The grand ballroom of Veylthorne Palace glittered like the inside of a frozen jewel box.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light in slow, liquid waves. Nobles moved in calculated patterns—silks whispering secrets, fans flicking coded messages, laughter sharp enough to cut glass. Every eye in the room tracked the wide marble staircase as though waiting for a storm to break.
Toddd descended alone.
The sapphire gown clung and flowed at the same time, heavy silk sliding against skin like cool water. The lace at her throat did nothing to hide the black marks branded across her collarbone:
T O D D D
She felt the stares land like needles. Some curious. Some pitying. Most… hungry.
At the bottom of the stairs waited Crown Prince Lysander.
He was exactly as the memories painted him: tall, golden-haired, shoulders carved for armor he rarely needed to wear. Eyes the pale green of new leaves after rain. A smile that promised safety and delivered nothing of the sort.
He extended a gloved hand.
"Elara," he said, voice velvet over steel. "You look… recovered."
The word hung between them like smoke.
Toddd placed her fingertips on his palm—barely touching. His skin was warm. Too warm. As though something beneath it burned steadily.
"Your Highness," she answered, dipping into the shallowest curtsey etiquette allowed. "I find fresh air agrees with me."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the nearest courtiers. The "cursed triplet" speaking so boldly? The girl marked for three deaths answering the prince like an equal?
Lysander's smile deepened. It never reached his eyes.
"Come. Dance with me before the court devours us both."
He led her to the center of the floor. Music swelled—violins and harps weaving something slow and predatory. His hand settled at the small of her back. Firm. Possessive.
They began to move.
"You've changed," he murmured, close enough that only she could hear. "Last week you could barely meet my gaze. Tonight you look ready to bite."
"Perhaps I've simply grown teeth," Toddd replied.
A soft laugh escaped him—genuine for half a heartbeat before it turned polished again.
"Careful, little betrothed. Teeth can be pulled."
She met his eyes without flinching. "Only if you catch what you're trying to bite."
The music turned. He spun her. For a moment her back was to the crowd and she caught her reflection in one of the towering gilt mirrors lining the wall.
Her own storm-gray eyes stared back.
And behind them—very faintly—another pair flickered. Violet. Older. Angrier.
Gone in an instant.
Toddd's pulse spiked.
Lysander felt the tiny jerk in her frame. His grip tightened.
"Something troubles you?"
She forced a smile. "Only the usual. Being marked for death tends to distract."
He tilted his head. "You speak of the brand so casually now. You used to weep when anyone mentioned it."
"Perhaps I've run out of tears."
"Or perhaps," he said softly, "you've found something worth the fight."
The music ended. Applause pattered around them like rain on stone.
Instead of releasing her, Lysander drew her closer—scandalously close for protocol. His lips brushed the shell of her ear.
"Tonight, after the banquet, come to the east tower library. Midnight. There is something you should see… before it's too late."
He pulled back, smile serene, as though he hadn't just whispered an invitation laced with threat.
Before Toddd could answer, a new voice cut through the air—clear, amused, dangerous.
"Stealing the guest of honor already, cousin?"
A young man stepped forward from the crowd.
Black hair. Silver-streaked. Eyes the color of smoke over embers. He wore dark leathers beneath a velvet coat—more assassin than noble. A thin scar ran from his left temple down to his jaw, old enough to be elegant.
Lord Cassian Veylthorne.
Her eldest cousin. The one the original Elara's memories labeled in red ink: Do not trust. Ever.
Cassian offered a mocking bow. "Cousin Elara. You look… alive. How novel."
Lysander's hand lingered on her waist a second too long before dropping away.
"Cassian," the prince said pleasantly. "Always arriving just in time to spoil the mood."
"Someone has to keep things interesting." Cassian's gaze slid to the TODDD marks visible above her neckline. Something flickered in his expression—recognition? Hunger? Regret?—before the mask snapped back into place. "I heard the seamstress say the brand darkened again. Three deaths, was it? You're cutting it close."
Toddd lifted her chin. "Maybe I like living dangerously."
Cassian laughed—low, rough, almost admiring. "Careful what you invite, little triplet. Some dangers bite back."
He offered his hand for the next dance.
Lysander stepped smoothly between them.
"She's promised the next set to me."
"Did she?" Cassian raised a brow at Toddd. "Funny. I don't recall hearing the words."
The air crackled.
Before either man could escalate, a bell rang—sharp, final. The banquet was announced.
Lysander offered his arm again. "Shall we?"
Toddd took it.
But as they walked toward the long table laden with crystal and poison-colored wine, she felt eyes on her back.
Not Lysander's.
Not Cassian's.
Something colder. Something that didn't belong to any living person in the room.
She glanced toward the mirrors again.
In every single one, her reflection lagged half a second behind her movement.
And in the delay… the other eyes watched.
Midnight.
The prince's invitation echoed in her mind.
The library. The east tower. Alone.
She didn't trust him.
She didn't trust Cassian.
She didn't even trust the body she wore.
But she would go.
Because whatever waited in that tower knew more about the TODDD mark—and the voice inside her head—than anyone downstairs pretending to celebrate her engagement.
And Toddd was finished waiting to die.
She would find the answers.
Even if they tried to kill her first.
To be continued…