The chamber stank of old stone and candle-wax, heavy with the copper bite of blood. At its center loomed the reliquary: a circle of skulls bound in iron wire, stacked into a grotesque crown. Their fangs jutted sharp, their sockets blackened by soot and years of offerings.
They knelt as one, cloaks dragging through ash. None dared raise their eyes until the eldest lifted a ladle of blood and poured it slowly over the bones. Crimson streamed into cracks and hollows, dripping like rain through a ruin.
At first there was only silence. Then the skulls began to rattle. A dry clatter, like teeth chattering in winter. And then the voices came. Dozens, layered and overlapping, as though the chamber itself remembered them: monarchs, generals, priests—all the First Blood, the Old Guard who had ruled during the Iron Reign.
The fanatics pressed their foreheads to the floor. "Guide us, Eternal Choir," they whispered. "Speak the truth of what must come."
The voices surged together, croaking through fractured jaws:
"Fate… unyielding… has crept within the walls.
The Prince… could not be saved."
A hiss ran through the gathered, sharp with venom.
The skulls rattled harder, their chorus thundering in jagged unison:
"The Spear… must be sundered… before it roots.
The old ways… must endure.
A gray beast.
The gates… open.
The sun… at their backs."
The eldest rose, his face carved deep with age, his eyes burning in the candlelight. He lifted his arms high, voice cutting through the whispers.
"Then it is settled. The Eternal Choir has spoken. We wait in the fields beyond. The horse will bring her. And when she falls, the rest will follow."
The rattling stilled. The skulls fell silent once more.
—
Each morning, Eva found herself drawn back to the stables. Lucy greeted her with restless energy, ears flicking, breath huffing against her palm. Stroking the mare's sleek neck, Eva felt something ease in her chest—a quiet tether in a place where everything else pressed tight.
Afternoons were given to Lucarion's wing. Courtiers gathered there in silks and jewels, voices weaving flattery with veiled suspicion. Eva endured their stares, their whispers, their measuring glances. She smiled when expected, spoke when pressed. At times she caught herself searching the room, wondering how many weighed her as a curiosity, and how many as a mistake.
And always, Lucarion. His presence steady, controlled, watching her with an unreadable patience.
In the spaces between, she tested—seeking a weakness before she could strike.
At breakfast one morning, Eva traced the shape of a cross into the condensation on her cup, her fingertip lingering in the curve before Lucarion's gaze cut across the table. He didn't flinch. Didn't even seem to notice.
Later, in the garden, she idly drew a fish into the dirt with the toe of her boot—the old sign of the faithful. The soil smelled of iron and dew. He passed her by with a stack of scrolls in hand, offering no reaction.
The next day she fastened a small silver pendant she had found among the court's trinkets: a hamsa, its open palm etched with a single eye. When she entered the library, she whispered an old prayer beneath her breath. Lucarion looked up once. If the words reached him, he gave no sign.
At supper, she let a drop of candle wax fall on the edge of her plate. The scent rose sweet and heavy as she traced an ankh into the soft pool. The curve of the loop shone faintly in the light until she smeared it away with her thumb. His eyes never strayed from his wine.
One night, sleep eluded Eva—her mind too loud, the castle too still. She walked the gardens without purpose, her cloak trailing through the dew.
It was then she noticed the dome.
By day, it had seemed unremarkable—a sealed marble shape half-hidden by cypress and climbing ivy, another relic of old design. But tonight, the door stood ajar, a thin line of light spilling over the grass.
Curiosity stirred. She hesitated, listening. Nothing moved but the soft rustle of night air. Then she stepped forward.
Inside, the air was warm and faintly metallic, thick with oil and the scent of parchment. Instruments gleamed in the lamplight—delicate devices of brass and glass, lenses turned skyward like watchful eyes. Above, the domed ceiling yawned open to the heavens, its panels drawn back to reveal a scatter of cold, brilliant stars.
What could this place be?
Her fingers brushed the nearest table. Sheets of vellum lay in careful disorder—maps etched with sweeping arcs and tight constellations. The handwriting that marked their edges was precise, sharp-edged and elegant.
Behind her, his baritone rang, quiet and even.
"You favor the northern charts."
She turned. Lucarion stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the marble frame. His sleeves were rolled, the dark of his coat replaced by a simple linen shirt. The lamplight caught the silver in his hair, turning it to pale flame.
"I didn't know what this was," she said, keeping her tone measured. "Some kind of temple?"
"Of a sort," he replied, stepping closer. "A place to read what the heavens will not say outright."
He stopped beside her. His hand moved to a brass instrument, adjusting its polished scope. "Come," he said, tilting it slightly toward the sky. "Look."
Eva hesitated, then leaned forward.
Her breath caught. The stars were sharper, closer than she had ever seen, and the delicate arcs of the constellations seemed to pulse with a quiet rhythm. She felt a tug at her chest—a mixture of wonder, vertigo, and something unnameable—as though the universe itself had opened just for her.
"What you see there is a cluster of stars," his voice low and warm, "the Navigator's Crown. Sailors rely on it to chart courses across open waters. Without it, even the calmest sea can become a trap."
He leaned closer, guiding the telescope with practiced hands. Eva didn't step back, her eye still pressed to the lens. The faint scent of citrus and golden warmth drifting into her senses.
"The stars mark more than distance. They tell you the wind's favor, the tides, the timing of currents. Watch closely, and you can guide a fleet where no map exists."
