The throne hall still smelled of roses—too thick, too sweet, as if the courtiers had drenched themselves in perfume to hide their fear. Myrren stood at the center, the goblet still in her hand, the echo of Prince Thane’s voice rippling through the chamber.

“Careful,” he had said, sunlight in his tone. “Dismissing someone who notices more than you could cost your life.”

Now the weight of every gaze pressed down upon her. Nobles whispered behind jeweled hands. Their disdain came sharp as vinegar, but they dared not answer him outright. Perfumes clashed—amber, myrrh, sharp florals masking sweat. Beneath the haze, she scented something darker: fear, laced through the silk of every noble robe.

From the dais, the Queen stirred. Queen Aelira was a figure carved of ice and silk, her crown catching the lamplight like daggers. “Eirden’s court is not a place for parlor games,” she said softly, though her words carried like steel. “Mistress Vale, you will remember that your tongue serves truth, not theater.”

A rebuke. A warning. Her disdain clung sharper than any noble’s sneer.

Myrren bowed her head, though her pulse hammered. Her skill was not theater. It was survival. She had spent years teaching herself to smell what others ignored. Yet here, before velvet and gold, her truth felt like a blade in her own hand.

Prince Thane stepped forward. His presence altered the room—every movement precise, graceful, learned. Yet his smile was boyish, unguarded, a warmth that seemed to melt the Queen’s chill. “She spoke the truth, Your Majesty. And truth has always served the crown.”

Gasps fluttered through the hall. A prince did not defend a lowborn scentcrafter. Yet Thane’s golden hair caught the torchlight, and the smile he turned toward her was enough to silence the whispers for a breath.

He offered her his hand. “Mistress Vale, walk with me.”

Her hesitation lasted only a heartbeat. To refuse would have been folly. She placed her fingers lightly in his palm. Warmth curled up her arm, as startling as if she’d stepped into sunlight after winter’s bite.

The nobles parted, silks hissing, eyes glittering like knives. Their whispers followed—of scandal, of presumption, of a prince who dared to touch a commoner. Some voices were sharp with mockery; others, hushed with envy. Myrren’s nose caught the bitterness in their scents—spilled wine, stale powder, breath soured by fear.

They walked the length of the hall together. At Thane’s side, Myrren felt the court’s attention fix on every step she took. Ori’s warning echoed in her ears: If they mean to eat you alive, at least let them choke on envy.

At the foot of the dais, Captain Evander Holt waited. Broad-shouldered, with a soldier’s stance and eyes that missed nothing, he arched a brow at his prince.

“Well,” Holt drawled, his dry humor cutting the tension. “Another clever woman, Thane? You collect them like daggers. One day, one will strike true.”

Thane laughed, the sound bright enough to disarm the court. “Then I’ll count myself fortunate, Evander. A dagger at my side is still a weapon well kept.”

Myrren stiffened at the comparison. Yet Thane’s gaze on her was warm, steady, as if to assure her he meant honor, not mockery.

Holt leaned close, muttering low enough that only they could hear. “Careful, Mistress Vale. The court loves a spectacle. They’ll make you bleed for it.”

Before she could reply, another voice cut through.

From the tiered benches, Lady Seliora rose. A noblewoman of striking elegance, her gown shimmered like liquid silver. Her eyes, sharp as cut glass, lingered on Myrren. “Cousin,” she said smoothly, addressing Thane. “Charm has its place. But politics is no ballroom dance. This girl is dangerous—not for her poisons, but for the whispers she invites. The wrong rumor can undo a crown faster than venom.”

Her warning was meant for him, not Myrren. Yet Myrren felt the sting of it nonetheless, like frost seeping under her skin.

Thane inclined his head. “Then let us pray the truth proves stronger than rumor.”

Seliora’s lips curved, half-smile, half-threat. “And if truth itself becomes the poison?”

The words hung heavy. Even the courtiers quieted, their laughter caught in their throats.

At the far end of the hall, shadows shifted. No one else seemed to notice. But Myrren’s senses prickled—metal, cypress, the scent of steel hidden in velvet. A presence that did not belong to light.

Her eyes found him.

Lord Corven.

He stood in the shadows as if carved from them, raven-dark hair falling loose, storm-colored gaze unreadable. Unlike Thane, he made no move to defend her. He did not smile, nor did he sneer. He only watched.

And she felt the weight of it. Heavy. Inescapable. As if he saw more than she intended anyone to see.

The silence around him thickened. Even the torches seemed dimmer in his presence. A noble nearby shifted uneasily, nose wrinkling at a scent he could not name. Myrren knew it—void, absence, the trace of magic that nullified even perfume. Her skin prickled as if brushed by phantom chains.

Lady Seliora broke the silence first. “Varros scouts have been sighted near the border,” she said, voice low but clear enough to travel. “If they sense weakness here, they will come.”

A ripple of unease stirred the nobles. Whispers of famine, of unrest, of enemies waiting in the dark—threads weaving together into a noose. Myrren caught the sour tang of sweat rising from velvet collars, the faint musk of fear.

The Queen said nothing. She did not need to. Her silence was sanction enough.

Prince Thane, golden and unbowed, turned once more to Myrren. His smile was light, promise, defiance wrapped in grace.

He leaned closer, his words meant for her alone. “Do not be shaken, Mistress Vale. The court feeds on weakness. But I will not see you devoured.” His hand lingered at her elbow, steadying her as if she were the one shielding him from the room, not the other way around.

For a moment, she almost believed him. Almost believed that sunlight could keep shadows at bay.

Later, as the hall emptied, Thane escorted her toward a side corridor draped in velvet banners. Courtiers lingered, their voices trailing like poisoned threads.

“She’ll undo him—mark me.”
“Lowborn temptation.”
“Perhaps she is clever, but clever women burn.”

Thane heard them too. His jaw tightened, but his voice remained warm when he said, “They will whisper no matter what you do. Better to give them truth worth whispering of.”

She glanced at him, caught by the earnestness in his gaze. No arrogance, no polished flattery—just conviction. He believed in her, at least in this moment. The realization stole her breath more surely than the poison-scented goblet had.

She lowered her eyes quickly, unwilling to let him see the flicker of warmth that threatened her defenses.

His smile lit the corridor as surely as it had the chamber. All light. All promises.

But in the corner, shadows curled where Lord Corven stood.