Father's private study smelled of pipe smoke and old leather, the scent so familiar it had become a kind of comfort. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the oak-paneled walls that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the night, and the room felt smaller for it—intimate in a way that made secrets easier to share and harder to escape.
I found him there after dinner, sitting in his favorite chair with a glass of wine untouched on the table beside him. The chair was worn, the leather cracked at the arms where his hands had rested for decades. He looked older in the firelight, the lines of his face deeper, more pronounced. The shadows carved hollows beneath his eyes and made the gray in his beard more prominent.
"Close the door," he said without looking up.
I did, and the sound of it clicking shut felt final, like sealing a tomb. The heavy wood was thick enough to muffle sound, and I knew from experience that no one could hear what was said in this room. This was one of the few places where I could breathe, where the performance could slip just slightly. Here, Father knew what I was. Here, I didn't have to pretend quite so hard.
But even here, the weight never fully lifted.
"She's watching you," he said quietly.
I moved to the window, though there was nothing to see beyond the drawn curtains. My reflection stared back at me from the dark glass—a stranger's face that I'd learned to wear like a mask. Sometimes I forgot what I really looked like. Sometimes I caught myself in a mirror and felt a jolt of recognition that wasn't quite right, as if my own face had become foreign.
"I know," I said.
"Severin thinks she suspects something." He finally looked at me, and the guilt in his eyes was almost unbearable. It was always there, that guilt, lurking beneath every conversation we had. "He's been monitoring her correspondence. Nothing concrete, but... she asks questions. About you. About the accident."
The accident. That was what we called it. As if Daemon's death had been some unfortunate mishap rather than the calculated murder it was. As if my presence here was coincidence rather than conspiracy.
"What kind of questions?" I asked, though part of me didn't want to know.
"The kind that suggest she's looking for inconsistencies." He stood, moved to the fire, and added another log. Sparks flew up the chimney, bright and brief. The wood crackled as it caught, and the smell of burning oak filled the room. "She writes to old tutors, asking about your childhood. She's spoken to servants who knew you both as children. She's... methodical."
My chest tightened. "What have they told her?"
"Nothing damning. Not yet." He prodded the fire with an iron poker, his movements slow and deliberate. "But she's building a picture. Comparing the boy you were to the man you are now. And the differences..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Daemon was cruel to her when they were children," I said. It wasn't a question. I'd learned this early, from careful observation and cautious questions. The real prince had been everything I was not—arrogant, dismissive, quick to anger.
"Yes." Father set the poker aside and turned to face me. "He was cruel to everyone, truth be told. But especially to her. He resented her intelligence, her independence. He made her childhood difficult in ways that..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "In ways I should have stopped but didn't."
The admission hung between us, heavy with regret.
"So I should be cruel?" The words came out sharper than I intended, edged with frustration. "Is that what you're saying? That I should treat her the way he did, to maintain the illusion?"
"No." The word was immediate, almost fierce. He crossed to me, and for a moment I saw the man who'd found me in that village, who'd looked at my face and seen salvation for his kingdom. Who'd asked me to give up everything I was for a role I'd never wanted. "No, I would never ask that of you. But you need to be careful. She's intelligent, and she has reason to doubt. The fact that you're kind to her, that you treat her with respect—it's a change she can't help but notice."
I thought of her in the garden, the way she'd looked at me with those sharp, assessing eyes. *You, I find fascinating.* The words had felt like both invitation and threat.
"She hasn't exposed me yet," I said.
"That's what worries me most." Father returned to his chair, suddenly looking exhausted. He sank into it as if the weight of standing had become too much. "If she knows, or even suspects, why hasn't she said anything? What is she waiting for?"
I had no answer. The fire crackled, filling the silence between us. Outside, I could hear the distant sound of the palace settling for the night—footsteps in corridors, doors closing, the muffled voices of servants completing their final tasks.
"There's a ball tomorrow night," Father said finally. "The Harvest Festival celebration. You'll need to attend, and you'll need to dance with her. The court expects it. They'll be watching to see how you interact, especially after her return."
"Of course." The words felt automatic, a reflex born of months of playing this role.
"Daemon—" He stopped himself, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were filled with something that looked like grief. "Kieran. I'm sorry. For all of this. For what I've asked of you."