Eva leaned back slightly, her eyes still wide with fascination. "So… you can read the sea from the sky?" she asked as her pulse quickened, from the thrill of seeing how the heavens might bend to knowledge. A part of her wanted to understand it all.
Lucarion inclined his head, letting a faint smile curve his mouth. "Not read, exactly. Anticipate. If you know what to watch for, you can turn chance into certainty."
He reached for a stack of vellum sheets, spreading them carefully across the nearby table. Lines of ink traced previous observations. "I have more to record tonight," he said, voice low, eyes already returning to the telescope. "If you wish, you may assist me."
For her surprise, Eva didn't hesitate when she answered, "I'd like that."
"Good." He handed her a quill and motioned to the first sheet. "I will describe each object. You write exactly what I say—time, position, and details. Accuracy is key."
She took the quill. As he leaned to adjust the telescope, she followed the motions with steady hands, copying his dictation. His focus remained on the heavens, leaving her in a quiet proximity charged with a strange electricity.
As he adjusted the telescope and dictated coordinates, she traced the jagged lines of a rune into the table's polished wood—Elhaz, she remembered, for protection. A small, silent test amid the stars.
By the end of the week, she had worn stars, crescents, and even a rough circle pentacle etched in charcoal on her wrist. Each time, the silence pressed heavier. Each time, hope thinned.
And always, Lucarion remained untouched.
—
It was late when the summons arrived: a servant handed her the message that the Crown Prince requested her in his study. The corridors stretched long and dim, lanterns flickering against the stone, until the heavy doors loomed ahead.
Inside, the air was warm with firelight. Lucarion stood over a broad table scattered with maps. The flames caught his silver hair, igniting threads of pale flame. The sharp planes of his face—high cheekbones, a strong jaw—were carved further into relief by the flickering light.
His coat was discarded over the chair, and his sleeves were rolled, revealing pale forearms streaked with fine veins that traced down toward strong hands. A glimpse of skin gleamed where his shirt fell open at the throat. He moved with the calm precision of someone who knew exactly the effect he commanded, though his expression remained neutral, almost scholarly.
When his eyes lifted to hers, the firelight caught the amethyst of his irises, deepening it to a smoldering red as his gaze swept her form. Her chest constricted without warning. Her mind insisted she remain focused on the maps and counters, not the subtle shift of muscle under pale skin.
He did not rise, holding her in that light, steady and expectant.
"I'd like to call on your military mind," he said, low and even. "Come."
Eva blinked twice and crossed to the table, pulling a chair into place.
After she sat, Lucarion reached under the seat and pulled her closer in a swift motion.
Her gaze stayed on the parchment, refusing to flinch.
Eva cleared her throat. "New routes?" she asked, scanning the lines of ink and counters.
Lucarion's finger traced a line in fresh ink. "Remapped. But I'm missing something. Where would you strike me?"
Eva leaned in, forcing herself to study the ink. "If I were laying an ambush, I wouldn't strike here," she tapped the parchment, "too obvious. I'd test first—small feints here and here, probing to see where the line gives before committing my forces."
Lucarion's mouth curved faintly. "And you've been doing exactly that."
Her gaze flicked up sharply. "Have I?"
"Every mark you sketch, every trinket you wear," he said evenly, eyes fixed on hers, "little strikes. Measuring me for weakness." His hand brushed a carved counter on the map, turning it thoughtfully. "You've yet to find one."
Her pulse quickened, though her voice stayed steady. "Every fortress has a flaw. Even yours."
He leaned back slightly. "Perhaps. But do you truly believe you'll find it with chalk lines and borrowed charms? You, of all people, should know—walls don't fall to scratches. They fall to siege."
She studied him, forcing her expression still. "Maybe I am laying the groundwork for one."
"Or," he said softly, leaning close, his breath brushing her cheek, faintly scented of honey and spice, stirring something unexpected in her chest, "you're already inside my gates, and don't know what to do with it."
Eva did not recoil. She tilted closer, erasing the sliver of distance between them. Her gaze lingered on his lips, deliberate, dragging the moment into something heavier than strategy. His eyes darkened, firelight dancing in their depths as though answering her pull.
For a heartbeat, she let it hang. Breath. Heat. Surrender.
Her hand moved. Quick, practiced. From the seam of her sleeve she drew the narrow stake she had hidden, snapping her wrist forward toward his chest.
But Lucarion's hand was already there. Fingers locked around her wrist, halting the strike an inch from his heart.
The room seemed to hold its breath. Flames flickered higher. Air thickened. His eyes trapped the fire inside, no longer glowing but burning with contained intensity. She strained against his grip, muscles tense.
The soft creak of the door broke the stillness.
In one motion, Lucarion shifted, never loosening his grip, and with his free hand slipped the stake from her grasp, sliding it into a drawer at the table's edge. By the time the servant entered, their hands were empty.
A small woman crossed the threshold, carrying a tray. Steam curled from a teapot; fruit and bread rested on silver. Beside them, a tall vessel of dark, viscous red sent a warm, metallic scent curling into the air. Eva's stomach lurched. She pressed her face slightly away, palm braced on the table.
Lucarion's gaze flicked to her. "You will get used to it," he said quietly, matter-of-fact.
"I don't think so," she murmured, voice firm despite the churn in her gut.
The servant withdrew. Silence settled, stretching between them until the crackle of fire was the only sound.
He turned back to the map, voice low and deliberate. "Tomorrow… I will show you something. It will change how you see all this."