The palace felt colder than I remembered.
Not in temperature, but in stillness — the way sound seemed to echo longer here, like it wasn’t used to laughter. Two months away at the Temple of Valis had softened me. I could still smell lavender oil and parchment on my skin, as if the walls of the sanctuary had followed me home.
But this wasn't a sanctuary. This was court.
As the carriage came to a halt at the palace gates, two familiar figures stood waiting beside the entry steps.
Soren in full uniform, silver accents gleaming against his dark tunic. And Bonnie her red braid catching the sun as the wind tugged lightly at her cloak. Both stood at attention, stiff and motionless, until the moment I stepped down onto the stones.
I didn’t realize how much I’d missed them until I saw their faces.
“Bonnie,” I breathed, stepping forward.
Her expression softened — just a little — and she gave a small nod before letting me wrap my arms around her. She smelled faintly of old books and sharp herbs.
“Still reckless?” she asked, voice low and even.
“I try my best.”
She gave me a subtle squeeze before letting go.
I turned to Soren next — his posture still straight as ever, but his eyes flickered just for a moment, searching my face.
“Soren,” I said, quieter now.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak at first. But then he gave the smallest nod, and his voice came out low. “Welcome home, Princess.”
The formality was expected. But the way he looked at me — like I’d stepped out of a storm he’d been waiting through — made something twist beneath my ribs.
“I missed you both,” I admitted, blinking too quickly. “The temple was… quiet.”
“They didn’t allow swords within the grounds,” Bonnie muttered. “Not even mine.”
“I noticed.” I smiled at her, then glanced at Soren. “Felt strange without you two watching my every move.”
Soren’s mouth quirked just slightly. “Then perhaps the temple worked a miracle.”
I laughed — quietly, but it was real. He didn’t smile, not fully. But the tension in his shoulders eased, just for a moment.
As I passed them to head inside, I felt them fall into step behind me like they’d never left. A part of me unclenched.
I wasn’t alone anymore.
I hadn’t even made it halfway to my room when I heard the footsteps.
Quick, deliberate — and then a laugh, just before he barreled into me.
“Kai—!” I barely got the word out before his arms wrapped around me in a hug that knocked the air from my lungs.
“You’re late,” he said, voice muffled in my hair.
“You’re crushing me,” I muttered.
He didn’t let go.
For a moment, I just stood there in the middle of the hallway, held tightly by my twin, everything else falling away. The ache of homesickness I didn’t know I’d had vanished all at once.
Eventually, he pulled back, looking me over with mock severity. “You look taller. You’ve been drinking that temple tea, haven’t you?”
“I have not gotten taller,” I said, swatting him lightly.
Kai grinned. “Well, your hair looks shinier. Is that some mystical blessing of the goddess?”
Bonnie cleared her throat gently behind us, and Kai gave her a mock bow. “Dame Bonnie, always a pleasure.”
“You’re being loud,” she said, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
I turned to Soren, who had taken a measured step back. “Is my room ready?”
He gave a small nod. “The servants unpacked everything an hour ago.”
“And there’s a letter waiting,” Bonnie added, handing me a folded note sealed with a pressed rose emblem.
I frowned at it. “Who—”
“Lanovo,” Kai answered before I could. “Again?”
I broke the seal and read:
Princess Kira,
The palace must already feel warmer with you in it.
I imagine the marble floors have missed your steps — I certainly have. I hope you’ve not forgotten how to dance, or else I’ll have to reteach you at your birthday banquet. I look forward to seeing you there. You’ll outshine the moon, I’m sure.
— Yours truly,
Adrian Lanovo
I blinked, then rolled my eyes with a small huff of a smile. “He’s dramatic.”
“Mm,” Kai said. “You’re not planning to encourage him, are you?”
“He’s just being friendly.”
“Sure,” he muttered. “Friendly. With roses and dances and four ‘accidental’ visits to a sacred temple.”
I sighed softly, opening my mouth to reply, only for the subject to change abruptly.
“Come on,” Kai said, tugging at my sleeve. “We’ve got a week until our birthday and the palace is already buzzing with plans. You owe me at least two hours of catching up — preferably somewhere with food.”
Kai lingered as I slipped the letter into my sleeve, his expression still hovering somewhere between amusement and protectiveness.
“I swear, if he writes you one more poem disguised as a letter, I’m setting fire to his quills.”
