The council chamber had emptied hours ago, but Draven still lingered in the shadows of its stone walls. The torches had burned low, leaving the carved emblems of the realm half-swallowed in darkness.
He liked it better this way. Secrets breathed easier when the light dimmed.
Draven leaned against the long table where Alexander had sat with Sophie beside him, his fingers tracing the grooves left by centuries of kings and traitors alike. His mouth curled into a thin smile.
"She thinks herself shielded," he murmured. "But even the strongest shield can be turned into a prison."
One of his aides—a thin man with hollow cheeks—shifted nervously in the corner. "My lord, the king's support of her was… stronger than expected. If we strike too openly—"
Draven's eyes flicked to him, cold as steel. The man fell silent immediately.
"Alexander is predictable," Draven said softly. "He plays protector when it suits him, when it feeds the myth of his crown. But protection breeds resentment. Chains, sooner or later, cut deeper than daggers."
He straightened, pacing slowly. His robes whispered across the floor. "We will not strike at her body. Not yet. We strike at her place. Her footing in this palace. We let the whispers do our work. A queen that never was, a prophecy that should have died, a girl clinging to a crown she doesn't deserve. By the time the king realizes, she will already be broken."
The aide swallowed hard. "And if he strengthens his guard around her?"
Draven smiled again, though there was no warmth in it. "All the better. Let him tighten the leash. Every leash leaves a mark. And when she begins to bruise beneath his grip, she will either shatter… or turn against him herself. Both outcomes serve us."
His gaze drifted to the high windows, where the moonlight cut sharp lines across the floor. "The east wing. The library. The past he tries so hard to bury. She scratches at wounds she cannot understand. Good. Let her bleed herself dry on secrets too heavy to carry."
A shadow crossed his face, hard and sharp. "And when she is weak enough, I will be there to offer her a way out."
Far from the council chamber, Sophie sat in her chambers, her mind whirling so violently she feared she would never sleep again.
The fire in the hearth had burned to embers, throwing faint glows against the walls. Eira had fallen asleep curled on the small couch, her head resting on her arm. Sophie envied her. Sleep felt impossible.
Every time she closed her eyes, Alexander's words returned, coiling around her like chains: You are mine to protect.
Her chest tightened. The memory of his gaze—sharp, unyielding, but carrying something else beneath—set her stomach in knots. It wasn't simple kindness. It wasn't duty alone. It was something darker, heavier, harder to name.
Sophie pressed her palms against her face, muffling a groan. "What am I doing?" she whispered into her hands.
When she lowered them, her eyes fell on the half-written letter on her desk, ink dried into harsh strokes. She had started it without thinking—a letter to no one, to anyone. Words spilled in frustration, fear, longing. I don't know if I am safe. I don't know if I can trust him. I don't know if the prophecy is a curse or a chain.
She hadn't been able to finish.
Eira stirred in her sleep, muttering softly, and Sophie's heart pinched. Her friend had risked everything to stand beside her. And yet Sophie's thoughts kept circling back to Alexander, to the way his nearness set her pulse racing against her will.
Chains and shields. She had called him both. But which one was truer?
A sudden rustle outside the window pulled her from her thoughts. Sophie's head snapped up, breath held. She moved silently, crossing to the window and pressing her ear close.
A whisper. Low. Too low to catch. Then a shuffle of boots fading away.
Her pulse hammered. Spies. Whether Alexander's or Draven's, she didn't know. Perhaps both.
She drew the curtains quickly, stepping back, her hands trembling. The palace was closing in. Every wall felt like it had ears, every torch like an eye.
When she turned, she saw Eira awake now, her gaze sharp despite the sleep still clinging to her.
"You heard it too," Sophie whispered.
Eira nodded slowly, sitting up. "We're running out of places to breathe, Sophie. If we're not careful, one day soon it won't just be whispers outside the window. It will be hands at your throat."
The bluntness sent a shiver down Sophie's spine. She hugged her arms around herself, her eyes drifting toward the dying fire.
And in her chest, tangled beneath the fear, was the memory of Alexander's closeness, his words hanging like a vow or a threat.
Mine to protect.
But as the night deepened, she could not decide if those words meant salvation—or a doom she had already stepped too far into to escape.