The sun had barely broken the horizon when the obsidian carriage rolled through the palace gates.
From the eastern wing, the courtyard buzzed with whispers. Not about Elara this time, but of silver-clad knights, an Eldorian crest, and a prince cloaked in mystery.
The news had already spread: a letter from King Harran of Eldoria had arrived just days prior. A diplomatic blessing and a warning in lace. The Crown Prince was on his way.
Elara stood near the training pavilion, the fire beast lying at her feet like a silent shadow. Though no chains bound it, none dared come near. The memory of the trial still burned in the eyes of every courtier who passed.
She bent down and brushed her hand gently along the creature's flame-kissed mane.
"They're moving fast now," came M's voice from behind a pillar. "Kings don't offer alliances without expecting something in return."
Elara didn't look at him. "Then let them come. I'm not the one playing games."
M stepped closer, eyes sharp. "You may not be, but you're the piece they all want to move."
She met his gaze. "Then I won't be a pawn."
Inside the palace, Isla paced her chamber, the brocade hem of her gown whispering across marble. The Empress sat at the vanity, holding a jeweled pin in her hands not to wear, but to plot.
"He will arrive by sundown," the Empress said, her voice cool and composed.
"And what if he asks for her?" Isla snapped. "What if he doesn't even look at me?"
The Empress turned. "Then we make him look."
Isla's mouth twisted. "You want me to seduce him?"
"I want you to win him. There's a difference."
"And if he doesn't want to be won?"
"Then you make him regret it."
The procession arrived at twilight.
Moonlight bathed the obsidian carriage as its doors opened before the palace steps. The Crown Prince stepped out.
Young. Clean-shaven. Eyes like winter storms. Every movement deliberate.
Isla descended the steps with her best practiced smile.
But his gaze shifted.
Beyond her.
To the girl who hadn't moved.
Elara.
She stood beside the flame beast, hair loose in the wind, cloak dark against her frame.
And he smiled.
Not at Isla. Not at the court.
At her.
A servant girl the kingdom had tried to erase.
Now a symbol.
Now the storm everyone watched.
Back in his solar, King Theron poured a glass of blackwine and stared into the fire. The letter still sat open beside him.
"A royal match," he murmured. "They move quicker than expected."
The Empress leaned against the mantel.
"And Isla will do her part."
The King sipped the wine, then set the glass down.
"She always does. But it's not Isla they want. It's the girl with fire in her veins."
A beat of silence.
"And if she chooses to burn the hand that offers her a crown?"
The Empress looked toward the window.
"Then we better make sure the flame doesn't burn us all."