DANI’S POV
My boot connects with the trainee’s shield, and the young man drops like a felled tree. The thud echoes across the training yard, followed by a chorus of gasps and groans from the others. The air smells of sweat and steel, and the clang of practice swords still rings somewhere behind me.
“Yield,” I say, pointing the tip of my blade toward his throat.
He pants, chest heaving, face red from effort and humiliation. “I—I yield, my lord.”
“Good.” I sheathe my sword, offering him a hand. He takes it reluctantly, wincing as I haul him up. “You have speed,” I say, brushing the dust from his shoulder. “But speed without control is a drunken dance. You overextend your reach. You swing before your eyes know where to land.”
“Yes, my lord.”
I smirk. “Next time, don’t close your eyes when you strike. The enemy doesn’t disappear because you wish him to.”
A few of the other trainees laugh. I glare, and the laughter dies instantly. “And the rest of you,” I call out, stepping into the circle, “don’t mistake strength for skill. A strong arm will break after a thousand strikes. A steady one won’t. Keep your elbows low, your feet light, and your fear buried.”
“Yes, Lord Dani!” they echo in unison.
“Good.” I wipe the sweat from my brow, the morning sun cutting sharp shadows across the field. “Now again. Pairs of two. Don’t stop until the bell rings.”
As they resume sparring, the clatter of blades fills the courtyard again. I linger for a moment, watching, then turn toward the palace. The guard at the gate salutes, stepping aside without a word. I nod once and enter.
Inside, the hallways are cooler, quieter—too quiet for a palace that rules over a thousand cities. The air carries the faint scent of parchment and oil, the weight of secrets no soldier should breathe near. I know the path by heart. The King never summons me to the boardroom unless the matters are grave.
When I reach the door, the two guards flanking it bow slightly. One pushes it open.
King Dorian sits at the long oak table, papers spread before him like spilled war maps. He looks up as I enter. His crown is absent, though it never matters; power wears him, not the other way around.
“Your Majesty,” I say, bowing.
“Close the door.”
I obey, the click sealing us away from the world.
He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit. I have no patience for formality today.”
I take my seat, studying him. The King’s eyes—sharp, thoughtful, tired—meet mine with a mixture of trust and weariness.
“Verdana’s peace,” he begins, “is a fragile illusion. And my brother, bless his cursed ambition, is cracking it piece by piece.”
“Alexander?” I ask. “He’s still stirring trouble?”
“More than trouble.” Dorian leans back, fingers steepled. “He’s gathering nobles to his side again—men with coin, titles, and little loyalty to anyone but themselves. The opposition grows. If this continues, we’ll have civil war before the harvest.”
My jaw tightens. “You’ve sent emissaries, haven’t you?”
“Twice. Both came back empty-handed. One nearly didn’t come back at all.”
“Then negotiation’s over.”
He gives me a half-smile. “You always did prefer a cleaner solution.”
“Clean cuts heal faster than festering ones,” I reply. “You can’t reason with Alexander, Your Majesty. He’s your brother by blood, but not by honor. If he wants your crown, he’ll take it the moment you hesitate.”
He looks past me, toward the window. Thunder rumbles outside, distant but steady. “He was never meant for the throne. Yet he believes fate cheated him. He’s convinced that Verdana would prosper better under his hand.”
“Prosper?” I scoff. “He’d burn it to ash if it meant people remembered his name.”
Dorian’s lips twitch—half amusement, half sorrow. “Perhaps.”
Silence settles between us. The King’s gaze sharpens again. “Our intelligence says Alexander’s supporters have reached the capital. Disguised, hidden, mingling among merchants and lesser nobles. They whisper promises to my people, and the whispers are turning to echoes.”
I frown. “You want me to silence them?”
“Not yet,” he says. “If we strike too hard, we’ll confirm the rumors of tyranny. We need to cut deeper—quietly.”
“Then cut at the head.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“Alexander himself. Bring him here, end the whispers. The rest will fall like frightened sheep.”
“You speak of blood.”
“I speak of necessity,” I counter. “If he won’t kneel, he’ll choke on his pride.”
He exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re not wrong. But the cost…”
Before I can reply, the door slams open.
A guard bursts inside, breathless, eyes wide with panic. “Your Majesty!”
Dorian’s tone snaps like a whip. “What is this?”
The guard drops to one knee. “It’s the Queen, sire. She—she’s been attacked.”
The words tear the air apart.
I shoot to my feet. “What?”
Dorian’s chair scrapes back. “Where?”
“In her chambers, Your Majesty. She’s—she’s bleeding—”
He doesn’t wait. None of us do.
We run. Through the hall, past startled servants and shouting guards. My pulse thunders louder than my boots. The corridor blurs. When we reach her doors, two guards already stand frozen beside them, faces pale.
“Open it!” I bark.
They obey.
The sight steals breath from my lungs.
Queen Lyra lies on the marble floor, her gown stained scarlet. The dagger wound in her chest is small but merciless, crimson spreading in a widening halo. The air smells of iron and roses.
“Lyra!” Dorian drops beside her, voice breaking for the first time since I’ve known him. He pulls her into his arms, blood staining his hands. “Healer! Get the healer!”
I shout for one, my throat raw. “Move! Run!” Guards scatter in all directions. Others storm through the corridors, searching for a shadow that may already be gone.
“Stay with me,” Dorian begs, his voice shaking. “Please, stay.”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused. She tries to speak, but the words catch in her throat. I kneel beside them, pressing cloth to the wound, though I know it’s useless.
“I’m here,” he whispers, his forehead against hers. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
She smiles faintly—a fragile curve, more memory than life. “You… always lie so well,” she breathes, the sound barely a whisper.
“Don’t,” he chokes. “Don’t talk like—”
“Tell… Elara…” Her voice trembles, then fades into silence. Her hand slips from his, falling limp against the floor.
The sound that leaves the King’s throat isn’t human—it’s the kind of grief that claws through armor. He cradles her like something sacred, something stolen.
“Lyra,” he whispers again, voice cracked beyond repair. “No. No.”
The healer bursts in moments too late. One look at her still form, and his eyes lower in silent apology.
“Go,” I tell him hoarsely. “Help will do nothing now.”
He hesitates, then backs away, closing the door softly behind him.
The room falls into an awful quiet, broken only by the rain beginning to fall against the window. The storm outside mirrors the one in the King’s eyes.
I stand, blood still slick on my hands, unable to find words that matter. The marble feels cold beneath my boots, colder than anything I’ve ever known.
Dorian stays kneeling, head bowed, his crownless hair damp with tears. “Find who did this,” he says finally, his voice low, hollow. “Find them… and burn their name from history.”
“I will,” I swear, not recognizing my own voice.
But even as I speak, I know no vengeance can mend what’s already broken.
The Queen of Verdana is dead, and the world feels smaller for it.
I look down at them—husband and wife, one alive, one gone—and I swear I can hear the sound of something shattering.
Not a heart.
Not a kingdom.
Something older.