Morning came slow and pale, light spilling through gauze curtains in muted gold.
Eva stirred, her limbs heavy but healed. The soreness was gone, replaced by a strange emptiness—too light, too still. Her thoughts dragged behind her like something underwater.
When Lira entered, she offered her usual greeting—"Good morning, milady"—but paused mid-step.
"You didn't sleep," she said quietly.
Eva looked up from the mirror, fingers paused halfway through braiding her hair. The shadows beneath her eyes lent her face a hollow, unfamiliar grace.
"A little," she said. "Enough."
She reached for the cup of water beside her, offering a thin smile.
Lira's brow softened—the kind of look that carried both affection and worry.
"Before my sister's wedding, she didn't sleep for three nights. I'll bring you a tea tonight—something to quiet your thoughts."
"Thank you, Lira," Eva murmured. The words felt heavier than they should have.
Lira fetched a small box from the vanity—powder and rose balm, the faint scent of crushed petals softening the air. Together, they worked to pale away the sleeplessness beneath Eva's eyes, until her reflection looked almost rested.
The palace had grown quieter. Servants moved softly, conversations clipped short when she entered a room. Everyone carried the hush of anticipation—the calm before ceremony.
Eva drifted through the morning, her smile gracious but distant, always returning to her easel by the window. By afternoon, brush in hand, she nearly finished the painting she had begun days ago. The canvas shimmered faintly, Lucy's flank dusted with the reflection of steam. She wanted to give it to Lucarion on the day of the wedding. Each stroke steadied her, turning thought to color, silence to motion.
After a while, her hand trembled faintly. The sound of the brush against canvas grew distant, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat. She set it down. The world swayed slightly before settling again.
That night, sleep came shallow.
At first there was only darkness—then, a field of ash. Gray stretching endlessly, soft as snow beneath her feet. A figure stood far ahead, its outline wavering like heat over stone. She moved toward it but never grew closer.
The ground shifted. Water pooled beneath the ash, clear at first, then red. A whisper stirred—a voice just at the edge of hearing, neither male nor female.
And then, always, the same image:
A crown burning on still water, the flames mirrored perfectly in its reflection, untouched by the ripples spreading outward.
Her pulse jolted her awake before dawn, heart hammering, breath sharp in the dim room. The candle beside her had burned low, the wick hissing faintly in its pool of wax.
She pressed a hand to her chest, willing the racing to slow.
A dream. That was all. Dreams had always come to her—shadows of strain, echoes of power—but never this vivid, never so insistent.
She rose, unable to bear the stillness. The air was cool, the kind that clung to the remnants of night. She washed, dressed, and let the faint glow of dawn guide her steps through the quiet corridors.
By the time the first light touched the palace windows, Eva stood in her sitting room, the heaviness of sleep long shed though not forgotten. She turned toward the easel and reviewed the nearly finished painting one last time.
The gray mare's form was complete now, its reflection rippling in the painted water. Only the faintest touch of light remained to be added at the horizon—a dawn she hadn't quite decided to let break.
Eva set down her brush as the sound of footsteps echoed outside. The door opened, and the steward bowed deeply.
"Her Majesty, the Queen."
Eva's pulse stilled for a moment. She rose as Queen Calantha entered—tall, poised, her presence soft yet sovereign. Her black hair, thick and wavy, caught the morning light in muted glints of silver, falling like liquid shadow over her shoulders. There was none of Lucarion's sharpness in her—no cold precision of line. Her face was gentle, almost angelic in its symmetry, the kind of beauty that disarms before one realizes they've surrendered.
Her eyes, though—those piercing blue depths—seemed to read the quietest truths in others, not by force, but by invitation. When she spoke, her voice was a melodic soprano, clear and resonant, carrying warmth that somehow left the air colder in its wake.
"I recognize that mare," she said, walking closer, eyes lingering on the nearly finished painting. "Lucy… I gifted her to him."
Eva inclined her head. "I wanted to capture her as she waits by the springs. As a gift for tomorrow."
"How observant," the Queen murmured, studying the brushwork. "So this is how you spend your final day unwed," she continued, tone soft but weighted. "Creating beauty. Most women I knew wept or prayed."
Eva brushed a streak of dried pigment from her thumb and set the brush aside. "I've done both, Your Majesty. They didn't help."
A faint smile curved Calantha's lips. "Then you already understand more than most brides who walk into our court."
She drifted closer, the faint rustle of her gown like a whisper through the air. "Tell me, child—do you know why you are not envied?"
Eva met her gaze steadily. "Because they fear him."
"They do," the Queen said, voice low, deliberate. "But not for the reasons they claim. Once, every woman in this court wanted to be the one to thaw him—to draw a spark from that frozen light in his eyes. They offered beauty, wit, obedience… and he looked through them all as if they were made of glass. Nothing burns colder than indifference, and none of them forgave him for it."
She turned slightly toward the window, her reflection caught in the faint sheen of the glass. "And so they named him a monster, because it was easier than admitting they were never chosen."
Her eyes lingered on the painting again before she continued, more quietly, "But that is only half the truth. There are others who would see this union ended before it begins."
