The marketplace was alive with color and noise—merchants hawking silk from the East, children darting between stalls, the smell of roasted chestnuts mixing with incense. Lyra moved through it like a shadow, her hood drawn low.
Kael walked a pace behind her, ever the vigilant sentinel. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but his eyes were on the crowd. "He's here," he murmured.
Lyra's gaze found him instantly. Lord Dorian Veyra—the man who had smiled at her family's execution. He stood before a wine merchant's stall, laughing, the sunlight glinting off his gold rings. He looked softer now, older, but the arrogance in his posture was unchanged.
She approached from the side, her steps measured, weaving through the throng until she stood just behind him. "My lord," she said sweetly.
He turned, eyes scanning her face—and froze for the briefest moment. She saw it: the flicker of recognition, quickly buried beneath his polished charm. "I don't believe we've met," he said, offering a smile that didn't touch his eyes.
Lyra returned it, a perfect mask. "Not formally. But I know of you. Your reputation precedes you… as does your taste in wine." She gestured to the bottle he held. "A bold choice. Strong on the tongue. Dangerous, if overindulged."
His gaze sharpened, searching her for meaning. "I find a little danger keeps life interesting."
"Indeed," she murmured, letting her eyes linger just long enough to unsettle him before stepping past, her cloak brushing his arm. As she walked away, she felt his stare burning into her back.
Kael caught up with her at the corner. "That was risky."
"That," she said, lips curling into a shadowed smile, "was the first thread in the web. Let him wonder who I am. Let him fear the answer."
Above them, the spire of the royal court loomed against the cloudy sky. Soon, she would walk its halls. And when she did, Lord Dorian would learn exactly who had returned to the game.