The carriage slowed just past the Eastern Gates.
Lyra's gloved fingers curled tighter around the velvet-lined window, her breath fogging the glass as the capital rose before her — spires like knives against the pale morning sky, banners fluttering in House Vellorin's cursed crimson and gold.
She was home.
Or rather, back in the serpent's nest.
Behind her, Thorne hadn't said a word since they crossed the border. He'd sat like a carved god — silent, immovable, lethal. A man with ice in his bones and fire simmering just beneath the surface. A storm caged in flesh.
But Lyra could feel his eyes now, tracing the set of her shoulders, the stiff lift of her chin.
He knew what this return meant.
It wasn't just politics. It was war.
Let them look at me and wonder what I've become. She adjusted her veil. "The capital hasn't changed."
"It never does," Thorne said, voice a gravel scrape. "Rot doesn't cleanse itself."
The words surprised her. She'd expected something colder. Something detached. But Thorne… sounded like he'd tasted the rot himself.
The carriage creaked to a stop.
Outside, nobles had already begun to gather — summoned, of course, by the breathless news that the exiled daughter of House Vellorin had returned… not in disgrace, but cloaked in royal black, her hand on the arm of the Southern Wastes' most feared prince.
The door opened.
And Lyra stepped out, not as the ruined girl who'd once wept in palace corridors, but as Princess Consort Lyra Vellorin of the Southern Wastes — her gown a shadow that shimmered like oil in the sun, her gaze sharp as a blade drawn clean.
Gasps rippled through the crowd like a fever.
Good.
Every eye burned with questions.
Every mouth, too afraid to speak them.
She didn't smile.
She didn't bow.
She only raised her chin and walked forward, Thorne a dark flame at her side, their matching rings gleaming like brands of war.
The palace doors loomed ahead.
They would open them for her this time.
Not as a daughter. Not as a wife.
As a threat.
The throne room reeked of roses and politics.
Lyra could taste the bitterness the moment she crossed the threshold. A perfume of wax and wilted flowers, laced with the sharper tang of perfume-soaked nobles who smiled with their teeth too sharp.
She walked slowly.
Deliberately.
Each step echoed like a warning.
Beside her, Thorne radiated that strange, eerie calm — the kind that made even the most confident courtiers step back as they passed.
The Duke rose from the dais.
Not her father.
Just the Duke.
His face was unreadable, carved of the same stone as the rest of the room, but his eyes flickered.
She caught it.
The second of hesitation.
The second of recognition.
The second of fear.
And then—
"Daughter," he greeted, voice smooth, public. "You've returned."
Lyra stopped at the base of the dais.
She tilted her head just enough to make it clear: she was not bowing.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," she said. "I go by Princess now."
Gasps again. The sound was becoming familiar.
She felt Thorne shift beside her — not in warning, but in quiet amusement.
Her father's mouth twitched.
She waited.
He took a breath, forced a nod. "Of course. Your… Highness."
The word caught in his throat like a thorn.
She almost smiled.
But then, the last person she wanted to see glided into the room like poison on silk.
Evelyne.
Draped in pale gold, her hair woven with pearls, her smile soft — too soft — as she stepped forward and took Lyra's hand as if nothing had ever happened.
"Sister," she whispered sweetly. "You're radiant. Marriage suits you."
Lyra stared at her, unmoving.
Her hand was limp in Evelyne's grasp.
She could smell the lie on her skin — rosewater, powdered sugar, and something rotting beneath. The kind of rot that festered behind gowns and jewels and father's favor.
"Funny," Lyra murmured, leaning in just enough. "You said I'd never be wanted by any man. And yet… here I stand."
Evelyne's smile cracked — just a hairline fracture — but Lyra caught it. Like watching frost form on glass.
And then Thorne stepped forward.
The entire court seemed to still.
The prince of the Southern Wastes was taller than Evelyne remembered. Rougher. And far, far more dangerous.
He didn't bow to the Duke.
He didn't greet Evelyne.
He simply placed a hand at the small of Lyra's back — a silent, unmistakable claim — and said, "You may all address her properly now. Anything less will be… taken personally."
A murmur of discomfort followed.
Lyra let it spread.
Let them feel it.
Power.
This time, she wouldn't beg for it.
She would command it.
---
Later, in the rooms gifted to them — the old Queen's chambers, repainted in dark greys and silver trim — Lyra sat before the mirror, undoing the dozens of pins in her hair.
Her scalp ached.
Her back ached.
Her smile ached.
She met her reflection's gaze.
Not the broken girl they buried. Not the desperate bride they tossed aside.
Something colder.
Something sharpened.
The door creaked.
She didn't turn. "You saw Evelyne?"
Thorne stepped in, peeling off his gloves. "She looked like she expected you to crawl."
Lyra tugged another pin loose. "She always did."
"She's planning something."
"I hope so." Her voice dropped. "I didn't come here for peace."
She rose.
Faced him.
And for the first time since the court, she let her guard crack — just enough.
"I'm not naive, Thorne," she said. "They won't stop until I'm buried again. This was only the first blow."
He crossed the room in two steps.
"Then strike harder."
His fingers grazed her jaw — slow, deliberate. "Break them before they regroup. Make them fear your next move."
She studied him.
He wasn't offering comfort.
He was offering weaponry.
And gods… it felt good.
"I plan to," she whispered. "But I won't do it alone."
A pause.
Then, "You won't."
She blinked.
He leaned closer, shadows curling around him like a cloak. "Just don't lie to me, Lyra. That's all I ask."
Her breath hitched.
And for a heartbeat — just one — she wondered what it would be like to trust him.
Then she pushed the thought away.
This wasn't love.
This was strategy.
A pause.
A beat.
A breath.
And then, softly—
"Let the game begin."