The past few days of being back home had been nothing but council meetings. I left the council chamber still feeling the weight of words spoken and unspoken. The palace was alive in a way that felt both familiar and strange — a place where power shifted like the shadows beneath the ancient trees.
The scent of herbs and roasting meat drew me toward the kitchens, where the sounds of chopping and sizzling softened the sharp edges of the day.
“Good afternoon, Lady Kira,” called a cheerful voice.
I turned to see Jorin, one of the palace chefs, wiping his hands on a worn apron. His smile was easy, and his eyes crinkled with genuine warmth.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “We’ve been trying a new pastry recipe — a honeyed almond tart with a hint of caramel. Thought you might like to try one.”
I smiled, accepting the small plate he offered.
The tart was sweet, fragrant — a little burst of calm in a storm of marble halls and whispered politics.
“Thank you, Jorin,” I said softly. “It’s perfect.”
He shrugged modestly. “Only the best for the princess.”
Later, I found myself wandering to the gardens. The gardens were quieter now, shadows lengthening as the evening deepened. I wandered toward the main courtyard fountain, where the water caught the dimming light like falling silver. The low murmur of it was soothing — a small, steady rhythm in a world that never stilled.
I sat, the stone edge cool beneath my hands.
Not long after, footsteps approached.
Sylas.
He didn’t speak at first. Just dropped beside me with an exaggerated sigh, as if he had survived council and not the other way around.
“You weren’t as grim today,” he said. “You didn’t even threaten anyone with exile.”
“Yet.”
He smirked. “There she is.”
A moment of silence stretched between us. He leaned back on his palms, his posture as lazy as ever — but when he spoke next, his voice had shifted.
“There was a fountain like this in Drakenvyre. Not as pretty. The water was darker. Everything there is.”
I glanced at him.
“My mother used to sit by it,” he continued, gaze distant. “She had this way of tilting her head when she listened — like the world was telling her secrets no one else could hear.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“She was… well-liked,” he said. “Too well-liked. The court whispered her name with respect. Nobles came to her for advice more than they did my father. That didn’t sit well with him.”
A bitter smile tugged at his mouth.
“So he killed her.”
I inhaled sharply.
“Poison in her wine. Not loud, not violent. Just quiet. Permanent.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, softly.
He shrugged. “You don’t have to be. You weren’t there.”
“But I’m here now,” I said. And I meant it.
A flicker of something crossed his face. Not quite surprise. Not quite fear.
Just... something real.
Then he leaned back with a sigh. “If you tell anyone I said any of that, I’ll deny it and accuse you of romantic sabotage.”
“There it is,” I muttered.
“What can I say?” he said, stretching out his legs. “Old habits.”
I parted ways with Sylas as the moon rose above the garden wall. But peace was short-lived.
I hadn’t made it far before a voice called sharply from behind.
“My lady!”
I turned, startled. Fienne rushed up, cheeks flushed from hurrying.
“Sorry,” she said, panting slightly. “You were miles away. I called your name twice.”
“I was thinking,” I said, brushing my hair behind my ear. “What is it?”
Fienne’s expression turned serious. “It’s Lady Catherine. She’s been… unkind. Especially toward the servants. And… she’s sending letters.”
I stilled. “Through the official couriers?”
She shook her head. “No. Through someone else. A rider I don’t recognize.”
My stomach tightened.
“Thank you, Fienne. But please — be careful. Don’t put yourself at risk.”
“I’ll watch. Quietly,” she promised.
I continued to my chambers, The moon hung high, casting pale silver light through the tall windows of my chamber. Shadows stretched across the floor like soft fingers, brushing against the rich tapestries and polished wood.
I settled into the window seat, the embroidered cushions worn but comforting. The day’s noise had faded into a distant murmur — the palace breathing quietly as if gathering strength for what was to come.
Bonnie had left me with a small package before she retired for the night. Inside was a worn, leather-bound book with edges yellowed by time. Its title was nearly faded: “The Last Empress of Valara.”
I opened it carefully, the pages smelling faintly of old parchment and dust. The story inside felt like a secret whispered just for me.
The Empress was a woman who had ruled alone, long before the law forbade women from inheriting the throne. She was called a tyrant — accused of killing her own father, the King, to save the kingdom from his cruel reign. History had tried to erase her, labeling her a monster, a usurper, a shadow that had to disappear.
But the words painted a different picture. A woman forced to choose between loyalty and justice, between blood and duty. She vanished before her execution, leaving behind a kingdom she had changed forever.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Bonnie had said it reminded her of me.
Outside, the moonlight danced softly on the glass, fragile and sure all at once.
The door creaked open, and Soren stepped inside quietly, his silhouette framed by the hallway light.