The use of my real name, here in this room where no one else could hear, felt like a small mercy. A reminder that somewhere beneath the prince's face, beneath the performance and the lies, I still existed. Sometimes I wondered if that was true. Sometimes I felt like Kieran Ashwood had died in that village, and all that remained was this hollow thing wearing a dead man's identity.
"You saved the kingdom," I said. "That's what matters."
"Did I?" He picked up his wine, stared into it as if searching for answers in the dark liquid. "Or did I just delay the inevitable? Someday, someone will discover the truth. And when they do..."
He didn't finish. He didn't need to. We both knew what would happen. Execution, probably. For both of us. The kingdom thrown into chaos. Civil war. Everything we'd tried to prevent would come to pass anyway, only worse for the deception.
"I should go," I said. "I have an early morning."
"Kieran." He stood, crossed to me, and for a moment I thought he might embrace me. But he simply placed a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it heavy with unspoken apology. His grip was firm, almost desperate. "Be careful with her. Please. I can't..." His voice caught. "I can't lose you too."
The words struck something deep in my chest. He meant them. Despite everything—despite the lies and the manipulation and the impossible position he'd put me in—he cared. That made it worse, somehow. It would have been easier if he were simply using me.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and left. I pulled the door closed behind me, and the sound of it shutting felt like severing a lifeline.
The corridor outside was empty, lit by torches that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. The palace at night was a different place—quieter, darker, full of echoes and empty spaces. My footsteps sounded too loud in the silence, each one a reminder of how alone I was. During the day, I was surrounded by people—servants, nobles, advisors, guards. But at night, the truth became unavoidable. I was utterly, completely alone.
I was halfway to my chambers when I heard her voice.
"There you are."
I turned. Cassia stood in the doorway of the library, backlit by the warm glow of lamplight. She'd changed from her formal dinner gown into something simpler—a deep green dress that made her eyes look almost luminous in the dim corridor. The fabric was soft, flowing, nothing like the structured formality of court dress. It made her look younger, more approachable. More dangerous.
"I was looking for you," she said, moving toward me. Her footsteps were nearly silent on the stone floor. "I thought perhaps you'd like to see the library. Properly, I mean. We only passed through it earlier."
Every instinct told me to make an excuse, to retreat to my chambers and lock the door. To put distance between us, to avoid whatever trap she was setting. But that would be suspicious. A brother would have no reason to avoid his sister. A brother would welcome the opportunity to spend time with her after years apart.
"Of course," I said, and followed her into the library.
The library was one of my favorite rooms in the palace—three stories of books, with a spiral staircase connecting the levels and tall windows that looked out over the eastern gardens. At night, with lamps lit on the reading tables, it felt like a sanctuary. The smell of old paper and leather bindings filled the air, mixed with the faint scent of beeswax from the candles. Dust motes danced in the lamplight, and the quiet seemed to absorb sound, making even our footsteps feel muffled.
The temperature was cooler here than in the rest of the palace, the stone walls holding the chill of evening. I could feel it through my formal jacket, a reminder that winter was coming. The shelves stretched up into shadow, and I could see my breath in the air near the windows.
Cassia moved through the space with easy familiarity, running her fingers along the spines of books as she passed. She knew exactly where she was going, navigating the aisles without hesitation. "I spent so much time here as a child," she said. "Do you remember?"
A test. It had to be. Every word out of her mouth felt weighted, deliberate.
"You always loved reading," I said carefully.
"I did. And you..." She paused, turned to look at me over her shoulder. The lamplight caught in her hair, turning it to burnished gold. "You used to tease me about it. Called me bookish. Said I'd ruin my eyes staring at pages all day."
I said nothing, waiting. My heart was beating faster than it should, and I focused on keeping my breathing steady, my expression neutral.
"But sometimes," she continued, moving deeper into the library, toward the reading alcove in the back, "sometimes you'd join me. Late at night, when you couldn't sleep. We'd sit together in that alcove, and you'd read over my shoulder, pretending you weren't interested but asking questions about the stories. Do you remember?"
The alcove was tucked into a corner, surrounded by shelves on three sides and open to the room on the fourth. There was a cushioned bench, wide enough for two, with pillows embroidered with the Valoreth crest. A small table held a lamp, and the walls were close enough that the space felt private, almost intimate.
