The southern palace gardens had always been a thing of beauty—spirals of moonvine and obsidian-laced fountains, fireflies dancing like fae between ivory rose hedges.
But tonight, Lysara saw it differently.
Before, she had come here as a girl — nervous, blushing, full of dreams. The court had whispered her name like perfume. She had believed them.
Now, she walked those same steps like a ghost wearing a younger skin.
She had chosen a gown of pale green silk, the shade of spring leaves just before they unfurl. The fabric clung to her figure, modest yet daring, dipping low enough at the neckline to remind the court she was no child, but not so much to be called improper.
Sleeves of sheer fabric draped from her shoulders to her wrists, catching the breeze like wings. The gown flowed around her as she walked, a whisper of movement with every step — soft, elegant, deceptively gentle.
Let them see her as beautiful. Let them forget she was also dangerous.
The servant who guided her to the meeting bowed low and left without a word. The marble path stretched ahead, quiet but not empty.
She could feel him before she saw him.
Prince Aeric.
He stood beneath the silver-flamed tree at the center of the garden, arms folded behind his back, posture as polished as she remembered — all sculpted ice and nobility. His pale gold hair caught the starlight. His coat was midnight blue, embroidered with his House's sigil: a lion surrounded by thorns.
He turned at the sound of her footsteps.
And smiled.
It wasn't a cruel smile. Not yet.
It was warm. Charming. Practiced.
The same smile he had used to ruin her life
"Lady Lysara," he said, inclining his head. "You honor me."
Lysara returned the gesture, just low enough to be polite.
"Your Highness."
He moved to her side, offering an arm. She took it. Let him lead her to the fountain. Let him think he had control.
He didn't.
Not anymore.
"I hope your journey was pleasant," he said, voice smooth.
"It was," she lied.
He chuckled. "I'm told the roads from the north are still in terrible condition."
"They are," she said. "But I suppose you wouldn't know. You've never had to travel them."
He glanced sideways at her, amused. "You're bolder than I expected."
"I died once," she said, smiling sweetly. "It changes a girl."
He laughed. A real laugh. But of course, he didn't understand. Couldn't.
To him, she was just a clever noble girl. Untested. Unspoiled.
To her, he was a liar in the making.
"How do you find the palace?" he asked, stepping beside the pool. His reflection rippled beneath the water's surface.
"Bigger than I remembered," she said. "But maybe I've just grown small."
He looked at her again, this time with a frown that creased his brow. "You speak as if you've been here before."
"I have," she said lightly. "In dreams."
Aeric tilted his head. "You are… different than I expected. When Father said I was to meet the daughter of House Thorne, I imagined someone far more—"
"Dull?" she offered.
"I was going to say meek."
She turned to him, meeting his gaze full-on. "Then I'm afraid I've already failed to meet your expectations."
Aeric didn't reply immediately. His blue eyes—cold and piercing—searched her face for something. Weakness, maybe. Fear. A crack.
He would find none.
"You intrigue me, Lady Lysara," he said at last.
"Good," she said, smiling again. "That means I'm winning."
He laughed again, louder this time. "Winning what, exactly?"
"Whatever game you think we're playing."
They spoke for another ten minutes. Polite things. Empty things. But Lysara was not listening to the words.
She was studying.
Every movement. Every shift of expression. Every lie he told without even realizing.
He didn't remember the future. Of course not. This was her second chance, not his.
But she remembered everything.
How he would kiss her hand the night of the Winter Ball.
How he would promise her protection—then abandon her to the High Court's wolves.
How he would make her queen, only to break her crown from her head.
And how he would stand by and watch her burn.
"Lady Lysara?" His voice cut through her thoughts.
She blinked.
"Yes?"
"I asked if you would care to walk again tomorrow."
She considered him. Considered the game.
"I'd be honored," she said.
He took her hand. Kissed it. "Until then."
She curtsied. Deeper, this time. Played the role. Let him believe she was won over.
And then she left him standing alone beneath the silver-flamed tree.
She didn't return to her rooms immediately.
Instead, she climbed the western tower—quiet, deserted at this hour—and stepped out onto the moon-bathed balcony overlooking the capital.
The night wind bit at her skin. She welcomed it.
Lysara raised her hand again. Called the flame.
It sparked, flickered, danced.
Alive.
So was she.
But it wasn't enough to survive. Not this time.
She had to conquer.
And as her flame grew stronger in the dark, she whispered to the wind—
"I will not be burned again."