The carriage wheels cttered over cobblestones, each jolt sending tremors through Amriel’s rigid spine. She gripped the edge of the velvet seat, trying to anchor herself as they approached the castle. Beyond the small window, night had cimed the city, broken only by occasional mps that cast brief, golden smears across her vision before dissolving back into darkness.

  Across from her, Kortana sat perfectly still despite the carriage’s erratic movements. The witch-lights suspended in small gss globes above them cast shadows across the Coven Leader’s face, deepening the lines of authority etched there.

  “I assume you’ve never been to court before,” Kortana said, her gaze steady and assessing.

  Amriel shifted, the silk of her borrowed gown rustling like autumn leaves. The bodice felt like a cage around her ribs, each breath a careful negotiation. She longed for her loose tunic and worn leggings.

  “No,” she admitted, hating how the word sounded small in the confined space. “I haven’t.”

  The skin along her neck and shoulders still tingled from the scrubbing bath Lyana had insisted upon. Even her hair felt foreign—clean, smooth, no longer smelling of earth and forest and arranged in a style she could never hope to replicate on her own.

  Kortana leaned forward slightly, her silver hair gleaming in the dim light. “Then listen carefully.”

  There was no kindness in her voice, only the crisp precision of someone conveying vital information.

  “You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not ask questions unless invited to do so. And under no circumstances will you contradict the King or his council, even if they are categorically wrong.”

  The carriage passed through the castle gates with a hollow boom that resonated in Amriel’s chest. She caught a glimpse of guards standing at rigid attention, their armor reflecting torchlight like blood on water.

  “And the Queen?” Amriel asked, curiosity overriding her nerves.

  Kortana’s expression remained unchanged, but something in her eyes hardened. “The Queen is not your concern.”

  “That’s hardly an answer.”

  “It’s the only one you need,” Kortana replied, her tone sharp enough to cut. “You are here for one purpose—to deliver what you’ve learned about the prophecy. Nothing more. The Queen pys a game beyond your comprehension, and I suggest you remain far from it.”

  A prickle of unease crawled down Amriel’s spine as the carriage lurched to a halt. Outside, the faint cng of a bell rang through the castle grounds, a distant, hollow sound that sent a shiver through her bones.

  “You are about to enter a room where every word is a weapon, every silence a strategy,” Kortana murmured, eyes gleaming as she reached for the door. “So steel yourself, Amriel.”

  The door swung open.

  Cold air rushed in.

  The castle awaited.

  The castle doors loomed before them, tall and imposing, their dark wood banded with iron and etched with the ancient sigils of the ruling house of Drathex. Massive and unmoving, they bore the weight of history, of kings and queens who had stood behind them, of power that had endured wars, betrayals, and bloodshed. The witch light cast long shadows across the intricate carvings—twin eagles locked in flight, wings outstretched, talons bared—an ever-present reminder of the strength and vigince of the royal line.

  Guards fnked the entrance, their faces remained hidden behind closed helms, rendering them more statues than men. Heavy bck cloaks draped over their shoulders, fastened at the colr with a brooch in the shape of a arrow piercing through a urel wreath—an emblem that denoted their rank among the elite castle guard.

  Their gazes swept over Amriel first, lingering for a fraction longer than she liked, before settling on Kortana. The way they shifted subtly, adjusting their stance just so, spoke volumes—they knew her. They respected her. And they would not dare bar her path.

  “The Coven is expected,” one intoned, his voice hollow inside his helm.

  Expected.

  Not welcome, exactly.

  Amriel forced her shoulders to stay rexed, despite the scrutiny, and followed Kortana through the threshold.

  The corridors leading to the Grand Hall of Khymarh’s pace stretched long and vaulted, their arched ceilings covered in ancient murals and stone carvings. Every so often, a stone goblin or gargoyle leered down at their passage from atop the lofty pilrs, their weathered faces twisted into frozen expressions of mischief or malice.

  Sconces glowing with witch light lined the walls guiding Amriel and Kortana toward the grand chamber ahead. The many silver strands embroidered throughout their gowns glinted like captured moonlight, shifting with each step.

  The sounds of music and chatter grew louder, the hum of conversation blending with the deep, resonant notes of stringed instruments. The scent of roasted meats and honeyed wine curled through the air, a sharp contrast to the cool stone halls.

  Amriel inhaled deeply, steadying herself. She could already feel the weight of the night pressing down on her—too many unfamiliar faces, too many expectations she had not asked for.

  Kortana moved ahead, her stride confident and measured. Amriel lengthened her steps to keep pace, acutely aware of how the silver threads in her gown caught the light of passing witch-mps. The embroidery felt like a beacon announcing her presence in a realm where she’d have preferred to remain invisible.

  As they approached the final turn in the corridor, the sound of purposeful footsteps reached them from an adjoining passage—measured, unhurried, yet carrying an authority that needed no announcement.