“Let him write,” I said lightly. “Words are harmless.”
Kai gave me a look that said you know better, but he didn’t press.
Just then, footsteps echoed lightly down the hall.
Soren stepped forward. “Princess, your brother Cassian requested a moment, if you’re willing.”
Kai perked up. “Cassian’s back?”
“He returned from the eastern garrison yesterday,” Bonnie answered.
I hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll find you later,” I told Kai.
He gave a dramatic sigh. “Abandoning me already.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’ll eat without you.”
“That’s the plan.”
He wandered off, grumbling about stolen pastries. Bonnie gave me a short nod and peeled off toward the west wing, leaving Soren a few paces behind me as I walked down the corridor.
I found Cassian in the outer garden, leaning against the old sundial near the cypress trees. The sun cut sharp across his shoulders, gold on black leather, his arms crossed, face unreadable until he looked up.
Then he smiled.
“You look well,” he said, pushing off the stone. “Different. But good.”
“Temple air,” I said. “And long hours patching up boys with fevers and cracked ribs.”
He chuckled, motioning for us to walk. “Any broken hearts?”
“Only Soren’s, when they wouldn’t let him follow me past the gates.”
Cassian grinned. “That does sound tragic.”
We strolled the garden path in quiet for a moment. He didn’t press right away — never did. Cassian asked questions like someone lighting candles in the dark, not swinging a torch.
“So,” he said finally. “How was it? Really.”
I inhaled slowly, letting the scent of mint and dried rosemary settle my nerves. “It was… steadying. I learned more than I thought I would.”
He glanced down at me. “But?”
I hesitated. “There was one time. I overdid it — during a healing. Reached too far.”
I touched my forehead as a sharp throb flickered behind my eyes. “I felt this sudden, pounding headache — like the world was folding in on itself. Then my nose started bleeding. I couldn’t stop it, no matter how much I pressed my fingers to it.”
Cassian’s brow furrowed. “A bloody nose?”
“Yeah.” I swallowed hard. “And then, it felt like everything tilted — like my vision blurred and the room started shifting around me.”
I rubbed my arms. “I don’t even know if I was awake or falling into something else.”
“What did you see?”
I swallowed again. “A forest. Blooming, bright, quiet — not like here. And in the center was a throne.”
He blinked. “A throne?”
“No one was sitting in it,” I added quickly. “It was just there. In the middle of everything, like it had grown out of the roots.”
Cassian was quiet for a long moment.
“You think it was a vision?”
“I think… it wasn’t nothing.”
He tilted his head, looking at me the way he did when we trained — carefully, like he was trying to find the weak spot in a story I wasn’t sure I’d told.
“You’ve always had good instincts,” he said eventually. “This might be part of that. Or something new growing out of it.”
“That’s what scares me.”
“Don’t let it,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s yours. Not something to run from.”
I glanced down at my hands.
“I didn’t tell anyone else,” I admitted.
“You just did,” he said quietly.
And I smiled — because that was Cassian. Unshakable. Steady. A fixed point, even now.
We looped back toward the palace steps, and Cassian paused as we neared the northern hall.
“I’ve got council in an hour,” he said, grimacing. “Lucky me.”
“Tell them you were helping your fragile sister recover from spiritual enlightenment.”
“I don’t think Dame Rhena would buy it.”
We shared a small laugh. Then he leaned in and said more softly, “Don’t forget to rest. Even gods needed time between miracles.”
I rolled my eyes. “And yet somehow, you’re still mortal.”
“Shocking, I know.”
He pressed a brief hand to my shoulder. Then he was gone — vanishing down the council hall corridor like he belonged in every shadow.
I turned back toward the corridor, footsteps quiet on the polished floor. For a breath, I thought I was alone — until a soft cough drew my attention.
A noblewoman stood at the curve of the hallway, wrapped in pale green velvet. I didn’t recognize her — not fully — but she was older, sharp-eyed, and dressed too richly to be unimportant. A silver crest gleamed at her throat, one I didn’t immediately place.
She curtsied — just a touch too shallow — and didn’t lower her gaze as custom required. Instead, she studied me openly, her mouth curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Your Highness,” she said smoothly. “Welcome home.”
Before I could respond, she turned and disappeared through a side archway, her heels clicking smartly against the stone.
