The chambers Desmond assigned her were far too lavish for a stranger, and far too close to the prince's own wing to be an accident.
Two guards escorted Zara through the labyrinth of corridors. Their armor clinked softly, echoing through halls lit with violet mage-fire. Every shadow moved as if breathing. Every tapestry watched with stitched eyes older than memory.
Zara walked between the guards with her chin lifted, feet steady. Fear was something she had unlearned long ago.
But curiosity?
Curiosity still lived in her.
Especially where Desmond was concerned.
They stopped before a tall door carved with serpents and roses—beauty tangled with danger. One guard opened it and stepped aside.
"His Highness ordered this room prepared," the guard said stiffly. "You are not to leave the royal wing without escort."
Zara offered a pleasant, lethal smile.
"We'll see about that."
The man swallowed and bowed.
The door shut behind her.
THE ROOM THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST
The chamber was warm, lit by soft golden fire that held no color of the palace's violet flames. This warmth felt… older. Almost familiar.
Heavy velvet curtains hung over tall windows. A carved bed of midnight wood dominated the far wall, its sheets a deep, rich crimson. Too intimate a color to be coincidence.
Zara walked slowly, fingertips drifting across surfaces—polished wood, cool stone, soft velvet. Every corner had been carefully, intentionally arranged.
She frowned.
This room wasn't hastily prepared.
It had been ready long before Desmond told her she would stay here.
Which meant he had already known someone like her would arrive.
Or perhaps…
He had prepared it for someone else.
Someone he wanted to keep close.
Her pulse tightened at the thought, though she refused to ask why.
She turned—and froze.
A figure stood by the fireplace.
Desmond.
Arms crossed.
Expression unreadable.
Watching her with the slow, burning intensity of someone trying—and failing—to understand his own thoughts.
"How long have you been here?" Zara asked.
"Long enough," he said.
He stepped forward, each movement controlled, predatory. His armor was gone; he wore black clothing that clung to the hard lines of his frame, boots silent against the stone floor.
This version of him was more dangerous.
More human.
More magnetic.
"I wanted to ensure the room was safe," he said.
"Safe?" Zara echoed. "Or convenient?"
His brow arched. "Convenient?"
"For you."
For a moment, silence stretched—tight, charged, undeniably intimate. Desmond's eyes dropped to her lips, then lifted sharply as if reprimanding himself.
"You said someone wants you dead," he said. "If that's true, then no place in this palace is safe except here."
A humorless laugh left her throat.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I don't expect you to believe anything," he said quietly. "I expect you to stay alive."
The softness in his voice struck her like a physical force.
She hated how much it affected her.
THE CLOAK OF THE PRINCE
Desmond stepped around her, opening a trunk near the bed. He pulled out a folded cloak—dark, heavy, lined with faint silver thread.
"This is for you."
Zara blinked. "A garment? Are you dressing me now, Prince?"
His jaw tightened.
"It's enchanted," he said. "It will mask your presence. Anyone searching for you will see a blurred imprint instead of your true self."
Useful.
Far too useful.
"Why give this to me?" she murmured. "You don't trust me."
"No," he said. "I don't."
His honesty hit harder than any lie.
"Then why help me at all?"
Desmond hesitated, cloak still in his hands.
When he answered, his voice was low, rough with something he couldn't name.
"Because I can't ignore what I saw tonight."
Zara stepped closer. "Which part?"
His breath hitched barely—barely—visible.
"The part where you moved faster than any normal fighter. The part where you caught a blade in midair. The part where my instincts…" His voice faltered. "…reacted to you."
Her heart thudded.
"Reacted?"
Desmond's eyes met hers, storm-grey and burning.
"Yes."
They stood too close now.
Warmth pushed between them like a living thing.
He lifted the cloak and draped it over her shoulders, fingers brushing her collarbone through the fabric. Heat sparked across her skin from his touch—unwanted, undeniable.
His breath grazed her ear when he spoke.
"You can wear this," he murmured, "or you can die in the hall before sunrise."
Her pulse leapt.
"You're very dramatic, Prince."
"You're very dangerous, Zara."
Their eyes locked.
Something electric crossed the small distance between them.
Then he stepped back abruptly, as if the nearness had burned him.
A KNOCK AT THE DOOR
A hard knock shattered the moment.
Desmond's head snapped toward the entrance. His posture straightened, his hand drifting to the dagger at his belt.
"Enter," he commanded.
The door opened to reveal Walter, the king's adviser—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, wrapped in ceremonial robes.
"Your Highness," Walter said with a curt bow, though his gaze slid immediately to Zara. "So the rumors were true. You brought her to the royal wing."
Zara instinctively shifted into a defensive stance. Walter noticed.
"Interesting posture," he said. "Not a courtly one."
"Neither is sneaking into rooms uninvited," Zara replied.
Walter's lips curled slightly. "I see she has your temperament, Your Highness."
Desmond's tone turned cold.
"Why are you here?"
"The king requests your presence. Urgently."
Desmond's brow tightened. "What happened?"
"Another disturbance beneath the capital," Walter said. "A tremor."
Zara stiffened.
Silverado.
Walter noticed her reaction, sharp as a hawk spotting prey.
"This one knows something," he said.
Desmond stepped closer to Zara—subtly placing himself between her and Walter.
"She knows only what she has told me," Desmond warned.
"Then she told you nothing," Walter said.
Zara bristled. "You seem eager to judge what you don't understand."
Walter smiled thinly. "I understand far more than you think, child."
Zara took a slow step toward him. "Call me child again and I'll show you exactly how old my bloodline is."
Desmond lifted a hand.
"Enough," he said quietly.
Zara stopped.
Barely.
Walter's smirk grew.
"Oh yes," he said softly. "She will be trouble."
Desmond's voice dropped to steel.
"Leave. I will meet the king shortly."
Walter bowed mockingly and disappeared into the corridor.
When the door shut, Desmond turned back to Zara.
"You shouldn't provoke him."
"I provoke everyone."
"Yes," Desmond murmured. "I've noticed."
He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired.
"I have to go. Someone will guard your door."
"I don't need—"
"Yes," he said, stepping close again. "You do."
The air between them thickened.
"Desmond," she said softly.
His name on her tongue made him inhale sharply.
Her voice dropped.
"You think I'm dangerous. But you haven't seen anything yet."
He searched her face—slowly, intensely.
"Show me," he said. "But not tonight."
His eyes lingered on her lips for one dangerous heartbeat.
Then he turned and strode out.
WHEN THE DOOR SHUTS
Zara waited until his footsteps faded.
Only then did she exhale.
The room felt too warm.
Too full of him.
Too charged.
She ran a hand through her hair and paced slowly, letting her heartbeat settle. She had not expected the prince to affect her. She had not expected the vulnerability in his voice, the restraint in his touch.
She hated how much she noticed.
The cloak still hugged her shoulders.
His scent lingered on it.
Thunder rumbled far beyond the windows. A faint tremor shook the floor beneath her boots—not enough to cause harm, but enough to whisper the name she feared.
Silverado.
Zara closed her eyes.
She knew why she had come.
She knew what was waking.
She knew what Desmond would become to her—enemy, ally, something more dangerous than either.
But she also knew one truth above all:
Tonight was only the beginning.
And the kingdom of Maltherion would drown long before she let Desmond Santee fall.
She turned toward the window, watching lightning crawl across the violet sky.
"Soon," she whispered.
The shadows whispered back.