The guest wing of the Imperial Palace was less of a living space and more of a very expensive prison.
Kaia sat on the edge of a four-poster bed that was large enough to house a small family of badgers. The sheets were silk, the curtains were velvet, and the air smelled aggressively of potpourri.
"If you sigh one more time," Victoria said from the doorway, "I will have the maids sew your mouth shut."
Kaia flopped back onto the mattress, staring up at the painted cherubs on the ceiling. They looked smug. "I am bored, Victoria. My soul is withering. I think I can actually feel my brain cells dying one by one."
Victoria stepped into the room, a vision of terrifying perfection in lavender silk. She held a list—because Victoria Taryn did not exist without a list.
"You do not have time to be bored," she lectured, ticking off an item with a charcoal pencil. "Tomorrow is the Welcome Banquet. You need to be fitted for your gown, you need to practice your curtsey—it was a little wobbly in the Sun Room, don't think I didn't notice—and you need to learn the lineage of the Valdamar family going back five generations."
"Why?" Kaia asked. "Is there a quiz? Will the Emperor behead me if I forget his great-great-grandfather's middle name?"
"He might," Victoria said deadly seriously. She walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a dress that looked like a pastry explosion. "And stop slouching. Queens do not have sisters who slouch."
"You aren't Queen yet," Kaia muttered, sitting up.
"Detail," Victoria dismissed. "Now, stay here. I am going to inspect the embroidery on my presentation gown. If you leave this room, Kaia, I will know. I have spies."
"You have maids."
"Same thing."
Victoria swept out, closing the door with a decisive click.
Kaia waited exactly five seconds. Then she stood up, smoothed her skirts, and walked straight to the door.
"Stay here," she mimicked under her breath. "Recite lineage. Be a good little furniture piece."
She opened the door and peeked into the hallway. Empty.
Kaia slipped out. She didn't have a plan. She just needed to move. She needed to find a window that opened, or perhaps a kitchen where she could charm a cook out of a lemon tart. Or, ideally, a wine cellar.
The palace corridors were endless, a maze of gold leaf and marble. Portraits of stern ancestors glared down at her from the walls. She turned left, then right, then left again, realizing with a sinking feeling that she was hopelessly lost.
"Excellent," she whispered. "I shall die here, and centuries from now, they will find my skeleton still wearing this cursed corset."
She turned a corner and froze.
At the far end of the long, vaulted corridor, a group of men was approaching.
They moved with the rhythmic, synchronized precision of soldiers, but they were dressed in the stiff, formal blacks and golds of the court. In the center walked a man who seemed to suck all the light in the hallway toward himself.
Prince Aeron.
He was listening to a short, balding minister who was waving a stack of papers frantically. Aeron's face was a mask of bored, saintly patience. His hands were clasped behind his back, encased in those signature white gloves.
Kaia's instinct was to dive behind a tapestry.
No, she told herself. You are a Taryn. You are the future sister-in-law to the Crown Prince. Act like it.
She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and continued walking. She would pass him. She would drop a polite, perfect curtsey. She would not look him in the eye, as per the rules.
She kept her gaze fixed on the gold braiding of his coat.
Closer.
The sound of his boots on the marble floor was a steady, ominous beat. Click. Click. Click.
As they drew parallel, the air shifted.
Kaia dropped into a curtsey, her skirts billowing around her. "Your Highness."
Aeron stopped.
The minister stopped. The guards stopped. The silence in the corridor was sudden and absolute.
"Lady Kaia," Aeron said.
His voice was smooth. Polished. It sounded nothing like the gravelly growl of the man in the garden. And yet…
A breeze drifted through an open window, carrying the scent of him toward her.
It wasn't soap. It wasn't the sterile smell of the court.
It was sandalwood and bourbon.
The smell hit Kaia like a physical blow to the chest. Her breath hitched. Her head snapped up, violating the "Eye Contact" rule instantly.
She looked straight at him.
For a heartbeat, time suspended.
She saw the silver-grey eyes. Cold. Sharp. Metallic. But as they locked onto hers, something flickered in their depths. A pupil dilating. A slight, almost imperceptible narrowing of the lids.
He wasn't looking at her like a future sister-in-law. He was looking at her mouth.
It's him, her brain screamed. It's the Sinner.
It can't be, her logic screamed back. Look at the gloves. Look at the posture. He is a statue.
"Is something the matter, My Lady?" Aeron asked, tilting his head slightly. "You look... flushed."
The double meaning hung in the air, invisible to everyone but her.
Kaia swallowed, forcing her heart to stop trying to escape her ribcage. "The... the heating in the palace is quite efficient, Your Highness. I am merely... adjusting."
Aeron's lips quirked. It wasn't a smile. It was a challenge.
"Indeed," he murmured. "We must ensure you do not... overheat."
He stepped closer. Just an inch. It was a breach of protocol so slight that no one else would notice, but to Kaia, it felt like he had just pressed a knife to her throat.
"Enjoy your walk, Lady Kaia," he said softly. "The corridors can be dangerous for those who are lost."
He didn't wait for a response. He signaled to his entourage, and they swept past her, a wave of black velvet and gold.
Kaia stood there, frozen, her knees shaking. She turned slowly to watch him go.
Aeron walked ten paces before he spoke.
"Caspian."
The valet, who had been trailing a respectful three feet behind, materialized at his elbow. "My Lord?"
Aeron kept his face forward, his expression serene for the benefit of the minister. But his voice was low, tight with a tension that made Caspian flinch.
"Did you smell that?"
Caspian blinked, his hazel eyes darting around nervously. "Smell what, sir? The floor wax? It is a bit pungent today."
"No," Aeron said. He brought his gloved hand up to his face, as if adjusting his cravat, but really, he was inhaling the lingering scent on the air. "Not wax."
He stopped walking. He turned his head slightly, looking back down the corridor where the silver-haired girl stood like a deer caught in a trap.
"Whiskey," Aeron whispered. "Cheap, terrible whiskey. And lavender."
Caspian paled. He pulled a small, battered notebook from his pocket and scribbled furiously.
Item 47: The new Taryn girl smells like a tavern.
"Surely not, sir," Caspian whispered back. "She is a debutante. A flower of the north."
Aeron's eyes darkened. He remembered the weight of the glove in his pocket. He remembered the heart-shaped mark. And he remembered the way she had just looked at him—not with reverence, but with recognition.
"She's no flower, Caspian," Aeron murmured, a dark smile ghosting his lips.