The grand hall of the royal court glittered like a jeweled trap.
Marble pillars lined the walls, each one etched with gold-threaded ivy. Nobles took their places like pieces on a board—smiling, whispering, scheming behind fans and folded hands.
Aveline entered at a measured pace, gown of deep crimson brushing the floor, a delicate silver chain resting at her collarbone like a leash she wore by choice.
Heads turned.
Whispers flared.
"Is that the Everwind girl?"
"She looks like her mother."
"Didn't she have a dispute with Calista?"
"No, no—it was with Prince Thorne. Or was it Lucien?"
She smiled faintly. Let them drown in the confusion.
At the dais, the king sat—a man of quiet intensity, his crown gleaming coldly atop his graying hair. Beside him, Queen Seraphine, elegant as frost, observed the room with unreadable calm.
And to his left, seated just below—Prince Thorne.
Expression carved from ice.
Lucien stood not far from him, arms folded, gaze already tracking Aveline's every step.
She curtsied gracefully, locking eyes with neither prince.
Just as she rose, a herald struck the floor with his staff.
Boom.
"All rise for the High Council's call to order."
The hall fell into reverent silence.
Then—another voice. Smooth, honeyed.
Calista.
"Before we begin," she said, stepping forward from the row of ladies-in-waiting, "I request the council's attention. There is a matter of grave concern regarding Lady Aveline Everwind's recent actions."
Murmurs stirred like stormwinds.
Aveline didn't blink.
The king motioned for Calista to speak.
Calista turned, sweet as spoiled wine. "Several witnesses claim Lady Everwind has overstepped her boundaries, issuing punishments without approval, and interfering with matters outside her noble rank."
She smiled then, coy and cruel.
"Surely we wouldn't want history to repeat itself."
Aveline's nails pressed lightly into her palm.
She could strike now. Tear Calista down with what she knew. Expose names. Bloodlines. Treason.
But not yet.
Instead, she stepped forward, voice calm, words crystalline.
"With respect, Your Majesty, I acted within the laws permitted to noblewomen in matters of estate discipline. If Lady Calista is concerned by my presence, perhaps she should reflect on why."
A soft ripple of laughter flickered through the court—quiet, sharp.
The queen's lips curved faintly.
And Prince Thorne—his gaze locked on Aveline with something unreadable.
Not disdain.
Not amusement.
Interest.
"Enough," the king said, voice deep and final. "This court will not descend into gossip-mongering. Lady Aveline's actions will be reviewed by the inner circle. Until then—proceed."
As the murmurs faded and the assembly began, Aveline stepped back, her mask still intact.
But inside?
She was smiling.
Because if Calista wanted war—she'd just handed Aveline the perfect battlefield.
As the king's voice droned on—updates on trade routes, the nomination of a new border general, a minor land dispute—Aveline let her eyes wander.
But she was watching everything.
Calista sat two rows down, spine rigid, smile tight. She hadn't expected Aveline to parry so cleanly. She certainly hadn't expected the Queen to smirk.
A miscalculation.
Aveline's gaze drifted up—to the dais.
Queen Seraphine wasn't watching the king.
She was watching her.
Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, the queen tipped her head the slightest degree—acknowledging, amused.
It felt like a secret handshake made in silence.
Then someone moved beside her.
Prince Thorne had risen without a word.
Not excused. Not dismissed.
Just… up.
And walking straight down the length of the court. Right toward her.
Aveline kept her face serene, but her heart tightened.
He didn't stop until he stood just beside her, too close for courtly decorum. The assembly behind them stilled—half of it pretending not to stare.
"I expected fire," he said under his breath, voice low and sharp.
Aveline didn't look at him. "You expected I'd fall apart."
"No," he said, after a beat. "But I was curious who you'd burn first."
Now she looked at him.
Thorne's eyes were colder than Lucien's, but there was no cruelty. Just calculation. And something else—like interest, sharpened by doubt.
"I see now," he murmured. "You're not a spark, Lady Aveline. You're a fuse."
Then, as quickly as he'd come, he stepped away—returning to his seat with the grace of a predator bored of watching.
The court buzzed again. Quieter this time.
Aveline's hands were folded neatly in her lap.
But inside her chest, her heart was beating faster.
Not with fear.
With purpose.
The royals were starting to notice her.
And when power starts to pay attention… someone always gets burned.