Dawn in the North was not a gentle awakening, but a slow conquest of light over a world of stark shadows. The pale sun struggled to pierce the heavy cloud cover, casting Aethelgard in a monochrome palette of grey stone and white snow. Elara had slept fitfully, her dreams a chaotic tapestry of falling, of burning golden eyes, and the sound of a wolf's growl.
The deer-like handmaidens returned with the light, their movements silent and graceful. They were sisters, introduced as Fiora and Lyra, with large, doelike brown eyes and small, velvety antlers nubbed with what seemed to be moss. They spoke in soft, hushed tones, their reverence for the "Dragon Queen" evident in every careful gesture as they helped her dress.
Today's gown was a deep emerald green, heavy wool embroidered with silver thread in patterns that mimicked frost on a windowpane. It was warmer than the Southern silks, but no less constricting. As Fiora laced the back, Elara caught her reflection in a polished silver mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger—a princess carved from porcelain, her features arranged in a mask of serene nobility. The ink stains were gone from her fingers, but she felt their phantom presence, a reminder of the self she had been forced to bury.
"The King awaits you in the Sun-and-Steel Hall for the morning meal, Your Highness," Lyra murmured, her eyes downcast.
This was it. Her first true test. She had to be Princess Seraphine.
The Sun-and-Steel Hall was aptly named. One wall was curved and dominated by a vast arched window, facing east to capture the morning light, though today it offered only a view of leaden skies. The opposite wall was lined with displays of legendary weapons—axes, swords, and spears, each etched with runes and gleaming with a dark, lethal beauty. The hall was a perfect metaphor for the North itself: a place of brutal strength that still sought the light.
King Kaelen was already seated at the head of a long, oak table that could comfortably seat fifty. He did not rise as she entered, but his molten gold eyes tracked her every step as she crossed the vast space, the sound of her footsteps swallowed by a thick wolf-pelt rug. He was dressed more casually today, in a dark tunic and trousers, but the regal authority he exuded was undiminished.
"You slept well, I hope?" he asked, his voice that same low rumble that seemed to resonate in the very marrow of her bones.
Elara dipped into a curtsy before taking the seat to his right, the place of honor. "The Northern quiet is… profound, Your Majesty. It is a different kind of rest than in Veridia."
A non-answer. A princess's answer.
A bear of a man—literally, with a broad, fur-covered face and powerful build—began serving food. The fare was simple but hearty: smoked meats, dark bread, a sharp, crumbly cheese, and winter roots roasted in honey. It was a far cry from the delicate pastries and fruit compotes of the Southern court.
Kaelen ate with a focused efficiency, but his gaze kept returning to her. "You are not what I expected," he stated bluntly.
Elara's heart stuttered. Had Theron already spoken? She carefully set down her piece of cheese. "In what way, Your Majesty?"
"The reports from the South spoke of a princess fond of poetry, fine music, and lavish parties. They said she was… delicate." His slitted pupils narrowed slightly. "You carried yourself with a spine of steel in the courtyard yesterday. You did not flinch at the sight of my court. Most Southern envoys need a smelling salt and a stiff drink by this point."
It was an observation, not an accusation. Elara grasped for a piece of Seraphine's known character and twisted it to fit. "Reports often simplify, Your Majesty. I enjoy poetry, but I was also raised to understand the weight of duty. This alliance is too important to be jeopardized by a… delicate constitution." She met his gaze, hoping the lie was not visible in her eyes.
A flicker of something—interest, perhaps—crossed his stern features. "Duty," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "A concept many of my own courtiers could afford to revisit."
As they finished the meal, the hall began to fill with courtiers coming to pay their morning respects to the King. This was the gauntlet Elara had dreaded. She sat straighter, channeling the haughty tilt of Princess Seraphine's chin that she had observed from a distance.
The beastmen approached in a carefully orchestrated order of precedence. A proud Leopard Clan lord with spots dappling his skin assessed her with cool, calculating eyes. A Badger Clan matriarch, stout and formidable, offered a gruff nod of approval, seemingly impressed by Elara's composure. She greeted each with a measured, polite smile, offering the correct title she had crammed from the scrolls the Queen's spymaster had provided.
Then, he appeared.
He moved through the crowd with an effortless, fluid grace that made everyone else seem clumsy. His hair was a luxurious auburn, his eyes a clever, warm amber, and a pair of handsome, red-furred fox ears twitched atop his head. A magnificent tail swished behind him, the white tip brushing against the legs of admirers. He was beautiful, and the sight of him sent a lance of pure, visceral terror through Elara's soul.
Lysander.
The name surfaced from the depths of her reborn memories, bringing with it the scent of poison and the feeling of a hand shoving her in the back. In her first life, she had loved him. She had chosen him above all others, blind to his affair with her stepsister. He had been her downfall.
And now, here he was, in this life, smiling at her with that same charming, duplicitous smile.
"Your Majesty," Lysander said, his voice a smooth, melodious baritone as he bowed flawlessly to Kaelen. Then he turned that dazzling smile to her. "And my dear Princess Seraphine. Welcome to the North. The stories of your beauty did not do you justice. You are a rose blooming in the snow."
Every instinct screamed at her to recoil. She forced her hand to remain still in her lap, her nails digging into her palm. "You are too kind, Lord Lysander," she said, her voice thankfully steady. "I have heard much of your… diplomatic skills." The words tasted like ash.
His amber eyes glinted, and for a fraction of a second, his smile seemed to sharpen. "I am delighted my reputation precedes me. I was a great friend to the Southern envoy during the treaty negotiations. I do hope we can be friends as well. The North can be a lonely place for one so far from home."
The threat was veiled in honey, but she heard it. He was letting her know he had connections in the South, that he could easily verify details about the real princess.
Before she could formulate a reply, a new presence arrived at her side. Captain Theron.
He didn't bow. He simply stood, a silver-eyed sentinel, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was fixed on Lysander, and the air between the two men grew cold.
"Lysander," Theron said, the name a flat, unwelcoming sound.
"Theron," Lysander replied, his smile never wavering, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Always a pleasure. I was just welcoming our new queen."
"The Queen does not require your particular brand of welcome," Theron said, his tone dripping with disdain. "I am sure the King has need of your… talents… elsewhere."
The fox shifter's tail gave a single, irritated flick. The rivalry between the Wolf and the Fox was evidently a deep-seated one. Elara stored the information away, a potential weapon for later.
"Of course," Lysander said smoothly, executing another elegant bow. "Until later, Your Majesty." His eyes met Elara's one last time, and the message in them was clear: I am watching you.
As he melted back into the crowd, Theron turned his gaze to her. There was no offer of solidarity in it, only a cold warning. "The fox is clever, but his teeth are small. Do not be fooled by his pretty words. He chews on secrets until they break."
Then, without another word, Theron turned and followed a pace behind Kaelen as the King rose to begin the day's official business.
Elara was left alone at the table, the ghost of Lysander's smile and the chill of Theron's warning warring within her. She had navigated the first meal, the first courtly encounter. She had confirmed her most dangerous enemy from her past life was not only present but actively suspicious.
She looked out the great window at the falling snow. The gilded cage was full of traps, each more deadly than the last. To survive, she would have to learn to think like them—to anticipate the pounce of the wolf and the cunning snares of the fox. And all the while, she had to find a way to kindle a fire in the heart of the dragon.