The world had turned to screaming.
Sheila pressed her hands over her ears, but the sound was everywhere—inside her head, beneath her skin, behind her eyes. The crowd that had been cheering moments ago was now a mob, pushing, shoving, trampling each other in their desperation to escape. The carriages had stopped. The horses had reared, their eyes rolling white, their hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones. The outriders had drawn weapons that glinted in the grey morning light, their faces pale, their hands trembling.
She didn't understand what was happening.
One moment, the Public Showing had been proceeding as planned—the nobles waving, the crowds cheering, the sun struggling to break through the clouds. The next, the air had grown thick, heavy, wrong. The colors had seemed to drain from the world, leaving everything in shades of grey and white. The sounds had distorted, stretched, become something that hurt to hear.
And then the screaming had started.
Duke Karmis had his hand on her shoulder, his grip firm, his voice sharp. "Sheila. Sheila, look at me."
She looked at him. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady. He was afraid—she could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the tension in his neck—but he was hiding it. For her.
"We need to move," he said. "Now."
"Where?"
"Away. Somewhere safe."
He pulled her from the carriage, his hand still on her shoulder, guiding her through the chaos. The crowd parted around them—not because they recognized him, but because his presence seemed to push against them, creating space where there had been none.
She didn't know how he did that. She didn't ask. There was no time.
The outriders appeared from nowhere.
Their uniforms were dark, their faces hidden behind featureless masks. They surrounded Sheila and the Duke in a tight circle, their bodies blocking out the chaos, their movements sharp and efficient. They were not like the other guards she had seen at the banquet. These were different. These were trained for something else.
"Lady Karmis," one of them said, his voice muffled by the mask. "You are to come with us. The future queen's safety is the Crown's highest priority."
"Where are you taking her?" Duke Karmis demanded. His voice was hard, his hand still on Sheila's shoulder.
"Away from here. To a secure location."
"I'm coming with her."
The outrider shook his head. "Your place is with the other nobles, my lord. The evacuation is proceeding in stages. You will be escorted to the palace."
Duke Karmis's jaw tightened. His hand on Sheila's shoulder tightened too, a brief, painful pressure that told her more than words could. He didn't want to let her go. He didn't trust these men. But he had no choice.
"Grandfather—" Sheila began.
"It's all right," he said, but his voice was strained, his eyes betraying his fear. "Go with them. I'll find you."
She didn't believe him. She could see it in his eyes—the uncertainty, the helplessness, the knowledge that he might not be able to keep that promise. But she didn't argue. She couldn't. The outriders were already pulling her away, their hands on her arms, their bodies blocking her view of the Duke.
She looked back over her shoulder.
He was standing in the crowd, his grey hair bright against the chaos, his eyes fixed on her. He raised his hand—a small gesture, almost invisible—and then the crowd swallowed him, and he was gone.
The outriders moved quickly.
They pushed through the crowd, leading her away from the grand boulevard and into the narrow streets of the merchant district. Sheila stumbled along between them, her dress catching on the cobbles, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The fog was thick here, pressing against the walls, muffling the sounds of the chaos behind them. The buildings leaned toward each other, their upper floors almost touching, blocking out the pale sun.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
No one answered.
"The Duke said—"
"The Duke is not in command here," one of the outriders said. His voice was flat, emotionless, as if he had recited these words a hundred times before. "The Crown is. And the Crown has ordered that you be taken to safety."
"Where?"
"A secure location. Beyond the merchant district."
Sheila felt a chill run down her spine. "The merchant district? But the slums are—"
"We are not going to the slums, Lady Karmis. We are going through them. It is the fastest route to the safe house."
Through the slums. The place she had only heard about in whispers, in warnings, in the hushed conversations of servants who spoke of the poverty and the disease and the people who lived in the shadows. She had never been there. She had never wanted to go.
"Please," she said. "We should go back. We should find the Duke—"
"The Duke will be informed of your safety once you are secure. Now, please, Lady Karmis. Do not make this more difficult than it already is."
She fell silent.
The streets grew narrower as they walked, the buildings older, the windows darker. The fog was thicker here, so thick that she could barely see the outrider in front of her. The cobbles were slick with moisture, and the air smelled of smoke and sewage and something else—something sweet, like flowers left too long in water.
She thought of her brother.
Leximus. She hadn't thought of him in weeks—not because she had forgotten him, but because thinking of him hurt too much. He was supposed to be dead. The Audit had told her so, after the fire that killed their parents. They had said his body was recovered. They had said he was buried in an unmarked grave. They had said she was to move on, to forget, to focus on her duties as a Karmis.
But sometimes, late at night, she dreamed of him.
In the dreams, he was always walking away, always disappearing into fog, always looking back at her with eyes that were too dark and too cold. She called out to him, but he never answered. He just walked, and the fog swallowed him, and she woke up crying.
