Moonlight fell like veils of silver over the palace of Valeria, flooding the black marble floors with molten streaks of white.
It danced across the polished stone in waves, slipping through towering windows arched like cathedral gates, touching columns carved with the stories of long-dead kings. Outside, the gardens lay cloaked in midnight silence—every petal folded, every leaf still. Not a breeze stirred. The hush was complete.
But inside, something moved.
Quick as breath. Quiet as a prayer.
But brimming with panic and fury.
She ran.
Not wildly. Not blindly. Every step was chosen. Every motion deliberate, urgent, and silent. Her silk-clad feet skimmed the glossy floor like shadows unbound. The chandeliers above shimmered faintly, reflecting fragments of her flight in their crystal teardrops. Her long skirts tangled at her ankles, dark as crushed plum, hissing softly as they brushed the stone. She did not look back. She didn't have time.
Behind her, abandoned in a corridor lit by dying torchlight, lay her veil—fine, sheer, delicately embroidered. Hours of effort to disguise herself unraveled in seconds. She had left it behind in her terror. Not just a piece of cloth, but her safety. Her identity.
It had hidden her.
Cloaked her as Selena Thorne, the sweet-voiced daughter of Kaizan Thorne, a trusted noble. A girl who bowed in court, who said all the right things and smiled at the right moments.
But that girl was gone now.
And her face—her real face—was bare.
The moonlight struck her features, unforgiving, and her eyes—gods above—her eyes burned crimson.
Not from sorcery. Not from sickness.
From memory. From blood.
From the truth buried so deep within her bones, it had taken the moon to pull it loose.
Tonight, the moon was full—high above the palace, silver and unblinking. And with its rise came the trembling call in her blood. It surged through her veins like a river breaking loose from centuries of ice. They called it the shapeshifter's curse. A shame. A sickness. A heresy.
But the Veyrons knew better.
It wasn't a curse. It was a birthright.
A prophecy. A war cry.
The shimmer in her eyes was a mark. A brand of the old blood, the true blood. And now, no veil could hide it.
Her wig slipped. She caught it mid-fall, clutching the black strands to her chest. Her fingers sank into the damp silk of the cap. Sweat beaded along her brow. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one sharp in her throat. Her heart thundered. It felt too loud. Too wild. It would give her away.
Still, she did not stop.
She could not afford to.
There were guards ahead. Two of them, standing at the end of the hall like stone sentinels. Black armor gleamed faintly under torchlight, the golden crest of the Queen blazing on their chests. They murmured to each other in low tones—bored, perhaps, or tired. But alert.
She saw their shadows before she saw their faces.
And she froze.
The sense of danger rushed over her like a bucket of ice water. Her breath locked in her chest.
Not now. Not here. Not with this face, not with these eyes.
She turned, quick and smooth, like she'd trained for it. Slipping backward into the nearest shadow. Her shoulder brushed the cold wall. Her hands gripped the wig tighter. Her heart was a war drum in her ears.
One choice.
West.
The western wing.
Her only path out.
She slipped into the corridor like a wraith. The further she moved from the palace's golden heart, the darker it became. Torches here had long gone out. Dust clung to the baseboards. It smelled of old stone and forgotten history.
Here, the past was thick in the air.
Her skirts whispered with each step. Her breath echoed in her ears.
She hated how weak she felt.
The moon—her supposed ally—was draining her with every moment. Power surged inside her, ancient and alive, but it fought her just as much as it freed her. Her limbs felt heavy. Her strength, unreliable.
And still, she moved.
Until she realized where she was going.
His room.
Her stomach coiled. Her knees almost buckled.
Commander Kazimir de Veyron.
Even thinking his name made her blood burn.
The commander of the Black Regiment. The butcher of the north. The man who had ordered her entire kingdom razed, their ashes left to mix with snow. His soldiers carried out his orders with cruel precision. She had seen the aftermath.
She had buried the children of her kingdom
And yet...
She had laughed with him.
Dined beside him under false pretenses, her crimson eyes hidden, her true name swallowed.
He was a monster.
And she was supposed to kill him.
But not like this.
Not tonight.
Not when the moon had turned her body into a trembling vessel of too much truth and too little control.
The door appeared before her, black and towering, marked with sigils only the old houses remembered.
She hesitated.
Her hand hovered at the latch.
If she went in, there would be no turning back.
But she had no other place to go.
Her hand closed around the handle. Cold bit into her fingers. She turned it.
The door creaked open.
Empty.
She stepped inside and gently pushed the door closed behind her. The latch clicked into place. She sagged against the wood, breath leaving her in a trembling rush.
It was dark inside.
No fire burned in the hearth. No lantern glowed. But the scent—his scent—lingered. Leather, steel, cold nights.
He wasn't here.
But he never really left, did he?
His presence clung to the air like smoke.
She crossed the room, legs shaky beneath her. The wig was still cradled to her chest, the black strands tangled in her trembling fingers. She reached the vanity, one hand blindly seeking the edge of the table for support.
She had to put it back on.
The mask.
The veil.
The lie.
Selena. Sweet, silent, harmless Selena.
Her hand found the mirror.
She looked.
And what stared back…
Was not Selena.
Not the girl she had built. Not the nobleman's daughter.
It was her.
The real her.
Eyes glowing like dying embers. Cheeks hollow. Mouth trembling.
Not with fear.
With the ache of seeing herself for the first time in years.
She lowered her gaze.
Reached for the wig.
Almost—
A sound.
Soft. Barely more than a whisper.
Footsteps.
Not inside the room.
In the hall.
Right outside.
One step. Then another.
Measured. Heavy. Controlled.
Her entire body went rigid.
No. No, no, not now.
Not when she had no veil. No mask. No lie.
She stood frozen, every inch of her tense. Her breath caught like a knife in her throat. If she moved, they'd hear. If she breathed, they'd feel it.
The footsteps grew louder.
The tap of a boot heel on marble echoed in the hush like thunder.
She held her breath.
As if it might make her invisible.
The footsteps slowed.
Then—
Stopped.
Right outside the door.
She could feel it. The weight. The presence. It filled the air like a storm before the strike.
Her fingers curled into the wig. Her spine straightened against the vanity, trying not to tremble.
Don't open it. Please. Don't open it.
If the door opened—
If they saw her like this—
Everything would fall apart.
The illusion would break. The lies would turn to dust.
Not Selena.
Not Thorne.
Not a noble's child.
Just a girl of the old blood.
A Veyron.
A traitor.
An enemy.
The silence thickened.
Her lungs screamed. Her heart pounded.
And then
The doorknob twitched.
A breath caught in her throat, sharp and silent. Her body went rigid, spine pressed flat to the cold wall beside the vanity. The wig slipped from her fingers, landing soundlessly on the floor.
Footsteps.
Still there.
Still pacing.
Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.
Each step reverberated through the marble floors, through her bones. Whoever it was hadn't walked away. They were waiting. Listening. Deciding.
The silence turned oppressive, thick enough to choke on.
Her chest barely moved with each shallow breath, lungs straining not to betray her. The beat of her heart pounded against her ribs like a war drum, wild and uneven. She could hear it in her ears, feel it in her fingertips. Her skin burned with stillness.
Then, the doorknob turned again—slowly this time.
A soft creak followed, almost reluctant, as the door cracked open an inch. Cold air drifted through the gap. Her muscles screamed to flee, to vanish into the shadows. But she was rooted—caught between the choice to hide or be seen.
The door paused.
Just barely open.
A single sliver of light broke into the room.
Her crimson eyes reflected in the mirror, glowing like a warning.
And still, the door kept opening.