Dawn crept soft and uncertain through the shutters. Myrren stirred against the steady rise and fall of Thane’s chest, the warmth of him wrapped around her like a shield. For one fragile moment she let herself rest there, cheek pressed to the heartbeat beneath his ribs, as if it might steady the trembling that refused to leave her blood.

But when she slipped carefully from his arms, the chill returned at once. She perched at the edge of the bed, fingers rubbing her wrist where phantom chains had coiled the night before. The silence pulsed faintly there, an ache beneath her ribs—soundless, insistent, impossible to banish.

Sheets rustled behind her. Thane had woken. His hair was mussed, shadows smudged beneath his eyes, yet when he looked at her, his expression was unshaken devotion. He rose and came to her side, kneeling to take her hand as if she were a relic too precious to risk breaking.

“Myrren,” he said quietly, thumb brushing across her knuckles, “you don’t have to bear their whispers alone. Whatever venom they spill, I’ll stand between you and it.”

Her throat tightened. He thought it was the nobles that haunted her. He could not know it was the echo of another’s silence pressing in her chest. Still, his warmth steadied her, sunlight breaking through stormclouds.

And for a heartbeat, she leaned into it—aching to believe that light alone could be enough.

The proposal lingered in her chest like a secret flame. Thane’s words had wrapped around her, steady as sunlight, but he had not pressed for her answer. He had left her with time, and with the unbearable weight of knowing she carried something the court could not be allowed to glimpse.

By afternoon, whispers had already thickened in the palace halls. Myrren felt them like threads tugging at her sleeves—nobles murmuring of how the prince had guided her through the court, how he had touched her hand as though she were already his. No one knew what had passed between them in the privacy of her chamber, but gossip needed no truth to grow teeth.

Seliora found her first, in a shaded arcade overlooking the gardens. Her cousin-by-court wore her usual composure like armor, but her eyes were sharp. “You understand what this means, don’t you? Every step you take beside him deepens the divide. Some call it dangerous. Others call it inevitable.” Her gaze sharpened. “If Thane binds himself to you, reckless as it may be, the factions will have no choice but to fall in line.”

Her words were cool, practical, and heavy with implication. Not encouragement, not affection—calculation.

Later, Ori slipped to her side as they crossed a courtyard. She caught Myrren’s hand, squeezing hard. “They’re already whispering as if you belong to him,” she whispered urgently. “Don’t let their stories swallow you whole. Please—don’t lose yourself.”

Myrren could not promise her.

By the time she reached the grand stair, Holt was there, arms folded. He gave her a long, assessing look before muttering, “Courtiers will twist every glance, every smile. Whether you take his hand or not, they’ll make it a weapon. Be careful.”

His warning clung to her long after he strode away.

Through a tall window she glimpsed movement in the lower garden. A russet fox perched on the stone wall, tail curled, eyes fixed on her with unsettling focus. It lingered, silent and knowing, before slipping back into the hedges.

A shiver coursed through her. Even the wild seemed to watch, waiting for her choice.

By the time Myrren reached the council chamber, tension hung thick as smoke. Nobles clustered in tight knots, their voices sharp with urgency. She felt the weight of their stares as she entered—measuring, appraising, waiting for her to falter.

A steward’s voice carried across the chamber. “Supplies of the antidote dwindle in every province. Merchants hoard what they can seize, selling at ruinous prices. Lords stockpile for their own households while their tenants sicken.”

Murmurs rose, bitter as ash.

“They trust her craft to keep them alive,” one lady said, jeweled fingers clenched around her fan. “Yet who among us can be certain her brews will not fail?”

Another voice snapped back, “Without her, we would already be burying half the court.”

But the tide was shifting. Myrren could feel it in every glance, hear it in every whisper. She was no longer the miracle-worker who had stemmed the first wave of poison. She was becoming the easy target, the scapegoat.

A lord draped in sable leaned forward, his words cutting through the noise: “If her antidotes falter, what then? Shall we let the realm hang on the whim of a perfumer’s daughter?”

The silence that followed was worse than the mutters. It pressed against her skin like a blade.

The chamber erupted. Voices crashed against one another like steel on steel, sharp with fear and fury.

“She is no heir, no healer anointed by the crown,” a noble barked, his rings flashing as he pointed toward her. “If her antidotes fail, the fault is hers alone. And if they fail—she should hang.”

The words struck like a lash across bare skin. Myrren’s breath caught, heat flooding her face, then draining to ice. Hang. They would not blame the sickness, nor the poisoners, nor their own greed. They would blame her.

A ripple of assent stirred through the chamber—low, dangerous, hungry.

“No,” Thane’s voice thundered across the hall, silencing them. He rose from his seat, fury blazing in his eyes. “She has given more of herself than any of you. While you hoarded comforts, she bled to save your children. You would dare threaten her?”

The nobles faltered beneath his wrath, but the venom did not vanish; it only slithered deeper into silence.

Myrren gripped the edge of the table, heart pounding. The air itself seemed to constrict, pressing chains around her chest. The silence thrummed again, deep inside her, cold and certain—as though another will, another claim, stirred within the shadows of her ribs.

When the chamber finally broke apart, Myrren’s legs felt hollow beneath her. The nobles dispersed in sharp whispers, leaving the threat of their words echoing like a noose tightening around her throat.

Thane was at her side before she could stumble. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, steadying her, golden warmth anchoring her against the storm. “Do not let them shake you,” he murmured, fierce and tender all at once. “You have given them more than they deserve. You have given me more than I dreamed to ask.”

She tried to answer, but her voice failed. The silence in her chest pulsed harder, chains pressing, shadows whispering of inevitability.

He turned her toward him, his hands cupping her face as though the world itself might fall away if he let go. His gaze burned, unflinching. “Myrren,” he said, his voice hoarse with devotion. “Marry me. Bind yourself to me, not because the court demands it, but because I do. Because I cannot—will not—stand in this world without you.”

Her lips parted. The word trembled there—yes. Saints, she wanted it. She wanted his vow, his light, his golden devotion.

But the thought struck like ice: what would become of him if she agreed? He was a prince, heir to a fractured realm. She was a perfumer’s daughter with nothing to offer but her hands, her craft, her love. Could she drag him down to ruin for daring to choose her? Would his crown crumble beneath the weight of her lowborn name?

She saw it in her mind’s eye: the court turning against him, alliances breaking, his golden light tarnished because he had tethered himself to her. Would she not damn him by loving him?

Yet when she looked at him—at the tenderness in his eyes, at the fire that would burn kingdoms just to shield her—her heart ached with wanting. To lie again against his chest, to wake each morning in his arms, to let his devotion silence every cruel whisper. To believe that his vow could be enough.

But even as she swayed toward him, the silence surged within her chest. Cold chains coiled invisible around her wrist, the memory of storm-grey eyes anchoring her to something she could not name. It was not only fear of the court that stopped her—it was the inexorable pull of another fate.

Her breath came sharp, caught between fire and frost, crown and shadow.

Thane’s vow hung in the air, reckless as fire, brighter than any crown. He knew what he risked—a prince binding himself to a perfumer’s daughter—but still he offered it without hesitation, as if love itself could shield them from ruin.

Myrren’s lips trembled. “You don’t know what you ask,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “If I take your hand, I may destroy you.”

But even as she tried to resist, his golden devotion pulled at her—and the silence inside her chest pulled harder still. Cold chains coiled invisible around her wrist, storm-grey eyes anchoring her to a fate she could not name.

Her breath came sharp, caught between fire and frost, crown and shadow.

If she chose Thane, she might damn him. If she chose silence, she might damn herself.

And still, the vow waited.