The morning after the world was supposed to end, Viera discovered it had merely been rearranged into a new, more interesting shape. The palace was a beehive kicked by a giant, a buzzing, frantic ecosystem of fear and speculation.
She sat on a stone bench in the Sunken Garden, a book of Veyrannese poetry lying unopened in her lap. From here, she could observe the main terrace without being seen. It was the best theater in the capital. The nobles, who had been a flurry of panicked silks and jewels the night before, were now gathered in tight, whispering clusters, their faces masks of grim fascination.
The story was already taking shape, twisting and turning with each retelling. A lone thief, a master of shadows. The Crown of Drakoryth, nearly lost. And her brother, Prince Caldan, emerging from the shadows like a hero from the old tales to strike the villain down.
How tidy, Viera thought, a small, cynical smile touching her lips. Caldan had never been tidy. He was a storm, and storms left a mess.
Her gaze drifted to a corner of the terrace where her half-sister, Tysha, was playing her part to perfection. She stood beside their mother, Queen Sirenyth, in a hushed conversation with the Duke of Stonehelm, a man whose lands and armies were almost a kingdom unto themselves. The Duke was old, portly, and had a laugh like a hog's snort, but his eyes were as sharp and avaricious as a moneylender's.
Sirenyth was a vision of maternal grace, her hand resting delicately on the Duke's arm. Tysha, looking ethereal in a gown the color of a spring sky, laughed at something the Duke said, her head tilted at just the right angle of demure enchantment.
Viera could practically hear the gears of her step-mother's ambition turning from across the garden. My beautiful daughter, your Grace. So pure. So fertile. Her dragon, Lunthyss, is of a fine, strong bloodline. An alliance would be… most beneficial.
Tysha was a willing participant in her own sale. She wanted a crown, and if she could not have a king, a powerful duke was the next best thing. Viera watched the performance, this silent, vicious auction of her sister's future, and felt a familiar, weary distaste. This was the game her family played. A game of thrones and bedchambers.
And last night, her brother had just thrown a brand new, unknown piece onto the board. A thief. A girl from the Gutter, now locked away in his chambers.
She needed to see Lysander.
***
She did not summon him. That would be a breach of protocol, a red flag for the hundred pairs of watching eyes in this palace. Instead, she chose a path to the royal archives that would, by pure, calculated coincidence, cross his patrol route near the Dragon Guard armory.
She walked at a slow, leisurely pace, the poetry book her alibi. The air in the lower corridors was cooler, smelling of steel and whetstones. The shouts of men training in the yard echoed off the stone walls. This was his world. A world of discipline, honor, and sharp edges.
She saw him long before he saw her. He was conferring with one of his captains, his back to her. Even in the gloom of the corridor, his presence was a commanding one. Tall, broad-shouldered, the black scale armor of his office making him seem larger than life. He was the unshakable wall that protected her family.
He was the secret, treacherous weakness in her own heart.
He turned, and his eyes, the pale, clear gray of a winter sky, found hers. For a fraction of a second, his stern, commander's mask slipped. She saw the relief, the worry, the deep, unspoken thing that lived only in the space between them. Then it was gone, replaced by a perfect, deferential coolness.
"Princess," he said, his voice a low rumble. He executed a flawless, crisp bow. "I hope the night's events did not unduly disturb your rest."
"Not at all, Commander," she replied, her own voice a perfect imitation of a slightly bored, curious princess. "Though one does wonder what all the fuss was about. My brother does so enjoy his theatrics."
She could feel his heartbeat. It was one of the first things she had learned to do with her… gift. To isolate a single life in a crowded room, to feel the steady, pulsing rhythm of their blood. His was a strong, even beat. A soldier's heart. But when she was near, it always sped up, just slightly. A secret flutter that only she could feel. A hidden touch across a crowded room.
"The Prince was merely securing the palace against a credible threat," he said, his face unreadable stone.
"Of course he was," she said. "You are all so very diligent in your duties." She gave him a small, polite smile and made to walk past him.
