VIVIAN’s POV
The morning feels too bright for the thoughts I carry. The palace looms behind me, its towers slicing the sky like accusations. I walk past the eastern garden until the cobblestone road turns toward the old temple—a structure of white stone and colored glass, rising in quiet defiance beside the crown’s shadow.
The temple of Verloren has always been older than the monarchy itself. People say the stones remember prayers long after the tongues that spoke them have turned to dust.
When I step inside, it smells of smoke and lavender. Light spills through stained-glass windows in shards of color—ruby, emerald, and sapphire. The candlelight dances on the polished floor, and in the middle of it all stands Alastor.
He is murmuring prayers, head bowed, voice low and calm. Only one candle burns beside him, though the air feels full of unspoken words. I do not interrupt him until he turns, sensing me.
“Lady Vivian,” he says softly, his tone always more greeting than judgment. “It’s early for confession.”
“I’m not here to confess,” I reply, stepping closer. “Only to ask a favor.”
“Then the heavens can rest easy.” His eyes crinkle with humor. “What favor does the Queen’s right hand require from a man of faith?”
I glance at the bruises darkening my forearms beneath my sleeves. “Something for these. They sting more than I’d like.”
His gaze drops, concern flickering in the dim light. “Come upstairs. The wind down here chills the skin before it heals.”
We climb the narrow spiral staircase that winds into the tower. His chambers at the top are modest but warm: shelves of old tomes, a desk cluttered with parchment and herbs, and a single window overlooking the river that cuts through the city. A kettle hums softly over the fire.
“Sit,” he says, pulling out a chair.
I obey, though uneasily. He opens a wooden box and dips his fingers into a jar of thick salve. The smell is sharp—mint and resin.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
The cream is cool when it touches my skin. I wince as his fingers press lightly into a bruise along my shoulder.
“You fell off your horse?” he asks, voice mild, though his eyes say otherwise.
“I did,” I answer.
“Did the horse strike back?”
I exhale, defeated. “You never believe me.”
“I’ve spent too long listening to lies at court,” he says gently. “And you are terrible at telling them.”
I stare at the fire, then finally speak. “Captain Solomon sent me away on orders. For the King.”
His hand stills. “The King?”
“Yes. He asked me to retrieve something from a distant village.” I pause, the memory of the fight flashing behind my eyes. “A parcel. Papers. But someone else was there first. A man. He tried to take it from me.”
“And?”
“I stopped him.”
“Stopped him,” Alastor repeats, faint amusement in his tone. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I won,” I say flatly.
He chuckles quietly. “I pity the fool who underestimated you.”
“He wasn’t a fool,” I admit. “He was skilled. Too skilled for a thief.”
Alastor leans back, studying me. “And this parcel—you still don’t know what it contained?”
“No. The Captain said it wasn’t my place to know. He locked it away the moment I returned.”
His eyes darken. “I was right, then.”
“About what?”
“Something large is moving through the palace. Hidden, but not harmless.”
“Do you know what it is?”
He sighs, rubbing his chin. “I know there are letters that never reach their marks, meetings held without minutes, orders signed by men we do not see. That is all.”
“So nothing useful,” I mutter.
He smiles faintly. “Sometimes useless truths are safer than dangerous ones.”
I say nothing for a while, only watching the candlelight dance across the walls. “The children are uneasy,” I say at last. “Caden keeps asking for his father. Kaela sleeps only when I stay beside her.”
Alastor’s gaze softens. “They feel the cold long before we admit it’s winter.”
“I just wish—” I stop, shaking my head. “They barely see their parents anymore. They’re too young to understand why.”
He tilts his head. “Did you see yours often?”
The question hits harder than expected. I let out a short, bitter laugh. “You choose your moments well, Reverend.”
“I only ask,” he says quietly. “Because the pain you name in others always sounds like your own.”
I look away. “My mother left when I was ten. Drank her way out of shame, I suppose. My father—he worked in the paddocks near the capital. Horses. I helped him when I could. Then one night, he didn’t wake up. Heart gave out.”
“I’m sorry,” Alastor murmurs.
“Don’t be.” I straighten in the chair. “Pity never brought a meal to the table.”
He chuckles softly. “Still the same girl who refuses to bow unless there’s meaning in it.”
“I bow plenty,” I retort. “Every day.”
He sets the jar aside and wipes his hands with a cloth. “Not in your heart, you don’t.”
I rise, flexing my arm. The salve tingles, easing the ache. “Thank you, Alastor.”
“Always.” He studies me a moment longer. “Be careful, Vivian. Secrets are hungry things. Once you feed them, they remember the taste.”
I force a small smile. “Then I’ll starve them a little longer.”
He laughs quietly, watching me descend the staircase.
***
By the time I reach my quarters again, the sun hangs high, the corridors humming with royal errands. My steps feel heavier than before. I close my door behind me, locking it, and draw the small folded letter from my pocket.
The one I stole. The one addressed: To my dear Darius.
I stare at the crimson seal for a long time before I break it. My breath catches as the wax cracks beneath my thumb.
The Queen’s handwriting flows across the page—elegant, cruelly neat.
“To my dear Darius,
We have spent too long at war within our own walls. You hide behind lies, behind loyalty, behind silence. But I will not live in the shadow of a man who refuses to reign to his full potential.
I offer peace only once. If you surrender your claim and allow me to rule Verloren as it deserves, I will protect your name, your children, your legacy.
If you refuse, I will take it by force. You know me well enough to believe I can.
Come out of your hiding. Or I will find you myself.
—Arinelle.”
My hands tremble.
The words bleed into my mind like poison. Surrender your claim. Take it by force.
I read it again, slower, as if the meaning might change. It doesn’t.
The Queen isn’t waiting for a sick husband to recover. She’s planning to replace him—perhaps destroy him. Every order she’s given, every meeting she’s arranged—it all shifts into a darker shape.
The King’s fake illness… the Captain’s secrecy… the missing letters…
It all makes sense now, horribly so. The Queen of Verloren is preparing for war—not against other kingdoms, but against her own King. A sound cuts through my thoughts. A door handle turning.
I spin around, heart leaping. The door bursts open.
Queen Arinelle stands in the threshold, her gown glinting like molten sunlight, her expression sharp enough to draw blood.
“Vivian,” she says slowly, eyes scanning the room. “You weren’t in my chambers when I called for you. How strange.”
I force myself to breathe. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I was—”
Her gaze narrows. “And what is that in your hand?”
My pulse spikes. The letter burns against my palm.
In one motion, I slip it into my pocket, turning to face her fully. “Just fabric inventory, Majesty. From the seamstress.”
She doesn’t move. For a moment, neither of us do. The air thickens, stretching the silence until it feels like it might snap.
Her eyes flicker from my face to the room behind me, then back again. Suspicion gleams there, cold and precise.
“I see,” she murmurs. “You’ve taken to handling my personal affairs now as well?”
I bow my head, every muscle trained not to tremble. “Only as Your Majesty commands.”
She studies me for a long, dangerous moment.
Then, softly—too softly—“We’ll speak about that later.”
Her gaze lingers another second before she turns away, closing the door behind her with a quiet click that feels louder than thunder.
I exhale slowly, my hand still pressed against my pocket.
The Queen’s words from the letter echo in my mind: If you refuse, I will take it by force.
And now, for the first time, I believe her.