The next morning, Elira arrived at the imperial palace dressed in mourning black.
Not for anyone's death yet but for the girl she used to be.
The guards at the eastern gate barely spared her a glance. Why would they? In their eyes, she was still the obedient Lady Valen, the Crown Prince's discarded fiancée. A once-favored flower now left to wilt in the shadow of the palace.
Let them think that. Let them look down on her.
It made her teeth sharper.
She walked the halls with the grace of a lady and the quiet fury of a storm.
---
Elira knew where he would be.
The training yard behind the East Wing—a private space for the imperial family to spar away from prying eyes. She remembered watching him from the sidelines years ago, eyes wide with girlish awe as he cut through the air like a born warrior.
Now, she saw him differently.
Prince Alric.
Golden-haired, handsome, cold.
The boy she once believed would protect her.
The man who let her die.
He stood shirtless in the center of the yard, sword glinting in the morning sun as he faced two knights in a sparring match. His technique was as flawless as ever he moved like a poem, a dance of deadly precision.
And Elira watched with all the emotion of someone inspecting a beast she once mistook for a pet.
---
He noticed her before the knights did.
The moment his blade caught the light just right, his eyes flicked to her gray and sharp, unreadable.
He dispatched his sparring partners in two heartbeats, then tossed his blade to a servant without looking.
"Elira," he said, his tone neither warm nor cold. Merely… bored.
"Your Highness," she replied, dipping into a shallow curtsy.
He took in her appearance. The dark gown. The loose braid. The cool defiance in her gaze.
"You've changed."
She smiled. "You noticed."
Alric stepped closer, dismissing the guards with a flick of his fingers.
"You rarely visited the palace after your father's death," he said. "I assumed you were still grieving."
"Oh, I was," she replied softly. "For a time. Then I realized grief is only useful when someone remembers your pain."
A flicker of amusement passed through his eyes.
There it was that small, cruel tilt of his mouth. The one that used to make her heart flutter. Now it only made her blood boil.
"You came here for a reason," he said. "Speak it."
Elira stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose.
"I want the engagement annulled," she said plainly.
A pause.
Alric's smile widened. "Do you now?"
"I have no desire to stand beside a man who sees me as convenient decoration."
"And what makes you think I ever saw you as convenient?" he murmured.
She held his gaze. "Because if you saw me as a threat, I'd be dead already."
The smile vanished.
Alric's posture shifted, subtle but tense. "Is that what you think of me?"
"I think you are what the court made you—cold, calculated, and afraid of anything that dares to outshine you."
Silence stretched between them.
Then he chuckled.
"I underestimated you," he said. "You were always soft-spoken. A little dull. But now you stand here and challenge me like a queen."
She stepped even closer.
"I've always been a queen. You were simply too blind to see it."
---
Alric studied her face, like a general studying a battlefield.
Finally, he said, "You may have your annulment."
She blinked.
That was… too easy.
"I'm not in the habit of clinging to women who no longer worship me," he said casually. "But know this, Elira my patience is thinner than you remember."
"I don't want your patience," she said. "I want your silence. Stay out of my way."
He reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, the motion eerily intimate.
"You're making enemies faster than you're making allies," he said. "I wonder how long you'll last."
Elira's voice was quiet. "Longer than your mistress."
Alric's eyes snapped to hers.
Bingo.
So the rumors were true. Lady Ceren, the daughter of the Chancellor, had already been slinking around the palace like a cat in heat, clinging to the prince's arm like a future consort. In her past life, it was Ceren who laughed loudest when Elira was accused of treason.
Now the game had shifted.
Let Ceren know that Elira Valen was no longer a lamb.
---
As Elira left the courtyard, Kael appeared from the shadows, falling into step beside her like a silent sentinel.
"You were watching," she said without looking at him.
Kael didn't deny it. "I don't like the way he looks at you."
"I don't care how he looks at me," Elira said. "He won't touch me again."
Kael's expression darkened. "If he tries, I'll take his hands."
She paused, looked up at him.
"You would, wouldn't you?"
He nodded, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
Something warm flickered in her chest—quick, dangerous, and gone before she could name it.
---
That afternoon, the palace buzzed with rumors.
Lady Elira Valen had publicly renounced the Crown Prince.
She was no longer his fiancée.
No longer tied to the throne.
And yet, somehow, she walked with the confidence of someone who owned it.
---
Later that night, in her study, Elira penned several letters.
One to the Queen Dowager, requesting a private audience.
One to the High Priestess, whose allegiance could tip the balance of the people.
And one, unmarked, to a certain noble exile whose knowledge of the court's secret crimes had once nearly gotten him executed.
She would gather them all—outcasts, monsters, forgotten lords.
Let the Empire drown in their own pride.
By the time they realized what she was building, it would already be too late.
---