The scent of jasmine hit first. Sickly sweet, cloying. Like rot dressed up in perfume.
Lyra didn't need to look up to know who had entered the drawing room. The air shifted, silk rustled, and then came the sound — a practiced laugh, light as champagne, hollow as a tomb.
Evelyne Vellorin.
The sister with the perfect smile and blood on her hands.
Lyra stayed seated, spine straight, hands resting in her lap. Her tea was still warm, untouched. Poisoned, probably — not by hemlock or belladonna, but by the presence that now floated across the room in glittering heels.
"My dear sister," Evelyne cooed. "You're awake early today. How… rare."
Lyra finally looked up. Slowly. Deliberately.
Evelyne wore pale rose today, the color of innocence, with pearls wrapped like a noose around her throat. Her lips were the same shade as crushed berries. Her hair, a golden cascade that had always seemed spun from sunlight, was pinned with Mother's comb — the one Lyra had once thought was hers.
Everything about Evelyne was delicate. Refined. And utterly venomous.
Lyra let her gaze linger for a heartbeat too long. Then she smiled — small, soft, dangerous.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, her voice calm, cool. "Dreams have a way of becoming... unsettling, don't they?"
Evelyne tilted her head. Her expression flickered — just a twitch at the corner of her mouth — then reset to that porcelain sweetness.
"Oh dear," she said, gliding forward. "Still plagued by nightmares? Poor thing. Have you spoken to Caelum?"
Ah, there it was.
Caelum.
The husband who had never truly been hers. The man who had promised protection while handing her heart to Evelyne on a silver platter.
Lyra folded her hands over her knee and let her voice drop, just a fraction.
"I don't think he's in the business of curing the wounds he helped cause."
For half a second, silence reigned. Then Evelyne laughed again — too high, too bright.
"Still dramatic, I see. You haven't changed a bit."
Neither have you, Lyra almost said. But she held it in. Patience. Strategy.
Evelyne thought she still held the leash. Let her think it a little longer.
"I was hoping we could talk," Evelyne said, finally perching across from her, like a hawk settling on a branch made of lace. "The Spring Gala is fast approaching, and I'd hate for you to wear something too… severe."
Lyra arched a brow. "You mean the gala where you'll be named heir of House Vellorin? The one where Father will toast your future, and Caelum will be at your side like a loyal hound?"
A pause.
"Sure," Lyra said, leaning forward. "Let's talk."
Evelyne blinked — not used to the heat behind her sister's gaze. Not yet, anyway.
"You've grown bolder," she said carefully.
"No," Lyra replied. "I've stopped pretending to be afraid."
Later that evening, Lyra stood before her mirror, letting the maid undo the pins in her hair. Each lock that tumbled down her back felt like a chain snapping loose.
The reflection staring back was sharper than she remembered. Her cheekbones were more defined, her eyes harder, the softness she once clung to replaced by something carved from steel and ash.
You're still here, she thought. Still standing.
She turned her head slightly — catching sight of the red mark beneath her collarbone. A faint scar, just above her heart. From the knife they claimed she used to commit treason.
She remembered now. She remembered who held it.
And she remembered whose hands had delivered her to the pyre.
The fire inside her pulsed.
-----
A knock sounded — not soft, not hesitant. Firm. Measured.
She already knew who it was.
"Come in," she said.
Caelum stepped through the doorway.
And gods, he still looked like a dream someone else had the audacity to keep.
Dark hair tousled like he'd just left a battlefield — or Evelyne's bed. Jaw sharp enough to cut silk. Eyes as blue as frostbitten water, colder than the man they belonged to.
"My lady," he said, stiffly.
"Caelum," she returned, turning slowly. She kept her tone even — but her fingers curled behind her back, nails biting into skin.
He hesitated. "You seemed… off today. I wanted to check on you."
She blinked.
Now he cares?
Her silence stretched long enough to make him shift uncomfortably. She liked that. Let him squirm.
"I'm fine," she said, sweet as a poisoned apple. "Your concern is noted."
His brow furrowed. "You've been distant."
She walked past him, slowly, deliberately. Brushing his shoulder as she passed.
"I've simply remembered my place, husband."
Caelum stiffened.
She reached the doorway, paused, and looked back at him over her shoulder.
"And I've decided to leave it."
That night, she penned the letter.
Her quill moved with a steadiness she hadn't felt in years — not since the first time her sister lied, not since the first time her father ignored her, not since the first time Caelum kissed her and looked straight through her.
To the war prince of the Southern Wastes:
She wrote of politics. Of gain. Of protection.
She offered no affection. No vows of loyalty. Only a contract.
One year. In name and in battle.
A proposal not of love — but of power.
Let me borrow your fire, she wrote. And in return, I'll give you mine.
The candle flickered.
She sealed the letter with the Vellorin crest — her crest — then melted red wax over it and stamped it with her ring.
It hissed as it cooled.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then whispered, "Let the game begin."
And slipped it into the night.