DANI’S POV
At first, it’s barely a kiss.
Just the faintest brush of her lips against mine—hesitant, startled, like we’re both waiting for the other to decide whether this is real.
Her breath trembles against me, soft and quick. I almost pull back, afraid to shatter the fragile quiet between us, but something in her eyes—something burning and unguarded—anchors me.
My hand finds her waist before I realize what I’m doing. She doesn’t move. My thumb grazes the fabric of her blouse, and she exhales a shaky breath that might as well be my undoing.
The kiss deepens.
It’s not gentle anymore; it’s searching. Desperate. Like every word we’ve refused to say found its way here instead.
Her hand brushes my chest, and for one dangerous second, I imagine she’ll let it stay there. But then—
She steps back.
The world snaps back into focus.
We both stare at each other, breathless, as if we’ve woken from a fever dream. The air is thick, the stars suddenly too bright.
I manage a hoarse, “Vivian—”
She cuts me off, voice sharp but trembling. “We should rest. It’s late.”
“Vivian—”
“No.” She straightens her cloak, composure returning like armor. “We have a long day tomorrow. Best not waste the night.”
Before I can stop her, she turns and walks toward her tent. Her hair catches a streak of moonlight, vanishing as the flap closes behind her.
And I’m left sitting there, staring at nothing.
The warmth of her lips still lingers like a curse.
I don’t sleep.
When dawn finally breaks, the camp comes alive—servants packing, horses stamping, the Queen barking impatient orders from her carriage. I move automatically, armor strapped, sword fastened, body awake though my mind drifts elsewhere.
Every thought leads back to her. The way she’d looked at me—conflicted, furious, and something else entirely.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. That it can’t matter.
Vivian is Verloren. I am Verdana.
An enemy, a spy, a knight of false allegiance.
I have a duty—to Dorian, to Elara, to everything that’s left of the kingdom I swore to protect.
But guilt gnaws anyway, sharp and slow.
***
By midmorning, the Queen’s carriage rolls into Duke Rueld’s estate. The Duke greets her with all the pomp expected of his title—bowing low, silver rings flashing as he kisses her gloved hand.
“Your Majesty graces my humble hall,” he says.
“Your hall,” she replies, “could use more light.”
She laughs, and the Duke pretends it’s funny.
Vivian stands beside her, silent and still, her expression unreadable. I take my place just behind them, the perfect guard—watchful, loyal, invisible.
The Duke leads us into a long chamber lined with banners and polished armor displays. He talks of politics and trade, of grain shortages and alliances, while servants pour wine that smells too sweet.
I barely listen.
Arinelle’s tone remains polite, but every word is a weapon. “We must consider Verloren’s strength,” she says, “especially in times when leadership wavers.”
“Ah, yes,” the Duke answers. “Your husband’s… condition.”
A faint smile touches her lips. “Condition implies recovery. Let us say his resolve has weakened.”
I glance at Vivian instinctively. She doesn’t move, but I see it—the smallest flicker in her eyes. She caught it too.
Arinelle’s phrasing isn’t random. She’s hinting at something, testing the waters, and Vivian knows it.
The rest of the conversation drags on. Promises made, favors exchanged, veiled threats disguised as diplomacy.
When the Queen finally rises, the Duke bows again, promising to arrange another meeting soon.
“Do,” she says coolly. “Verloren does not forget generosity.”
Outside, the servants rush to prepare the return journey. The Queen settles into her carriage, humming softly, clearly pleased with herself.
Vivian mounts her horse wordlessly. So do I.
The silence between us stretches for miles.
***
It’s nearly midday when I can’t take it anymore.
“Are we just going to pretend it didn’t happen?” I ask.
Her head turns slightly. “What didn’t happen?”
“You know what I mean.”
She exhales sharply through her nose. “It was a mistake.”
“A mistake,” I repeat. “That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“A fleeting moment?”
“Exactly.”
“Meaningless.”
“Entirely.”
She doesn’t look at me, but her knuckles whiten around the reins.
I force a laugh, though it sounds hollow even to me. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’ve had practice.”
That shuts me up for a while.
We keep riding in silence, the road curving through fields and forests. I talk occasionally—about the villages we pass, the trades they’re known for, the beauty of Verloren’s landscapes. Anything to fill the silence.
She barely listens.
To her, I’m still the northern knight who doesn’t belong. The Queen’s favorite toy soldier.
And she’s right, in a way.
If she knew the truth—if she knew I was Verdana’s man, sent here under King Dorian’s orders to prepare for a child’s escape—she’d hate me. She probably should anyway.
By dusk, the palace rises on the horizon, its spires gilded by the last gold of sunset.
When we finally dismount, the Queen disappears inside, snapping at her servants about another meeting scheduled tomorrow. Vivian lingers behind, brushing dust off her cloak.
I take a step toward her. “Vivian.”
She stops but doesn’t turn.
“Wait,” I say, catching her wrist before I can think better of it.
Her skin is warm beneath my hand.
She looks at me then—really looks. Something flickers in her expression. Not anger. Not exactly fear. Something softer.
But it’s gone as quickly as it comes.
She pulls her hand free. “You should rest, my lord. You’ll need your strength.”
“Vivian—”
“It meant nothing,” she says again, though her voice falters on the last word.
Then she’s gone, her footsteps echoing through the marble hall.
I stand there long after she disappears. The corridor feels emptier without her in it.
***
Night falls heavy over Verloren.
In my quarters, I light a single candle and sit at the desk. The parchment stares back at me, blank and accusing. After a moment, I begin to write.
To His Majesty, King Dorian of Verdana.
I keep it simple. Direct. The palace layout. Guard patterns. The way the Queen commands her court, her manipulations, her alliances. I write of the Duke, of his wavering loyalty, of the whispers I overheard about Darius’s “condition.”
But my hand hesitates when I reach her name.
Vivian Ryon.
I could describe her as she is: the Queen’s personal maiden, loyal and sharp, dangerous in her own right. But the image in my head isn’t of a servant. It’s of the woman by the stream, the warmth of her breath, the way her eyes softened in the dark.
Instead, I write only:
There are those within Verloren who are not what they seem.
When I’m done, I fold the letter neatly and slide it into my tunic’s back pocket. I’ll send it tomorrow, through the courier we planted months ago.
For now, I blow out the candle.
But even in the dark, I can still see her face.
For the first time since I swore allegiance to my king, I’m not sure whose side I truly stand on anymore.