The Seer’s chamber clung to her skin long after she fled it. Even in the corridor’s chill, Myrren swore she still smelled the sour smoke, the rancid herbs burned to ash, the reek of damp stone that had whispered prophecy in her ears.

Spiral of two.
One golden. One shadow.
One will break you.

The words coiled tighter the farther she walked.

Ori found her slumped against the wall, color gone from her cheeks. “Saints, Myrren,” she whispered, gripping her arm. “What did she say to you?”

“Nothing that makes sense,” Myrren murmured, though her throat was raw. She could still feel the Seer’s milky gaze, heavy with pity, as if the future were already sealed.

Ori pressed a crust of bread into her hand—as if bread could mend what riddles broke. “Don’t go back there. Some rooms swallow more than footsteps.”

Later, alone in her chamber, Myrren set the bread untouched beside her satchel. The air still smelled wrong—ash and omen layered over lavender sachets. She pressed her nose to her sleeve, desperate to replace it with the familiar tang of herbs. It didn’t help.

A knock startled her. A page bowed low, refusing to meet her eyes. “His Highness requests your presence. He says it cannot wait.”

Her first thought was refusal. She was not ready to face gilded halls again, not with her stomach curdled by prophecy. But the memory of shadows brushing her wrist returned, Corven’s warning, the slip of parchment scrawled: Do not trust him.

Perhaps it was easier to stand in golden light than to wrestle with shadows.

She rose.

The chamber was warmer than she expected—too warm, after the Seer’s chill. Firelight 

spilled across carved stone, gilding tapestries, softening shadows. Cedar logs snapped in the grate, their scent sharp and sweet.

Prince Thane dismissed his guards with a flick of his hand. Only when the door shut behind them did he turn to her, his smile curving like sunlight.

“Mistress Vale,” he said softly. “No titles tonight. Call me Thane.”

She hesitated. “It would not be proper—”

“Proper?” He chuckled, lowering himself into the chair opposite hers. “Proper is for councils and courtiers. You and I—we have already survived poison together. That makes us something more than proper, don’t you think?”

Her lips parted, uncertain. “I am no courtier. I should not presume.”

“And yet you presume truths no one else dares speak.” His voice was gentle. “Please. Say it, just once. My name.”

Her throat tightened. To yield was dangerous. Yet his eyes caught hers, firelight dancing gold in their depths.

“Thane,” she whispered.

The syllable seemed to please him more than it should. He leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees. “Better. Do you know how long I’ve been forced to endure hollow courtesies? To hear my name without meaning? But from you—” His smile softened. “From you, it feels real.”

She looked away, pulse fluttering. “You know little of me.”

“I know enough.” His eyes flicked to the faint herb-dust on her sleeve. A grin touched his mouth. “Enough to recognize that you smell faintly of rosemary even in a prince’s chamber. No noble would dare bring their true scent with them.”

Her lips twitched, despite herself. “Then perhaps you should be grateful I left the wolfsbane behind.”

He laughed, bright enough to chase the shadows for a breath. “Saints, Myrren. Even your jokes are sharper than daggers.”

The sound lingered between them, warm and disarming. Then, quieter: “Enough to know that if I trust anyone here, it is you.”

Her heart stumbled. Words rose sharp on her tongue—warnings, refusals, truths that might keep her safe. But they dissolved in the warmth of his gaze, in the nearness of his hand hovering just shy of hers on the chair’s armrest.

The fire cracked, showering sparks. Thane’s smile faded, as if the flames themselves had stolen it. He leaned back, gaze caught in the shifting embers.

“There are truths the court would rather bury,” he murmured. “Truths perfume with lies.”

Myrren sat very still. She had spent her life chasing truths no one wanted uncovered. To hear the words from a prince’s lips—it felt too dangerous, too intimate.

“What truths?” she asked, her voice quieter than she meant.

His jaw clenched. “That famine grips the city worse than nobles dare whisper. Children starve while grain is locked behind gates. Riots spark at the palace walls, but the Queen calls them petty noise.” He glanced at her, golden eyes raw in the firelight. “And my father… My father is silent. Too silent. I wear the crown in meetings, but my mother bends the court more easily than I.”

The admission struck like a blade, yet he did not speak it with calculation. He spoke it with weariness. Vulnerability. She could almost smell it—bitter as iron, threaded with fear beneath the cedar smoke.

“You should not tell me this,” she said, throat tight.

