The knowledge that Kaelen knew her true identity was a secret sun burning inside Elara, casting everything in a new, terrifying, and strangely exhilarating light. The fear for her family was now tempered by a fragile, budding hope. The Dragon King was not her jailer; he had become her co-conspirator.
It changed everything, and yet, nothing. In public, the performance had to be flawless. But now, there was a new undercurrent in her interactions with Kaelen. A shared glance across the Sun-and-Steel Hall was no longer just a political formality; it was a silent communication. A brush of his hand when he helped her from her chair was no longer just courtesy; it was a deliberate, testing touch that sent sparks dancing along her skin.
She found herself studying him with a new, keen interest. She saw the weight of his crown in the slight tightening of his jaw during a tedious trade dispute. She saw the sharp intellect in the way he dismantled a noble's flawed argument with a few, precise questions. She saw the raw, untamed power he kept carefully leashed beneath a veneil of civilization. He was a king, a warrior, and a primal force of nature, all contained in one formidable package.
Her afternoons in the library became a sanctioned quest. Kaelen had given her a new, private task: to research the ancient treaties between the North and the nomadic tribes of the Scarred Wastes, the source of the unrest he had mentioned. It was real, valuable work, and it made her feel less like a pawn and more like a… partner.
It was during this research, three days after their confrontation, that Lysander found her again.
This time, he did not slink from the shadows. He approached her table directly, his expression one of charming concern. "Your Highness, you spend so much time buried in these old texts. You must allow me to show you the livelier parts of the court. There is a gathering tonight in the Moon Garden—music, conversation. It would do you good to be seen."
It was a trap. She knew it was a trap. But a perpetual retreat was not a viable strategy. She had to face him, to prove she was not cowed.
"That sounds lovely, Lord Lysander," she said, offering him a cool, polite smile. "I would be delighted to attend."
The Moon Garden was an enclosed courtyard open to the sky, where night-blooming flowers filled the air with an intoxicating perfume. Glow-mosses nestled amongst the rocks provided a soft, magical light, and a trio of feline shifters played a haunting melody on stringed instruments. It was beautiful, and utterly treacherous.
Lysander was the perfect host, introducing her to a circle of younger courtiers—mostly Fox Clan, but a few from the more frivolous Sable and Weasel clans. The conversation was light, laced with subtle barbs and layered meanings. They spoke of Southern fashions, of music, of inconsequential gossip. Elara held her own, deflecting questions about her "home" with vague, regal answers, always circling back to praise the North.
But Lysander was a master fisherman, and he was patiently letting out his line.
"It is a shame your step-sister, the Lady Cordelia, could not accompany you," he said casually, during a lull in the music. He swirled the wine in his glass, his amber eyes glinting. "I had the pleasure of corresponding with her during the treaty discussions. She has such a… keen mind for politics. And such a passionate love for our Northern poetry. We share many of the same favorite verses."
Elara's blood ran cold. Cordelia was the real princess's closest friend and confidante—and, in Elara's previous life, her stepsister and betrayer. This was no coincidence. He was letting her know, in no uncertain terms, that he had a direct line to the real Southern court, to someone who knew the real Seraphine intimately.
She took a slow sip of her wine, buying a precious second to think. Seraphine, in her letters, had often expressed jealousy of Cordelia's intellect. It was a documented sentiment.
"Lady Cordelia is indeed clever," Elara said, allowing a hint of coolness to enter her tone, perfectly mimicking Seraphine's documented pettiness. "Though her taste in poetry often leans toward the… overly dramatic. I prefer verses with more structural discipline."
It was a risk, a shot in the dark based on a snippet of gossip she'd once transcribed.
Lysander's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. He had expected a different reaction—confusion, panic. He had not expected a haughty dismissal. "Is that so? I shall have to recommend some of our Northern epics to you. They are all about structural discipline… and the consequences of deception."
The threat was now naked.
Before Elara could respond, a familiar, grating voice cut through the garden's ambiance.
"The Princess's time is not for your frivolous entertainments, Lysander."
Captain Theron stood at the entrance to the garden, his arms crossed, his silver eyes like chips of ice. He was not in formal attire, but in his guard's leathers, as if he had just come from patrol. He looked directly at Elara. "Your Highness. The King requires your presence."
It was a blatant lie, a rescue she neither wanted nor trusted. But it was an escape.
"Of course, Captain," she said, setting down her glass. "My apologies, Lord Lysander. Duty calls."
Lysander bowed, his expression smoothly shifting to one of understanding, though his tail gave a single, irritated twitch. "Of course, Your Highness. Until next time."
As she walked toward Theron, she could feel the fox shifter's gaze burning into her back. The gambit had failed, but the game was far from over.
Theron fell into step beside her, his presence a dark, silent storm. They walked in tense silence until they were away from the garden and into a deserted corridor.
"I had the situation under control," Elara said quietly, her nerves frayed.
"Did you?" Theron snapped, stopping and turning to face her. His silver eyes blazed. "You were dancing on the edge of his claws. He was moments away from asking you to recite a specific verse from one of Cordelia's 'overly dramatic' favorites. A verse the real Seraphine knew by heart. What would you have done then, scribe?"
He knew. He had been listening closely enough to know exactly how Lysander was manipulating the conversation. A fresh wave of fear washed over her. She had been so focused on Lysander's trap that she had forgotten the wolf watching from the shadows.
"I would have managed," she retorted, though her voice lacked conviction.
Theron let out a short, harsh laugh. "Your arrogance will get you killed. And it will drag me down with you." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "I told you. I will not let your deception be the cause of my ruin. My… condition… from our last… encounter… is complication enough. I will not have the Fox exposing you and implicating me as a fool who failed to protect his King from a fraud."
So that was it. This wasn't protection; it was self-preservation. His loyalty to Kaelen was absolute, but it was tangled with the consequences of whatever bond had formed between them in that other life. He was trapped, just as she was.
"Why did it happen, Theron?" she asked suddenly, the question slipping out before she could stop it. "In that office. Why did you… select me?"
The question seemed to shock him into silence. His jaw worked, a flicker of something raw and pained crossing his features before the cold mask slammed back down.
"It was a mistake," he hissed. "A moment of lost control. A weakness. One I have regretted every day since." He leaned in, his breath ghosting across her face. "Do not think it means anything here. Do not think it grants you any favor. The only thing that matters is that your secret does not get out. Stay away from Lysander. Do your duty to the King. And pray that when this house of cards falls, it doesn't bury us all."
He turned and strode away, leaving her more confused and isolated than ever. She had the Dragon King's mysterious protection and the Wolf Captain's hostile vigilance. She had survived the Fox's gambit, but the cost felt higher than ever.
The walls of Aethelgard seemed to close in around her, the beautiful, savage court a whirlpool of shifting loyalties and primal instincts. And at the center of it all was the dragon, whose fire she was supposed to tame, and whose newfound knowledge of her secret made him the most dangerous player of all.