The gardens of Theros Palace were drenched in late-afternoon light, the air warm with lavender, damp stone, and the spray of the central fountain. Evander sat on its rim, his practice sword across his knees, turning it absently in his hands. It had once belonged to his twin—too small for him now, but still heavy with memory. He preferred the solitude of the gardens; here there were no tutors demanding perfection, no courtiers whispering of the curse. Here he could almost believe the silence was his own.
But the silence broke with the soft swish of skirt on gravel.
A girl stood in the archway of vines, hair pale silver-gold that caught the sun like a spill of fire, eyes green and watchful. She was younger, no more than seven or eight, her gown modest but unmistakably noble. She did not belong here, and yet she entered as though the gardens had called her.
“You’re not meant to be here,” Evander said, his voice sharp, flat, the way he’d been taught to speak when strangers approached.
“And you are?” she asked without hesitation.
The retort startled him. He sat straighter, his grip tightening on the sword. “I am the Crown Prince of Theros,” he answered, because that was what he was expected to be—what he was.
She stepped closer, skirt brushing the fountain’s spray. “You don’t look like a prince,” she said softly, tilting her head.
His mismatched eyes narrowed. “Then what do I look like?”
Her reply was so immediate it startled him: “Lonely.”
The word landed deep, cutting past the armor of discipline he carried. His jaw clenched, but before he could turn away, she smiled—a small, curious thing, not cruel. “Do you always sit alone?” she asked.
“I prefer it,” he said stiffly, though the words tasted like ash.
“I don’t believe you,” she murmured. “I think you’re used to it, but that’s not the same thing.”
He froze. No one had ever spoken to him like that—not tutors, not courtiers, not even his parents. She had looked past the prince, past the cursed eyes, and seen something he could not admit.
He opened his mouth to respond—to deny her, or perhaps to ask her name—when bootsteps thundered across the path.
A guard emerged through the vines, his face pinched and pale. He bowed hastily to Evander, but when his eyes fell on the girl, his expression twisted in anger.
“Lady Alora,” he snapped, his voice like a whip. “You know what your father said. You are not to wander, and you are not to speak with the prince.”
Alora. The name seared itself into Evander’s memory.
The guard seized her arm, yanking her back. “Do not make me remind you again. You know the cost.”
Alora flinched but did not cry out. Instead she twisted, bright green eyes flashing as she looked back at Evander. “Goodbye,” she whispered, the word soft but unshaken, as if she meant for him alone to hear.
And then she was gone, dragged through the archway until her pale hair vanished into shadow.
The garden fell silent once more, heavier than before. Evander stared at the empty space she had left, the word she had given him echoing in his chest: Lonely.
Within days, the lie spread—Lady Alora of Everthorn had taken ill. Too weak to appear, too frail to travel, too fragile to leave her family’s manor. No one questioned it. Such illnesses were common among noble houses.
Evander knew the truth. He had seen her eyes—bright, defiant, far from sickly. She hadn’t been ill. She had been hidden.
And from that day, he never saw her again.
Years passed. She faded like a ghost, until even he began to doubt whether their meeting had been real. But the word endured, buried under discipline and silence, until the night of the ball. When she stepped into the firelit hall in silks of pale silver, her green eyes lifted, her hair glowing like molten thread, the memory roared back with brutal clarity.
The girl who once called him lonely had returned, and Evander could no longer pretend he had forgotten.
—-
Morning crept into my chamber slowly, pale light spilling across the stone floor and the plain wooden furniture that had never matched the grandeur of the rest of Everthorn Manor. My head still ached from the glittering noise of the ball, from the endless parade of eyes and whispers. Every word clung to me even now, their murmurs threaded into my dreams until I woke with my heart racing.
I sat on the narrow edge of my bed, fingers tracing the embroidered hem of my nightdress, and tried to piece the night into order: Dorian Halewyne’s hand guiding me through a dance while the court watched; the way my father’s praise fell solely on Emerson while his only acknowledgment of me had been clipped and reluctant. And the other—the one that pressed hardest against my chest—the memory of the stranger in the shadows, his voice low and real as he had said: You escaped too?
