The air in the eastern palace gardens carried a strange stillness, as if even the wind feared to disturb the woman standing among the pale chrysanthemums. Courtiers whispered that the Empress could hear conversations across a courtyard, taste the lies in a man's mouth before he spoke them. Lyra, still unsteady from the prince's earlier "test," had not yet decided whether to believe such tales, but she could not deny that Seraphina's presence was unlike anyone she'd met.
She did not sweep into a scene; she materialized, quiet and deliberate, like a shadow learning the shape of light.
Lyra had been summoned under the pretense of delivering the evening tea, a task Zara usually took. She had considered refusing, then realized refusing the Empress was not something anyone did more than once.
The garden was arranged with cruel precision, every tree pruned into a perfect silhouette, every blossom angled toward the palace as though even the flowers bowed to her. The moonlight, softened by a haze, caught in the fabric of Seraphina's robe, turning it into liquid silver.
The Empress did not turn when Lyra approached, though Lyra knew she had been noticed. "Place it there," Seraphina said, her voice a low ripple. "And pour."
Lyra obeyed. Her hands were steady, though her mind was not.
"I hear," the Empress began, "that my son has taken an interest in one of the servants." She spoke the word *servant* as one might mention a stain on silk. "An interest beyond the casual cruelty of nobility."
Lyra almost dropped the teapot. "I,"
"Do not insult me with denial." The Empress finally looked at her. Her eyes were a pale, unblinking green, too calm for comfort. "I see the way he watches you, the way you try to make yourself smaller when he draws near. The tension between you is… familiar. Dangerous."
Lyra's first instinct was to retreat into the safety of silence, but something in that gaze held her there, rooted like one of the sculpted trees.
"You know," Seraphina continued, "affection in this court is a currency more dangerous than gold. Those who cannot spend it wisely tend to die owing far too much."
The tea steamed between them. Lyra forced herself to meet her eyes. "And what is it you want from me, Your Majesty?"
The faintest curve touched the Empress's mouth. "Want? No, child. This is not about wanting. This is about arranging the board so that my son is… unassailable. You are an unexpected piece. And I do not discard useful pieces."
Lyra felt the weight of the words. This was not mere court gossip; this was a blade sliding against the underside of her chin, testing the skin.
"You will find," Seraphina went on, "that loyalty can be rewarded far more richly than rebellion. If you are wise, you will let me… guide your steps. You will smile when I tell you to, stand where I place you, and say nothing when you wish to scream. Do this, and I will protect you."
The word protect did not sound like safety. It sounded like possession.
A faint sound broke the moment, footsteps on stone. Prince Kieran appeared from the shadow of the archway, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of them. His gaze moved between Lyra and his mother with the precision of a man marking the distance between two drawn swords.
"Mother," he said. "I wasn't aware you were holding court in the garden tonight."
"I'm never not holding court," she replied. "We were simply… becoming acquainted."
The pause lingered a fraction too long.
Kieran's eyes flicked to Lyra. She looked away, pretending to be absorbed in gathering the empty tea tray, but her pulse thundered in her ears.
"I imagine," the Empress said softly, "we will speak again soon, dear Lyra."
The way she said it left no question, it was not an invitation. It was a summons, and it would come at her choosing.
Lyra followed Kieran out of the garden, the moonlight sharp on the flagstones. She could feel his glance, brief but searching, as if he was weighing whether to ask what had passed between her and his mother. He didn't ask. That was worse.
Somewhere deep in her chest, the Shadow Sovereign's power stirred again, restless and watchful.
Tonight, the Empress had seen her. Next time, Lyra feared, the woman might try to peel her apart.
Lyra's figure dissolved into the shadows beyond the garden arch, her light steps barely a whisper against the stone. The rustle of her departure lingered for a moment, like the aftertaste of wine you can't decide you enjoyed.
Kieran waited until he could no longer hear her. Then he turned to his mother. "Stay away from her."
Seraphina did not look at him. She knelt, adjusting the angle of a lantern so its light kissed the petals of the nearest chrysanthemum. "If I stayed away from every girl you glanced at, I would be poorer in both entertainment and influence."
"She's not a game piece."
Her fingers stilled. Slowly, she rose, meeting his gaze without a blink. "Everything in this palace is a game piece, Kieran. Even you."
The words were not venomous; they were delivered with a cold certainty that left no room for protest. Kieran had grown up in that certainty. He hated how it still managed to sting.
"She's dangerous," Seraphina said, turning toward the distant moonlit wall where Lyra had disappeared. "Not because she wields power, though I suspect she does, but because she doesn't yet understand how visible she's become. The court will notice. It already has."
Kieran's eyes narrowed. "You've been watching her."
"I watch everything that could disrupt the balance I've built." She moved toward the koi pond, its still water reflecting two pale moons, one above, one hers. "The girl has spirit. Too much for her station. That makes her either a liability or an asset. You know which option I prefer."
"You'll ruin her."
Seraphina's lips curved faintly. "No, dear boy. I will make her necessary. That is the only safety in this place."
A night insect skimmed across the water, leaving a trembling ring behind. Kieran stepped closer, his voice lower now. "If you harm her, I,"
She turned sharply, her silk sleeves whispering against each other like the folding of wings. "You'll what? Defy me? Throw away your future over a servant girl? Don't mistake infatuation for strategy."
His jaw tightened. "And don't mistake my silence for consent."
They stood locked in that fragile space between defiance and loyalty. It was the space where most of their relationship had always lived.
Finally, Seraphina looked away, her tone softer but no less edged. "I will be meeting with her soon. Alone. I suggest you prepare her for that conversation… if you want her to leave it whole."
Kieran knew better than to ask when. The Empress's summons came without warning, like the shadow of a hawk crossing the ground before its strike.
He left without bowing. She watched him go, a flicker of something unreadable passing across her face, not triumph, not irritation, but a private calculation only she understood.
When she was alone, Seraphina turned back to the chrysanthemums. She plucked a single bloom and held it beneath the lantern's glow. White, flawless, innocent. Slowly, she pressed her thumb into the petals until they bruised to gray.
By the time she released it, the flower's shape was broken. But it was still beautiful in a different way.
Somewhere in the dark halls of the palace, a servant was already carrying her sealed note to Lyra's quarters.
It was not a request.