The door to Clara's study creaked open long before sunrise.
Elise, half-dressed and breathless, rushed in with a sealed scroll. "From the Royal Treasury. Marked urgent."
Clara set down her quill and wiped the ink from her fingers. "They never sleep, do they?"
She broke the seal, eyes scanning the contents. Her heartbeat slowed. Then picked up again.
"They want me to inspect the western trade posts personally," she murmured. "And submit findings by week's end."
Elise blinked. "Isn't that... a trap?"
Clara gave a tired smile. "It's worse. It's a test."
By mid-morning, the palace buzzed with news that Lady Whitmore was leaving the capital. Officially, it was for inspection. Unofficially, it was a warning.
"Push too hard, and we'll send you far from the throne."
Alaric found her in the courtyard before departure, where her horse was being saddled.
"You're going alone?" he asked.
"I'm not a delicate flower," she replied, adjusting her gloves. "And this isn't exile. It's opportunity."
His gaze lingered. "Cassian arranged this."
Clara met his eyes. "I know."
Alaric didn't stop her. But his silence said more than words.
She mounted the horse, back straight, jaw set. "If this is a test," she said over her shoulder, "I plan to pass it loudly."
The western province was nothing like the marble halls of the palace.
Dust clung to every corner. The roads were cracked. Children sold berries near tax posts. And yet, the guards turned their heads, pretending not to see the weight of the tariffs crushing the people.
Clara arrived unannounced. She wore no jewels. Only her voice carried power.
At the first tax gate, the merchant in charge—grey-bearded and round-bellied—laughed when she showed her royal permit.
"Lady or not, this region runs on coin, not titles."
Clara stepped forward, her voice clear and calm. "Then let's speak in your language."
She opened her satchel. Inside were scrolls she'd uncovered days ago—proof of tax overcharges, smuggled goods, and bribes tied to Councilmen's signatures.
The merchant paled.
Clara's eyes didn't blink. "Shall I read this aloud in the town square?"
By sundown, the gate was shut down, and the people watched her like a storm dressed in silk.
Back at the palace, Cassian Vale watched the latest report in silence.
"She's more efficient than expected," Lady Merra said.
Cassian only smiled. "Let's see how she handles the second fire."
Clara returned three days later—dusty, exhausted, but proud. Her report was ready. Neatly written. Well-documented.
But when she entered the council chamber, only Alaric and Cassian were there.
She placed the report on the table. "Three tax stations closed. Two officers removed. Merchants warned. The west will breathe again—for now."
Cassian barely glanced at it.
"We asked for results, not a revolution."
Clara didn't flinch. "I delivered truth. What you do with it is your decision."
He stood slowly, circling her. "You're too bold, Lady Whitmore."
"And you're too scared," she snapped.
For a moment, silence held.
Then Cassian grinned. "Good."
He left without another word.
That evening, Clara found a note waiting in her chambers. No seal. Just three words in Alaric's unmistakable handwriting:
"Come to the gardens."
She went.
The palace garden was empty, lit only by moonlight. Alaric stood beneath the old ash tree, his hands behind his back.
"You stirred every nest," he said softly.
"I was asked to."
He looked at her—not with a ruler's eyes, but with something closer to wonder.
"You're not afraid of power."
Clara stepped closer. "I'm afraid of wasting it."
A beat passed.
Then Alaric reached into his coat and held something out. A key. Old. Iron. Inscribed with a symbol she didn't recognize.
"What's this?"
"Legacy," he said. "My father gave it to my mother. She gave it to me. Now I'm giving it to you."
He didn't speak right away, only extended the key toward her—small, old, its ridges worn by time and use.
Clara hesitated. Not because she feared the key, but because of what it meant.
Trust. Power. Legacy.
She reached out and took it, her fingers brushing against Alaric's.
Neither pulled away.
For a breathless second, everything else fell away—the palace walls, the murmurs of court, the weight of watching eyes. There was only the press of metal between their hands and something unspoken simmering beneath their silence.
"Why me?" Clara asked quietly. "Why give this to me?"
Alaric looked at her then—not as the prince who ruled behind a crown, but as a man who knew what it cost to be alone at the top.
"Because you were the only one who never looked away from the truth. Even when it hurt."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she said nothing. Just nodded once, turned, and walked into the night with the key held tight in her palm—like a promise, or a warning.
The garden remained silent long after she left.
From behind one of the marble pillars, Cassian Vale stepped out, the moonlight glinting coldly off his rings.
"She took it," Alaric murmured, not turning to face him.
Cassian folded his hands behind his back. "Let's hope she never finds the door."
[ To be continued… ]