The festival's embers still lingered in the air, though dawn had long since washed the capital clean of its revelry. Banners sagged, lanterns guttered, and the cobblestones wore the stains of spilled wine and laughter. But within the castle walls, celebration had given way to murmurs, and murmurs had given way to schemes.
Princess Lyria Valemont stood at the edge of the palace gardens, where hedges wound in endless, spiraling paths. The thorn maze—once a favorite playground of her childhood—now loomed as a labyrinth of shadows. She had chosen it deliberately. Walls of green kept prying ears at bay, and secrets spoken within its heart rarely reached the castle halls.
Sir Caelen waited at her side, as silent as ever. His eyes swept the paths before them, noting every turn, every vantage point. He carried no torch, yet the darkness did not seem to hinder him.
"Rennic grows impatient," Lyria murmured as they stepped into the maze. The thorns brushed against her sleeves, sharp even through layers of velvet. "He presses me harder each day. The lords who follow him are reckless, and recklessness breeds ruin."
"And yet," Caelen said, his voice low, "you have not dismissed him."
"Because a blade, even in reckless hands, may still strike true," she answered.
They walked deeper, the garden's quiet wrapping around them like a shroud. The moonlight fractured through branches, painting jagged patterns across the stone path. Lyria's mind moved faster than her feet, weaving threads of possibility into a tapestry she alone could see.
At the maze's heart waited Lord Rennic himself, bold as ever. His cloak draped heavily over broad shoulders, and the torch he carried flared bright against the night. He bowed, but the gesture lacked humility.
"Your Grace," he said, his eyes gleaming. "I feared you would not come."
"I keep my promises, Lord Rennic," Lyria replied coolly.
He studied her for a long moment, as though measuring how far he could press her. "Then hear me now: the lords grow restless. Each day your father ignores their pleas, their loyalty withers. They will rise with or without you. But with you…" His voice dropped lower, urgent. "With you, they will rally. They will crown you."
Sir Caelen's shadow loomed behind her, a silent warning. Yet Rennic's words curled through her mind, tempting, poisonous.
"You speak as though crowns are toys to be passed about at whim," Lyria said, her tone sharp. "Do you think a throne so easily claimed?"
Rennic stepped closer, torchlight etching hard lines across his face. "Not easily. But inevitability requires only the right spark. You, Princess, are that spark. Will you burn with us—or against us?"
Silence stretched. The thorns rustled faintly in the wind, as though the maze itself leaned in to listen.
At last, Lyria inclined her head. "I will not leap blindly into fire. Give me proof your cause will not collapse like a child's game. Show me loyalty. Show me strength. Then I will decide."
Rennic's jaw clenched, but he bowed again. "You will have it."
When he was gone, the torchlight swallowed by twisting paths, Caelen spoke. "You dangle promises before him like meat before a starving hound."
Lyria's lips curved. "And what do starving hounds do, Sir Caelen?"
"They bite. Even the hand that feeds them."
"Then I will make certain their teeth sink into my enemies before they ever reach me."
Caelen's gaze lingered on her, unreadable. "You play this game well, Princess. But every game ends. Remember that."
The following morning, Lyria was summoned to her father's solar. The king sat slouched upon his throne, silver crown dull in the dim light. His once-commanding voice had grown hoarse, but his eyes—sharp and suspicious—had lost none of their edge.
"You meet too often with Lord Rennic," he said without preamble. "Do you think me blind?"
Lyria bowed her head, her every gesture calculated. "I meet with many, Father. Rennic no more than others."
"Do not lie to me, girl," the king snapped, striking the arm of his throne. "I built this kingdom upon blood and iron. Do you think I will let you and that mongrel lord undo it with whispers and feasts?"
Heat rose in Lyria's chest, but she forced her voice to remain calm. "Then perhaps hear the lords yourself. Their unrest grows dangerous. A wise king listens before swords are drawn."
The king sneered. "And you would teach me wisdom? You are a child yet, playing at politics."
Her fists tightened in her skirts, hidden from view. A child, he called her. A pawn. Yet she stood straighter, her eyes meeting his.
"If I am a child, Father, then it is your duty to shield me from wolves. And yet, it seems I face them alone."
The silence that followed was heavy. The king's gaze bored into her, searching, weighing. At last, he waved a dismissive hand. "Leave me. But remember this—your place is mine to decide. Not Rennic's. Not yours."
Lyria bowed and withdrew, her heart a storm of rage and resolve.
That night, she sat alone in her chambers, the echoes of her father's scorn still stinging. Mariel busied herself with candles, but the maid's eyes flickered nervously toward her mistress.
Finally, Mariel spoke. "Your Grace… forgive me, but I must ask. Do you trust him? Sir Caelen?"
Lyria looked up sharply. "Why do you ask?"
"He lingers in shadows. He listens more than he speaks. He does not serve your father, nor Rennic. Such a man serves only himself."
Lyria considered the words, her gaze drifting toward the balcony where the night stretched vast and endless.
"Perhaps," she said softly. "But sometimes, a shadow is safer than a smile."
And with that, she rose, moving to the balcony. The city sprawled beneath her, lanterns glowing like scattered embers. Somewhere within its veins, rebellion stirred. Somewhere within its veins, her fate twisted tighter.
The game was no longer about survival.
It was about conquest.