The Grand Hall glittered under crystal chandeliers. Golden tapestries shimmered. Nobles in silks and jewels moved like chess pieces—slow, deliberate, dangerous.
It was the monthly court assembly. Officially a meeting of noble minds. Unofficially… a bloodless battlefield.
Aveline entered last.
All eyes turned.
Her gown was black velvet trimmed with sapphire. Her hair pinned in silver combs shaped like crescent moons. A statement. Not mourning—but power reclaimed.
She walked to her seat without hesitation, ignoring the murmurs that followed like a second cloak.
Calista was already seated, her expression carved from marble. But her fingers were pale and tense around her goblet.
As the Chancellor droned through the usual formalities, the undercurrent buzzed louder—noblemen whispering, ladies eyeing one another with suspicion.
Then, a noblewoman from the eastern provinces stood.
"I would like to raise a concern," she said sweetly. "It pertains to the misuse of arcane knowledge within the palace."
Heads turned.
Calista smiled.
Aveline did not blink.
"Specifically," the woman continued, "magic being used for manipulation… seduction… possibly even coercion."
Gasps. Mutters. Eyes flashing between Aveline and Lucien.
Lucien stood.
Calm. Cold. Impeccably poised.
"If anyone in this court has evidence of such crimes," he said evenly, "they should present it. Otherwise, I suggest we stop masquerading rumor as fact."
The room fell into silence.
Aveline slowly rose to her feet beside him, her voice velvet and venom.
"Or perhaps… we should open the archives," she suggested. "And investigate all spell work traced within noble estates over the past three years."
Calista's goblet cracked in her hand.
A beat.
Then the Chancellor cleared his throat nervously. "Perhaps we move to the next item…"
Aveline sat back down, her eyes never leaving Calista.
She didn't have to win the war today.
She only had to make it clear that she was ready for it.
Later that evening…
The palace's upper tower was deserted, save for one flickering lantern and the scent of burnt herbs.
Caden was already there, leaning over a spread of rune stones and scattered parchments. His cloak hung off one shoulder, his expression drawn.
"You handled them well," he said without turning as Aveline stepped inside. "You left the court shaken."
"I left them thinking," she replied, sinking into the chair across from him. "It won't last. Not unless we move first."
Caden glanced up at her, then down again at the stones. "The problem is—they're already moving. And faster than we predicted."
He gestured toward one of the stones—marked with a symbol for betrayal. "Someone shifted alliances in the last two days. A message was intercepted heading north. Sealed with the Dowager's ring."
Aveline exhaled slowly. "They're laying groundwork outside the palace."
"They're preparing to isolate you," Caden said bluntly. "If they can't shame you, they'll try to cut you off—from power, from allies, even from Lucien."
A pause.
Aveline looked down at the stones. "Then let them try."
Caden's jaw tightened. "I just—" He stopped himself, then sighed. "You're not invincible, Aveline."
She met his eyes. "No. But I'm not alone, either."
Caden reached into his robes and pulled out a small talisman—crystal set in obsidian. He placed it on the table between them.
"For protection," he murmured. "If they use dark magic, this will turn it back on them. Once."
Aveline stared at it for a long moment, then reached out and closed her hand over it.
"Thank you."
"I'll do more than thank you," Caden said quietly. "When the time comes… I'll stand with you."
Meanwhile, in the Prince's study…
The fire crackled low in the hearth. Outside, the wind howled against the palace stone, stirring loose petals from the garden trees.
Lucien stood at the window, wine untouched, eyes fixed on the courtyard far below.
She had silenced an entire court with nothing but words.
No blade, no magic—just presence. Just calculation and poise and the ruthless intelligence that made the rest of them feel like children in a game they didn't know they were playing.
And he was no exception.
Lucien exhaled through his nose and turned from the window. His desk was littered with scrolls—petitions from vassals, a letter from his mother left unopened, and a sheet of parchment bearing her name.
Aveline D'Amara.
He traced the letters with one finger.
There had been a time—not long ago—when he thought she was just a pretty pawn. Dangerous, perhaps. But containable. Predictable.
Now?
She moved like a queen with no crown. And worse—she made others want to follow her.
Lucien dropped into the chair and leaned back.
He should've stayed away.
Should've let her fall, like the rest of them wanted.
But something in her—something sharp and defiant and unbreakably alive—refused to be ignored.
And now… it was too late.
Not just for the court.
For him.