I stood still for a moment, unease threading through the quiet. The hallway seemed longer than it had a second ago.
I turned back, alone now.
Bonnie had disappeared. Soren was nowhere in sight. Kai had likely found something sweet and criminal in the kitchens.
For the first time in days, I had a hallway to myself.
I had a feeling the next seven days were going to be anything but simple.
The corridor curved gently, lit with amber sunlight filtering through narrow glass windows. I passed tapestries I half-remembered from childhood, my slippers barely making a sound on the polished floors. I was headed to the king’s study—hoping to catch him between councils—when a silver blur turned the corner ahead of me at speed.
We collided. Not terribly, but enough that my shoulder hit solid muscle and I stumbled back.
A hand caught me—steady, warm, annoyingly familiar.
“Ah!” he exclaimed dramatically, fingers still curled lightly around my sleeve. “I knew the Valaran princess was fierce, but I didn’t think you’d try to assassinate me twice in the west wing.”
I blinked up into mismatched eyes: one gold, one violet. His silver hair was tousled like always, and that ridiculous grin was already tugging at his mouth.
“Sylas.”
“You remembered.” He looked mockingly touched. “I was beginning to think I dreamed you up.”
I tugged my sleeve from his grip. “You were the one not watching where you were going.”
“Impossible. I always know exactly where I’m going—just not who I’ll meet crashing into me along the way.”
I rolled my eyes and turned to walk past him.
He matched my pace instantly. “And where might the radiant Princess Kira be striding off to this time? Another secret duel in the garden? An ambush in the courtyard?”
“I’m visiting my father.”
“Ominous.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet—charmingly persistent,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Princess. Truly.”
I tried to suppress a smile. He noticed, of course.
“Ah, there it is,” he said. “A real smile. I was starting to think the temple had turned you into one of those solemn priestesses who only blink twice a day.”
I stopped in front of a tall arched door—the entrance to the king’s study.
“You done?” I asked.
He gave a dramatic sigh. “For now. But don’t worry—I’m quite easy to find.”
He winked.
And before I could form a proper reply, he stepped away, his stride lazy and confident, like he didn’t have a single care in the world. But I caught it this time—the slight glance over his shoulder before he disappeared around the corner.
That smile wasn’t quite as shameless as it used to be.
I paused outside the door just long enough to smooth the front of my gown, then lifted the brass falcon-shaped knocker and tapped once.
“Enter,” came the low voice from within.
I slipped inside.
The study smelled of aged parchment, cedar smoke, and cloves — the scent I’d missed without realizing it. Books lined half the walls, though I knew he rarely had time to read them anymore. Maps lay spread across a central table, some pinned with iron markers and small carved soldiers.
My father stood behind the desk, still in full council attire: dark blue with silver trim, the crest of our house stitched at the breast. His crown lay on the desk, forgotten. But what caught my eye was the delicate silver falcon brooch gleaming at his shoulder.
He was wearing it.
Warmth unfurled low in my chest.
He looked up—and smiled. “Kira.”
“Father,” I said, stepping forward.
He moved from behind the desk and met me in two strides, his arms opening the way they always did. I pressed my cheek to his chest as he held me, brief but strong.
“You’ve grown sharper,” he said, pulling back to study me. “Wiser eyes. There’s something in them now.”
“Not bad, I hope.”
He smiled faintly. “Not bad. Just older.”
We sat. He poured tea for both of us without asking, the way he always did when we were alone. I cradled the warm porcelain in my palms, stealing another glance at the brooch.
“You’re wearing it,” I murmured.
His eyes softened. “Every time I walk into council.”
I swallowed once, carefully. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, waterbug,” he said. “Every day.”
There was silence — companionable, for a moment — before I let out a slow breath and asked, “Why is Prince Sylas here?”
Father set his cup down with a quiet clink. His expression didn’t shift much, but I saw it—the way his shoulders subtly tensed. Like the question wasn’t unexpected, just inconvenient.
“Drakenvyre sent him as an emissary,” he said at last. “A guest, by their own words.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe what they want is information. Leverage. Sylas is the youngest son of a very dangerous king, and cleverer than most would assume. If he’s here smiling and playing the fool, it’s because he doesn’t want anyone to see what’s beneath it.”
I hesitated, the memory of Sylas’s lopsided grin flickering behind my eyes. “He seems…”
“Disarming?” my father offered.
