Aurora left Zev's chambers just before dawn.
No guards. No alarm.
But she knew the palace would notice—because the palace always noticed.
And someone *already had*.
A discarded handkerchief on the floor by the door. Silk. Crimson-edged. It hadn't been hers.
A test?
A plant?
A signature?
By the time she reached her room, the Queen's orchid was wilting on her table—its color faded overnight. A sign.
**"You took more than I allowed."**
Aurora didn't flinch. She'd expected the blowback. What she didn't expect was the message waiting behind the second door in her chamber—a note pinned to the wood with a hairpin.
No wax seal.
Just a single line in a hand she didn't recognize:
> *The North is watching. Your sister still breathes—for now.*
Someone else was moving. Someone outside the court.
And Zev?
He hadn't called for her. He hadn't sent anything.
Because Zev wasn't like the others.
**He didn't chase. He hunted.**
And Aurora had just stepped onto his map.
—The Queen's court opened just before sunrise—early enough to catch those with secrets and ambitions still pulsing from the night before.
Aurora didn't wait to be summoned.
She entered the Queen's wing like mist curling through locked doors: quiet, but impossible to ignore.
The guards didn't stop her. They never did. She wasn't a threat they understood.
The Queen sat at her table, cutting figs with a blade far too sharp for fruit.
She didn't look up when Aurora stepped into the room.
"You're early," she said, voice smooth and polished. "Or very, very late."
Aurora didn't bow.
"I came to report."
That earned a glance—cool, lazy, interested.
"Report?" the Queen echoed. "How… military of you."
Aurora stepped forward.
"I followed your command."
"Which one?"
"To be unforgettable."
The Queen set her knife down. Folded her hands.
"And was he impressed?"
Aurora didn't answer.
The Queen's smile curved like silk hiding a wire.
"I can smell him on you," she said. "He's not yours, you know. You walked into a den. You may have survived—but that doesn't mean the wolf was tamed."
Aurora's voice was calm.
"I didn't come to tame him."
That caught the Queen off guard for half a breath.
Then—"Then what *did* you come for?"
And Aurora stepped closer, eyes sharp as her old training room.
"To make him remember *my* scent when he's surrounded by theirs."
She leaned down just enough to meet the Queen's gaze squarely.
"To make him choose me even when you tell him not to."
Silence.
Then the Queen smiled.
But this one was different.
Slow. Measured. And maybe—*just maybe*—something close to wary.
"Careful," she whispered. "Even blades can fall in love with the hand that wields them. And when that hand lets go…"
Aurora straightened.
"Then the blade learns to cut *on its own.*"
She turned, walking away without waiting for dismissal.
But before she reached the door, the Queen's voice followed her—low and laced with ice.
"Good. I was beginning to wonder if you'd survive the hunt."
Aurora didn't look back.
"I am the hunt."
*****
The Queen's smirk was not an expression.
It was a signal. A blade tucked behind silk and ceremony.
She remained seated at the head of her private receiving room—wine in her glass, blood-red and untouched. Around her, the tapestries hung heavy with stitched wolves and weeping moons, the symbols of history rewritten to serve her narrative.
Aurora's retreat had just ended.
The moment the door closed behind her, the Queen let her smile settle. Not wide. Not indulgent. Just enough to suggest **she'd won something**—or *planted something yet to bloom.*
Then she turned her head slightly.
"I assume you heard all of that," she said calmly.
From the far edge of the draped curtain, her shadow stepped into view—**the Spymaster**, face hidden in deep navy, voice a scrape of silk across ice.
"She didn't lie," the Spymaster said. "But she didn't tell the whole truth either. That robe was not just for Zev."
"No," the Queen mused. "It was for me."
She rose from her chair with the slow grace of someone who knew time bent for her whims. One hand traced the back of the chair Aurora had refused to take.
"She thinks she's choosing," the Queen said, almost affectionately. "But that, my dear, is the final illusion I gave her."
The Spymaster waited.
"Shall I intervene?"
The Queen took a sip of wine, finally.
"No," she said, exhaling the burn with pleasure. "Let the girl play at rebellion. Let her lips tremble when she defies. Let her feel... powerful."
She placed the glass down, steady.
"And when he starts to need her?" Her smile returned, this time with teeth.
"We'll remind her that nothing in this palace is hers. Not her body. Not her love."
Pause. Then:
"Not even her sister."
The Spymaster bowed and vanished into shadow.
And the Queen turned to the mirror behind her throne.
