The next day passed in silence.
She glided through the wing, as silent as a shadow. Steps unhurried, face composed. She gave no hint of the storm coiled in her chest, no sign of the cold weight that had settled there since the dinner. To falter outwardly would be to admit defeat. So she walked.
The gardens sprawled in perfect symmetry, neat rows of green and bloom. She followed the gravel paths, her fingers brushing lavender, then stone, then air. It was habit now—marking what she passed, learning the terrain even though she knew escape was impossible. Beyond the walls lay unknown lands, and within them lay Lucarion.
A sound beckoned her deeper into the halls: faint, delicate, like a memory half-remembered. She followed it and found a tall oak door, left ajar. Beyond stretched a music room.
Light spilled across polished instruments: a harp with golden strings, a line of viols and lutes, flutes resting in carved velvet. A grand piano stood sentinel near the far wall, its keys gleaming ivory in the dusk. Dust did not dare gather here; everything was immaculate, waiting.
Eva stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of varnish and old wood. She trailed a hand across the piano lid, the cool surface smooth beneath her fingertips.
Her throat tightened.
Once, long ago, she would have filled such a room with sound. Her mother had coaxed lullabies from her, hymns, war songs too—her contralto voice clear and steady. But after the wound she had carved into her own throat, her voice was no longer the same.
Still, something stirred.
She pressed her palm against her throat, then let her breath shape a note—just a hum, low and careful. It caught almost immediately, rasping, collapsing into silence. The effort clawed at her throat, and she coughed hard, clutching at the edge of the piano for balance.
The sound echoed sharp against the polished floor, then died. Her chest ached with the rawness.
She swallowed, forcing the burn down, and stood straighter. Stillness was easier than failure. She closed her eyes, letting the weight of it settle. Here, in this room made for beauty, her voice no longer had a place.
—
King Valtherion's solar was dim, heavy with the scent of parchment and smoke. The late sun bled through narrow panes, striping the stone in bands of gold and shadow. The quiet hum of the hearth filled the chamber.
Lucarion stood before the long table where the king had set aside his council scrolls. No guards, no attendants—only the weight of centuries pressing in silence.
The king did not look up immediately.
"I hear," he said at last, voice low, measured, "that the assassin who came for you did not live to be questioned."
Lucarion's jaw tightened, though his tone remained even. "He didn't."
"Curious," the king murmured. "And even more curious that it was she who killed him."
A pause — deliberate, weighted. King Valtherion's eyes searched his son.
Lucarion met his father's gaze. "She acted on instinct. The strike was clean. I saw no reason to reprimand her for saving my life."
The king's mouth curved, faintly. "No reason. Or no distance?"
Lucarion said nothing.
He could still hear the crack of the intruder's neck, the soft thud of the body sliding to the floor. A flash of memory pressed itself forward, vivid despite weeks having passed: the apple clamped between her teeth, her hands free to strike with calm precision, the corpse sliding silently from the bed. No triumph, no fear. Only fluency in violence, unbidden. That composure had unsettled him more than the attempt on his life.
At length, the king leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Tell me, then—what did you uncover from his remains?"
"Traced back to the old guard purists," Lucarion said. "They were careful. The intermediaries were silenced before I could reach them. Whoever orchestrated it made certain no trail remained."
"Of course they did," the king replied softly. "They have been ghosts for centuries—too proud to adapt, too patient to die. Even ghosts can wound, given the right moment."
He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."
Lucarion obeyed, the movement controlled, silent.
The king regarded him in the quiet that followed. "And the girl? How does she fare, after her… service?"
"She is alert," Lucarion said. "Disciplined. Her mind is keen, though she still presumes to read me."
A faint spark lit the king's gaze. "Good. But tread carefully, my son. She is no longer merely a Spear. Her bloodline sets her above the rest. She is… pivotal."
Lucarion's eyes lifted. "You speak of the treaty."
"I speak," said the king, leaning forward, "of a thread drawn too thin. The pact with the Lycans frays daily—they still fancy themselves strong enough to face the Draken without us. Reuniting mother and daughter at the banquet will steady their doubts. If the girl stands beside you—if she smiles—then perhaps the wolves will sheath their teeth."
His tone cooled. "We cannot afford a single misstep."
Lucarion's lips curved faintly. "And if she resists?"
"She will." The king's tone was measured, cold. "Which is why it must be you. You are patient. Persuasive. Should she waver—" his gaze sharpened, cutting as steel, "—you will not."
Lucarion inclined his head. "Do not mistake me, Father. I am already more entangled than you presume. There is fire in her. It… intrigues me."
The king studied him in silence. A shadow of amusement crossed his face.
"Good. Interest tempers the mind—so long as the edge remains true. Let us hope yours does not turn against the hand that forged it."
Lucarion's eyes glinted. "You will find my edge where it must be."
"See that I do," King Valtherion murmured, voice carrying the weight of millennia.
Lucarion's lips curved, faint, unreadable.
The silence that followed stretched taut before the king dismissed him with a flick of his hand.
Lucarion turned, cloak whispering against stone as he stepped back into the corridors of his wing.
The air of the king's solar still clung to him—strategy, command, the weight of expectation.
Lucarion's stride slowed as he passed the oak door left ajar. A sound—harsh, stifled—did not belong in these corridors of polish and quiet. He paused, head tilting, then turned into the doorway.
Inside: Eva.
She stood with one hand braced against the piano, throat trembling under her fingertips. Fragile, for the briefest instant, before she drew herself upright again. He stayed where the shadows held him, unseen.
She lowered herself to the bench, fingers hovering uncertainly above the keys. Then, soft at first, she pressed them down.
Music unfurled—hesitant. Halting, then finding its shape. Not hymns, not rehearsed notes. Something else—private, fragile.
The first notes trembled under her fingers, low and aching, as though the keys themselves wept. Each chord dragged a weight behind it, carrying sorrow too deep for words. Lucarion's chest tightened. The grief struck him unexpectedly—a silent plea, a quiet despair echoing in the hollows of memory.
Gradually, the melody lifted, threading through recollections tender, ephemeral. Lullabies coaxed long ago, hymns that steadied her young voice, the fleeting joys of life before pain—he glimpsed them all. The music shimmered like light across still water, bittersweet, fragile. He felt an ache he could not name, a stir of protectiveness, of awe at the depth she carried within.
Then the melody twisted. Her hands struck the keys sharper, heavier, each chord a flare of defiance. The notes jagged, discordant now, raw and insistent. Anger, frustration with walls that confined her, spilled into sound. Lucarion's jaw tightened. He had seen her fight in the field—but this was different. Unshielded, entirely hers, leaving him unsettled by vulnerability paired with fire.
Finally, the fury ebbed. Her hands lingered, trembling above the keys. The melody softened, stretched, trembled into silence, fragile and uncertain. Exhaustion pressed into the final sounds, yet care threaded through them, intimacy beneath the vulnerability. Lucarion exhaled slowly, aware he'd been holding his breath. He stayed cloaked in shadow, unmoving, absorbing all she had laid bare.
The last note lingered in his mind even as it died in the room. Eva bowed her head, hands falling still against ivory. Shoulders quivered once, barely, then again. She drew no breath to steady herself—tears slipped quietly, unacknowledged, tracing her cheeks before vanishing into silk. No sobs. No sound. Silence pressed around her like a shroud.
Lucarion remained in the doorway, watching. The image of her—wounded, defiant, fragile, human—seared into him. For all her silence, for all the tears she refused to let fall, she had spoken more clearly than any words could.
Then, as quietly as he had arrived, he stepped back into the corridor, leaving her to her grief.
She never knew he had been there.