The palace looked different now.
Not physically. The towers of ivory stone still loomed in perfect symmetry, and the stained-glass windows still bled color across the marble floors like light through wounds. But where once it might have seemed grand, almost otherworldly, now it pressed in on her like a coffin built of silk and gold.
Lira stood in the corridor outside the Assembly Hall, her new gown clinging like a second skin. The sapphire velvet caught the morning light and turned it into shadowed ocean depths. Around her neck, a delicate chain of star sapphires glittered—a gift from the Empress herself.
A threat wrapped in lace.
She had survived an execution. Been claimed by a prince. Married before the court in a ceremony stripped of vows and affection. And now, she was the Dragon Prince's consort.
But no one in this palace was fooled.
The nobles passing her offered shallow bows laced with poison. Whispers followed her like smoke. Some pretended not to see her at all. Others bowed with the exaggerated grace of court jesters playing to a bitter crowd. But their eyes told the truth.
She was still the villainess. Only now, she was harder to kill.
"You should be resting," a voice murmured beside her.
Lira didn't turn. "You should be making public apologies for your taste in brides."
Kaelith let out a soft snort. He wore black again today, tailored close to his broad frame, with silver embroidery curling up the sleeves like thorns. A crimson sash slashed across his chest, the only color on him apart from his molten gold eyes.
"Why are we here?" she asked, still staring ahead.
"Because my mother summoned us," he said, his voice too calm. "And when the Empress summons you the morning after your scandalous marriage, you do not decline."
"Did you ever consider not throwing a match into the court's powder keg?"
"Yes," he said dryly. "And then I considered how thoroughly it deserved to burn."
The great doors opened with a creak of ancient hinges. A steward gestured for them to enter.
Lira squared her shoulders, then stepped into the Imperial Solar.
It was an architectural marvel. A circular chamber of sun-kissed stone and open windows, its domed ceiling painted with constellations. Pillars of obsidian and alabaster framed the room like judges. The floor was a polished spiral of black and white marble that coiled toward a single seat at the center.
The Empress's chair.
It was not a throne. Virelia had no emperor—only a prince who refused the crown, and a mother who wore power like perfume. But the chair, carved of midnight glass and crowned with coiled serpents, was no less imposing than any throne.
The Empress sat upon it now, a vision in gold and ink-dark velvet. Her black hair gleamed like polished obsidian, pinned with stars and serpents. Her eyes, pale and unblinking, surveyed the couple with the clinical chill of a predator considering its next bite.
"Your Majesties," she greeted them, the title for Kaelith alone—but her gaze never left Lira.
"I see the wedding went as expected."
"If by expected," Kaelith replied evenly, "you mean without riots or assassination attempts, then yes. A resounding success."
The Empress's lips curved faintly. "And yet, the court reels. The palace clerks have stopped counting how many nobles want this marriage undone, inquiries into Lady Valehart's lineage, and accusations of demonic enchantment."
"I'm flattered," Lira said, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "I haven't even attended a tea party yet."
The Empress tilted her head. "You speak with confidence for one so recently bound to a pyre."
"Experience is a brutal teacher."
"And yet you survived." The Empress's tone held curiosity, not admiration. "Most who cross me do not."
Kaelith stepped forward. "Mother, if this is an interrogation—"
"It is not," the Empress said. "It is an introduction. Every consort of the Dragon Prince has stood here. Some stood taller than others. Some did not stand at all."
Lira resisted the urge to shift her weight. "Should I kneel?"
"No. Kneeling is for those who beg. You are past begging, I think."
There was no smile in the Empress's voice, no warmth at all. But Lira sensed… interest. Maybe even respect.
"She is to be given a place in court," Kaelith said.
"Of course." The Empress steepled her fingers. "But she must earn it."
Lira arched a brow. "I thought I already did. You know—by not dying?"
"A low bar." The Empress stood, the movement fluid and terrifying. "If you wish to endure in this palace, Lady Irinel, you will need more than sharp words and borrowed courage. The court is a viper's nest. And now, they know you bleed."
Lira held her gaze. "Then I'll give them something to choke on."
A beat of silence. Then, to Lira's shock, the Empress laughed.
It was a sharp sound, beautiful and cruel.
"Very well," she said. "Let the court have its games. We shall see how long the villainess bride can dance with daggers."
Later — The Viper's Garden
The palace gardens were anything but peaceful.
Despite their beauty—blossoms cascading over ivory trellises, fountains whispering secrets beneath carved dragons—they held all the serenity of a battleground waiting to ignite.
Lira stood in the shade of a silver-leafed tree, watching courtiers flutter in jeweled groups. She recognized a few from the assembly hall. Others were new, though their expressions weren't.
Curiosity. Disgust. Calculation.
Her gown today was midnight blue, cut to emphasize height and presence. Kaelith had told her to blend in. She decided instead to dominate.
