Elira woke to soft light spilling through the velvet curtains. The scent of lavender still lingered, but something else caught her attention.
A folded note sat on the tray beside her breakfast. No seal. No signature.
Just her name, written in sharp, deliberate strokes.
She narrowed her eyes, picked it up, and unfolded it slowly.
Saintess,
You speak with fire.
You mock with ease.
You survive with teeth bared.
I wonder—how long will you burn before you beg for ice?
—L
Elira stared at the words.
"What is this?" she murmured, unable to decipher the message's true intent.
She glanced at the door connecting her room to Lucan's.
"Did he sneak in while I was asleep?"
Her eyes returned to the note.
No threats. No commands. Just… observation. A warning?
She read it again, lips pursed.
"Poetic," she muttered, recalling her sarcastic request to the maid days ago. "So he actually did what I asked."
She folded the note and tucked it beneath her pillow.
Then she walked to the door and leaned in, pressing her ear against the wood.
Silence.
It seemed he wasn't in his room.
"What are you doing? Leaning over the door like a maniac?"
Elira jumped, heart pounding.
The voice had come from inside her room.
She spun around.
Lucan was seated comfortably on the couch, legs crossed, a book in hand. He didn't even glance up.
He is now far from the last time she saw him, with a warrior suit, now in his simple medieval attire.
"How long have you been sitting there?" she demanded, clutching her chest.
Lucan turned a page. "Long enough to watch you whisper to a door and accuse it of betrayal."
Elira narrowed her eyes. "You're supposed to be in your room."
"I'm not very good at doing what I'm supposed to," he said, finally looking up. "You should know that by now."
She crossed her arms. "You left a note."
"I did."
"Why?"
Lucan closed the book and set it aside. "Because you asked for something poetic. I'm a generous man."
Elira scoffed. "Generous? You locked me up."
"And yet you're in velvet sheets, with breakfast and poetry. Some prisoners would call that luxury."
She walked toward him slowly. "And some would call it manipulation."
Lucan smiled, slow and unreadable. "Then I suppose it depends on how long you plan to burn."
Elira stopped a few feet away, meeting his gaze.
"I don't beg for ice," she said.
Lucan's eyes gleamed. "Not yet."
Elira didn't back down.
She stepped closer, arms crossed, chin lifted. "You think I'll burn until I beg for ice? That's poetic, sure. But it's also arrogant."
Lucan raised a brow, still seated, still composed. "Is it?"
"Yes," she snapped. "You think you're the cold. The cure. The answer to my fire. But maybe I don't need saving. Maybe I burn because I choose to."
Lucan's gaze sharpened, but his expression remained unreadable. "You speak like someone who's never been truly cold."
Elira smirked. "And you speak like someone who's never been truly burned."
A pause stretched between them, thick with tension.
Lucan stood slowly, the book forgotten on the cushion. He walked toward her, deliberate, measured, until only a breath separated them.
"You challenge me," he said softly. "Even now."
"I'm not afraid of you," she replied.
"No," he murmured. "You're not."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out another folded note, pressing it into her hand.
"This one's not poetic," he said. "Just honest."
Then he turned and walked toward the connecting door, leaving her standing in the center of the room, heart pounding.
Elira unfolded the note.
*You burn beautifully.
But even stars fall.*
She stared at the words.
And for the first time… she didn't know what to say.
She stared at the words.
You burn beautifully. But even stars fall.
They echoed in her mind like a whisper she couldn't silence.
Elira clenched the note in her hand, her fingers trembling—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
Emotion.
She hated that.
Hated that his words had found a crack in her armor.
She marched to the fireplace and held the note over the flame.
But she didn't drop it.
Not yet.
Instead, she watched the edges curl, just slightly, before pulling it back.
"Coward," she muttered—to herself, not him.
She turned toward the door Lucan had disappeared through, her eyes blazing.
"You want a challenge?" she whispered. "You'll get one."