She didn't know why she was thinking of him now. Maybe it was the fog. Maybe it was the fear. Maybe it was the sense that something was very, very wrong.
They were almost through the slums when the world exploded.
Sheila did not see the light.
She felt it—a pressure, a heat, a force that lifted her off her feet and threw her through the air like a rag doll. She heard the outriders screaming, their voices cut off mid-cry. She smelled smoke and blood and something else—something sharp, like ozone, like the air before a thunderstorm.
Then she hit the ground.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs. Her vision went white, then black, then red. She tried to move, but her body wouldn't obey. Her arm—her left arm—was on fire, the skin blistered and blackened, the pain so intense that she couldn't think past it. Her back was wet, sticky, and she realized dimly that she was bleeding there too.
I'm dying, she thought. I'm dying, and I never got to say goodbye.
I never got to be anything but a pawn.
The darkness took her.
She woke to the smell of antiseptic and the sound of machines.
The room was white—white walls, white ceiling, white sheets. The windows were large, letting in pale sunlight that made her eyes ache. The bed was soft, too soft, the kind of bed that belonged in a palace, not a hospital. The air smelled of medicine and flowers—fresh flowers, arranged in a vase on the windowsill, their petals a bright, cheerful yellow that seemed almost obscene given what had happened.
I'm alive, she thought. I'm alive, and I'm in the royal hospital.
She tried to sit up. Her body protested. Her left arm was wrapped in bandages from hand to elbow, the fabric stiff with dried blood and salve. Her back ached—she could feel the burn marks there too, pulling at her skin when she moved. Her head throbbed, and her throat was raw, as if she had been screaming.
How long have I been here?
She looked around the room. It was empty except for a chair by the window. In the chair, slumped forward, his head bowed, his hands clasped in his lap, was Duke Karmis.
He was asleep.
She had never seen him sleep before. Not like this—not with his guard down, his face slack, his shoulders slumped. He looked old. Older than she had ever seen him. The lines on his face seemed deeper, the grey in his hair more pronounced. His clothes were wrinkled, stained, as if he had been wearing them for weeks. His beard had grown out, grey and unkempt, and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry.
He hasn't left, she realized. He's been here the whole time.
She tried to speak. Her voice came out as a croak.
"Grandfather?"
The Duke stirred.
His head lifted, slowly, as if the weight of it was almost too much to bear. His eyes opened—red-rimmed, exhausted—and found hers. For a moment, he didn't move. He just stared at her, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Then his face crumpled.
Sheila had never seen her grandfather cry. She had seen him stern, distant, concerned. But never this. Never tears streaming down his cheeks, his lips pressed together to hold back a sob, his hands trembling as he reached for her.
"Sheila," he whispered. "Sheila."
He gathered her in his arms, carefully, gently, as if she were made of glass. She felt his tears on her neck, his breath warm against her ear, his heart pounding against her chest. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, and she realized that the man who had always been her foundation, her rock, her unwavering support, her guiding light in the noble world—that man was breaking.
"I thought I'd lost you," he said. "I thought you were gone. Two months, Sheila. Two months you've been lying there, and every day I thought—every day I was afraid—"
"Two months?" Sheila's voice was barely a whisper.
"Two months. The doctors said you might never wake up. They said the trauma—the burns—the shock to your system—" He pulled back, looking at her face, his eyes searching hers. "But you're here. You're awake. You're alive."
"I'm here, Grandfather," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."
She cried too.
She cried for the parents she had lost, for the brother she believed was dead, for the childhood that had been stolen from her. She cried for the fear she had been holding inside for so long, the fear of the King, the fear of the Prince, the fear of the future that had been chosen for her. She cried because she was a frail young child that was tired of being strong.
Duke Karmis held her, and she let herself be held.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
When the tears finally stopped, the Duke helped her sit up, propping pillows behind her back. He poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, and she drank it slowly, her throat aching with each swallow.
"Two months," she said again, marveling at the words.
"Two months," the Duke confirmed. "The explosion destroyed half the slums. Thousands are dead. The King has declared martial law. The Church is blaming the Void cult. The Audit is hunting for survivors."
"The Void cult?"
"A group of heretics. They worship something called the Primordial Void. The King believes they were responsible for the bombing."
Sheila had never heard of such a thing.
"Do you believe that?" she asked. "Do you believe they were responsible?"
The Duke was silent for a long moment.
"I believe the King needs someone to blame," he said finally. "And the Void cult is a convenient target."
"Then who really did it?"
The Duke looked at her. His eyes were tired, sad, filled with something she couldn't name.
"I don't know," he said. "But I intend to find out."
She told him everything.