“Who else can I tell?” His gaze caught hers and held. “To them, I must be strength. Certainty. If they sense weakness, they’ll tear the crown from me before it warms my brow. But you—” His hand inched closer, resting on the chair between them, heat radiating from his palm. “You are the only one who sees. You name poisons no one else dares. You smell truths they cannot hide. If I cannot trust you, then I am alone.”

Her breath stilled.

It should have felt like politics. Instead, it sounded like a vow. A confession.

The Seer’s words echoed in her mind—spiral of two, one golden, one shadow. A warning, not a promise. And yet… his voice wrapped around her like sunlight in winter, warming places she had thought frozen for good.

Her instincts urged distance. But her heart—her reckless, aching heart—tilted toward him.

The silence between them stretched, taut as a drawn bow. Firelight gilded his features, softening princely polish into something vulnerable, human.

“Myrren,” he said quietly. “I will not let them harm you. Not the court. Not the whispers. Not the shadows.”

Her pulse thudded painfully. He spoke as though he could banish poison with a promise, as though sunlight could keep darkness at bay. She knew better. And yet… she wanted to believe.

His hand brushed hers—tentative, waiting. She did not pull away. Heat rushed up her arm, a startling contrast to the Seer’s chill still lingering in her bones.

“Thane,” she whispered, barely a breath.

The distance collapsed. His lips touched hers, warm and steady. Not the stolen kiss of moonlit gardens, but something deeper, a vow sealed in firelight. The first press was soft, almost reverent. Then he deepened it, his palm rising to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing the edge of her cheek.

Her world narrowed to cedar smoke and the taste of him—wine-sweet, fire-warm. She clutched his sleeve, dragging him closer without meaning to, until his arm curved around her waist and pulled her into his heat.

She gasped, and he caught the sound in his mouth, gentling it into something slower, aching. His lips traced hers with unhurried devotion, as if each kiss was a promise he refused to break. Her pulse fluttered wildly, her body betraying the rational walls she had built stone by stone.

She let herself melt into him, her hand pressed flat to his chest. His heartbeat thundered under her palm, steady, insistent, and for a fleeting instant she believed it could anchor her, shield her from all that stalked them in silence.

When at last she tore her lips from his, breath ragged, she didn’t move far. She rested her forehead against his, dizzy, her cheeks flushed from more than the fire. His hand lingered at her waist, fingers splayed possessively, as though letting her go would undo him.

Neither of them heard the faint creak of hinges. Neither saw the two figures who paused at the threshold. Kael Droveth, face unreadable, and Eryndor Veyl, eyes sharp as quills. They lingered only a moment, then turned and slipped away in silence, their footsteps vanishing into the corridor’s hush.

The chamber door never opened wider than a breath. No word betrayed their presence.

Thane brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, still smiling, still golden. Myrren, lost in the firelight, did not notice the shadow of knowledge sliding farther down the hall.

The fire sank lower, coals glowing like embers of a crown too heavy to lift. Thane’s hand stayed warm at her waist, anchoring her as though he could tether her to light itself.

“You have nothing to fear,” he murmured against her temple. “Not while I draw breath.”

She shut her eyes. His vow slid into the hollow spaces inside her, filling them with a dangerous sweetness. She wanted to stay here, wrapped in cedar smoke and his steadiness, and believe that was enough.

But belief was perilous. Belief had killed before.

Spiral of two, the Seer’s rasp coiled through her memory. One golden, one shadow. One will break you.

She swallowed hard, opening her eyes to find his gaze fixed only on her. Gold and warmth, steady and bright. Nothing like shadows. And yet the prophecy clung to her skin like smoke.

“You should not make such vows,” she whispered. “Even princes cannot banish poison with promises.”

“Then let me prove you wrong.” His smile curved, boyish and unguarded. “Every chain, every blade, every whisper that rises against you—I will break them before they touch you. Myrren Vale, you are not alone anymore.”

Her chest ached. He believed what he said, she was sure of it. And oh, how desperately she wanted to lean into that belief, to let his certainty shield her from the truths that poisoned every breath she took.

She lifted her chin, forcing her voice to steadiness. “I believe you, Thane.”

The words left her lips with the weight of an oath. For a moment, she almost convinced herself they were true.

But deep inside, something twisted—an ache that smelled of smoke, of omens, of silence pressing close.

She believed him.
She had to.
And that belief might kill her.