The first morning of her second life dawned cold.
Elowen stood still as Lira laced the back of her dress—an intricate creation of deep crimson silk, black threading climbing the corset like thorns. She'd chosen it not for elegance, but message. This was no demure empress-to-be.
This was a warning in silk.
"You'll be late for the imperial breakfast, my lady," Lira murmured. Her hands moved fast, precise. Nervous.
"Let them wait," Elowen said.
"Even the Emperor?"
Especially him.
She didn't say it aloud.
Instead, she turned from the mirror and crossed to the window, where gray light washed over the palace courtyard below. Servants rushed like ants between wagons and gates. Pigeons circled the bell tower. Beyond the city walls, morning fog curled over the river like smoke.
Everything looked the same.
Everything had changed.
A twinge of nausea rolled through her. She pressed her hand to her stomach.
Not from nerves.
Not from fear.
Just her body reminding her: I'm still here. I'm still growing.
She let the wave pass.
It was too early for any healer to detect it. But she already knew. The way her appetite had turned sideways. The way her skin tingled in places untouched. The way her sleep came in broken fragments.
The child was small, silent, but real.
And it had already outlived its previous life.
"Lira," she said suddenly.
"Yes, my lady?"
"When I speak at breakfast, you'll say nothing. No reaction. No matter what you hear."
Lira turned pale. "You're going to—"
"I said nothing," Elowen cut her off. "You will simply watch."
"Of course."
Lira bowed and stepped back.
Elowen ran one final glance down her body. Every button fastened. Every curl pinned. Every bruise from last night hidden under velvet and pearl.
Except one.
She left the faintest mark on her throat visible—just enough to raise questions. Just enough to start rumors.
Let the court whisper.
Let them wonder what the future Empress did in the gallery at midnight.
She walked out of the chamber without looking back.
The breakfast table was a gilded monstrosity, stretching the entire width of the imperial dining hall. Crystal decanters shimmered between porcelain dishes. Fresh fruit. Spiced meats. Warmed wine and pale honey.
She took her seat without waiting to be offered it.
Heads turned.
The Grand Duchess of Kelvaris nearly choked on a grape. The Crown Steward stilled mid-pour. The Lord of Trade adjusted his cravat and said nothing.
She didn't smile.
Then he entered.
Caelum.
The Emperor wore black trimmed with frost-blue embroidery. His silver pin gleamed at his collar—an eagle curled around a dagger.
But it was his eyes that made the room fall silent.
They landed on her instantly.
He didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just stared.
She stared back.
Neither bowed.
Neither smiled.
The entire court watched with strained necks and fake coughs and silence that thickened by the second.
Caelum took his seat at the head of the table.
Slowly.
As if reluctant.
As if he wasn't sure what game was being played—and hated not knowing the rules.
He didn't eat.
Neither did she.
But the others did, because not doing so would've meant choosing a side.
Halfway through the meal, the Steward made the mistake of trying to talk.
"Lady Elowen," he said, clearing his throat, "Your return to court has caused quite the stir. May we presume your… absence was a matter of—"
"Dying?" she asked.
The table froze.
Caelum's jaw ticked.
The steward swallowed. "I—I only meant—"
"I seem to recall a blade. And stairs. And no one stopping it."
The Duchess dropped her fork.
Elowen sipped her wine. "But perhaps I misremember."
"Memory is… a delicate thing," the Lord of Trade offered.
"Mine is sharp," she said. "Sharper than his."
She turned her gaze toward the Emperor.
He didn't flinch.
But his knuckles were white against the tablecloth.
"I would advise caution, Lady Virelle," the Chancellor said gently. "The court thrives on unity."
Elowen smiled.
"I'm uniting quite a lot of people already," she said. "Just not in the way you're used to."
Across the table, Caelum finally spoke.
"Leave us."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't cruel.
But it was final.
Chairs scraped back. Napkins dropped. Within seconds, the room emptied like a sinking ship.
Only the two of them remained.
Caelum stood.
So did she.
"You're bold this morning," he said.
"You prefer me silent?"
"I prefer you obedient."
"Then you're not ready to marry me."
He stepped closer.
Elowen didn't retreat.
"I'm not playing anymore," she said.
"You were never good at games."
She tilted her head. "Then why did I win last night?"
His mouth curled. "You think that was a victory?"
She moved to him—fluid, slow, deliberate.
"I think I left you standing in the dark," she whispered. "And you haven't stopped thinking about it since."
He was close now. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to kill.
His voice lowered. "You're trying to provoke me."
"I already did."
"I could throw you against this table and remind you who you belong to."
"I dare you."
He didn't.
She saw it in his eyes.
He wanted to.
Desperately.
But something—fear, desire, doubt—held him back.
Good.
Let it grow.
Let it rot him from within.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked.
She looked at him, and for the first time in years, she told the truth.
"Because you made me love you," she said. "And then you killed me for it."
His face didn't change.
But something inside him shattered.
He didn't speak.
She turned.
And left him there—again.
Later, in the silence of her private chamber, Elowen knelt by the hearth and placed her hands over her belly.
"I'm going to destroy him," she whispered.
"But first, he'll think he's winning."
The fire crackled.
And inside her, something stirred.