The castle wore its silence like a veil, thin but suffocating. Torches burned low along the corridors, their flames sputtering in the drafts that whispered through narrow windows. Lyria Valemont moved as though she belonged to the shadows, her gown trailing behind her like spilled ink. The council chamber's echoes still clung to her mind—each word, each sly glance, each calculated pause.
Tonight, she would not allow her thoughts to rest. Tonight was for remembering every secret she had overheard.
Her steps faltered when she sensed another presence. A voice came before the figure did, smooth as polished steel.
"You drift through these halls as if they are yours alone," the man remarked.
From the shadows, Sir Caelen emerged, his posture composed, his eyes sharp and unnervingly attentive.
Lyria allowed herself a faint smile, tilting her chin just enough to seem amused rather than startled. "Shouldn't they be mine? After all, these halls carry my family's bloodline. Or do you intend to claim them as well, envoy?"
His lips curved, though his eyes remained unreadable. "I claim nothing that isn't offered. But I've learned that silence holds more power than boasts. You, Princess, do not strike me as silent."
She regarded him carefully, each word filed away like a weapon. Dangerous. Yes, Mariel had been right. And yet—how intriguing that danger often came wrapped in curiosity.
"Then you've been watching me," she said smoothly. "Tell me, what have you learned?"
"That you don't sleep," he replied without hesitation. "That your patience is less passive and more… predatory. And that you smile when people think you're yielding. I find it fascinating."
Lyria's pulse quickened, though her face betrayed nothing. He was observant—too observant. But there was no satisfaction without risk, no triumph without matching wits against a worthy opponent.
Before she could answer, hurried footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. Mariel appeared, clutching a stack of letters sealed with wax. Her face was pale, but her eyes glinted with urgency.
"Your Grace," Mariel whispered, lowering her head quickly in the presence of Sir Caelen, "these arrived at dusk. Reports from the western provinces. I thought it best you see them first."
Lyria accepted the stack, her fingers brushing the heavy parchment. "Leave us," she said softly.
Mariel hesitated, glancing between Lyria and Caelen before obeying.
Lyria turned the first letter in her hand, running her thumb over the seal. She did not break it immediately, but instead studied Sir Caelen. "You don't strike me as the sort who lingers without purpose. What is it you're seeking in these halls?"
He stepped closer, the torchlight drawing sharp lines across his features. "Truth," he said simply. "The truth behind a court that smiles while sharpening its knives."
She laughed softly, though there was little humor in it. "Then you'll fit in perfectly. This kingdom thrives on knives hidden behind velvet. If you've come looking for honesty, I suggest you turn back before the doors close behind you."
"And you?" he asked, his gaze steady. "Do you thrive here, or do you merely survive?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly, the question hitting deeper than he realized. In another life, she had been torn apart by that distinction—surviving rather than living, breathing rather than triumphing. But not this time.
"I refuse to die," she said quietly, each word deliberate. "That is enough."
His expression flickered—just enough for her to notice—before smoothing again.
She opened one of the letters at last, her eyes scanning the script. Whispers of rebellion. Noble houses shifting allegiance. Discontent spreading like a disease. She almost smiled. Such unrest could break kingdoms—or crown new rulers.
She folded the parchment neatly and tucked it back into its seal. "Tell me, Sir Caelen," she asked, voice soft but edged, "are you here as a guest of the king… or as a shadow of someone else's ambition?"
His pause was brief, but it told her more than words. "Does it matter?" he finally answered.
"It matters to me," she replied, stepping past him toward the library doors. "Because I have no intention of becoming another casualty in someone else's game."
The library's towering shelves greeted her, thick with dust and knowledge. She spread the letters across the table, her mind racing with possibilities. Align with the dissatisfied nobles? Crush them before their whispers grew louder? Or perhaps… let them think they moved unseen, until she was ready to tighten the net herself.
The moonlight poured through the tall windows, painting silver streaks across the parchment. She rested her hand over the reports, feeling the weight of power stirring beneath her fingertips.
Behind her, Sir Caelen lingered at the threshold, silent but watchful. She could feel his gaze on her, sharp as a blade. He was no simple envoy. Of that, she was certain. But whether he would prove ally or enemy remained to be seen.
For now, she welcomed the uncertainty. It made the game all the more intoxicating.
"Good night, Sir Caelen," she said without looking back. "Sleep well, if you can. Tomorrow, the council will reveal more than it intends."
She heard the faint chuckle before his footsteps receded into the hall.
Alone at last, Lyria leaned back in her chair and whispered to herself, a vow that bound her tighter than any crown or chain.
"I will not die. Not this time. Not by their hands."
The torches flickered, and the shadows leaned closer, as if the castle itself was listening.