The trip back to Katarthan was supposed to be simple.
But sometime after midnight, the steady rhythm of hooves slowed. The first carriage stopped in a patch of road lit by shaky torchlight.
Metheea stepped out, blinking into the endless dark.
They had to be close to the border now. The air was heavy, the silence deep—so deep it made her skin prickle, like eyes were on her from somewhere out in that black.
A soldier, now dressed in plain peasant's clothing, stepped close and told her to move to the next carriage.
She made her way to Lerima's, shoulders tense.
Inside, Lerima sat across from her, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Metheea's gaze kept flicking to the window. Trees blurred past, frost catching the torchlight, and then—movement. A shadow between trunks. She leaned in, searching, her pulse spiking. She didn't ask Lerima if she'd seen it; she just wanted to be back at the academy, where at least enemies showed their teeth.
By the time they arrived, it was late. Lerima went straight to her cot.
The quiet in the room pressed on her. She had just started untying her veil when a knock tapped at the window.
Her breath caught. She knew that knock.
She hesitated, glancing from Lerima's still sleeping form to the window. But she knew Azrayel wouldn't stop.
She opened the shutter. He was there, moonlight catching his face.
"Go," she hissed. "Before someone hears you."
"I can't."
"I won't leave," he said, firm. "Come with me."
Muttering a curse, she cast an illusion of herself sleeping on the bed and climbed out. He caught her, dropped three stories, and ran.
They stopped at the lake, its surface silver under the moon. Lovers' Lake, the place for stolen kisses and whispered promises.
She hated being here with him—it was Lovers' Lake, the kind of place where couples whispered and touched under the moonlight, and standing here with him made her skin crawl.
She turned on him with a sharp look.
"Why here?" she demanded, glancing toward the path. It felt like being shoved into some pretend lovers' scene she never signed up for, the warm air between them heavy with a tension she wanted no part of. The fact that someone might spot her here with the beloved prince made her stomach knot and her teeth clench.
"No one comes here at this hour."
"What do you want?" she snapped.
"Did you go home?"
She stayed silent, unease growing at the thought of being seen here with him.
"I told you my answer," she said.
"It's not that simple. I've missed you." His fingers brushed her cheek, heat lingering on her skin.
"I'm betrothed."
He pulled her back. "You can't deny the pull."
The pull of blood? Heavens, he's making me crazy.
She dropped to the grass, mind racing for a way to end this without revealing the truth.
He sat beside her, took her hand, kissed it. "I'd give you the world if you stood by me."
She yanked her hand back, frustration bubbling. This had to end.
"What is Princess Metheea to you?"
His eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering. "That's a bold question from someone who grew up in Dythrid. Did you see her?"
"If you knew where she was, what would you do?"
His gaze lingered, uneasy, as if an impossible thought brushed his mind. Then he steadied his voice. "I want to talk about us."
She sighed and looked away, but he pulled her back, lowering his head toward her.
Her heart thundered as panic and defiance twisted inside her. She shoved him back.
"Do you love him?"
"Yes," she lied.
He laughed, without humor. "You don't love someone else and still kiss another man."
"I didn't kiss you… you forced it."
"Then let me kiss you," he said, his voice low but edged with challenge, eyes locking onto hers with a heat that made her pulse stumble. "And if you don't kiss me back—if you can truly keep your heart still—I'll walk away.""
Her breath hitched, her mind fogging under the heat in his eyes, the closeness, the soft press of his hand at her back. For a heartbeat, she felt herself leaning in, swaying toward him—
—then clarity slammed into her like ice water.
She shoved him hard, the sudden break in contact making his eyes flash in surprise.
"Stop." Her voice cracked under the weight of the words she'd been biting back all night.
He stared, brows drawing tight. "Why? Afraid you'll prove me right?"
Her hands curled into fists. "No. I'm afraid you'll keep chasing something you can't have."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She stepped back, every muscle trembling. "It means you're a fool if you think I'm just some girl from Dythrid."
His expression sharpened, suspicion flaring again. "Then who are you?"
Her heart pounded so hard she felt it in her throat. She could have lied—she had lied for years. But she was so tired of hiding, so tired of him looking at her like she was a puzzle he could solve if he just kissed her hard enough.
"I am Metheea," she said, each word clear and deliberate, like the snap of a lock breaking.
For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't even breathe. The only sound was the quiet lap of the lake against the shore.