to cut through steel—and gods help him, every instinct screamed at him to follow.
He should have been furious. She'd come to his ball with blades beneath her gown and a guard at her back. She moved like a challenge, like a whispered dare thrown straight at his crown.
But all Kael could think about was the way her lips parted when he touched her waist. The way her eyes darkened—not with hate, but something far more dangerous.
Want.
He dragged a hand through his hair, ignoring the pointed stares of nearby lords who dared glance his way. The blood in his veins wasn't fire. It was a storm—one she started with a single look.
She was the girl who saved him on a battlefield of frost and ash.
She was the assassin who defied him in his own court.
She was the queen who walked into his hall with her own army.
And gods help him… she was the only woman who had ever made him want to lose control.
Kael exhaled a slow, sharp breath. His hand tightened at his side, fingers curling into a fist.
What was it about her?
The danger. The defiance. The raw, unbroken power coiled beneath her skin.
He remembered the brush of her black see through lace gloves, the whisper of her breath against his cheek. He remembered the way her gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—to his lips.
That look had nearly undone him.
And now?
Now he burned for her.
He wasn't a boy anymore. And neither was she some fallen exile princess. They weren't children chasing shadows.
They were rulers standing on the edge of a war—and maybe something far more perilous.
Obsession was a weakness. Want was a weapon.
And Lyra Virellin was both.
Kael's lips twisted into something between a curse and a smirk.
He wanted her.
He wanted her at his side.
He wanted her affection and love.
And he didn't know which desire would destroy him first.
He turned on his heel, storming out of the ballroom and toward his war room before his temper—his restraint—turned to ash and crumble.
He slammed the door behind him. The council table stretched out before him, maps scattered like fallen kingdoms.
And in the center of it, he found himself gripping a pen.
For a moment, he stared at the blank parchment. He should be drafting terms of alliance. Warnings. Ultimatums.
But instead…
His hand moved of its own accord.
To Lyra Virellin, Leader of the Virellan Guard, Queen of the Forgotten and the lightborn,
You came to my court with blades and shadows.
Stay longer.
I want a conversation. No war. No masks. No blades.
Tomorrow. Midnight. The old tower at Drakmyr's edge.
Come alone… or don't come at all.
— K.D.
Kael set down the pen, staring at the ink like it might catch fire.
God, what was he doing?
But even as the question formed, he knew the answer.
He wasn't summoning a queen. He wasn't challenging a rival. He was inviting the only stormy fire he wanted to burn in.
He wanted to burn and melt into her.