The trap begins at the second bell.
Until then, the palace breathes like something wounded.
Not dying. Not yet. But hurt in ways that make every sound feel sharper. Every footstep too loud. Every whisper suspect. Every familiar face just a little less familiar.
I spend the next hour in my chambers while the plan reshapes itself around me.
My chambers. The words feel wrong now. Too soft. Too safe. As if silk curtains and polished floors could still mean shelter after Lena's forged pass was pulled from the spine of a ledger. After her name was dragged from my household and laid bleeding onto the war room table.
I stand in the center of the room while Olivia and two guards quietly clear it of anything that could hide another message, another weapon, another lie. Drawers are opened. Cushions lifted. Wardrobe backs checked. Fire grates swept. The underside of tables tapped for hollow spaces.
The sound of my own life being searched is stranger than I expected.
A comb set down too carefully. A jewelry case opened. The rustle of folded gowns I wore while believing myself merely trapped, not watched.
Olivia says very little. That worries me more than if she had cried.
When she finally speaks, it is while straightening the edge of my dressing table with needless precision. "Her bed was always neat," she says quietly. "Lena's."
I look up from the chair where I've been pretending to read the same page of a book for ten solid minutes.
"She liked control?" I ask.
Olivia shakes her head. "No. I think she liked not being noticed."
That lands somewhere uncomfortably deep.
Not being noticed. In a palace full of crowns and tempers and people who fill rooms just by walking into them, perhaps that was its own kind of power.
"She noticed everything," Olivia adds after a beat. "I used to think that was because she was good at service." Her fingers still. "Now I don't know what I think."
I close the book. I haven't read a word anyway.
"You're allowed not to know yet," I say.
She laughs once, thin and humorless. "That seems to be the theme of our lives."
A knock sounds. Three sharp taps. Joren's rhythm.
"Enter."
He comes in with Axel behind him. My pulse betrays me instantly, traitorous thing that it is. It should not still do that after explosions, rebellions, forged passes, and whatever impossible thing Axel and I have become to each other. And yet.
He fills the doorway like he belongs there. Not as prince. Not as future king. As himself. Dark coat exchanged for simpler black, sleeves rolled to the forearms again, hair not quite obeying whatever poor servant tried to tame it. His expression is controlled, but I can see the strain around his eyes.
He's been carrying too much. Again.
Joren, all business, says, "The decoy is ready."
Olivia straightens immediately. "Who?"
"One of the outer attendants from the bridal party rotation," Joren says. "Mira. Similar height from behind, especially veiled. We'll keep the light low in the west corridor."
"And if the watchers are closer than that?" I ask.
"Then they'll get close enough for us to see who bites," Joren replies.
There it is. The brutality of a good trap. It works because someone has to be tempting enough to touch.
I stand. "Bring her."
Joren nods and steps back out.
For a moment, it is only the three of us. Me. Axel. Olivia. A little war council disguised as a quiet room.
Olivia looks between us and sighs dramatically. "If either of you starts kissing while I'm still in here, I'll join the broken crown out of spite."
Heat flashes up my neck so fast I want to throw a pillow at her. Axel, the absolute traitor, looks faintly amused.
"We are discussing security," I say with as much dignity as I can salvage.
"Sure," Olivia says. "Your faces say otherwise."
"Out," I say, pointing at the side table. "Go inventory something."
She grins, unrepentant. "Gladly." But before she reaches the door, her expression softens. She comes back, squeezes my hand once, then leaves without another word.
The room quiets. Again.
Axel watches me from where he stands near the window. "Are you all right?" he asks.
I almost laugh. The question is absurd. Also kind. Also impossible to answer cleanly.
"No," I say at last. "But I'm upright, so everyone seems pleased."
His mouth twitches. Then he crosses the room slowly, as if giving me time to step away. I don't.
"You don't have to prove anything tonight," he says softly.
"I do, actually."
His brow lifts.
"If I sit here trembling while someone wearing my household seal moves through the palace, then whoever planned this learns the right lesson," I say. "That the quickest way to cage me is through the people closest to me."
He stops an arm's length away. "That is not what I meant."
"I know." I take a breath. "But it's still true."
He looks at me in that infuriating way he has—like he's listening to the words under the words.
"You're angry," he says.
"Yes."
"You're hurt."
"Yes."
"And you're trying to decide which of those feelings would make the better weapon."
I hate how immediately he understands. I hate more that I'm grateful.
"Yes," I say again.
He nods once, almost to himself. "Good."
I blink. "Good?"
"Yes," he says. "Because hurt alone makes people reckless. Anger alone makes them sloppy. But you, Rome—" his voice lowers "—you are most dangerous when you let both sharpen each other."
I stare at him. "That sounds like a compliment."
"It is."
"You're getting alarmingly good at those."
"I'm adaptable."
Before I can answer, Joren returns with the decoy.