"Allow me to escort you, Your Highness," he said, falling into step beside her. "These lower levels can be… confusing."
It was the excuse they both needed. They walked down a long, echoing colonnade, their footsteps the only sound. The massive stone pillars offered fleeting moments of shadow, of privacy.
In the darkness between two torches, his hand found hers.
His armored gauntlet was cold and hard against her skin, the leather and steel a stark contrast to her own soft flesh. The touch was brief, a desperate, stolen moment of contact that said everything they could not.
"Are you well?" he whispered, his voice losing its commander's edge, becoming just the voice of a man.
"I am always well," she lied. "But my brother is not. He is playing a game none of us understand, Lysander. And this girl… she is at the center of it."
"I know," he rumbled, his thumb brushing against her knuckles. "He keeps her in his rooms. Under guard by his own men. Ryven is the only one who goes in or out. He even refused the Queen this morning."
Viera's breath caught. To refuse their mother… Caldan was isolating himself completely. He was building a wall around his secrets.
"This is dangerous, Viera," Lysander murmured, his use of her name a shocking, intimate caress in the cold hallway. "This is not some Gutter cutpurse. To get as far as she did… to get past the wards… she is something else. And for Caldan to…"
He trailed off, but she understood. For Caldan to keep her, to protect her, to hide her away… It was madness.
"My brother is a storm," she whispered back, her fingers lacing with his. "You cannot stop a storm. You can only watch where it is going."
A footstep echoed from the far end of the colonnade. They sprang apart, their hands dropping to their sides, two perfect strangers once more.
The figure that emerged from the shadows was Prince Vaeren.
Her half-brother moved with the silken, predatory grace of a viper. His golden eyes, so like their father's, swept over them, a slow, insolent appraisal that missed nothing. He noted their proximity. He noted the way they had pulled apart just a fraction of a second too late.
A slow, knowing, and utterly reptilian smile spread across his handsome face.
"Sister. Commander," Vaeren purred, his voice a theatrical, mocking drawl. "Enjoying a private tour of the stonework? How very… educational."
"I was ensuring the Princess's safety on her way to the archives," Lysander said, his voice as cold and hard as the stone around them.
"Of course you were," Vaeren replied, his smile widening. He took a step closer, his eyes fixed on Viera. "You are so very diligent in your duties, Commander. We are all so fortunate to have such a… dedicated man watching over the women of our family."
The emphasis was a poisoned dart. A clear, unspoken threat. He suspected. He didn't know, but he suspected.
Vaeren turned his charming, venomous smile on Viera. "Do be careful, sister dear," he said softly. "The palace is full of shadows these days. All sorts of things can get lost in them. Reputations. Alliances." He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "Hearts."
He gave them both a final, lingering look, a silent promise of future scrutiny, before continuing on his way, his soft leather boots making no sound. He left a chilling silence in his wake.
Lysander stood rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly Viera could see the muscles bulge. "He knows," he said, his voice a low growl of fury. "Or he will make it his business to know."
Viera felt no fear. The sweet, gentle princess who loved books and stars was gone. In her place was something else. Something cold and ancient and powerful. The sleeping beast of her gift stirred within her. She could feel Vaeren's heartbeat, a faint, arrogant rhythm, still echoing down the hall. She could slow it. She could make it flutter like a frightened bird. She could stop it entirely.
She looked at Lysander, at the raw worry etched on the face of the man she loved with a fierce, secret passion that was its own kind of madness. She saw the future Vaeren's suspicions could steal from them. A quiet word to the King. A whispered accusation to her mother. And Lysander would be stripped of his command, exiled, or executed.
And she would not allow it.
She reached out and placed her hand on his armored forearm, a gesture of reassurance that was also a deadly promise.
"Let him suspect," she said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper that held the chilling promise of retribution.
"Let him watch. Let him plot." She met his worried gaze, her own dark eyes glittering with a cold, hard light.
"If he ever lays a hand on you, Lysander, I will stop his heart from across the castle."