She looked at her reflection—not to admire herself.
But to **practice the next expression** Aurora would never see coming.
—
Aurora had just closed the door behind her, the echo of her heels still soft against the stone, when she saw it.
A single envelope, resting on her pillow like a crown on silk.
No wax seal this time. No orchid. Just ivory paper and ink that glimmered faintly where the candlelight kissed it.
She didn't rush to open it.
Instead, she stared for a long breath, hand still curled around the doorknob behind her. Something felt… different. Not dangerous. Not kind. Just precise.
She crossed the room and picked it up.
The handwriting was the Queen's. Clean. Unhurried. The kind of script meant to be read slowly.
*"Dress simply. Come alone. Bring nothing but clarity of mind.
Tonight—an hour before midnight."*
Beneath that:
The Queen's personal crest, stitched not in wax—but **in thread.** As if the letter had been embroidered instead of signed.
That wasn't tradition.
It was message.
Aurora set the letter down and looked toward her wardrobe.
******
The Queen's summons came just after sundown, tucked beneath a silver tray of pomegranate seeds and honey-warmed wine.
_A private dinner. No entourage. No excuse._
Aurora read the note once, then burned it—just in case it was being watched. Or perhaps… to make sure it was.
She dressed deliberately—nothing that screamed seduction, but everything that whispered calculation. Midnight velvet. A neckline firm but daring. Ankles bare.
When she entered the Queen's private dining chamber, she expected two chairs.
There were four.
The Queen stood at the hearth, swirling something dark in her goblet.
"I thought you deserved better lighting tonight."
Aurora inclined her head. "Your Majesty is always generous."
The Queen didn't smile.
Instead, she waved her hand toward the second chair. Aurora moved to take it—until she saw it wasn't beside the Queen.
It was across from her.
A guest.
The second door opened.
Zev stepped in.
Hair swept back. Collar unfastened. One glove tucked into his belt.
He looked at Aurora like she was a puzzle he'd already solved once—but suspected had shifted while his back was turned.
He said nothing as he took the seat beside the Queen.
Aurora sat last.
And only then did the Queen speak.
"You both crossed lines this week. So tonight, I'll give you the illusion of permission. Let's eat."
The first course was figs with ash salt. The second, game meat sliced too thin to hold its shape.
They ate in near-silence.
Except for the Queen's voice between courses.
Casual. Precise. Surgical.
"Zev, you didn't come when I summoned you three nights ago. You sent a soldier with no tongue. I assume that was symbolic."
"Aurora, you wore a gown last week that wasn't from your assigned wardrobe. I assume that was… ambitious."
Neither one responded.
Until the Queen laughed.
"I don't mind. I'm rather entertained."
She looked between them now—eyes bright and dangerous.
"One creature pretending to be strong, both biting their own tongues to avoid drawing blood too soon."
She reached for her goblet.
"Enjoy each other tonight. Because very soon, you'll be placed on different sides of a negotiation table. And what happens then—"
A pause.
A sip.
A blade, veiled in berries.
"—won't be decided over wine."
Then she rose.
And left them there.
Aurora didn't meet his gaze as the Queen's footsteps disappeared down the corridor. She kept her hands folded in her lap, lashes low, mouth still from the weight of unspoken questions.
Zev leaned back in his chair and watched her.
Not gently.
Like a man trying to decide if he'd seen her bare… or just *unarmed.*
"So quiet now," he said, tilting his glass. "You weren't quiet last night."
Still, she said nothing.
"I get it," he continued, voice low and almost amused. "Last night wasn't about me. That was just you… testing the edge of your leash."
Aurora's fingers curled tighter beneath the tablecloth.
"Pushing your limits," he mused, swirling the wine. "Wondering how far you could go before someone noticed. Well—someone did."
He glanced toward the door the Queen had exited through, then smiled down into his glass.
"She left us here so I could remind you."
Her breath hitched—but her posture never changed.
Not resistance.
Not agreement.
Just… still.
"You thought that kiss meant power," he said. "It didn't. It meant *permission.*"
A beat.
Then a low chuckle.
> "You wear submission well, Aurora. Makes me wonder if it's instinct—or strategy."
She finally lifted her eyes to him.
Not defiant.
Not broken.
But quiet.
Coiled.
Zev leaned forward slightly, his smirk easing—but not gone.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Silence is the safest lie we tell ourselves."
And with that, he rose.
Left his goblet on the table.
And disappeared into the corridor.
Leaving Aurora alone.
Still silent.