Mira is younger than I expected. Nervous, too, though trying valiantly not to show it. She has my build, or close enough, and Olivia has already done half the work—Mira's hair pinned beneath one of my lighter veils, her shoulders draped in one of my spare house cloaks. From a distance, in a dim corridor, she could be me.
That realization makes my stomach twist.
"You understand the route?" Joren asks her.
She nods. "From this wing to the west gallery turn. Pause at the arch. Speak to no one unless challenged by Captain's mark."
"Good."
Mira's gaze flicks to me then. For the first time, her composure cracks. "Your Highness… if they come close—"
"They won't touch you," Joren says.
His voice says he will kill anyone who tries. I believe him.
Still, I step closer. "Mira," I say, "you can refuse this."
Her eyes widen. "Refuse?"
"Yes."
She swallows. "I— no, Your Highness. I just…" A faint, embarrassed flush rises in her cheeks. "I didn't expect you to ask."
That hurts in a different way. What exactly do they all think crowns do to people? Don't answer that, I tell myself. You know.
"Thank you," I say instead.
She bows quickly, almost startled by the words.
Joren signals to the guards. "Second bell," he reminds us all. "Once the decoy moves, no deviations." His gaze lands on me specifically. "No improvisation."
Axel lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like he has heard this warning too many times. I smile without humor. "You all make me sound very difficult."
"You are," Axel says.
Joren, to my annoyance, nods his agreement.
The first bell rings.
It rolls through the palace low and sonorous, a sound that makes every candle flame seem to tighten. The trap is beginning.
Mira is led to the antechamber to wait for her cue. Joren leaves with her. So do the guards.
And suddenly it is just Axel and me again.
Of course it is. The palace, it seems, is either trying to kill us or force us into emotional honesty. Possibly both.
I move to the fire and stand with my hands out toward the heat, though I am not cold. Not really. Just restless under the skin.
Behind me, I hear Axel shift. Then his footsteps. Then nothing.
When he speaks, his voice is close enough to brush the back of my neck. "Do you want me to stay?"
The question catches me off guard. I turn. He's standing nearer now, but not touching me. Giving me room to answer honestly.
"Yes," I say. Then, because we seem to be doing honesty tonight whether I survive it or not: "Not because I'm afraid to be alone. Because I don't want to be."
Something in his expression softens so completely it almost undoes me.
"All right," he says.
The fire cracks softly. Outside the chamber doors, distant footsteps pass, pause, pass again. Somewhere farther down the corridor, a servant drops something metal and curses under their breath. The whole palace is wound too tight.
"So," I say, because if I stand in silence too long I might start thinking about Lena again and I cannot afford to crack open right now, "was your day as miserable as mine?"
Axel leans one shoulder against the mantel. "I spent two hours with Darius and three senior stewards cross-checking storerooms, then one hour with my mother pretending not to interrogate me while actually interrogating me."
"That does sound miserable."
"It was. She asked if kissing you has damaged my judgment."
I choke. He actually smiles.
"And what," I ask carefully, "did you say to that?"
"That my judgment was questionable long before I kissed you."
I laugh before I can stop myself. It spills out too easily. Maybe because I needed it. Maybe because he did too.
"She hated that answer," he adds.
"Good."
A quieter beat follows. Then:
"She also said," he continues, voice lower now, "that if someone inside the palace is using your household to reach you, then whoever they are either understands symbolism very well… or understands me."
I go still.
"What does that mean?"
His jaw flexes. "It means they may know where I look first when I think you're in danger."
The words settle heavily between us.
Not just a threat to me. A threat shaped through him.
"They're measuring both of us," I say.
"Yes."
"And if Lena's part of that—"
He cuts in gently. "Then we deal with it."
I look down at my hands. "At some point I'm going to have to decide whether I want her found alive or just found."
Axel is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "Alive."
I glance up.
He holds my gaze steadily. "Alive," he repeats. "Because dead people answer only the questions other people give them. Alive, she might still tell us whose chain she was part of. Or whether she was chained at all."
My throat tightens. Not because he is being merciful. Because he is right. Again.
"You're annoyingly good at this," I mutter.
"At what?"
"Stopping me from becoming the version of myself I'd regret in the morning."
His face changes. Subtle, but I see it. The way his breath catches. The way his shoulders ease and tighten at once.
"Rome," he says quietly, "I don't want to stop you from becoming anything."
No, I think. That's not true. You want to stop me from becoming cruel in all the ways I would hate. And maybe that matters more.
The second bell rings.
We both turn toward the door instinctively.
Now.
Mira will be moving. The decoy route alive in the corridor. The false sighting breathing through the west wing. The trap baited.
A long half-minute passes. Then another.
The waiting is unbearable.
"You know," I say, too lightly, "if we survive this, I'm going to demand one full week in which no one paints symbols on anything."
"That seems selfish."
"I am a queen."
"You're not crowned yet."
"I'm practicing."
That almost earns me a smile. Almost.