Eva's pulse tightened. "The sect," she said.
Calantha's head inclined a fraction. "You've heard the name."
"I've heard whispers."
"Then hear the rest." The Queen's tone was silk stretched over steel. "The assassin you killed was theirs. He was sent here by those who believe Lucarion is the Emperor of Destruction—an ancient prophecy they guard like scripture. They say he will ascend the throne and bring an end to the age of night. And beside him will stand a human."
Her gaze sharpened, almost cutting. "A union of blood and mortality. They call it the spark that will set the world ablaze."
Eva's breath caught, but she held the Queen's gaze. "And you believe this?"
Calantha smiled faintly, but the smile did not reach her eyes. "Belief is irrelevant. Fear shapes the world far more than faith ever could. They believe, and that makes it dangerous enough."
Her tone softened, and for the first time a trace of weariness flickered through her composure. "I've seen what belief can do to kings. I've watched it devour a man I once loved until all that remained was his hunger for the divine. Some flames burn so long they forget what they were lit for."
Eva said nothing, but something cold passed through her.
The Queen looked away, just for a heartbeat, the faintest fracture in her calm. "The prophecy speaks of a crown that burns upon still water, whose reflection does not fade. When the reflection breaks, so will the world."
Eva's breath stilled—too exact, too close to the image that had haunted her dreams. But she only said, quietly, "And if the world deserves breaking?"
Calantha's gaze returned to her, sharp and searching. Then, softer: "You are not the first to stand near his shadow, but you are the first he has not turned away. That alone makes you worth killing for."
Eva's expression didn't shift. "Then they'll have to try harder."
Something flickered in Calantha's gaze—approval, perhaps, or warning. "You sound like him."
"Do I?"
"Yes." The Queen's voice dropped, quiet, deliberate. "Men like him rarely know the difference between devotion and obsession. Between love and possession. One will destroy him; the other will destroy you. And you may never know which one he offers."
Eva's lips curved faintly. "Then it's fortunate I don't fear ruin."
Calantha regarded her for a long moment before she spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. "Careful, girl. Defiance has a taste that power cannot resist. It may love you for it—or destroy you for it."
Eva's gaze didn't waver. "Either way," she said, "it will remember me."
A quiet pause. The Queen reached out, fingers brushing Eva's wrist—light, almost reverent. "Sleep tonight, if you can. Tomorrow, the crown will open its eyes."
Eva's voice was soft, certain. "Then I'll make sure it sees me clearly."
The Queen's footsteps faded into the corridor, leaving the room steeped in stillness. Eva stood motionless for a while, the faint warmth of Calantha's touch cooling on her wrist. The painting before her seemed distant now—its calm water and silver mare a world away from the unease thrumming through her veins.
Night gathered softly. Clouds drifted across the moon, and the chamber fell into shadow. She hadn't lit the candles; the air smelled faintly of rose balm and paint.
A knock broke the quiet.
"Come in," she said as she covered the painting.
Lucarion entered, the faint glint of the corridor light tracing the silver of his hair. He paused at the threshold, gaze sweeping her face, the room, then returning to her.
"You're awake."
"So are you."
He came closer, and as he did, the subtle fragrance of powder and crushed petals reached him. His brow furrowed faintly.
"You haven't been sleeping," his thumb brushed lightly over the material under her eyes.
Eva's smile was thin. "I tried."
A pause. The air between them tightened with something unspoken. Then, his voice softened—low, almost hesitant.
"Come with me."
"To where?"
"The observatory."
She hesitated, but he extended a hand—not a command, an invitation. After a moment, she took it.
The palace corridors were quiet, the world muffled by distance and dark. Dew gathered on the grass, glinting pale beneath the lantern light. They moved through the gardens, past the cypress and climbing ivy, to the marble dome of the observatory. By day it seemed a sealed relic; tonight, the open panels of its roof revealed the night sky in full.
Inside, the air was cool, scented faintly of stone and evening blooms. The floor of the dome was polished marble, black and glassy, catching every pinprick of starlight above. As they stepped in, the heavens seemed to descend—the constellations trembling softly in reflection, fire mirrored on still water, echoing the image from her dreams.
Lucarion moved beside her, silent, letting her take in the sight. The reflected stars shimmered beneath their feet, and above them, the true sky stretched infinitely, brilliant and untouchable.
She turned toward him, close enough that she could see the faint glimmer of reflected stars in his eyes. "Do you believe in fate?"
His answer was immediate. "No. Only inevitability."
Something inside her stilled. "And if inevitability brings ruin?"
His gaze lingered on her, steady, shadowed. "Then we endure it together."
For a long moment, they stood without speaking, the mirrored cosmos stretching above and beneath them. Their shoulders brushed, almost imperceptibly. The silence carried weight, unspoken promises, and fragile trust.
Eva let her lips curve into a ghost of a smile. "Tomorrow," she whispered, "everything changes."
Lucarion's hand brushed hers, light as a promise. "No," he said. "Tomorrow, everything begins."
Above, the stars burned with cold brilliance; below, their reflection shimmered on polished marble, fragile as glass, echoing the fire of distant heavens—and for the first time, they shared that fragile light together.