Sophie's POV
The palace felt smaller with every passing hour.
Alexander had doubled the guards outside her chambers, their spears crossed whenever she so much as brushed against the doorframe. Eira had been reassigned, forced to sleep in the adjoining servant's quarters instead of the same room. Even her walks in the garden were now supervised, two soldiers shadowing every step.
It wasn't freedom. It was a leash—and the more Sophie struggled against it, the tighter it drew.
Eira whispered it best, leaning close as they sat near the fire that night. "He doesn't trust you anymore. He's caging you in plain sight."
Sophie tried to answer, but her throat ached. Alexander's words still lingered from that night: The only choice left to you is which hand holds the key.
She hated that part of her had trembled when he said it. Hated more that part of her had wanted to believe him.
But she couldn't forget the note.
She didn't know if it had been found, or if it had reached anyone at all. Yet the way Alexander watched her—his eyes sharp as a hawk's whenever she moved—made her fear he already knew.
Still, she couldn't give up. Not yet.
Draven's POV
Draven didn't believe in patience—not when prey had already limped into the snare.
The note was his advantage, and he wouldn't waste it.
He summoned one of his shadows—an older servant who had long been in his pay. She would pass unnoticed through the corridors, carrying messages beneath trays and linens.
"You will tell her," Draven murmured, leaning close, "that there is a place where she can speak freely. Tell her she will find answers there—answers about the east wing, about the prophecy, about why she is truly in this palace. But only if she comes alone."
The servant bowed, her eyes wide. "And if she refuses, my lord?"
Draven's smile was thin, sharp as a blade. "She won't. Curiosity is her weakness. The dove will fly straight into my hand."
Sophie's POV
It was late afternoon when the servant came.
Sophie was sitting near the window, embroidery untouched in her lap, while the guards paced outside. The woman slipped in quietly, head bowed, murmuring about laundry. But when she bent to straighten Sophie's hem, a folded scrap of parchment brushed against Sophie's palm.
Her heart jumped. She hid it in her sleeve before the guards could notice.
Later, when she and Eira were finally alone, Sophie unfolded it beneath the dim glow of the fire.
The words were short, hurried.
If you seek truth, come to the old greenhouse at moonrise. Alone.
Her pulse raced. The east wing. The prophecy. The truth.
It could be a trap. But what if it wasn't?
Eira grabbed her wrist. "Sophie—this could be Draven. Or worse. You can't."
Sophie looked at her, torn between fear and the gnawing hunger to know. "If there's even a chance…"
Her voice broke off as the door creaked open.
Alexander stood there, framed in the lamplight. His gaze swept the room, then lingered on her face—searching, too knowing.
And Sophie knew, with a cold rush through her veins, that whether she went to the greenhouse or not… Alexander would be watching.