The palace never truly slept. Even when its chandeliers dimmed and courtiers retreated into their perfumed chambers, the corridors breathed. Torches guttered low but steady, guards moved in precise patterns, and the grand tapestries—threaded with scenes of kings long dead—shifted with the restless drafts. Beneath its glittering calm, the Golden Court hummed with secrets.
Calista Thornheart sat wide awake in her chambers, the fire at her hearth crackling low. Spread across the desk before her lay a single scrap of parchment, pried not an hour ago from the sleeve of a dying man.
The serpent. The ouroboros. The Circle.
The symbol stared back at her, its lines darkened by hurried ink. The parchment itself was cheap, the fibers already fraying at the edges, but the mark was unmistakable. She had seen it once before—years ago, etched into the spine of a book seized from a heretic priest before it vanished into the royal archives. Back then, it had been nothing more than a curiosity, a fragment of blasphemy.
But now?
Now it pulsed with intent.
Calista traced the coiling serpent with a fingertip, the candlelight catching in her silver eyes.
"The Circle," she murmured, testing the word aloud. It tasted like venom, dangerous but alluring.
From the chaise across the chamber came a muffled groan. Rowan, sprawled inelegantly with his boots half-off, dragged an arm across his eyes.
"We should burn it," he muttered, voice rough from half-sleep. "That's the sensible thing to do. Burn it, scatter the ashes, and never speak of it again."
"Cowards burn knowledge," Calista replied without looking at him. "I prefer to wield it."
Rowan peeked at her through one eye, his expression a mix of weariness and exasperation. "Of course you do. But mark me, Cal—whatever this Circle is, they're playing a game you don't know the rules of."
A faint curve touched her lips. "Then I'll learn the rules faster than anyone else. And change them when I must."
Before Rowan could argue further, the chamber door creaked open. A figure slipped inside, silent as a shadow.
Ash.
The wolf's mask was gone, but his expression carried the same guarded weight. His cloak was damp with midnight mist, his dark hair mussed from the wind. He glanced once at Rowan, then let his eyes settle on Calista.
"You found something," Ash said. His voice was low, clipped, with the kind of urgency that came from too many nights spent running toward danger instead of away from it.
Calista held up the parchment between two fingers. "A gift from your assassin friend."
Ash crossed the chamber in a few long strides, the faint scent of rain and steel following him. His scarred hands closed around the parchment, and for a moment his jaw worked as if grinding down unspoken curses.
"The Circle," he muttered.
"You know them." Her tone sharpened, half a question, half an accusation.
"I know enough." His breath left him in a slow hiss. "They are not loyal to crown or coin. They move beneath, between, behind. Smugglers. Poisoners. Black priests. Every cell devours the others, yet the serpent always reforms. Always." His eyes flicked up, grim. "They've toppled dynasties before."
Rowan sat up straighter, his humor gone. "And now they're here."
Ash's silence was confirmation enough.
For a long moment, the only sound in the chamber was the crackle of the fire. Calista leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin, studying the two men as if they were pieces on a board.
"A hidden war inside a gilded cage," she murmured, her tone almost indulgent. Her gaze fixed on Ash. "Tell me—what role do you play in this grand performance? Spy? Hunter? Or something more… personal?"
Ash's expression hardened, but his eyes did not leave hers. "Survivor."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Rowan shifted uneasily, looking between them, as though torn between warning Calista away and acknowledging that she was already far past the point of turning back.
Calista's lips curved in a smile that did not reach her eyes. She rose slowly, the dark silk of her gown pooling around her feet like spilled ink. Pacing before the fire, she spoke with velvet conviction.
"If the Circle seeks to unravel the Golden Court, then we must seize their threads first. Whoever holds their secrets will not merely survive this storm—they will command it."
Ash's voice was sharp. "You would use them."
"Use, destroy, or become," she replied smoothly. "Call it what you like. But I will not be a pawn on their board. I will be the hand that tips the pieces."
Rowan groaned under his breath. "Here we go again."
"Quiet, dear," Calista said lightly, her eyes never leaving Ash. "What do you propose?"
Ash hesitated, his expression flickering—conflict, resolve, something darker. Finally, he pulled something from beneath his cloak. A torn fragment of parchment, the edges worn, the ink smudged.
Scrawled across it was a list of names. Some were crossed out, others marked with strange sigils.