I nodded.
“He’s meant to be.”
Another pause. Then, more quietly, Father added, “I don’t trust his father. But I’m… watching the boy.”
There was more he wasn’t saying. I knew that tone—calm and careful, like he was choosing every word.
“You don’t think he’s here to hurt anyone?” I asked.
He looked at me closely, then shook his head. “No. If anything, I think he’s here to survive.”
That surprised me. “Survive?”
“Let’s just say a prince who makes himself useful far from his father’s reach is sometimes safer than one who lingers at home.”
I blinked, trying to reconcile that with the boy who had just called me charming for raising my eyebrows.
“Should I be careful?”
“Yes,” Father said, without hesitation. “But not just because of him.”
That startled me a little. “What do you mean?”
He leaned back, eyes heavier now. “You’ve returned to a court that doesn’t know how to sit still. Your name is being passed around council tables more than you know. There are those who wish to place crowns, and those who wish to take them.”
He reached across the table and placed a hand over mine.
“I trust you to see more than what’s shown. But if you ever feel unsafe—if anything ever seems wrong—come to me.”
I nodded. My throat felt too tight for words.
“Good,” he said softly, then squeezed my fingers before letting go. “Now. Tell me what they taught you at that temple, and whether you terrorized their gardens.”
I smiled, just a little. “Only the lavender.”
We talked for a while longer — about the temple, about court whispers, and the burdens of legacy. His voice was steady, a quiet anchor amid the uncertainty I felt swirling inside.
At last, he glanced at the time and rose. “The council won’t wait,” he said, smoothing his cloak. “Remember, Kira—trust your instincts. And come to me if anything feels wrong.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of both his words and his hand lingering briefly over mine.
He paused at the door, then added, “I’ll see you again soon.”
With that, he left, the soft click of the door marking the end of our conversation.
I stayed a moment longer, gathering myself before making my way back through the quiet halls to my chambers.
I closed the heavy door behind me and let out a slow breath, the noise of the palace muffled into a distant hum. The room was quiet, lit softly by the fading light slipping through the tall windows. I crossed to the sill and leaned my palms against the cool glass, watching the shadows stretch across the courtyard below.
The delicate embroidery along my sleeves were a gift from Aunt Lysandra, the threads shimmered softly in the dusk, catching the light like a promise I hadn’t yet fully understood.
I flexed my fingers, the subtle warmth beneath my skin humming quietly, a steady pulse beneath the surface. Slowly, I pressed my palm against the other hand, willing the sensation to ease. The faint glow wasn’t back — just that lingering thread, a reminder of what I was becoming.
The palace felt heavy with expectation, the whispered plans for the birthday banquet weaving through every corridor like an unseen tide. I swallowed down the flutter of nerves and let my gaze soften, closing my eyes for a moment to gather myself.
When I opened them, I felt ready.
A knock at the door startled me. Bonnie’s voice followed shortly after, gentle as ever.
“Princess, the royal seamstress is ready to see you. She has brought the first sketches.”
I nodded, smoothing my gown with a faint smile. “Thank you, Bonnie.”
The walk to the seamstress’s chambers was quiet. The palace corridors felt different now — familiar, but shadowed by the weight of all that had changed in two months.
Inside, the seamstress awaited — a small woman with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun, eyes bright and kind beneath her spectacles.
“Ah, Princess Kira,” she said with a warm smile. “You’ve grown into your grace. Come, sit.”
She spread out several sketches across the velvet-covered table — gowns of flowing silk, delicate lace, and shimmering embroidery.
“I’ve chosen fabrics that speak both to your royal heritage and to the strength I see in you. Something regal, yet not overly ornate. A dress that carries both light and fire.”
I traced a finger over a sketch of a gown embroidered with tiny golden falcons soaring amid curling flame motifs — subtle, elegant, and unlike anything I’d seen worn at court before.
The seamstress smiled. “A nod to your house, and to your spirit. It’s not just a dress, Princess. It’s a statement.”
We moved through fitting after fitting — some gowns too heavy, others too plain. I teased the seamstress about one wildly extravagant design that felt more like armor than attire.
“Perfect for battle,” I joked.
She laughed softly. “Only if the enemy appreciates fine embroidery.”
As the final gown took shape, the silk cool against my skin, I felt a quiet thrill — a small moment of calm amid the storm that awaited.