The storm broke the moment Zara Marcus crossed the outer gates of Maltherion.
A black-violet sky roiled above her, the clouds shaped like claws dragging themselves across the heavens. Wind tangled her dark hair and whipped her travel cloak behind her, marking her arrival like an omen.
Perfect, she thought. Let them take it as a sign.
Maltherion was not a city that welcomed strangers — especially not strangers who walked with steady, unafraid steps, or who carried no visible weapon yet moved as though they could kill with a single breath. It was a place of whispers, of watching shadows, of a throne forged from centuries of blood.
Zara had come for exactly that.
Her boots struck the stone road as she entered the lower district. Lanterns flickered, suspicious eyes tracking her from behind half-closed doors. The night smelled of smoke and rain-damp cobblestone. Her heart beat with the familiar quiet aggression of someone who had trained their entire life not to trust softness.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her.
Not the fearful gazes, not the suspicious ones.
Something sharper.
Something male.
She kept walking.
A figure stepped from an alley ahead — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the dark silver armor of the Santee royal guard. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, but he didn't draw. His eyes, storm-grey and unbearably calm, fixed on her as if he already knew her name.
He blocked her path with a single step.
"State your intent," he said.
His voice was deep enough to vibrate through her chest.
Zara lifted her chin. "I wasn't aware the streets of Maltherion required permission to walk."
A brief flicker — amusement? Irritation? — crossed his face.
"They don't," he said. "But the gates report everything. And you… don't fit the pattern of a traveler." His gaze traced her posture, the set of her shoulders, the worn edges of her gloves. "You carry yourself like someone trained for war."
Her pulse quickened. Not with fear.
With interest.
"And you," she replied, "speak as if you know war intimately."
The man stepped closer. The space between them tightened, heated. Her cloak fluttered against his armor.
"Prince Desmond Santee," he said.
Ah.
The rumored dark prince of the kingdom. The one whispered to have no softness left in him, only the steel of survival and the bitterness of a crown he did not want.
He studied her like a puzzle, like a threat, like something that unsettled him.
"And you are?" he asked.
Zara let silence stretch just long enough to challenge him.
"Zara."
Only her first name. Nothing more.
Desmond's gaze sharpened. "Zara what?"
"Zara who is tired from traveling," she said. "Is there a reason a prince is blocking the road for a girl who merely wants to find an inn?"
"A girl?" Desmond echoed, stepping even closer. "You don't strike me as a girl."
Heat crept up her neck — not embarrassment, but a spark of something she had spent years denying herself.
Dangerous attraction.
"I'm not," she said quietly.
Desmond's lips parted as if he had more to say, but the world interrupted them.
A dagger whistled through the air.
Zara moved first — faster than he expected, faster than she should have been able to. She caught the blade between two fingers and pivoted toward the rooftops.
Desmond drew his sword instantly, placing himself in front of her with practiced instinct.
Zara blinked.
For a prince raised on court politics and noble etiquette, he moved like a predator.
"Assassin," he muttered.
"No," Zara corrected. "Scout. The real one is—"
Another blade slashed downward from the scaffold above.
Zara sprang forward, grabbing Desmond by the collar and yanking him out of the blade's path. They collided, her body pressed against his, the tension of the moment pulling them into a startling intimacy.
His breath brushed her cheek.
Her hand remained on his chest far longer than necessary.
"—there," she finished, voice low.
Desmond's jaw tightened, eyes locked on hers. "You knew before I did."
"I noticed things," she said simply.
Their faces remained close. Too close.
If she leaned forward a fraction—
He seemed to realize it too, clearing his throat and turning sharply toward their attacker.
They fought side by side.
Zara with swift, controlled violence.
Desmond with brutal precision.
When the scouts finally fled into the maze of the district, Desmond sheathed his sword, chest rising and falling with adrenaline.
He looked at Zara again, gaze heavy.
"You are not a traveler," he said quietly. "And you're not harmless."
Zara smirked. "I never claimed to be harmless."
Desmond stepped toward her again — slower this time, deliberate, testing the dangerous pull between them.
"Who sent you to Maltherion?" he asked.
"I sent myself."
"Why?"
Her heart thudded.
Because of the prophecy.
Because of the throne.
Because of the power awakening beneath the capital — Silverado.
But she said none of that.
Instead, she lifted her chin and met his gaze.
"To change my fate."
Desmond studied her, storm-grey eyes unreadable.
Then, unexpectedly — softly — he said:
"Come with me."
Zara froze. "Why?"
"Because whoever wants you dead will try again." His voice dipped lower, rougher. "And because I want to know what you are."
Their eyes held.
The tension charged the air — not soft, not gentle, but fierce, magnetic.
Zara exhaled slowly.
"Lead the way, Prince."
His lips curved in the faintest, most dangerous smile she had ever seen.
And together, they walked into the dark heart of Maltherion.