The fire crackled softly in the hearth, scenting the chamber with applewood and resin. Shadows swayed across carved walls, gilding the edges of tapestries in shifting gold. For once, the palace did not feel like a place of masks and teeth. For once, it felt almost safe.

Myrren sat near the flames, her satchel at her feet, her hands curled loosely in her lap. The firelight brushed her face with warmth, but it was nothing compared to the man beside her.

Thane leaned back in his chair, still too close, golden hair catching every flicker of light. His smile lingered—not the polished curve he offered the court, but something softer, quieter. He looked at her as though the world beyond this chamber did not exist.

“You’re still trembling,” he murmured. “I can feel it.”

She shifted, embarrassed, though her pulse did flutter beneath his gaze. “Too much wine at the banquet.”

“Liar.” The word was gentle, his tone more fond than accusing. “It was not the wine that shook you—it was the weight of their eyes. The court can be a cruel audience.”

“And you?” she asked before she could stop herself. “Are you cruel?”

His smile deepened, boyish but threaded with gravity. “Not to you.”

The words caught her off guard. She had no reply.

A servant entered quietly then, setting a fresh goblet of spiced wine at her elbow. The air shifted with honey and cloves, a sweetness almost cloying against the sharper scents of smoke and resin. Thane lifted the cup and pressed it toward her.

“Drink,” he urged softly. “You’ve been braver than any knight tonight. At least let me give you this small comfort.”

She hesitated, nose twitching as the steam curled up from the rim. Beneath the honeyed spice, a faint metallic tang pricked her senses. She frowned. Odd…

But Thane’s hand was steady, his gaze so unwaveringly warm it burned her hesitation away. For once, she wanted not to suspect, not to dissect every scent until it soured. For once, she wanted to believe.

Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the cup. Heat curled up her arm, startling as sunlight broke through the storm. She lifted it to her lips.

The first swallow was sweet, too sweet. The second tightened in her throat.

Then—her lips tingled. Her chest seized.

The goblet slipped from her hand and shattered on the stone floor.

Gasps. Shouts.

“Myrren!”

Thane caught her as her knees buckled, his arms closing around her before she struck the ground. The world tilted, blurred into fragments of color and sound. Her breath stuttered, shallow, sharp. She tried to speak, to name the taste on her tongue, but only a broken whisper fell out:

“Poison.”

Thane’s cry split the chamber. He dragged her against his chest, one hand gripping her wrist, the other cradling her head as though sheer force of will might hold her to this world.

“Breathe,” he begged. “Stay with me—look at me!” His magic surged instinctively, sunlight crackling through his veins. He pressed his palms to her skin, and light flared so bright it seared his own flesh. The scent of singed skin rose, acrid beneath the honeyed perfume of the poisoned wine. He didn’t flinch.

The door burst open. Ori stumbled in, breathless, her apron twisted in her fists. Her face blanched when she saw Myrren limp in the prince’s arms. “Saints—no, no, no—” She dropped to her knees beside them, clutching Myrren’s cold hand. “She was fine an hour ago, she was laughing, she—” Her words broke on a sob.

Captain Holt followed close behind, sword half-drawn. He scanned the room with a soldier’s eye before planting himself at the door. “No one enters. No one leaves.” His jaw clenched as his gaze fell on the shattered goblet. “The kitchens will answer for this.”

“Silence!” Thane roared, his voice ragged, desperate. His magic blazed again, searing through his veins until his skin smoked. He didn’t care. His golden eyes shone with terror as he bent over Myrren, voice breaking. “You will not take her. Do you hear me? You will not take her!”

Ori clung tighter to Myrren’s hand, tears streaking her cheeks. Holt’s presence was iron at the door, unyielding and grim.

And at the center of it all knelt Thane, crownless yet incandescent, burning himself raw to keep a lowborn scentcrafter alive.

Thane’s light seared brighter, spilling across Myrren’s pale skin as though he could will her veins to carry warmth again. The magic burned his palms raw; a hiss of scorched flesh rose into the air. He did not stop.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers. His voice cracked, not princely, not polished, but bare and desperate. “You are not leaving me, Myrren. I won’t let you go.”

Ori’s sobs grew harsher. “She’s not breathing right—she’s slipping—”

“She won’t slip!” Thane’s shout rattled the chamber walls. He pulled her tighter against him, golden light spilling until it blinded. “I will not lose her!”

Captain Holt’s voice cut through like iron. “My lord, you’re burning yourself out—”

“I don’t care!” Thane’s eyes blazed, tears tracking down his cheeks. “She is innocent. She is mine to protect.”

The words rang through the chamber, reckless and raw. A vow no prince should make, yet he gave it freely, as if kingdoms meant nothing beside her.

Myrren’s skin grew colder beneath his touch. Her lashes fluttered, breath shuddering in shallow bursts that made his own chest seize. He poured light into her still, ignoring the blistering pain crawling up his arms.

“Take me instead,” he whispered hoarsely against her hair. “Take my life, not hers.” His voice broke, not the voice of a prince but of a man stripped raw. “Please. Saints, please.”

Ori sobbed harder, clutching Myrren’s limp hand to her chest. Holt’s jaw locked as though the weight of the kingdom pressed against his sword-arm.

Still Thane burned.

The chamber blurred. Scents fractured into shards—burnt skin, honey-wine turned bitter, sweat thick with fear. Voices tangled into fragments.

“Stay with me—” Thane’s plea, sunlight raw and breaking. His hands shook where they held her, his magic burning brighter, reckless, desperate.
“She’ll die—she’ll die—” Ori’s sobs, fierce as a prayer.
“Hold the line,” Holt, iron and thunder, his voice steady at the door.

But Thane’s voice cut through everything, golden and raw, breaking against her ear.
“You are not leaving me, Myrren. Do you hear me? I love you. Stay.”

Her last breath shuddered against his chest. Her last awareness was his warmth, his fire, his devotion burning her name into the world.

Then the scents blurred into nothing.

The voices fell away.

And the world surrendered her to silence.