Then we hear it. Not an explosion. Worse.
Running.
Fast footsteps pounding through the corridor outside. A shout. Then another.
Axel is already moving when the door slams open. Joren stands there, breathing hard, eyes bright with the kind of fury only very competent men achieve when their trap works exactly badly enough.
"They took the bait," he says.
My pulse slams. "Where?"
"West gallery arch. Two watchers broke cover—one servant, one guard. Both ran the moment Mira turned the corner." He looks straight at me. "The servant is in custody."
"And the guard?" Axel demands.
Joren's jaw tightens. "He's dead."
The room goes still.
"Killed?" I ask.
Joren nods once. "Crossbow bolt from the upper cloister before we could reach him. Whoever's holding the chain just cut one of its own links."
Cold moves through me like water.
Not improvisation. Not panic. Control.
"Who is the servant?" Axel asks.
Joren answers without looking away from me.
"One of your outer chamber maids, Your Highness."
For one heartbeat, I cannot process the words. Then they slam into place.
Not Lena. Another. Closer than anonymous. Farther than intimate. A second link.
"What's her name?" I ask.
"Bera."
I know that name. Not well. But enough. Round face. Quick hands. Usually assigned to linens and fire-setting in the outer rooms. Never important enough to look at twice.
Exactly the kind of person a palace forgets. Exactly the kind of person a conspiracy loves.
"Where is she now?"
"In the lower questioning chamber."
Of course Lucia has a lower questioning chamber. Of course I have never seen it.
Joren hesitates, then adds, "She asked for you."
That startles me. Axel stiffens.
"For me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Joren's expression is grim. "She said she'll only speak to the girl. Not the queen."
The room seems to narrow around me. Not the queen. The girl.
The same phrasing from the impression on Lena's table. Not the queen. The girl.
They have been speaking about me that way. Separating me. Dividing me. Trying to decide which half bleeds easier.
Axel's voice drops into something dangerous. "No."
I turn my head.
"No?" I repeat.
"No," he says again, more sharply. "Absolutely not. If this is part of the trap—"
"It already is part of the trap," I cut in.
"She could have poison hidden. A pin. A blade. A lie designed for you specifically."
"Yes."
"And you still think walking into that room is wise?"
"No," I say. "I think it's necessary."
His jaw clenches.
Joren, wisely, says nothing.
"Rome." Axel takes a step closer. "She asked for the girl because she thinks the girl is easier to manipulate."
"Then she'll be disappointed."
"That is not funny."
"I'm not joking."
The air between us tightens. Not romance now. Steel. Fear. The kind that comes dressed as anger because it has no other place to go.
"You don't need to do this alone," he says.
"I know."
"Then don't."
"I won't."
He blinks. "What?"
I look at Joren. "Prepare the chamber. Search her twice. No jewelry. No hairpins. No loose fabric she wasn't already wearing when you caught her." Then back to Axel. "You'll be behind the screen."
He stares at me.
"Rome—"
"She asked for the girl," I say evenly. "Fine. She gets the girl. But she doesn't get the girl alone."
Joren's brows lift. "That can be arranged."
Axel studies my face for a long beat. Then exhales through his nose.
"I hate this," he mutters.
"I know."
"I hate it more because it's a good idea."
"I know."
He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. "All right. But if she so much as breathes wrong—"
"You'll burst through the screen like a dramatic ghost prince?"
"Yes."
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches. "Reassuring."
Joren straightens. "Five minutes."
He leaves.
The door shuts.
And suddenly I am aware—painfully, vividly—of the fact that I am about to sit across from someone who may know why my maid disappeared, why my hall was bombed, why the broken crown keeps speaking about me as though I can be split neatly from myself.
The girl. The queen. The spark. The symbol.
I do not feel neatly split. I feel like a blade someone keeps trying to grab by the wrong end.
Axel steps closer. Not touching at first. Then his hand finds mine. Warm. Solid. Familiar now in a way that would terrify me if I had time to examine it too closely.
"Look at me," he says.
I do.
"You do not owe her softness because she asked for it cleverly," he says. "You do not owe her trust because she uses the right name. And you do not owe anyone in this palace the version of yourself they think is easier to control."
I swallow.
"Understood?"
"Yes."
His thumb brushes once across my knuckles. A tiny, grounding motion.
"And if she says something designed to hurt you," he adds quietly, "remember that people in chains learn quickly where to aim their words."
Something in my chest twists.
"That sounded suspiciously like wisdom," I say.
"It's disgusting, I know."
I almost smile. Almost.
Then his hand lifts and he touches just beneath my chin, raising it slightly. A familiar gesture now. A dangerous one.
"Unshakeable," he murmurs.
The word lands deep.
I breathe in. Out.
"Unshakeable," I echo.
A knock. Joren. Time.
Axel steps back, but only just. Not far enough to feel distant. Never far enough anymore.
"All right," I say, though my pulse is wild. "Let's go meet the chain."