The masquerade ended, but its whispers clung like smoke.

Nobles filed out with brittle laughter, masks hiding daggers. Myrren walked at Prince Thane’s side, his hand steady at her elbow, but every step felt like running a gauntlet of stares.

“Did you see how he touched her—?”

“Folly. She’ll burn for it.”

“Or he will.”

The words followed her like hounds. Perfume soured with envy.

Thane bent close, his golden mask tilted back, his voice low but unyielding. “Do not fear them, Mistress Vale. Masks fall. Truth endures.”

She wanted to believe him. His warmth pressed against the chill left by the Queen’s silence. Yet roses hid thorns, and she could still smell venom waiting to bloom.

When she reached her chamber, Ori was waiting—arms crossed, toe tapping like a war drum.

“Saints, Myrren. Do you enjoy painting a target on your back?”

“I didn’t ask him to—”

“No, but you let him.” Ori’s eyes narrowed. “Half the palace will be sharpening knives by dawn. The other half? Writing songs about the prince’s lowborn darling.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.” Ori sighed, tugging pins from her hair. “You could have refused his hand. Stepped back. But you didn’t.”

Myrren pressed her palm against her temple. The scents of silk and candle smoke clung like chains. “He only meant to protect me.”

“Protect you?” Ori snorted. “Or claim you? Protection from a prince is another kind of noose.”

Her words stung because they rang true.

Ori softened, brushing hair from Myrren’s face. “Try to sleep. Tomorrow they’ll expect you to smile like nothing happened.”

But sleep did not come. The palace did not sleep either. Even after midnight, torches guttered, their smoke mingling with damp stone and the metallic hum of wards. Myrren wandered the eastern corridors, restless. Thane’s handprint still burned on her wrist. The Queen’s silence burned hotter.

From a turning stair, hushed voices drifted—two servants, cloaks drawn tight, voices sharp with fear.

“They say Varros envoys are already on the road.”

“In secret?”

“No secret, but not public either. They’re coming to test us.”

“To see if the crown still holds?”

“And if it doesn’t—?”

They broke off, crossing themselves. One muttered a prayer. Both hurried on, fear clinging to their clothes like sweat.

Myrren pressed against the wall, her chest tight. Weakness. She could taste it everywhere—the nobles’ brittle laughter, the Queen’s stillness, the riots pressing against the gates. Now foreign eyes would come hunting for cracks.

She turned down an older passage, rarely walking. The air cooled, dust pressing heavy in her lungs. Then she caught it—sharp, acrid, bitter.

Rue.

Her nostrils flared. Rue was no noble perfume. It was punishment and penance, a herb of warning. In alleys, it was steeped in wine to disguise poison’s bite.

Why here? She followed the trail, her steps echoing too loudly. Shadows pooled between warped doors, shutters nailed tight against the night. Torches burned low, their flames bowing as if unwilling to linger.

The Rue led her to a heavy oak door left ajar. Smoke curled through the gap, carrying its bitterness with it. Someone was waiting.

The Seer’s chamber smelled of Rue, smoke, and something sweeter—honey singed at the edges, cloying as rot. Candles guttered in a circle, their wax dripping into spirals.

On the mat sat a veiled figure in gray. When they spoke, their voice rasped like parchment tearing.

“You are late.”

Myrren froze. “Late for what?”

“For truth.”

Her pulse jumped. “Who summoned me here?”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You came because you smelled it. The spiral called.” Long fingers traced a curl in the air. Endless. Coiling.

Her throat tightened. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

“Then explain.” She stepped closer, Rue stinging her nose. “Why Rue? Why now?”

“Rue for cleansing. Rue for punishment. Rue for warning.” The Seer’s veil shifted. “And warning you shall have, child of silence.”

The smoke thickened. Beneath Rue, she caught iron—blood.

“What warning?”

The Seer leaned forward. “A spiral of two. One golden. One shadow. One will break you.”

Her breath caught. The room tilted. “Golden… Thane?” Her voice cracked. “Shadow—Corven?”

The Seer did not answer. She pressed forward, heat rising in her chest.

 “Which one? Which one breaks me?”

“Plain speech is for the safe. You are not safe.”

Her nails bit her palms. “Then what use is prophecy if it only confuses?”

“Confusion is the path to clarity. One golden, one shadow. One to love, one to lose. One to chain you, one to set you free.”

The words tangled, cutting.

“That means nothing!”

“It means everything.”

Her voice sharpened. “Do you even know?”

“I know enough.” A pause, heavy. “One carries sunlight. The other silence. Your heart cannot hold both.”

Her stomach knotted. “And if I refuse either?”

The Seer hissed: “Then the spiral will still turn. It will turn until it breaks you.”

The candles bowed inward. Smoke coiled higher, spiraling like ink. Myrren staggered, dizziness crushing her chest.

“Stop—”

“Do not fear the breaking,” the Seer whispered. “Fear the moment you cannot tell which hand holds the knife.”

The scents collided—Rue, blood, smoke, metallic bitterness that stung her tongue. She pressed against the wall, breath ragged.

“You’re lying.”

“Truth and lies are twins. Spiral-born. One will always lead you to the other.”

Her heart hammered.

Desperate, she forced out, “Then tell me this—does either survive?”

The Seer’s veil shifted, unreadable. “Spirals do not end. They only tighten.”

Her knees weakened. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. She stumbled for the door, clutching her satchel.

The Seer’s final words followed, curling like smoke. “Remember, scentcrafter. One golden. One shadow. One will break you.”

The corridor outside was colder. Her skin prickled, the Rue clinging to her hair and sleeves. She pressed her palm to the wall, trying to steady her breath— And collided with someone solid. A hand caught her elbow before she stumbled. Cool. Steady. Unyielding.

“Careful,” a voice murmured, low as smoke.

Her head snapped up. Lord Corven stood in the shadows, his mask gone, his dark gaze fixed on her. Close enough that she could see how still he held himself, as if silence itself were his armor.

“Why are you here?” she whispered, her voice raw.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the chamber door, then back to her. “The same reason you are. Some doors are meant to stay closed.”

Her pulse hammered. The Rue still burned her throat, but now another scent pressed in—steel, cypress, and something she could not name.

“Were you listening?” she demanded, sharper than she meant.

Corven’s mouth curved faintly. “Do I look like a man who needs to listen?”

Before she could reply, a lamp’s glow spilled into the hall.

“Myrren?” Ori’s voice rang out, sharp with worry. “Saints, where have you been—?”

She blinked, and Corven was already stepping back, the shadows swallowing him whole.

Ori hurried to her side, grabbing her arm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Myrren whispered hoarsely. “Worse.”

Ori frowned, but her grip only tightened. “Whatever it is, you don’t face it alone. Not while I’m here.”

Myrren tried to answer, but smoke still curled from the chamber door, faint spirals chasing her like chains.

And even as Ori guided her away, the word spiral clung to her skin like smoke.