The throne room glittered with danger.
Morning court was a showcase—where noble families flaunted silks and secrets in equal measure. It was all posturing: empty petitions, performative gratitude, veiled threats beneath polite language.
Lysara sat beside her father, her hands folded, her face serene.
Inside, she was hunting.
Every whispered glance. Every titled suitor. Every loyalist. Every threat. She watched them all, replaying names and histories in her mind. Who had betrayed her last time? Who had stood aside?
Most had done nothing. That, in the end, was what killed her.
She would not make that mistake again.
"—and so, Your Majesty, I must humbly request an increase in border patrol—"
Lysara tuned the voice out. Another lord playing politics. She scanned the room.
And then she saw him.
Across the sea of nobles and advisors, partially hidden near a marble pillar, a man stood clothed in black and silver. Not court black—the tailored kind used for funerals or formalities. No, his was shadow. His coat was high-collared and unadorned. His boots were dusted with ash. His gaze, dark and steady, was fixed on her.
Lysara's breath caught.
She didn't recognize him. Not fully.
But there was something. A whisper at the back of her mind. Not a memory. A warning.
Him.
Their eyes met.
He didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
Just a slow tilt of the head. Like a wolf studying a distant deer.
Then, with courtly ease, he turned and vanished behind the column.
Her heartbeat took a moment too long to slow.
Later, in the high garden, Lysara sat with her cousin Mira, pretending to enjoy tea.
"Well, it's official," Mira sighed, fanning herself. "You're the favorite of the season. Half the court's men are planning marriage proposals. The other half are preparing for war."
Lysara smiled. "Same thing, isn't it?"
Mira laughed, then leaned in. "And what did you think of him?"
"Him?"
"The dark one. The brooding one." Mira lowered her voice. "That's Prince Drayke of Veylan. Court of Shadows. No one even knew he was arriving until this morning."
Lysara stilled. "Veylan?" she echoed.
A name like smoke and blood.
"The Shadow Court's heir," Mira said, nibbling a pastry. "Strange reputation. Their magic's different. Older. Some say darker. They don't often involve themselves in High Court politics."
"Then why is he here?" Lysara asked.
Mira shrugged. "Some say to strengthen alliances. Others say exile. His older brother died mysteriously last year."
A ghost memory stirred in Lysara's mind. A battle. A name. But nothing stuck.
"I don't remember him," she said softly.
"You wouldn't," Mira replied. "He never came to the palace during your first season." She stirred her tea. "You were still learning how to curtsy without looking like you'd trip. Gods, remember that? You used to practice in the gardens for hours."
Lysara forced a small laugh.
"Must've blocked that out," she said smoothly.
Still, Lysara's fingers clenched around the porcelain cup.
Because now she remembered something else: he hadn't been at court last time.
So why was he here now?
That night, Lysara walked alone in the candlelit corridor leading back to her rooms. Her guards waited discreetly at a distance.
She liked it this way. Or at least, she pretended she did.
Silence made it easier to think. Easier to plan.
But tonight, the shadows felt too deep. The silence too watchful.
She paused beneath a stained-glass window, one hand sliding instinctively to the jeweled dagger at her hip—not just for show, but balanced, sharpened, used.
She didn't flinch when the voice came.
Low. Velvet-dark.
"You keep your wrist too tight."
She turned, slow and precise, the blade already angled exactly where it needed to be—tip forward, stance low, her weight shifted to the balls of her feet.
He stepped from the shadows without a sound. A whisper of motion, black on black.
Prince Drayke.
His eyes—storm grey, almost silver in the torchlight—swept her over with quiet amusement.
"Better," he said. "Someone taught you well."
"They did," she replied coolly, not lowering the blade. "Now tell me why you think sneaking up on me is a good idea."
"I like observing what others try to hide."
"You've been watching me."
"I have."
"And?"
"I think," he said slowly, "you're not nearly as new to this court as you pretend."
The air between them tightened.
"I could say the same of you," she replied.
He smiled. But it wasn't a kind smile.
More like an invitation. To danger. Or to memory.
"We've met before," she said, searching his face. "Haven't we?"
"Yes."
"When?"
Drayke took a step closer. "Long ago. In another life."
She blinked.
A chill ran down her spine, though she wasn't sure why.
He stepped past her, close enough that his coat brushed hers.
And as he passed, he said—
"You looked different then. Colder."
Then he was gone.
The corridor felt colder in his absence. She stood still for a beat longer, heart steady, breath not quite. Then, wordless and composed, she turned and walked on.
Back in her chambers, Lysara stared at her reflection.
She touched the necklace she wore—a silver sigil of House Thorne.
Her skin glowed pale in the mirror, her white-blond hair coiled like frost, the green of her eyes still bright despite everything. She looked like a queen in waiting.
But inside, she was unraveling.
Because she didn't remember him.
Not fully.
And yet…
Why had his voice sounded like a promise forgotten?
Why had her name in his mouth felt like a secret?
She stared at the candle.
Raised her hand.
The flame flickered.
Test me, she thought.
And it did.
Magic bloomed again—obedient, strong, dangerous. Hers.
She would not be helpless again.
And if Prince Drayke thought he could play her, he'd learn that this time, she had claws too.