Chapter 4: Unseen Games
Amiya's Perspective
The days in Selune dragged like chains wrapped around Amiya's ankles—every step heavy, every breath calculated. Each morning brought more suffocating silence, and each night more stifling expectation. It wasn't the palace walls that confined her. It was the relentless choreography of a life she hadn't chosen: the bowed heads of servants, the scrutiny of courtiers, and the sharp-edged gaze of her father across the council table.
She stood at her window now, the indigo curtains drawn back to reveal the city below. Selune pulsed with life, its twisting streets brimming with merchants, travelers, and the occasional burst of music. It felt like a world she could never quite touch, not while her role in it had been decided before she'd taken her first breath. Her reflection in the glass—a pale, too-still version of herself—stared back at her with hollow defiance.
Her fingers brushed the hilt of her dagger, still strapped beneath the slit of her gown. It had become more than a weapon. It was a promise. A reminder that she wasn't entirely helpless, even if everyone around her treated her like glass.
The pendant was gone, taken by the thief who had vanished as swiftly as he'd arrived. She'd searched the room afterward, half hoping to find a trace he'd left behind—a thread from his clothes, a scuff on the window frame. But there had been nothing. Only the disturbed curtains and the echo of that sharp, mocking voice in her memory: "And don't scream—unless you want the guards to come running."
She'd never felt so seen and so invisible at once.
That night hadn't left her. Even now, it hovered just under her skin, her thoughts returning again and again to the man who hadn't feared her title or her blade.
She clenched her jaw. She had thought she could escape this life. She had fantasized about it for years—slipping through the cracks and vanishing into the world beyond the gates. But now, with the arranged marriage to Prince Leandros looming like a noose around her throat, even those dreams had begun to wither.
Her father had handed her over like a gilded relic in a negotiation she never asked to be part of. There had been no discussion, no consideration. Only a decree spoken in a cold voice: you will marry him.
Prince Leandros. A stranger. A name on parchment. No affection. No partnership. Just politics.
Amiya's stomach twisted at the thought. She wasn't naïve enough to believe in love-matches, but she'd held onto the hope that she might choose—something, anything—in her life. Now even that had been stolen from her.
She turned from the window and crossed the room, the hem of her gown whispering over stone. Her fingers curled tighter around the dagger at her side. It grounded her in a way nothing else could. The weight of it in her hand reminded her that if she couldn't have choice, she could still have power. Even if it was sharp and desperate.
The mirror by her dresser caught her reflection again. She looked at herself: silver hair half-loose, violet eyes bloodshot from another sleepless night. Not a princess. Not a bride-to-be. Just a girl on the verge of breaking.
And she'd made her decision.
She wouldn't let them trap her in a life chosen by someone else. She'd rather vanish into the unknown than stand at the altar as a pawn.
Her mind wouldn't stop spinning, each thought a blur of what-ifs and how-tos. The plan was simple. Run. Leave. Never come back. But that wasn't enough to get her out. She needed to be smart. She needed to be quick. One misstep, one mistake, and everything she had worked for would crumble around her.
But tonight felt different. Tonight, the plan didn't seem impossible.
She knew she'd have to fight for her freedom, that every step she took would be a battle. She wasn't a fucking princess meant to sit in some high tower, waiting for a prince to come save her. She was more than that. She had power. She had control over her own destiny—and she'd be damned if she let anyone take that from her.
Amiya stood, her fingers still wrapped tightly around the hilt of her dagger, and she made a vow to herself. No matter what it took, no matter who she had to go through, she would get out of here. She would take back her life.
Tonight, everything would change. No more chains. No more expectations. She was taking the leap.
Sylas's Perspective
Selune's streets were slick with moonlight and secrets, and Sylas moved through them like a shadow born of both. The pouch at his side was still too full—too loud in his mind. He hadn't offloaded the pendant yet. Should have. Could have. But he didn't.
Instead, he prowled the back alleys of the mid-ring, eyes sharp beneath the pull of his hood. Every lantern-lit corner was a reminder of what he should be doing—getting paid, laying low, vanishing. But the job had come with baggage. Violet-eyed, dagger-drawn baggage.
He slipped into the rear door of a safehouse, the latch closing with a soft click. Inside, it was dim and quiet. Familiar. A cot, a chipped table, and a bottle of something strong.
He tossed the pendant onto the table and stared at it like it might answer the question he wouldn't say aloud: Why hadn't she screamed?
He'd seen fear before. He'd caused it. That wasn't what had met him in that room. What he'd seen was calculation. Disbelief, maybe—but not fear. She hadn't moved like someone untrained. She'd assessed. Read him. Read the situation. She had him pegged the moment their eyes met.
And he couldn't shake that look.
He sank into the chair, pulling the bottle close and letting the silence stretch. It wasn't the pendant that had undone him—it was her. He'd dealt with plenty of noblewomen. Courtiers who screamed when a seam tore. Ladies who paled at the smell of blood. But her?
She looked like she wanted to bleed someone.
He rubbed at his jaw, staring at the silver loop of filigree. He'd been doing this too long to get careless. And this? This wasn't carelessness—it was distraction. Dangerous, intrusive distraction.
It wasn't her beauty, though that would've been easier to explain. No, it was the quiet anger in her. That sharp-edged stillness that said she wasn't some porcelain girl wrapped in silks.
She was a blade waiting to be drawn.
He should have sold the pendant already. Should have dumped it on Orin and walked away without a backward glance. But his gut hadn't let him. Not yet. And he always listened to his gut.
He stood, restless, pacing to the window and pushing the shutter open. The city was breathing below him—Selune never truly slept. Somewhere out there, she was probably pacing just like he was. Planning something. Trying to claw her way out of whatever cage they kept her in.
He'd seen enough of cages to recognize one.
He exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening on the sill.
He needed to be done with this job. Done with her.
But the city had a way of binding people tighter the harder they pulled away.
And something told him they weren't finished.