Amriel’s breath caught as she stepped into the Grand Hall. Overhead, massive iron chains suspended golden chandeliers, their enchanted witch-fmes dancing like captured stars. The ceiling arched so high above that its furthest reaches remained in shadow, giving the impression that the hall opened directly to some celestial realm.

  Light and shadow pyed against towering pilrs carved with the history of Khymarh’s rulers—battles won, kingdoms conquered, divine favor cimed. The stone faces of long-dead kings stared down at her, their empty eyes judging her presence in this space where people like her didn’t belong.

  The scents hit her next—a thick blend of roasted meats, spiced wines and heady perfumes. Scents of Marr, Veros and Tyr mingled with chestnut stuff duck, herb basted chicken and peppercorn crusted beef.

  Ahead, Kortana glided forward, arm linked with Crown Prince Tristan’s as if this were the most natural thing in the world. The Coven Leader moved with perfect poise, her silver hair catching the light like polished metal. Despite her merchant’s daughter origins, she wore power as naturally as her violet robes.

  Prince Tristan matched her step for step, radiating quiet authority. His ceremonial military garb bore none of the excessive ornamentation favored by other nobles—no need for it when his mere presence caused whispered conversations to falter, necks to crane in his direction.

  The crowd parted before Kortana and the Prince like water around stone. Nobles with names older than some kingdoms bowed their heads in acknowledgment. Even those who only offered the barest nod couldn’t hide the calcution in their eyes as they assessed this pairing of Crown Prince and Coven Leader.

  Then, inevitably, those same eyes shifted to Amriel—a curiosity trailing in their wake. She felt each gaze like a physical touch, some curious, others coldly appraising. Who is she? Why is she here? What value does she hold?

  She fixed her expression into something she hoped resembled neutral dignity rather than the nervous discomfort churning in her stomach. In her simple blue gown—beautiful by her standards but pin among these peacocks—she stood out for all the wrong reasons.

  No house sigil adorned her breast. No ancestral jewelry glittered at her throat. Just a peasant in borrowed finery.

  It doesn’t matter what they think, she told herself, You’re not here for them. After tonight, you’ll never see these people again.

  To her right walked the warrior in silence, close enough that she could feel the faint brush of his cloak against her arm. This close, she could catch his scent—leather and steel and something forest-like, so at odds with the cloying perfumes surrounding them.

  Each step he took was measured, his emerald eyes scanning the crowd with practiced vigince. The duel swords hung across his back weren’t ceremonial, neither was the dark leather armor he wore beneath his dark cloak.

  Two weeks ago, he’d been unconscious on her cottage floor, blood seeping between her fingers as she’d extracted enchanted arrows from his flesh. Now he stood beside her, seemingly whole, with no acknowledgment of what had passed between them.

  You’re welcome, she thought dryly as they neared the dais.

  She kept her head forward, her shoulders squared and her steps measured. She had endured worse than the scrutiny of courtiers. Yet, as they moved through the shifting bodies, the suffocating weight of the hall pressed in around her.

  Did he truly not remember? The question gnawed at her as they progressed through the hall. Or is he simply pretending?

  “You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  His voice caught her off guard—low, tinged with quiet amusement, barely audible above the surrounding conversations. He didn’t turn toward her as he spoke, his attention seemingly focused on scanning the crowd.

  For a moment, Amriel considered ignoring him, swallowing back the knot of tension in her throat. But something in his tone—the absence of mockery, perhaps—made response possible.

  “I would,” she admitted, keeping her own voice equally soft.

  A slight curve appeared at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. “That makes two of us.”

  The simple confession, so at odds with his composed demeanor, eased something tight in her chest.

  Before she could respond, they reached the head of the hall. Kortana and Prince Tristan were escorted to the first table below the raised dais, while Amriel found herself directed to the shadows beneath the archways, where servants and lesser attendants gathered.

  She sank onto a hard wooden bench, relief washing through her at being removed from the immediate spotlight. Here, at least, she could observe without being observed.

  To her left sat a young witch in robes of deep mauve, her dark braids arranged in eborate patterns. The girl’s eyes flickered to Amriel with brief interest that quickly cooled to indifference once she registered Amriel’s common bearing.

  The small rejection might have stung, but Amriel was too consumed by other thoughts to care. She was about to go before the king himself, and hoped he believed what she had to say.

