Chapter 10

From that first tea, a small flame of warmth sparked in Lilith’s life. What began as stiff, formal meetings grew into moments she secretly treasured. The Crown Prince—Alaric—was unlike anyone she had ever known. He had a way of putting people at ease without lowering his dignity, a grace that came not from tutors or drills but from genuine gentleness.

At their next meeting, he noticed the redness at the edges of her fingers, calloused from endless penmanship practice. Without comment, he reached into his sleeve and drew out a sugared plum, pressing it into her hand with a conspiratorial grin.

“Eat it now,” he whispered, “before the attendants think I’m corrupting you.”

Her eyes widened in alarm—then softened into something like laughter as she quickly hid the sweet in her lap.

Over time, he made it his quiet mission to loosen the chains her father had wound around her. He praised her clumsy sketches when she dared show them, claiming they had more life than the stiff portraits hanging in the galleries.

He asked her riddles, delighted when her brow furrowed in deep thought. Sometimes, he’d deliberately mispronounce long words just to hear her correct him, feigning offense before they both broke into quiet laughter.

And when she faltered—when her hand trembled as she lifted her teacup—he would pretend not to notice, smoothly engaging the attendants with a question until she had steadied herself. To him, she was not a performance. She was simply Lilith to him.

It was not only the prince who softened her world. The Empress herself, Duskbane’s sister, had taken a surprising interest in the quiet girl her brother had so ruthlessly molded.

Where the Marquis saw only a pawn, the Empress saw a child who reminded her of herself before power hardened her heart.

At Lilith’s first formal introduction, when she stumbled on the carpet while curtsying, she braced for sharp reprimand. But instead, the Empress leaned forward from her throne, gently lifting her chin with a gloved hand.

“None of that, child. You are precious. A flower must bend before it blooms.”

The words nearly undid her. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her with softness.

The Empress began inviting her often, not just for official duties but for quiet afternoons in the sun-dappled pavilion.

She would braid Lilith’s hair with her own hands, murmuring old lullabies from their childhood that no one dared to recall aloud anymore.

Sometimes, the Empress would smile knowingly as she caught the Crown Prince sneaking sweets into Lilith’s sleeve. Instead of scolding, she would say, “Good. She needs laughter more than lessons.”

And so, between the prince’s mischief and the Empress’s gentle affection, Lilith found an oasis in the palace.

It became the one place where she could laugh without fear, where her smile did not have to be perfect, where her hands could tremble and no one would punish her for it.

But each time the carriage carried her back to Marquis Duskbane’s estate, the cold weight of duty settled over her again.

And yet, even as she sat through endless lessons and drills, even as she endured her father’s cutting voice, she held onto those secret hours in the garden pavilion. They were the proof that she was more than a vessel, more than a pawn. They were proof that she was still human.

The palace became Lilith’s second home, though her father would never admit it. With each passing season, she grew—polished by her father’s merciless drills, but softened and steadied by the Empress and the Crown Prince.

The Empress often summoned her under the pretext of “extra etiquette lessons,” but in truth, those afternoons were escapes.

Instead of rigid posture drills, Lilith found herself sitting at the Empress’s side while silk threads slid through their fingers in embroidery. The Empress never scolded when her stitches went crooked; she only smiled, saying,

“Perfection is a cage. Beauty lives in the flaws.”

It was a strange thing to hear—contradicting everything Marquis Duskbane had drilled into her—but those words stayed with Lilith, giving her the courage to allow small imperfections.

Sometimes, when the Empress brushed out her long hair, she would hum softly, songs of a childhood before crowns and courts.

Lilith, listening with half-closed eyes, felt a mother’s warmth she had never known. She began to treasure those quiet hours more than jewels or gowns. In the Empress’s presence, she was not a pawn nor a student of impossible standards—she was simply a girl who deserved affection.

Meanwhile, Alaric wove himself into her life like sunlight through shutters. As the years passed, their meetings grew into a cherished ritual. When she was thirteen and he nearly twenty, he would coax her into the palace library, pretending it was for studies, but soon they’d be laughing over old fables. He taught her chess, only to throw his matches on purpose, groaning in mock defeat as she smirked in triumph.

“You’re impossible,” she teased once.

“And you,” he countered, “are far too pleased with yourself. But I’ll allow it.”

At banquets, when she felt overwhelmed by the glittering sea of noble faces, it was Alaric who bent close and whispered jokes only she could hear, steadying her with his presence. And when her voice wavered during her first public recitation, he clapped the loudest, drowning out murmurs of doubt.

The palace attendants began to whisper—about how the Crown Prince seemed unusually fond of the Marquis’s daughter, about how the Empress doted on her as though she were her own child. But whispers could not undo the bond being woven between them.

By fifteen, Lilith had blossomed into a figure of quiet grace.

She moved with elegance, but her eyes carried warmth, a softness that came not from her father’s iron lessons but from the kindness she had been shown.

Courtiers noted the serene dignity with which she held herself, but few guessed that behind it lay years of exhaustion and longing—tempered now by the secret sanctuary she had found.

One spring afternoon, as cherry blossoms scattered across the palace gardens, Alaric looked at her with a fondness he no longer tried to hide.

“You’ve grown, Lilith,” he said, brushing a petal from her sleeve.

“Not just taller—though you’ll deny it—but stronger. Do you know that?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Strong? I’m only doing what I must.”

“No,” he insisted, his voice warm but firm.

“You’re doing more. You carry yourself as if the world were watching. And you make it look easy.”

The Empress, watching from the pavilion, only smiled. She saw in Lilith what her brother never had: not just a daughter shaped by duty, but a young woman who would one day stand as a force of her own, with the strength of steel wrapped in grace.

Between the Empress’s gentle guidance and Alaric’s loyal companionship, Lilith grew not only flawless in appearance, but luminous in spirit.

And though the shadows of her father’s schemes still loomed, she had begun to believe—quietly, stubbornly—that she was more than a pawn on their chessboard. She was becoming someone who might, one day, move the board itself.