The chaos, the screaming, the outriders with their featureless masks. The narrow streets of the slums, the fog pressing against the walls, the sense of wrongness that had grown with every step. The explosion—the light, the heat, the force that had thrown her through the air. The burning in her arm, the wetness on her back, the darkness that had swallowed her.
The Duke listened without interrupting, his face growing darker with each word.
"The outriders," he said when she finished. "You said they were wearing masks. Featureless masks."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry I had let you go with them but those were not Crown outriders. The Crown's guards do not hide their faces."
Sheila felt a chill run down her spine. "Then who were they?"
"I don't know. But someone wanted you away from the crowd. Someone wanted you in the slums when the bombs went off."
"Someone wanted me dead."
The Duke didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He stood.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I need to speak with the King. I need to demand answers."
"Grandfather—"
"Sheila." He turned to face her. His eyes were wet, but his voice was steady. "I almost lost you. I will not let that happen again."
He walked toward the door.
The door opened before he could reach it.
Prince Lumian stood in the doorway, his hand still on the handle, his face unreadable. He was dressed in a dark suit, his hair combed back, his posture perfect. He looked older than twelve in the harsh light of the hospital corridor. Sharper. Colder.
"Duke Karmis," he said. "Lady Karmis."
The Duke's jaw tightened. "Your Highness."
"I would like a word with my betrothed. Alone."
The Duke looked at Sheila. She nodded—a small gesture, barely perceptible, but enough.
"Very well," the Duke said. "But I will be just outside."
He left, closing the door behind him.
The silence stretched between them.
Sheila sat in the bed, her bandaged arm resting on the blanket, her back aching, her head throbbing. The Prince stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on her face.
"Your Highness," she said finally.
"I told you to drop the formalities."
"Lumian."
He nodded. "Better."
He walked to the window, looking out at the grey sky. The sunlight caught his profile, illuminating the sharp lines of his jaw, the pale curve of his cheek. Two months had passed since the Public Showing, but he looked unchanged—still cold, still wearing that mask of practiced composure.
"What do you want?" Sheila asked.
He turned to face her. His eyes moved across her face—her red-rimmed eyes, her pale cheeks, the bandages on her arm.
"You've been crying," he said.
Sheila felt her face grow hot. "I—"
"It's not an accusation. It's an observation." He tilted his head. "You look different. Softer. Less like a portrait and more like a person."
She didn't know what to say to that.
He walked to the bed and sat in the chair the Duke had vacated. His posture was perfect, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes never leaving her face.
"I want to talk about your family," he said. "And I don't mean Duke Karmis."
Sheila's heart stopped.
"What do you mean?"
"Your mother. Your father. The fire." His voice was low, almost gentle. "I've read the reports. The Audit's reports. The ones they don't show the public."
"I don't understand."
"Your family died in a fire, Lady Karmis. That's what the public was told. That's what you were told. But the Audit's reports tell a different story."
Sheila felt the blood drain from her face. "What story?"
Lumian leaned forward, his eyes intense.
"Your brother's body was never recovered," he said. "The Audit listed him as deceased, but there was no body. No remains. No proof."
"That's not—"
"They closed the case anyway. They buried an empty coffin. They told you he was dead so you would stop asking questions."
Sheila's hands were shaking. Her heart was pounding. She didn't want to believe him. She couldn't believe him. But something in his voice—something in his eyes—made her think that he was telling the truth.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.
Lumian was silent for a long moment.
"Because I think your brother is still alive," he said. "And I think he's the one who planted the bombs."
Sheila stared at him.
"That's impossible," she said. "He wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't he?" Lumian's voice was soft. "He lost his parents. He lost his home. He lost his sister. He has every reason to hate the Crown. Every reason to want revenge."
"You don't know him."
"No. But I know what the Audit knows. And the Audit believes he's been in the capital for months. Hiding in the slums. Waiting."
Sheila felt the room spin.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked again.
Lumian stood.
"Because I want you to understand what you're marrying into," he said. "The Crown is not kind. The Crown is not just. The Crown is a machine that consumes everything in its path. Your family was consumed. Your brother was consumed. And if you're not careful—"
He stopped.
"If I'm not careful, what?"
He looked at her. His eyes were cold, but there was something beneath the coldness. Something almost like sympathy.
"You'll be consumed too."
He walked toward the door.
"Lumian."
He stopped.
"Why do you care what happens to me?"
He didn't turn around.
"Because we're the same," he said. "We're both pawns. We're both being used. And maybe—if we work together—we can stop being pieces and start being players."
He left.
Sheila sat alone in the white room, her bandaged arm throbbing, her heart pounding.
Leximus is alive, she thought. Leximus is alive, and he's been in the capital this whole time.
And the Crown wants me to believe he's a monster.
She didn't know what to believe anymore.