  Amriel felt it before she even saw him.

  Crown Prince Tristan of Khymarh rounded the corner, followed by a routine of courtiers and guards, and stepped into view. The prince moved with the quiet authority of a man who had led soldiers into battle rather than merely studied war from the safety of gilded halls. His dark hair, streaked subtly with the first signs of silver, was kept short, more out of practicality than vanity. A well-trimmed beard framed his face, doing little to soften the unmistakable authority he carried with him.

  Amriel barely registered him. Her attention had caught on the figure following just behind—a tall man in dark leather armor, his hood thrown back to reveal bronze skin and sharp features framed by dark hair.

  Her heart stumbled in its rhythm.

  It was him.

  She nearly faltered mid-step, heart lurching in her chest. It took every remaining ounce of control to keep her face impassive, to resist the urge to gawk like some sck-jawed fool. But there was no mistaking him—this was the man who had colpsed on her floor, two enchanted arrows buried in his flesh.

  He swept a casual gnce over the room, assessing, always watching. When he finally looked at her, something cold and unreadable passed behind his gaze.

  If he remembered her, he gave no sign of it.

  Prince Tristan came to a stop before them, his sharp hazel eyes sweeping over Kortana with familiar ease.

  “Lady Kortana,” he greeted smoothly, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “I should have guessed you’d arrive just before the st bell. You were never one for idleness.”

  Kortana returned the gesture, the sheer veil over her silver-grey hair shifting slightly with the motion. “Your Highness,” she said evenly. “Time spent in leisure is often time wasted.”

  “And yet,” he replied with a hint of amusement, “you walk into a grand feast. A den of idleness if ever one existed.”

  “I walk into court,” Kortana corrected, her tone perfectly banced between deference and authority. “A different creature entirely.”

  The corner of Tristan’s mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but close enough. There was history between them, Amriel realized. Not romance, perhaps, but something equally intimate: mutual respect.

  Then the prince’s gaze shifted to her, and Amriel felt oddly exposed beneath the weight of his assessment. His eyes weren’t lecherous or dismissive like those of many noble men. Instead, they were sharp, intelligent, missing nothing.

  “Nythia’s daughter,” Kortana said before Amriel could speak, the words falling between them like stones into still water.

  At the mention of her mother’s name, the warrior’s head turned sharply. His emerald eyes locked onto Amriel with sudden intensity, his expression betraying nothing yet somehow conveying everything.

  A tremor ran through her, not quite fear, not quite anticipation.

  “Nythia’s daughter,” Prince Tristan repeated thoughtfully. Something fshed across his expression before it vanished behind practiced courtesy.

  Amriel hated how her heart quickened under his scrutiny, how her palms dampened despite the corridor’s chill.

  “It’s Amriel, my lord,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

  A beat of silence followed.

  “Your Grace,” the warrior corrected quietly but firmly.

  Heat crawled up Amriel’s neck. Of course the brother, and heir, of the king would be addressed as ‘Your Grace,’ not ‘my lord.’

  To her relief, Prince Tristan seemed more amused than offended. “And here I thought I’d met every notable soul in my brother’s kingdom,” he said, his eyes still studying her face as if searching for something familiar there. “It appears I was mistaken.”

  Amriel lifted her chin slightly. “I’ve never been one for court, Your Grace. I prefer to remain unnoticed when possible.”

  His lips twitched, a ghost of genuine humor in his eyes. “And yet here you are. Quite thoroughly noticed.”

  Her gaze flickered involuntarily to the warrior, but his attention had already returned to scanning the corridor, his momentary focus on her apparently forgotten. She felt a strange twist of disappointment.

  “She is under my protection,” Kortana interjected smoothly, her tone brooking no argument.

  Tristan inclined his head. “Then she must be worth protecting.”

  “We should not keep the court waiting,” Kortana replied, a hint of impatience edging her voice.

  “Of course not.” Prince Tristan extended his arm to Kortana, who accepted it with practiced grace.

  As Amriel moved to follow, the Prince gnced back with unexpected warmth in his gaze.

  “Try not to look so grim, Lady Amriel,” he said. “It’s a birthday celebration, not an execution.”

  The teasing note in his voice surprised her. She found herself responding despite her nerves. “That remains to be seen, Your Grace.”

  A genuine ugh escaped him, rich and unexpected. “Perhaps there’s more of Nythia in you than just her face,” he said, before turning toward the grand doors that led to the heart of the castle.

  Amriel followed, acutely aware of the warrior’s silent presence just behind her. She could almost feel his gaze on her back, though when she risked a gnce, his attention seemed fixed elsewhere.

  Ahead loomed the entrance to the Great Hall and whatever waited beyond—a king to address, a prophecy to deliver, and the growing sense that she had stepped into a current too powerful to escape.

  One step at a time, she reminded herself, squaring her shoulders as the massive doors swung open. First survive the night. Then worry about saving the world.