The pearls from the ball still sat on my bedside table, coiled like a chain that hadn’t loosened even in sleep.
A knock broke the silence. It was not timid; it carried authority, finality. Before I could answer, the door opened and one of my mother’s attendants swept inside.
“Lady Alora,” she said crisply, her eyes sliding over the smallness of my chamber as if it offended her. “The Duchess summons you. At once.”
I smoothed my skirt and followed, though dread pooled low in my stomach. My mother never called for me unless it was to arrange, to correct, to remind me of the role I must perform.
The corridors of Everthorn Manor were hushed as always, tapestries drawn tight against the walls, guards stationed at every corner. It was a house built to contain, not to welcome. When we entered my mother’s solar, the room smelled of parchment and ink, of lilac oil burning faintly in the corner brazier. The Duchess of Everthorn sat at her writing desk, papers spread before her in neat rows, her quill already set aside.
She did not look up immediately. That was her way—reminding me that she controlled the pace of every exchange. At last, she lifted her eyes, cool and precise.
“You will be leaving the manor today.”
The words startled me more than any reprimand might have. “Leaving?”
Her gaze sharpened, as if daring me to question. “Yes. Lord Dorian Halewyne has requested the honor of escorting you into town. Shops, markets, visible places. It will be good for the people to see you.”
My breath caught. The memory of Dorian’s smile in the ballroom returned, smooth and courtly on the surface but too polished, too practiced. He had spoken easily, his charm never faltering—but even then I had felt the edges of something sharper beneath.
Mother’s voice cut through my thoughts. “This is not a request, Alora. Your father agreed. The Halewynes are powerful allies, and it reflects well on our house to let their son be seen in your company. You will go, and you will play your part with grace.”
I lowered my eyes, my hands curling into fists against the folds of my gown. “Yes, Mother.”
Her expression softened only the faintest degree, but it was not affection—it was calculation. “See that you do not falter. You may consider it… practice for the attentions that will follow.”
The attendant ushered me out before I could speak again, her pace brisk, her grip light but firm on my arm. As we passed one of the side corridors, I glimpsed Emerson’s figure half-hidden in shadow, his expression tense, his mouth parting as if to call to me. But the attendant’s voice was sharp in my ear:
“You know what your father said.”
The words struck like iron, familiar and cruel. I kept walking, though the urge to stop, to reach for my brother, burned in my chest.
The moment I was returned to my chamber, the maids descended upon me like clockwork figures wound too tightly. Their hands were swift, practiced, never once pausing as they tugged my nightgown over my head and replaced it with silks chosen not by me, but by my mother. The gown was a shade of soft pearl blue, embroidered at the bodice with silver thread that shimmered faintly when the light touched it. It was beautiful—too beautiful for a simple outing to town—and that was precisely the point.
One of the older women cinched the stays of my corset until I could scarcely draw breath. Another pinned my hair into an arrangement of braids and coils, slipping silver combs into place with cold, efficient fingers. They spoke little, save for the occasional mutter about how I must keep my chin lifted, or how my shoes must not scuff on the cobbles. To them, I was not a girl. I was a portrait being restored, made presentable for display.
I caught my reflection in the long mirror, though I wished I hadn’t. The pale fabric and silver trimmings made me look almost ghostly, a figure caught between noble daughter and something far more fragile. My eyes—green and flecked with gold—were the only part of me that still looked alive. Everything else seemed constructed, like a doll my parents could set in place and parade before allies.
The Moonbrand tingled faintly at my collarbone, as if it sensed the falseness of it all.
When I was deemed presentable, I was led once again to the solar where my mother waited. She did not rise when I entered. Instead, she surveyed me with a calculating eye, as though I were one of the documents laid neatly across her desk.
“Better,” she said, though the word was more judgment than praise. Her quill tapped against the parchment at her elbow. “You will represent Everthorn with grace. You will smile, even if you do not wish to. And above all, you will not falter. Lord Dorian’s attentions are a gift to this family, and you will treat them as such.”
I bowed my head, though I said nothing. What would words have changed?
Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer, cool and unreadable. Then, with a flick of her hand, she dismissed me. The attendants ushered me out before I could even draw another breath.