  To her right, the acolyte’s brown robes bore the insignia of the Head Archivist. She wanted desperately to ask after Mara, to ground herself with news of her friend, but his rigid posture discouraged any attempt at connection.

  So she let the silence settle.

  The warrior stood nearby, his stance casual yet alert, emerald eyes continuously sweeping the room. Every movement around him seemed to register, to be assessed and categorized as threat or non-threat.

  Those same eyes had once stared up at her, fever-bright and desperate, as he’d whispered a word she still didn’t understand: Fha’lear.

  The sound of the herald cut through the hall—the final chord from the musicians’ gallery. Silence rippled outward as all eyes turned toward the grand arched doorway at the far end.

  The King had arrived.

  Courtiers straightened their spines, smoothed their garments, adjusted their expressions to dispy the appropriate blend of reverence and confidence. Like actors taking their positions before the curtain rises.

  Through the doorway stepped the royal family—first the King himself, dressed in bck robes edged with gold, his obsidian crown gleaming atop silver-streaked hair. He moved with the assurance of a man who had never needed to question his pce in the world. The very air seemed to bend around him, acknowledging his authority.

  The Queen followed, her purple gown rippling like dark water with each step. Unlike her husband’s practiced confidence, her power was something innate—the kind that couldn’t be learned or earned, only born into.

  The Queen was a Witch.

  A truth known to all. It was whispered about in the same breath as her beauty, her wisdom, and—more recently—the inheritance of her gifts by the princess who walked at her side.

  Princess Irina followed behind her parents, radiant in her gown a softer yellow with delicate ce, the fabric shifting like liquid as she moved. The glow of witch light caught in the delicate jewels woven through her dark hair, making her look almost ethereal. She was a vision of youth and power yet to be fully realized.

  A princess coming into her power. A kingdom waiting to see what kind of woman she would become.

  The royal family ascended the dais, taking their pces beneath the velvet canopy embroidered with the kingdom’s crest. The King stepped forward, raising one hand to call for attention he already commanded.

  “Honored guests, loyal kin, and devoted subjects of Khymarh,” he began, his resonant voice filling the hall without apparent effort. “Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate, but to bear witness.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd before subsiding at another gesture from the King.

  “For sixteen years, my daughter has been raised beneath the watchful eyes of this court, a child of both her mother’s wisdom and my own rule. She has been well educated in diplomacy, in the histories of our kingdom, and in the weight of her duty.” His gaze rested on Irina with unmistakable pride. “But now, another path opens before her. A path written in her very blood.”

  The Queen’s fingers rested lightly on Irina’s arm, a gesture both comforting and affirming. Princess Irina lifted her chin slightly, her composed expression betrayed only by the tightness around her eyes.

  “As she steps forward into her inheritance, she will no longer walk as a child of this court, but as a student of a greater power,” the King continued. “And in this, she shall be guided by one who has stood at my side in both war and peace, who has long been the keeper of knowledge and the bde in the dark when the realm has needed it.”

  The hall turned as one to Kortana.

  The Coven Leader didn’t bow—Amriel had never seen her bow to anyone—but inclined her head in acknowledgment. The gesture contained neither surprise nor humility; clearly, this moment had been arranged long before tonight’s ceremony.

  “Coven Leader Kortana,” the King addressed her directly. “It is to you that I entrust my daughter’s training. As you once honed your own gifts, you will shape hers. As you once served this kingdom in times of war, you will prepare her to do the same—should the gods demand it.”

  He paused, the silence weighted with meaning that seemed to press against the walls themselves.

  “We do not know yet what fate has pnned for her. But what we do know is that she carries the strength of her ancestors, and she must be ready for what is to come.”

  What is to come. The words echoed in Amriel’s mind, carrying the same ominous resonance as the prophecy that had brought her here. Was it mere coincidence, or was fate already weaving its threads around them all?

  The King raised his goblet. “To Princess Irina. To the path ahead.”

  “To Princess Irina!” The crowd echoed, gsses lifting in unison.

  Beside her, the warrior remained silent, his expression unreadable. But she felt his attention shift—not toward the royal family or Kortana, but to her. The weight of his gaze lingered for just a moment, thoughtful and measuring, before returning to its vigint sweep of the hall.

  It left her wondering what he saw when he looked at her. What made her worthy of even that brief consideration in a room full of power and ambition.

  And why, despite everything, she found herself hoping he would look again.