The great hall was a place of spectacle. Crystal chandeliers dripped light like molten stars, long banners of crimson and gold draped the stone pillars, and a banquet stretched the length of the room, laden with food Sophie could barely name. Roasted game birds, platters of gleaming fruits, stews thick with spices—luxuries straight out of a medieval feast.
At the head of it all sat King Alexander, a living contradiction in a crown of iron. His posture was regal, his gaze unreadable, and yet when his eyes swept the room, courtiers flinched as if the weight of judgment might fall on them next.
Sophie sat beside him, her hands folded carefully in her lap. Every movement she made felt like it was under scrutiny. Every smile felt dangerous.
"Eat," Alexander said softly, though the steel beneath his tone carried as much command as kindness.
Sophie reached for her goblet, praying she didn't spill wine down the embroidered gown Eira had wrestled her into earlier. The hall buzzed with low conversations, though Sophie caught how many eyes lingered on her—some with awe, some with suspicion.
At the far end of the table, Lord Draven leaned lazily in his chair, swirling his drink. His smirk never quite reached his eyes, which were locked on Sophie like a hawk circling prey.
Alexander raised his goblet. "To peace within our borders," he announced. "And to the crown that guards it."
The toast was echoed, though Sophie noticed the stiffness in some voices. As the meal resumed, Alexander turned to her, his gaze sharp.
"You seem… quieter than usual, my queen."
Her throat tightened. He's testing me. "Just admiring the food," she said with a small smile. "It's—different than what I remember."
"Different?" His eyes narrowed.
Sophie cursed herself. She took a slow sip of wine, buying time. "I only mean—it feels as though the cooks have outdone themselves. A woman could forget she was in a palace at all and think herself at a festival."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Alexander's lips curved—just barely. "A clever tongue, Sophie. I've always admired that about you."
Draven chuckled lowly, interrupting. "Her Majesty speaks well, but memory can be a fickle thing, can it not?" His gaze glinted, daring her to falter.
Alexander's voice cut across the hall like a blade. "And yet, Lord Draven, it is the duty of a queen to remember. Tell me, Sophie—" He turned back to her, his tone deceptively mild. "What flower grows along the eastern walls of the palace gardens? You used to walk there daily."
Sophie's heart hammered. How would I know that?
Eira's whispered lessons flashed in her mind—bits of history, household customs, even plants she'd pointed out while leading Sophie through the courtyards. She forced herself to breathe.
"The white lilies," she said, praying she'd chosen correctly. "Their scent lingers strongest in the evening. I remember you disliked how it clung to your cloak."
For the first time, Alexander's mask slipped. His brow lifted, his lips parting ever so slightly. Not surprise—something closer to recognition.
Across the table, Draven's smirk faltered.
Alexander leaned closer, his voice low, meant only for her. "You speak as though you were truly there."
Sophie met his gaze, forcing a calm she didn't feel. "Perhaps I was."
The silence between them stretched taut, a game of threads neither could afford to snap.
Then Alexander leaned back, raising his goblet once more. "To memory, then. And to those who would test it."
The hall echoed with another toast, though Sophie's pulse refused to slow.
Later, as the feast wound down and musicians filled the hall with soft strings, Alexander spoke to her again. "Walk with me after this. There is much to discuss."
It wasn't a request.
Sophie's stomach twisted. She had survived one test—but the king's suspicion was no less dangerous. If anything, she had only deepened it.
And now, alone with him, she would face the sharpest blade of all.