The moment Sophie was back inside her chamber, her knees nearly buckled. She braced herself against the door, drawing in ragged breaths. Alexander's words replayed over and over, echoing louder than her own heartbeat.
"You are lying."
"I will learn your secrets."
She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, as though she could trap the memory there, seal it away before it consumed her. But it was useless. The confrontation clung to her skin like smoke.
Eira slipped in through the side entrance, her steps quick, her eyes wide the instant she saw Sophie's face. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Sophie let out a shaky laugh. "Not a ghost. Worse. The king."
Eira hurried to her side, helping her sink onto the velvet-cushioned bench by the fire. "What happened?"
For a moment, Sophie hesitated. She had been holding secrets so tightly for so long that loosening her grip felt dangerous. But Eira's gaze was steady, patient, full of concern that reminded Sophie she wasn't entirely alone.
"He knows," Sophie whispered finally.
Eira stiffened. "Knows what?"
"That I'm hiding something," Sophie said, voice raw. "He doesn't know what. Not yet. But he can feel it. He said he'll find out whether I speak or not."
Eira cursed softly, something Sophie hadn't heard from her before. "That man… he doesn't bluff. If he's set on digging, he'll dig until the bones are bare."
Sophie buried her face in her hands. "I don't know what to do. I can't tell him what Marta said about Draven—not until we're sure. If Alexander doesn't already suspect his advisor, it could put us both in danger. And if I stay silent, he'll think I'm plotting against him myself."
Eira perched beside her, placing a gentle hand on Sophie's shoulder. "You've walked this far with secrets, my lady. Perhaps you can walk a little further still. He may hunt, but you are clever enough to hide."
Sophie lifted her head, searching Eira's face. "You really think so?"
Eira's lips curved faintly. "I've seen you face nobles who would have eaten another woman alive. I've seen you take the king's glares and return them with calm. You may not feel it, but you are stronger than he believes."
The warmth of those words steadied Sophie's racing heart. She reached for Eira's hand and squeezed it. "Thank you. Truly. I don't know what I'd do without you."
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked, the flickering firelight painting shadows across Eira's cheekbones. Then Eira cleared her throat and glanced away, though her hand lingered in Sophie's. "Rest tonight, if you can. Tomorrow we'll continue carefully. No more wandering near the east wing for now. If the king's watching, every step will leave a mark."
Sophie nodded, though dread still coiled inside her. The battle was not over; it had only shifted.
Meanwhile, in the solitude of his private chambers, Alexander stripped away the armor of formality. His cloak hung heavy across the back of a chair, his gloves discarded on the table beside a map of the palace. A single candle burned low, casting sharp shadows across the lines of his face.
He poured himself a measure of wine but did not drink it. His mind was sharper than alcohol, and sharper still was his suspicion.
Sophie.
He spoke her name quietly, testing it in the silence. She unsettled him—no, more than unsettled. She intrigued him, provoked him, lit a fire where once there had been only cold. Yet with every spark of intrigue came a gnawing shadow: she was not what she seemed.
And Alexander could not allow himself the weakness of being deceived.
He studied the map of the palace. His finger tapped lightly over the east wing. The forbidden library. The corridors where guards had reported unusual movements in the night. The timing of Sophie's restlessness was no coincidence.
"Too curious," he muttered. "Too fearless. A dangerous combination."
But Alexander was a king. Kings did not wait for truth to fall into their laps—they forged it, extracted it, ensnared it.
A plan began to take shape. Not a direct accusation—that would only drive her deeper into defiance. No, he would weave a net, something subtle enough to catch her in her own movements.
"Set a fox to follow the rabbit," he said to himself.
The door creaked, and one of his captains entered, bowing low. "Your Majesty."
Alexander's gaze snapped up. "I have instructions. Discreet ones. You will place two trusted men in the queen's shadow. They will not reveal themselves unless I command it. I want every word she speaks outside these chambers. Every place she lingers. Every hand she takes in confidence. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sire."
"And if she seeks out the east wing again," Alexander added, his voice colder than steel, "you will not stop her. You will watch. And you will bring me what she finds."
The captain bowed deeper. "It shall be done."
When the man left, Alexander finally lifted the goblet to his lips, though he did not savor the wine. His eyes burned with a sharper hunger—the hunger for truth, for control.
"Lie to me if you must, Sophie," he whispered into the dark. "But know this—I will unravel you thread by thread."
Back in Sophie's chamber, Eira tucked the blankets tighter around her queen. But sleep came late and thin. Every time Sophie closed her eyes, she saw Alexander's face—hard, unreadable, yet drawn with something perilously close to longing.
And though she had Eira's steady hand to hold, Sophie felt the storm gathering.
She didn't yet know that Alexander had already loosed his net, silent and invisible.
She didn't know that the very walls around her were no longer hers to trust