She strode to her writing desk, pulled out parchment, and dipped the quill with deliberate flair.
Her reply was short.
*You speak of stars falling.
But you forget—some stars explode.*
She folded it, walked to the connecting door, and slid it beneath with a flick of her wrist.
Then she returned to her bed, lay back against the velvet pillows, and stared at the ceiling.
Let him read it.
Let him wonder.
Let him burn.
*****
Tiana stood among the red roses in her garden, staring at them with unwavering focus. The petals were vibrant, blooming in perfect symmetry—but her thoughts were anything but.
Her mind hadn't been at ease since the tea party.
She clenched her hands, haunted by the image of Lucan. The whispers, the rumors… that the Saintess had killed him. That he was gone.
"Milady," a soft voice called from behind.
She turned.
Christof.
Her knight. The most trusted blade in Emberlain. Loyal to her above all.
"Christof," she said, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. "I cannot wait any longer for news about His Majesty."
Christof bowed his head slightly, his expression solemn. "I understand, my lady. But the search continues. Duke Albrecht has reached Berlinton. He believes His Majesty may still be alive."
Tiana's breath caught. "Still?"
"There are signs," Christof said carefully. "Unconfirmed. But enough to keep hope alive."
She turned back to the roses, her fingers brushing one of the petals. "Hope is a fragile thing, Christof. It blooms like these flowers… and dies just as easily."
Christof stepped closer. "Then let me protect yours. If His Majesty lives, I will find him. If he does not… I will bring you the truth."
Tiana closed her eyes, letting the wind carry her silence.
Then she whispered, "Find him. Before the rumors become history. And… if you do find him, let me be the first to know. I'll go to him—wherever he is."
Christof bowed once more. "I swear it."
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the garden—leaving Tiana alone with her roses, her fears, and the weight of a crown that had not yet touched her brow.
******
The note was gone by morning.
Elira noticed it the moment she woke—no parchment on the floor, no trace of her words. Just the faint scent of ink and lavender lingering in the air.
She sat up slowly, eyes narrowing.
So he read it.
She dressed with deliberate care, choosing the softest gown they'd given her—one that whispered royalty, not captivity. If Lucan wanted a Saintess, he'd get one. But not the kind who bowed.
She didn't believe she was the Saintess. She never had. But she was done arguing it over and over again. Let them believe what they wanted. That didn't mean she was going to die for it. No. That wasn't going to happen.
She still needed to go back to her real world.
She was halfway through her breakfast when a knock came—not from the connecting door, but the main one.
A guard entered, stiff and silent, and handed her a small box.
Elira raised a brow. "What is this?"
"No message, my lady," the guard said, bowing before he left.
My lady? she thought. That was new. Strange. Unsettling.
She opened the box.
Inside was a single star-shaped pendant, forged from obsidian and silver. It shimmered faintly in the morning light—cold, beautiful, and deliberate.
Wow, she thought. This is beautiful.
Beneath it, a note.
> *Explode, then.
> I'll be watching.*
Elira stared at the pendant, then at the words.
Her fingers curled around the box.
She wasn't pleased.
So it's war, she thought.
She stood, walked to the mirror, and fastened the pendant around her neck.
"He really thinks I'm the Saintess," she said, watching her reflection.
Then she squinted at herself.
"Great. I look like a dramatic prophecy wrapped in silk," she muttered, eyeing her reflection.
She sighed. "If I start glowing or levitating, I swear I'm throwing this pendant out the window."
She stared at herself again, chin lifted, eyes sharp.
Let him watch, she thought.
She'd give him a show worth remembering.
******
The gates of Berlinton creaked open under the weight of dusk.
Duke's Rensic Albrecht rode through them with a straight spine and a sharper gaze, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow that refused to be left behind. His arrival wasn't marked by fanfare—just the quiet thunder of hooves and the wary eyes of locals who still remembered the day their city fell. He had ridden for days without rest, driven by the urgency of the king's letter and the gnawing fear that something had gone terribly wrong.