Calista's heart skipped. She recognized several. A baroness she had once danced beside. A general who despised the crown. A merchant who had built his fortune too quickly.
"Circle operatives," Ash said quietly. "Some confirmed, others suspected. If we can unravel their network—"
"We won't unravel it," Calista cut in, her voice sharp as glass. "We'll braid it into a noose. For them, or for anyone foolish enough to cross us."
Ash studied her, and for the briefest moment, something raw flickered across his face—admiration, fear, perhaps both.
But before the silence could deepen, a thunderous knock rattled the chamber doors.
"Lady Thornheart," came a muffled voice. A guard. Urgent. "The queen summons you. At once."
Rowan shot her a wary look. Ash melted back into the shadows, the list disappearing into his cloak just as the door swung open. When the guards entered, only Calista's cool composure and Rowan's scowl remained.
The queen's summons was no request. It was a command.
The throne room glittered like a trap dressed in gold.
Calista's heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she entered, Rowan trailing a step behind. Light spilled from chandeliers overhead, their crystal prisms scattering glimmers across marble pillars and golden-thread carpets. Perfumed torches burned sweetly, but beneath the scent of roses and spice lurked the copper tang of politics—sharp, metallic, impossible to ignore.
At the heart of it all sat Queen Seraphina. Draped in diamonds and veils, she gleamed like a celestial body, her beauty untouchable, her eyes cold enough to freeze rivers.
The court clustered around her throne like moths circling flame. Lords with jewel-studded robes, ladies with feathered fans, generals gleaming in armor polished to blind. Their murmurs swelled and fell as Calista approached, every whisper sharpening to a blade aimed her way.
Seraphina's voice, when it came, was a blade of its own. "Lady Thornheart." The syllables rang clear across the chamber, silencing the crowd. "You caused quite the spectacle at my ball."
The weight of dozens of gazes pressed in. Calista lowered herself into a curtsy, every angle measured, every gesture dripping with controlled grace.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," she said, silver eyes lifted just enough to gleam in the torchlight. "I merely sought to prevent a tragedy."
The queen's lips curved, though it was no smile. "And yet, a servant lies dead. Poisoned by his own hand. A dagger concealed. A plot foiled. Tell me—how convenient that you stood at the center of it all."
The murmur of courtiers rippled louder, suspicion threading through the air. Rowan shifted beside her, ready to snap a retort, but Calista's faint motion of a hand silenced him.
Inside, her pulse beat steady. Not fear—never fear—but a cold calculation of every word, every glance, every potential move.
"Convenience, Your Majesty," Calista said, her tone as smooth as silk, "is the privilege of those who act when others hesitate. Had I not noticed the poison, your son might lie cold at our feet. Would you prefer I had remained still?"
Gasps fluttered across the chamber like startled birds.
The queen's eyes narrowed, the weight of her gaze pressing harder, testing for cracks. Calista did not flinch. She let the silence linger just long enough to make her defiance gleam before softening her expression with a faint, practiced smile.
The court shifted, caught between admiration and unease.
At last, Seraphina lifted a jeweled hand in dismissal. "You are bold, Lady Thornheart. Perhaps too bold. Remember your place."
Calista bowed her head a fraction, her smile sharpening at the edges. "Always, Your Majesty. Beneath the crown, yet never beneath notice."
The words cut like silk-wrapped knives. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the collective gasp of courtiers who could not decide if she had just displayed loyalty or insolence.
Rowan exhaled slowly beside her, muttering under his breath, "You're going to get yourself killed one day."
Calista's silver gaze flicked sideways, a spark of amusement dancing there. "Not today."
She turned, her gown trailing like liquid shadow across the floor as she withdrew from the throne's glare. Yet as she moved, her eyes caught what others might have missed.
The prince, seated at his mother's right, watched her intently. The golden mask he had worn at the ball was gone, revealing sharp features kissed by firelight, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingered on her too long, filled with something unspoken—curiosity, desire, challenge.
And beyond him, half-swallowed by a marble pillar, something glinted just once. The faint outline of a wolf's mask before it vanished back into shadow.
Ash. Watching. Waiting. Always there when the game grew dangerous.
By the time Calista swept past the doors, her mind was already burning with calculation. The queen suspected her. The Circle moved silently beneath the court. The prince's attention grew heavier by the day. And Ash—Ash walked the line between ally, shadow, and danger.
This was no longer survival.
This was conquest.
And Calista Thornheart intended to win.