There was no mistaking who he was.
Even before he spoke, even before his eyes burned through the fog to meet hers, Keira knew. Every bone in her body screamed it, this was the prince. The one the villagers whispered about when the fires burned low.
The one who led the last Wild Hunt. No courtier could carry the silence like it was armor. No ordinary Fae bled power like smoke. He didn't need a crown of gold to prove who he was, the thorns on his brow, pulsing with silver sap, were far more terrifying.
And as he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers, Keira felt it deep in her chest: this was not a man to trifle with. This was not a man at all.
The corridor stretched endlessly.
Each step Keira took echoed against the black stone walls, swallowed by velvet tapestries embroidered with silver thread.
The palace was alive with magic, humming faintly beneath her skin, and the East Wing, the prince's wing, felt colder than the rest of the court. Not just in temperature, but in presence.
Two silent guards escorted her, their pale faces unreadable beneath helmed shadows. Neither spoke. Neither looked at her. They stopped before a tall arched door carved with curling vines and moons and thorns.
One of them pressed a hand against the wood. The door sighed open.
Keira stepped inside.
The door shut behind her with a thud like a coffin sealing.
The room was large, dim, and suffocatingly still. Pale blue fire hovered in floating lanterns near the ceiling and the walls were a deep indigo. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn over tall windows, and the faint scent of roses, wilted ones, lingered in the air.
But what truly struck her was how untouched it felt.
This wasn't a room prepared for a new servant. It felt like a memory locked behind glass.
A narrow bed sat against the far wall, its wooden frame carved with fae symbols. A large desk, dusty and ink-stained, faced the curtained windows. Shelves lined the walls, full of glass bottles, dried herbs, and relics that hummed softly when she walked past. Tiny bones strung on thread. A book that fluttered its pages when she looked away.
In the corner stood a tall mirror.
Cracked down the middle.
She approached it slowly, drawn without reason. The glass was warped, not in shape, but in presence. It showed her reflection, yes. But also... not quite.
The girl staring back had the same face. The same hair. But her eyes were darker, her mouth curled ever so slightly at the corners. As if she knew something Keira didn't.
Keira swallowed and stepped back.
That's when she noticed the portrait.
It hung over the fireplace, framed in silver and thorns. Dust coated the edges, but the painting was beautiful. It was a woman, seated, poised, regal.
And she looked exactly like Keira.
Her heart thudded once, painfully loud.
She approached the painting slowly. It couldn't be coincidence. The woman in the portrait had the same face. The same eyes. But dressed in midnight blue, lips painted blood-red. She wore no crown, but the air around her felt charged. Like she had once commanded a room full of power and promises.
A small knock broke the silence.
Keira turned sharply as a door she hadn't noticed creaked open. A Fae girl stepped inside, slight and silver-haired, her skin glowing faintly like frost at dawn. She wore soft gray robes and held a folded cloth over one arm.
"You are here already," the girl said. Her voice was light, distant. "Good. I'm Yvaine."
Keira nodded once. She didn't trust herself to speak.
Yvaine's silver eyes drifted toward the mirror, then the portrait, and finally back to Keira. "Yes. It's unsettling. You will get used to it."
"You—" Keira hesitated. "You see it too? The portrait?"
Yvaine tilted her head. "Everyone sees it. Though not everyone is supposed to." She walked further in and placed the cloth on the desk, it was a folded gown, deep green, embroidered with silver leaves.
"That's for tomorrow," she said. "The Prince prefers his servants dressed plainly."
Keira's brows drew together. "I see." She simply said.
Yvaine turned to face Keira fully now. "As he told you, you're to serve him directly. You will assist with his chambers, his wardrobe, and whatever else he requires. If he asks you to walk, you walk. If he asks you to listen, you listen. If he says nothing…" Yvaine paused. "You wait."
"That's all?"
"For now," Yvaine said softly. "But I should warn you, being close to the Prince is not... safe."
Keira's stomach knotted. "Has someone done this before?"
Yvaine didn't answer directly. Instead, she looked at the portrait again. "She was the last. Before everything changed."
Keira looked down at her hands. They were shaking.
Yvaine stepped closer and gently touched her shoulder. Her fingers were cold, but not unkind. "He's not a monster," she said, almost like a secret. "But he is full of thorns. If you push too close... you bleed."
Keira said nothing.
Yvaine moved back toward the door. "There is food on the table, and fresh water by the basin. I will return at dawn to take you to him."
She paused in the doorway. "One last thing: don't speak unless spoken to. Especially not in the presence of other Fae."
Keira nodded once.
The door shut behind her.
Keira turned slowly and sank onto the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked beneath her, cold and firm. She glanced again at the cracked mirror. Her reflection stared back, blank now. Normal.
But the portrait on the wall remained unchanged.
Its painted eyes followed her like a promise, or a warning. Keira swallowed hard and straightened her spine. She didn't care who the girl in the frame had been, or what had happened to her.
She wasn't that girl. She wouldn't be. Whatever game the Midnight Court was playing, she would endure it. Survive it. Bend if she must, but never break. Not for them.
Not even for the prince with eyes like violet fire and a voice like frost.
She would be fine.
She had to be.