The court was laughing again.
Nobles drunk on wine.
Dancers spinning under chandeliers.
And in the center of it all—
Prince Auren.
Shorter hair now. Jaw sharper. Smile darker.
Dressed in midnight velvet, draped in gold threads and false promises.
"Lady Virell," he purred, bowing low, "you wear suspicion like rubies tonight."
"May I ease your burden?"
"Only if your lips don't lie, Your Highness."
"Darling," he whispered with a grin, "I've never told the truth prettily enough to be believed."
---
He danced.
He drank.
He whispered honey into ears draped in silk.
And with every spin, every smirk—
He stole.
Secrets from the West Lords.
Military plans from House Solenne.
And from one too-loose noble?
A whispered name.
"They call themselves the Ash Court."
"And they bleed coin to Serina."
---
Later that night, alone in the crumbling chapel beneath the east wing—
Auren stood before a forgotten altar.
Dust. Bone. Flame.
He cut his palm open with his signet ring.
Let the blood drip onto the cracked stone.
---
"If I must be the villain in your story, Elara…"
"Then I'll rewrite it from the shadows."
The flame flared—then went black.
---
Meanwhile, far from court…
Elara and Cladus rode under Rhain's sky.
No longer monarch and knight.
Now—Queen and Duke.
Their army made camp at the western border, where farmland met forest—and where whispers of betrayal seeped into the wind.
---
"We lost a supply route again," Elara muttered. "Third time in a week."
"Too precise to be chance," Cladus said grimly.
"A leak?"
"A traitor," he confirmed. "One close enough to know our troop shifts."
---
They stood by the fire, silent for a long time.
Until Elara spoke without looking at him:
"You were supposed to kill me, once."
Cladus didn't flinch.
"And now?"
"Now," he said, "I kill for you."
She turned to him then. Just slightly.
"Do you regret it?"
"Not killing you?"
"No," she said. "Staying."
Cladus's voice dropped.
"Every morning I wake up on your side of this war, Elara…"
"...I remember how much I never wanted to be anywhere else."
---
And back in the city—
Maelric stood on the palace balcony, wine untouched.
Below, Auren flirted with senators, danced with traitors, and made a show of loyalty that screamed too loud.
Serina stepped beside him.
"He's enjoying himself," she murmured.
"He's plotting something."
"Then we kill him."
Maelric watched the prince laugh below.
And for the first time in months…
He frowned.
"No," he said. "We turn him.
And we make him ours."