“You’re still up,” he said softly, closing the door behind him.
I smiled faintly. “The moon keeps me company better than the day.”
He moved closer, leaning against the edge of the window frame, eyes steady and unreadable.
“Did Bonnie give you that?” he asked, nodding toward the book.
I nodded. “She said it was a story worth remembering. About courage. About choices.”
Soren’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer, then he said quietly, “You have that kind of courage, Kira. More than you know.”
The room felt warmer despite the night air.
“I hope so,” I whispered.
I set the book on my desk and stood. “Why are you here?”
He hesitated, then offered a rare, gentle smile. “To make sure you’re safe. And… because I—”
His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “Because you seemed… far away.”
I realized how tangled my thoughts had become— politics, magic, and the people who stood beside me.
“Thank you, Soren,” I said, stepping closer. “For always being here.”
He dipped his head. “Always.”
For a moment, we simply looked at each other in the moonlit room—the shield and the princess, bound by duty and something unspoken.
Then I offered him a small bow. “I should rest. Tomorrow holds council and banquets and… much less reading by moonlight.”
He inclined his head once more. “Sleep well, Princess Kira.”
As he turned to leave, I watched the shadows shift around him, wondering how much of his own heart he walked through unseen. Then I blew out the single candle I’d lit, and curled into bed, letting the moonlight and the promise of tomorrow’s trials carry me to sleep.
It was late, but sleep refused to come.
I’d left my room under the excuse of walking off restlessness, my slippers soft against the stone floors. The palace was quieter at night — too quiet, sometimes. I moved through the corridors like a ghost, familiar with their turns even in the dark.
The northern garden terrace sat just beneath the old sunroom, a place most nobles avoided at night because of the chill and the slow, eerie way mist gathered there from the fountains. But I’d always liked it. It was quiet, usually empty.
Not tonight.
I paused as I reached the upper corridor. Voices drifted upward — hushed, clipped, but unmistakably present. I moved carefully to the carved balcony that overlooked the garden path below.
There they stood.
Lady Catherine, cloaked in deep blue, her hair bound in a high bun. By her side, a man I didn’t recognize at first — until I saw the glint of Drakenvyre insignia on his shoulder. One of the emissaries who had arrived with Sylas.
And beside them — Duke Lanovo’s steward.
My stomach turned.
They stood close, heads bowed slightly together. I couldn’t hear them from this height, not clearly — but Catherine’s posture was tense, her fingers gripping her gloves so tightly they trembled. The steward said something that made the emissary laugh softly. Catherine didn’t join him.
The steward nodded once, then passed something — a rolled parchment or sealed letter — into the emissary’s hands. A brief moment of exchange, fast and practiced.
I ducked back just as Catherine turned, her sharp eyes scanning the darkness like a hawk scenting a storm. I held my breath, heart thudding, waiting in the silence.
They didn’t look up.
When I finally moved away from the edge, my hands were shaking.
I didn’t know what they’d said. But I knew something about it felt wrong.
And I knew who I’d seen.
I left the terrace with shaking hands, and silence followed me back to my room like a second shadow.
Back in my room, I stood by the window with my arms wrapped tightly around myself, watching the mist coil over the garden stones far below. My reflection hovered faintly in the glass — wide-eyed, unsure.
I’d seen Lady Catherine. I’d seen that emissary. And the steward. All together. All speaking like it wasn’t the first time.
But I hadn’t heard anything.
It could be nothing.
Except it didn’t feel like nothing.
I pressed my fingers to my temples, willed the tension to ease. Tomorrow was the final day before the banquet. There’d be guests arriving, musicians tuning their lutes, seamstresses adding last-minute stitches to sleeves. I would see my mother again. I hadn’t even shown her my finished gown.
And Kai…
My jaw tightened. It was his birthday too. He deserved joy. We both did — if just for a day.
I’ll deal with it after the banquet, I told myself. Whatever this is… it can wait one more day.
The morning light poured in like honey, and for once, I didn’t dread waking up.
Bonnie arrived early with breakfast and a raised brow when she saw me already dressed — simple robes today, soft and silvery like mist. I told her I wanted to feel light. She only nodded and left me with a tray of warm bread, honeyed fruits, and tea steeped with lavender.
I let myself drift through the morning like I was walking through a dream. The last few days had felt like knives in velvet — sharp things wrapped in softness. But this… this was peace. I had caught myself wandering to my mothers chambers.
The Queen’s chambers were sunlit and quiet, as they always were. I hadn’t seen her since returning.
When I stepped inside, the smell of vanilla and rosewater hit me — my mother’s scent. She stood with her back to me, speaking softly to one of her handmaidens. But the moment she turned and saw me, her entire face shifted.
“Kira.”
