The court hadn't slept.
Not really.
Rumors flickered through the palace like candlelight—soft, fast, and impossible to snuff out.
The disgraced lady danced with the prince.
She smiled.
He smiled back.
She didn't curtsy.
He didn't care.
By morning, every noble corridor was thick with speculation. Maids gossiped between corridors. Courtiers whispered behind fans. Advisors scribbled letters laced with concern.
And in the middle of it all, Aveline dressed in silence.
Elise moved around her with gentle hands, fastening the silver clasps on a deep violet gown. No frills. No lace. Just sharp elegance.
Aveline's armor of choice.
"You've silenced the entire palace, my lady," Elise said softly. "And you didn't even raise your voice."
Aveline gave a quiet smile. "Let them wonder."
There was a knock at the door—measured, polite.
Elise moved to answer, but Aveline was already turning.
The moment the door opened, Lucien stepped in.
His presence filled the room effortlessly, his princely mask still perfectly intact—yet something behind his eyes was… searching.
"Elise," Aveline said gently. "Leave us."
The maid curtsied and exited swiftly.
Aveline turned to face him.
"Your Highness."
Lucien's jaw ticked. "You could've warned me."
"About the dance?" she asked. "Or the fact that I no longer tremble when you walk into a room?"
His gaze flickered. "Both."
Aveline crossed her arms. "I thought surprises were your specialty."
He stepped closer. Not threatening. Not warm. Just… near.
"What are you doing, Aveline?"
Her smile was slow and sharp. "Winning."
Lucien stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to peel back the layers she so carefully wore.
"You're not the same," he said finally.
"No," Aveline replied. "And yet, you still are."
That stung. She saw it in the flicker of his expression, the way his fingers curled slightly at his side. But he didn't look away.
"You act like the court is a chessboard," he said. "But these pieces have sharp edges, Aveline. And blood memory."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Let them bleed, then. I've done enough of it for them."
Lucien exhaled, stepping closer again. His voice lowered, almost reluctant.
"I didn't expect to feel anything when I saw you again."
"And yet here you are," she said coolly, "breaking into my chambers like a guilty man."
He flinched at the word guilty—just a flicker, but enough.
Aveline's gaze sharpened. "Why are you really here, Lucien?"
"I don't know," he admitted.
Silence folded around them like silk.
Then his voice dropped—quieter, rougher.
"I wanted to see if the fire was real. Or just something the court imagined to justify their fear."
Aveline tilted her head. "Well? Was it real?"
Lucien stepped back, just slightly.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence followed—deep and immediate, as if the very walls held their breath.
Aveline stood rooted in place, her fingers tightening around the edge of the dressing table. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror—composed, elegant, untouched.
But her heart was racing.
Not from fear. Not from longing.
From the memory of something old and sharp and unfinished.
Lucien had looked at her not like a man reminiscing over the past.
But like one recognizing something in the present.
Something dangerous.
Something he might still want.
Aveline turned from the mirror, eyes cold now.
This wouldn't be a love story.
Not again.
This would be war—and he'd just reminded her why she couldn't afford to lose.
"Yes," he said.
Then he turned toward the door. "And fire always spreads."
Calista D'Aragon stood before her vanity, her expression carved from ice.
Servants flitted around her room, adjusting curtains and laying out gowns, but she didn't notice. Or rather, she didn't care.
She had watched the dance. Watched the court lean in.
Watched him lean in.
And now?
Now Lucien had gone to see Aveline in private.
She knew it.
She felt it.
She didn't need eyes in the hall to confirm what her instincts already screamed—he had gone to her, and he hadn't come back quickly.
Her hand trembled just slightly as she fastened a sapphire earring.
Unacceptable.
Every carefully spun thread, every whisper placed in the right ear, every sacrifice—threatened by a woman the court once called cursed.
A knock at her chamber door snapped her out of her storming thoughts.
"Enter," she said, smoothing her voice into velvet.
Her lady-in-waiting, Marelle, slipped inside with a lowered gaze. "A message, my lady. It came without a seal."
Calista raised an eyebrow. Anonymous notes weren't unusual, but the timing made her pause.
She took the folded parchment and opened it carefully.
Three words, written in sharp ink:
"You are not alone."
No signature. No emblem. Just silence.
But Calista smiled.
A real one—cruel and blooming.
There were others watching. Others who had no love for Aveline. And if someone wanted to reach out now, then she had allies forming in the shadows.
Perhaps the girl who thought herself a fire—
—was about to learn how cold the dark could be.
Aveline lit the match.
Calista felt the heat.
But something older is already watching them both.