Alexander moved silently through the ancient corridor, his boots striking stone with measured precision. He had ordered the guards to sweep the east wing, but unlike them, he had not come here to follow commands. He came to watch.
His instincts had been honed on battlefields, sharpened in council chambers, but tonight, it was something deeper—a gnawing awareness that Sophie was slipping through his grasp. He had seen the restless flicker in her eyes at dinner, the way her gaze drifted not toward him but toward secrets she dared not share. He had felt it when she stood before the council, choosing her words like a woman balancing on a blade's edge.
She was hiding something.
And Alexander was not a man who tolerated secrets.
He stood now at the threshold of the hidden chamber, the torchlight of his guards spilling across the walls where murals whispered of ancient battles and forgotten gods. But it was not the mural that held his gaze.
It was Sophie.
She was crouched behind a shelf with Eira, their faces pale in the faint glow of a lantern that had not been fully extinguished. Fear clung to her like a second skin, but beneath it—yes, he could see it—there was defiance.
Alexander's jaw tightened. "So," he murmured under his breath, unseen in the shadows of the doorway, "this is what draws you from your bed at midnight."
The guards swept their torches across the chamber. "My lord," one called, bowing slightly when he caught sight of Alexander in the gloom. "We found the door open. Shall we search deeper?"
Alexander raised a hand, silencing him. "No. Leave the chamber as it is." His voice was calm, commanding, but his eyes never left Sophie's silhouette. "Wait outside. I will inspect alone."
The guards hesitated, but none dared question him. Soon their boots receded down the corridor, and silence reclaimed the chamber.
Alexander let it stretch, heavy and suffocating, until he could hear the faint rustle of Sophie's breath behind the shelf. She thought she was unseen. She thought she was clever.
Good. Let her believe it.
He moved deeper into the room, torch in hand, letting the flame lick across the murals. He paused before the great image of the crowned woman—the queen with fire in her hair and a storm at her back.
Seraphina.
His chest constricted, though his face remained impassive. His queen. His wife. His ghost.
And there, beside her painted likeness, was another figure. Small. Shadowed. Human. It was half-worn with age, but something in its outline unsettled him.
Was that why Sophie had come here? Did she already know of this? Or was it chance that her footsteps led her into the very heart of prophecy?
He clenched his hand until his knuckles whitened. No. Nothing is chance. Not with her.
Behind the shelf, Sophie stirred, as though debating whether to remain hidden or flee. Alexander caught the subtle shift, the faint scrape of her cloak against wood.
Every instinct in him wanted to step forward, to drag her out by the wrist and demand the truth. But another instinct, colder, stronger, restrained him.
A king did not reveal his hand before the game was fully played.
So he turned away, making his movements deliberate, slow, as though he had seen nothing. "Curious," he said aloud, his voice echoing across the chamber. "The door opens after centuries, and no one knows why. Yet nothing stirs but dust and memory."
He let the words hang, heavy with implication, though they were spoken to no one.
Then, without another glance, he strode to the exit.
At the door, he paused, half in shadow, and allowed himself a single look back. He could just make out Sophie's pale face peeking from behind the shelf, her eyes wide, her breath unsteady.
She was trembling. Not from the cold. Not from the dark. From him.
Alexander's lips curved in something between satisfaction and sorrow. Good. Let her fear him. Fear kept people honest.
But beneath the fear, he saw something else flicker in her gaze—something dangerously close to resolve.
And that was what troubled him most.
Later, in his private chambers, Alexander dismissed his attendants with a flick of his hand. He stripped the armor from his shoulders, though the weight in his chest remained. He poured himself a measure of dark wine, holding the cup in fingers that longed to crush.
He saw her again in his mind: Sophie, cloaked in shadows, standing where no woman should. If she had been anyone else, he would have already ended this farce. A swift interrogation. A confession. A trial if mercy prevailed.
But Sophie was not anyone else.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the way she had looked at him that first day—half in awe, half in challenge. He remembered the way her laughter had startled him at court, like sunlight in a hall that had long forgotten warmth. He remembered, against his better judgment, how it felt to let her near.
That was her weapon. Not the secrets she kept. Not the whispers she chased. Her.
Alexander took a long drink, the wine burning down his throat. He could not afford this weakness. A king ruled with strength, not sentiment. If Sophie was tied to prophecy, if she was the key to Seraphina's disappearance, then he needed truth more than he needed warmth.
And if she betrayed him…
His fingers tightened around the cup until it cracked, spilling wine across his hand.
Then he would do what must be done.
But tonight, he would not confront her. Not yet.
Tonight, he would let her think she had slipped his notice. Let her and Eira scurry through the palace like mice, thinking themselves unseen. The more rope they gathered, the tighter the noose would be when he finally pulled.
Alexander set the broken cup aside, his expression hardening into resolve.
The trap was no longer being laid. It was already closing.
And Sophie, whether she knew it or not, had only just stepped into its center.