After all, nothing attracted more attention in a palace of predators than the scent of fear. She refused to wear it.
She turned when a woman approached—tall, willowy, cloaked in lavender silks and armed with a smile made of razors.
"Lady Valehart," the woman purred. "Or is it Lady Dravenhart now? It's so hard to keep up with political whirlwind romances."
Lira inclined her head. "You may call me Lira."
"How quaint. I'm Lady Tharielle of House Belmora."
Lira remembered the name. Belmora had once courted the east—the very land Valehart had inherited. And Tharielle was no doubt here to remind her of it.
"I was just telling the girls how brave you were," Tharielle said, voice sugar-sweet. "To walk into the Grand Hall without flinching. Why, if I'd been sentenced to death and then married a dragon out of desperation, I don't know if I'd have the strength."
"Luckily, I'm not you," Lira said smoothly. "I prefer dragons to vipers."
A sharp flash in Tharielle's eyes. But she didn't rise to the bait.
"You'll find many of us at court are venomous," she said instead. "We find it keeps the blood from growing stagnant."
"I'll keep that in mind," Lira replied. "When I'm choosing whose invitations to burn."
Before Tharielle could respond, a trumpet sounded—long and clear.
The garden shifted. Whispers rose. Nobles turned toward the upper terrace.
Lira followed their gaze—and saw Kaelith standing at the balustrade, flanked by imperial guards.
"The court is summoned," he announced, voice echoing. "The Emperor's seal has arrived from the border. The Council will convene in the Phoenix Chamber."
That wasn't just a summons.
It was a battlefield being laid bare.
The Phoenix Chamber
The chamber blazed with firelight. Gold and crimson banners fluttered overhead, and a long crescent table stretched around the central dais like the wings of its namesake.
Lira stood beside Kaelith at the head. On either side of the table sat the Council—ministers of finance, war, and trade; generals and governors; mages in obsidian robes. Every one of them older, more seasoned, and more hostile than she could count.
Whispers had reached them first. She saw it in their eyes.
Traitor. Witch. Interloper.
Kaelith raised a hand. "By royal decree, this chamber recognizes Lady Irinel Valehart as my lawful consort. She is entitled to voice and vote under the Draconic Accord."
A mage with ink-black eyes cleared his throat. "And does the Prince's consort carry the qualifications to advise on matters of empire?"
Lira stepped forward. "No. But I carry the survival skills to remain unburned in a fire meant to kill me. Which, if you ask me, sounds exactly like court politics."
A few ministers coughed. One chuckled.
The mage did not.
Kaelith allowed it. Let her fight. Let them taste her voice.
The meeting moved on—slow and brutal.
Trade negotiations with the eastern ports. Rebel sightings along the southern coast. A merchant guild accused of smuggling forbidden artifacts. Lira listened, learned, and spoke only once—to suggest a restructure of port tariffs based on variable income thresholds.
A stunned silence followed. Then the Minister of Trade narrowed his eyes. "That… might actually work."
"Then try it," she said. "Before the smugglers get richer than your office."
Hours later, Lira emerged from the chamber with Kaelith at her side.
"Well," he said, "you bloodied them."
"I only cut deep enough to keep them wary."
He paused at the edge of a sun-dappled corridor. "You were impressive."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not," he said. "I'm simply used to people crumbling their first week in court. Not carving a place for themselves."
They walked in silence for a while.
Then Lira asked, "What happens now?"
"Now?" Kaelith's lips quirked. "Now the court starts plotting."
"Against you or me?"
He looked over. "Both. But they'll underestimate you first. Use it."
Lira nodded. But her thoughts were not on politics.
They were on the faces she'd seen—on the way their eyes had flared with hatred. On the fact that she didn't belong here, not really. Not in this body. Not in this time.
But she wasn't powerless either.
And power, she was learning, was often an illusion crafted by those who spoke loudest.
That Night — The Gown
Back in the prince's wing, Lira found herself alone again.
The chambers were silent. A fire flickered low in the hearth. The moonlight spilled across the floor like milk, catching on the engagement gown she'd worn only yesterday.
Someone had hung it neatly over a screen. The sapphire fabric shimmered with threads of silver, like starlight stitched into silk.
Lira stared at it for a long moment.
Not as a symbol of romance.
Not as a token of devotion.
But as a battle flag.
She walked across the room, picked up the dress, and held it to the light.
It was heavy. Meant to impress. Meant to intimidate. Just like this palace.
She didn't know if she was Irinel. She didn't know why she was here. But one thing was certain—every force in this palace wanted her to fail.
They wanted her broken, silent, grateful.
Instead, she would be clever. Strategic. Dangerous.
I will not be devoured by this place, she thought.
She draped the gown over her arm, turned toward the firelight, and whispered aloud:
"You wanted a villainess? You should have been more careful what you wished for."