The Count's estate loomed ahead—grand, but subdued. Once a symbol of independence, now a quiet monument to Lucan's conquest. The Count ruled here still, but only by Lucan's grace.
Rensic dismounted in the courtyard, where a man awaited him at the steps—not a servant, but Count Dominic Sebastian himself.
"Your Grace," Dominic greeted, bowing with practiced elegance. "His Majesty is expecting you."
"Then let's not waste time," Rensic replied.
Dominic turned and led him through the estate's grand halls, now repurposed to serve the crown. The scent of lavender lingered faintly in the air—a detail Rensic didn't miss.
Lucan's favorite.
And if His Majesty was here, the girl was here too.
They reached a tall set of double doors, flanked by the Count's guards. Dominic paused, then gestured for Rensic to enter.
Inside, King Lucan stood by the window, dressed in black and silver, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The morning light traced the edge of his silhouette, casting long shadows across the polished floor.
He didn't turn when Rensic entered.
"Welcome, my friend," Lucan said at last, his voice calm but distant.
Rensic stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Your Majesty," he said, his tone respectful yet warm. "I am relieved to see you safe."
Lucan finally turned, his eyes sharp but tired. "I gave you a direct order, Rensic. You were not to leave the palace until I returned."
Rensic lowered his gaze. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I acted out of concern, not defiance. When word spread that you had found the Saintess and followed her into a portal—alone, without a single soldier—and then vanished for ten days… the palace was in uproar."
Lucan's expression darkened.
"Some were glad you were gone," Rensic continued quietly. "Rumors claimed the Saintess had killed you. And worse—someone tried to seize the throne."
Lucan's jaw clenched. "Who?"
Rensic hesitated. "Lord Halric. He claimed your disappearance was divine punishment. He's rallying support among the old council."
Lucan turned away, fists tightening at his sides. "Ten days. That's all it took for the vultures to circle."
"I should've killed him the moment I had the chance," he muttered, jaw clenched. "That vile man—always stabbing me in the back."
He turned to Rensic, eyes burning with quiet fury.
"Duke Rensic, return to the palace tomorrow. Retrieve the letter I sent. Tell them the king they wanted gone is already dead."
Rensic blinked. "Your Majesty?"
Lucan's voice dropped, cold and deliberate. "Let them believe it. Let them show their true colors. I'll follow in three days."
Rensic bowed, understanding the weight of the command. "As you wish, Your Majesty. But… about the Saintess…"
Lucan's gaze sharpened. "The Saintess?"
He turned back toward the window, his voice low and conflicted.
"I'm still not certain whether she is the Saintess or not. She bears no mark."
Rensic frowned. "But the prophecy—"
"I know what that old seer said," Lucan interrupted, his tone clipped. "The mark of light. The seal of the divine. But she has none of it."
He paused, then added quietly, "And yet… she was standing on the silver lake. She insists she's not from this world. Claims this is a novel she was about to read."
Lucan's voice dropped further, almost to a whisper.
"She's not afraid of me."
Rensic's brow furrowed. "Not from this world? That sounds like madness."
Lucan turned, his eyes distant. "Madness… or truth. She speaks of things no one here should know. Names, places, events—things that haven't happened yet."
Rensic hesitated. "Then what do you intend to do?"
Lucan stepped away from the window, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. "Watch her. Test her. If she is the Saintess, the truth will reveal itself. If she's something else…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Rensic nodded solemnly. "I'll keep my eyes open at the palace. And I'll make sure Halric doesn't crown himself before you return."
Lucan's gaze hardened. "Good. Let them believe I'm gone. Let them show their true faces."
He turned back to the horizon, the morning light catching the edge of his silver eyes.
"And when I return," he said softly, "I'll decide who deserves to kneel—and who deserves to fall."