Three days. That’s how long it takes for the palace to become a gilded cage.
Seraphine’s guards stalk every corridor, their silver armor glinting like teeth. Her orders echo through the walls—search for Sir Brenno Kade, search for Lara Venn. Search until nothing remains unturned.
And yet, no one finds us.
Beneath the marble floors, we live like ghosts. The underground corridors smell of earth and dust, and though the air burns our lungs, it hides us well. Brenno’s torch flickers beside me as we wait out the hours, his jaw tight with frustration, mine with fear.
I wonder if Ysabet is at the palace. I wonder if she felt something wrong before even entering, as she always does. I wonder if she didn't and got in trouble from Seraphine’s guards.
Above us, the palace prepares for a wedding. Her wedding.
Lady Seraphine has announced she’ll wed the prince the moment he recovers—and miraculously, he has. The court rejoices; the servants whisper. They say Aldric looks divine, strong again, blessed by love. But love doesn’t hollow the eyes or steal the soul.
I know better.
Brenno’s pacing slows. “It’ll happen today,” he mutters. “At midday.”
I nod, clutching the small satchel Liora had given me. Inside it rests a shimmering thread of enchanted silk—her work, her hope, her proof that magic can still be kind.
“We only get one chance,” I whisper.
Brenno smiles faintly. “Then let’s make it count.”
***
Half an hour before the ceremony, we climb.
The secret stairwell creaks beneath our weight, the stones damp beneath our boots. When we reach the narrow corridor behind the west wing, I can already hear faint music—a harp, soft and sweet, floating through the walls. The scent of roses laces the air.
Brenno glances around the corner first. “Two guards,” he whispers. “Seraphine’s men.”
I grip his arm. “We can’t fight them both.”
He flashes me a grin. “Watch me.”
He waits for them to pass the intersection—then moves.
It happens in seconds. One swing, one echoing thud, and one guard drops to his knees. The second lunges forward, blade slicing through the air toward me.
I don’t even have time to scream before Brenno yanks me back, the sword’s edge grazing my sleeve. The sound it makes as it cuts the air is sharp enough to sting my ears.
He shoves me behind him, raising his own weapon—its silver edge gleaming unnaturally bright.
“Shame on you,” Brenno says, voice low, almost mocking. “Your captain returns from war and this is how you greet him?”
The guard hesitates—just for a breath. It’s enough. Brenno swings the pommel of his sword against the man’s head. A dull crack follows, and the guard collapses.
Something in him, in that very moment, reminds me Brenno isn't just a man I’d joke around with and imagine as a friend; he is the captain of knights, a soldier that has been through many battles, one that served Aldric’s father as well before Aldric himself. The most trusted man between all the kingdom royalty. And the most dangerous one, too.
Brenno exhales. “Go,” he orders. “I’ll hold off whoever comes next.”
“But—”
“Now, Lara.”
I meet his eyes—steady, commanding, but kind. Then I nod once and run.
***
The palace above is a dream draped in silk.
Gold banners hang from every pillar; white roses line the marble floor. Candles burn brighter than they should, filling the hall with a warmth that feels wrong, artificial, stolen from something sacred.
I slip through the back corridor, merging with the crowd before anyone can question me. Nobles stand shoulder to shoulder, fanning themselves, whispering admiration for the bride’s beauty and the prince’s valor. None notice the tremor in his movements, the emptiness in his eyes.
Seraphine stands at the altar, glowing in her gown of silver lace. Her lips curve in a perfect, practiced smile as she clutches a bouquet of white thorns—her favorite flower.
And beside her, Aldric.
My breath catches.
He’s dressed in white, his chest still bandaged beneath the tunic. He looks healed, yes—but the spark that made him him is gone. His eyes are distant, unfocused, as if staring at a horizon no one else can see.
It’s him, but not him.
The priest’s voice drones on. “Do you, Lady Seraphine, vow before saints and men to stand by Prince Aldric—”
“I do,” she says sweetly.
Her tone makes my stomach turn.
“And do you, Prince Aldric, vow before saints and men to—”
I don’t let him finish, I step out of the crowd. My voice cuts through the hall like a blade.
“I’m sorry to sabotage your ceremony,” I say, loud and steady, “but you won’t marry Aldric. And you won’t take his throne.”
Every head turns. A wave of murmurs ripples through the guests. The priest falters.
Seraphine freezes mid-smile. For a second, she looks stunned—then her expression hardens, fury flashing in her emerald eyes. “You,” she breathes.
I walk forward, heart pounding so hard it echoes in my ears. “You’ve lied to everyone in this hall. You’ve bewitched the prince, cursed his child, and stolen his memories. You think yourself untouchable, but you’re not.”
“Silence!” she hisses. “Guards—”
None move. Perhaps they’re afraid, perhaps they’re waiting.
“You dare accuse me of witchcraft at my own wedding?”
“You’ve already proven it,” I say softly.
Her lips curl. “You think I’d let you ruin this day again?”
“Not me,” I whisper. “Us.”
At that moment, another figure pushes through the crowd—Liora Fleetlace. Gasps rise as she appears, her gown glowing faintly with silver thread. In her hand gleams the Victory Ring, its golden surface pulsing with light as if alive.
“Seraphine,” Liora says, voice echoing unnaturally across the hall, “you’ve stolen what is not yours. The time has come to return it.”
Seraphine’s smile falters. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I would.” Liora raises her hand, snapping her fingers—a sound so familiar, so precise, that even the air seems to hold its breath.
The ring shimmers. Light bursts from its surface, threads of magic spinning outward, golden and white, weaving through the air like strands of fate.
Aldric blinks, confusion flashing in his eyes as if something deep inside him stirs. The light touches his chest—and for a heartbeat, I see recognition flicker across his face. It’s working. Then, before Liora can finish the spell, Seraphine moves.
In a blur of silver and fury, she throws herself in front of Aldric.
The magic hits her instead.
A scream tears through the hall—not human, not mortal. The light explodes, rippling across the marble floor, scattering petals and flames. Guests cry out, shields of air and silk flying up as the shockwave rushes past.
I shield my eyes, the brilliance burning through my lids.
Then comes silence.