I ran to her without thinking.
She pulled me in and held me tight, hands threading through my hair like I was still a child. “Two months,” she murmured. “And not a single message with any useful detail.”
“I was busy learning how to pray and not die.”
“You were always terrible at both.”
I laughed into her shoulder. “I missed you, Mother.”
“And I you.”
When we pulled back, her fingers brushed my cheek, searching my face. “You look older.”
“I feel older.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, teasingly. “Or I’ll have to start counting my grays.”
We sat together by the open window, and she told me about council dramas I’d missed, the fashion disasters of Lady Merra’s daughters, and how a visiting noble had fainted in front of father because he hadn’t eaten in three days trying to fit into his ceremonial tunic.
“Sounds like I missed a great deal,” I said dryly.
She only smiled. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
The sun was already angling westward by the time I stepped out of my mother’s chambers. The air in the corridor was warmer now, thick with the scent of garden jasmine wafting through the open windows.
I didn’t rush. My footsteps echoed softly, the quiet halls a contrast to the swirling thoughts in my head. There was something grounding about walking alone again — no tutors, no questions, no whispers. Just polished stone beneath my shoes and the rustle of wind through the banners.
When I turned the last corner, I saw Bonnie already waiting outside my chamber door, her arms folded loosely behind her back.
“I was just coming to—” I began.
She cut in with a faint smirk. “Intercept you. I know. You're predictable.”
“Rude,” I muttered, but I smiled anyway.
Bonnie held out a folded letter, sealed with the familiar rose-wax emblem. “Another one from your shadowed suitor.”
I took it, raising a brow. “Do you read all my letters?”
“Only the ones addressed to me,” she said drily. “Now go before your brother dies of boredom. He said something about squirrels and needing a witness.”
I laughed under my breath and slipped the letter into my sleeve as I opened the chamber door.
Inside, I set the letter on my desk and moved to the mirror, adjusting the front of my robe just slightly. I left my hair loose — Kai would complain if I showed up looking too formal. He always said it made him feel like I was ready to lecture him.
The sunlight hit the far wall, warm and gold and soft.
I reached for the letter at last and opened it with my thumb, letting my eyes skim over the words.
Princess Kira,
You were sunshine today — I only glimpsed you passing through the west corridor, but it was enough to ruin my composure for an entire meeting. Your hair catches the light in ways my tutors never prepared me for.
I hope you’ll wear something as radiant tomorrow night — if only so I might properly lose the duel of who glows more.
Until then, I remain at your mercy (and mildly starved for conversation).
Yours impatiently,
Adrian
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t quite wipe the smile from my face. He was impossible. And somehow, weirdly charming.
Tucking the letter back into the desk drawer, I turned on my heel and headed for the orchards — where I knew Kai would be exactly where I left him: doing absolutely nothing useful.
The sun was low by the time I finally found Kai. He was stretched across a stone bench near the south orchard, throwing dried fruit at a squirrel who kept darting closer and then scampering back.
“Very regal,” I said.
He sat up immediately. “You missed all the good parts. I was about to win.”
“The squirrel is half your size.”
“And yet he’s twice as fast,” Kai muttered. Then he grinned, eyes bright. “Come here. Sit.”
I flopped down beside him, and we spent a few minutes just tossing the fruit and making progressively worse bets on whether the squirrel would steal a full fig.
“So,” Kai said after a while, flopping back to lie against the bench. “We’re almost nineteen.”
“I know.”
“Are you ready to be old and wise and burdened by politics?”
“I’ve always been wise,” I said primly. “You’re just catching up.”
He laughed, full and bright. “That’s fair. You did have better tutors.”
We talked for hours — about nothing and everything. The way the temple bells sounded at dusk, the weird noise the kitchen’s new chicken made at sunrise, how the steward in the west wing might secretly be a toad in disguise.
Eventually we moved back toward my room, shoulders bumping with each step, like we were still ten and sneaking sweets.
Once there, Kai made himself entirely at home — stealing my pillow, my blanket, my side of the bed.
“Do you remember when we used to pretend the palace was a ship and we were lost at sea?” I asked, curling onto the other side of the mattress.
“You mean you were the dramatic one and I had to be the lifeboat?”
I shoved his shoulder. He laughed again — that deep, unguarded laugh I hadn’t heard in too long. Then quieter:
“I’m glad you’re home, Kira.”
I turned my head toward him. “Me too.”
The moonlight spilled through the windows, casting soft silver over everything. I watched him for a while, his breathing evening out, his brow relaxed for once.
The Empress had faced impossible choices. Maybe I would too. But tonight, I had my brother, and the quiet promise that not all love ended in betrayal.
I let myself fall asleep beside my twin, just like we used to.