The garden was not what Sheila had expected.
She had imagined something formal—hedges trimmed into geometric shapes, fountains imported from distant provinces, statues of ancestors she had never met. Instead, the garden behind the Karmis estate was wild. The paths were gravel, the edges blurred with moss. The flowerbeds were overgrown, the roses climbing the walls without restraint. A single oak tree stood at the center, its branches spreading wide, its roots breaking through the flagstones.
Duke Karmis stood by the tree, his hands clasped behind his back. His face was unreadable.
"The Prince will arrive within the hour," he said. "You will greet him. You will be polite. You will not mention your mother."
Sheila stood beside him, her hands clasped in front of her, her back straight. Her dress was new—pale blue, the color the seamstresses had insisted was "appropriate for a young lady of your station." The fabric itched. The collar was too tight.
"What if he asks about her?"
"He won't."
"How do you know?"
Karmis looked at her. His eyes were tired.
"Because no one asks about the dead. They ask about the living. About what you can do for them. About what you can give them." He paused. "The Prince will not ask about your mother. He will ask about your dowry. Your connections. Your willingness to play the game."
Sheila felt something cold settle in her stomach.
"And if I don't want to play?"
Karmis was quiet for a long moment.
"Then you lose."
The carriage arrived at precisely noon.
Sheila watched from the window as it rolled through the iron gates—black lacquer, gold trim, the Aurelian crest painted on the door. Two outriders flanked it, their uniforms immaculate, their faces blank. The horses were grey, their manes braided with ribbons.
The door opened.
The Prince stepped out.
He was twelve—one year older than Sheila—but he carried himself like someone who had been told he was important and had believed it. His hair was the color of embers, his eyes the color of smoke. His clothes were dark, tailored, the fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer in the light.
He looked at the estate. His face didn't change.
"House Karmis," he said. His voice was higher than she expected—still a boy's voice, still unbroken. "Smaller than I imagined."
Sheila stepped out the front door, Duke Karmis behind her.
"Prince Lumian," she said, curtsying. The motion was awkward—she had practiced, but the dress made it difficult to bend.
Lumian looked at her. His eyes traveled from her face to her dress to her shoes and back again.
"You're shorter than your portrait," he said.
"You're younger than yours."
The silence stretched.
Then Lumian smiled. It was not a warm smile—it was the smile of someone who had been taught to smile and had learned to do it well.
"Let's walk," he said.
The garden paths were narrow, forcing them to walk side by side.
Lumian kept his hands behind his back, his posture perfect. Sheila kept her hands at her sides, her fingers clenched inside the folds of her dress.
"You've been to the capital before?" he asked.
"I was born here."
"Of course. But you've been away. Hiding, some say."
Sheila felt her face grow warm. "My parents died. I was in mourning."
"Of course." Lumian's voice was flat. "The fire. The tragedy. The Audit's investigation." He looked at her. "They never found the bodies."
Sheila stopped walking.
"Is he?" Lumian stopped too. He turned to face her. "The Audit says he is. The Church says he is. The King says he is." He tilted his head. "But the King says many things."
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing." Lumian smiled again. "I'm simply observing. It's a habit of mine."
He resumed walking. Sheila stood still for a moment, her heart pounding, her hands trembling.
Then she followed.
They reached the oak tree at the center of the garden.
Lumian stopped beneath its branches, looking up at the leaves. The sunlight filtered through, casting patterns on his face.
"Your mother used to sit here," he said. "Before she ran. My father told me."
Sheila said nothing.
"He said she was beautiful. Clever. Too clever for her own good." He looked at her. "You look like her."
"I've been told."
"Have you also been told that she was supposed to marry my father? Before she chose your father instead?"
Sheila felt the cold in her stomach spread.
"Yes."
Lumian nodded slowly. "And have you been told that your engagement to me is meant to settle the debt?"
"I've been told many things."
"Then you know why we're here." He stepped closer. His eyes were the color of smoke, his face unreadable. "This is not a marriage. This is a transaction. You give House Karmis's loyalty. I give the Crown's protection. In return, we both get what we want."
"And what do you want?"
Lumian's smile widened.
"Power."
The walk ended an hour later.
Lumian returned to his carriage without saying goodbye. The outriders mounted their horses. The wheels turned, and the black lacquer carriage rolled through the iron gates and disappeared into the fog.
Sheila stood on the front steps, her hands still trembling, her heart still pounding.
Duke Karmis appeared beside her.
"Well?" he asked.
"He's arrogant," Sheila said. "Cold. He talks about power like it's the only thing that matters."
"And?"
Sheila looked at him. Her eyes were wet, but she didn't cry.
"And he's right. It is."
That night, she wrote in her journal.
The Prince is twelve. He is shorter than his portrait. He smiles like he's been taught to smile.
He called this a transaction. He said he wants power.
I don't know what he wants from me. But I'm going to find out.
She closed the journal, blew out the candle, and lay in the dark.
The walls watched. The air listened.
Sheila closed her eyes and dreamed of her brother's face