She settled onto the bench, the same one I'd discovered weeks ago and claimed as my own private retreat. The irony wasn't lost on me. This place that had felt like sanctuary was now a trap.
"Do you remember?" she asked again, patting the space beside her.
I sat, leaving what I hoped was an appropriate distance between us. But the bench was small, and even with space between us, I was acutely aware of her presence. The bench was small, intimate. I could smell her perfume—jasmine and something darker, more complex. Amber, perhaps, or sandalwood.
"It was a long time ago," I said.
"Not so long." She shifted, angling her body toward mine. Her knee was inches from my leg, and I could feel the warmth of her even through the fabric of my trousers. "I remember it clearly. The way the lamplight would make shadows on the walls. The sound of pages turning. The warmth of sitting close to someone in the quiet, sharing stories without needing to speak."
Her knee brushed against mine. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt through me. Deliberate or accidental? I couldn't tell.
"You'd fall asleep sometimes," she continued, her voice soft. "Right here, with your head on my shoulder. And I'd sit very still, not wanting to wake you, reading until the candles burned low."
I had no memory of this. Of course I didn't. But the image she painted was so vivid, so specific, that for a moment I almost believed it had happened. Almost believed I could remember the weight of sleep, the comfort of her presence.
"That sounds peaceful," I said carefully.
"It was." She tilted her head, studying me. "We were close, then. Before everything changed. Before you went away to train with the knights, before I was sent to Lysandria. We were just... siblings. Friends, even."
"I remember," I lied.
"Do you?" Her eyes searched mine, and I felt like she was looking for something specific, some sign or tell that would confirm her suspicions. "What do you remember most about those nights?"
The trap was closing. I could feel it, the walls narrowing around me.
"The quiet," I said. "The sense of peace. It was rare, in the palace. To have moments like that."
"Yes." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "And the stories. You had favorites. Tales of knights and dragons, mostly. You'd make me read them over and over until I had them memorized."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Was this true? Had Daemon liked those stories? Or was she testing me, waiting to see if I'd agree to something false?
"There was one story in particular," she said. "About a knight who traded places with a peasant. They looked identical, you see, and the knight wanted to know what it was like to be free of duty and expectation. So they switched lives."
My blood ran cold. The parallel was too obvious, too pointed. She was telling me she knew. Or suspected. Or was warning me.
"I don't remember that one," I said.
"No?" She leaned closer, and I could feel her breath against my cheek. "Strange. You used to ask for it constantly. You'd say it was your favorite. That you understood the knight's desire to be someone else, even if just for a little while."
"Perhaps the accident—"
"Affected your memory of childhood stories but not your ability to read?" She pulled back slightly, her expression thoughtful. "That seems selective, doesn't it? Like forgetting the name of our dancing master but remembering how to dance."
So she'd already planned that question for tomorrow. She was building a case, piece by piece, inconsistency by inconsistency.
"I've missed that," she said softly, changing direction so quickly it left me off-balance. "Having someone to share the silence with. In Lysandria, I was always surrounded by people, but I was alone. Does that make sense?"
"Yes." The word came out rougher than I intended. Because I understood exactly what she meant. I was surrounded by people every day, and I had never been more alone in my life. The irony of it—that we were both isolated, both performing, both trapped—wasn't lost on me.
"I thought you might." Her hand moved to rest on the bench between us, close enough that I could feel the warmth of it. Her fingers were long, elegant, and I found myself staring at them, at the way they rested so casually on the cushion. "You seem... lonely. Even in a crowded room. I noticed it at dinner tonight. The way you smiled and spoke to everyone, but your eyes were somewhere else. As if you were watching from a distance, playing a part."
My heart was beating too fast. She was too close, too perceptive, too dangerous. Every word felt like a blade, cutting closer to the truth.
"I'm not lonely," I said. "I have everything I could want."
"Do you?" She tilted her head, studying me with those sharp eyes. "I wonder. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're carrying something heavy. Something you can't share with anyone."
The silence stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid. I should leave. I should make an excuse and go. But I couldn't seem to move. My body felt frozen, trapped between the desire to flee and the strange, dangerous pull of her attention.
"Tell me something," she said. "Do you remember the summer we turned ten? When we snuck out of the palace and went down to the river?"
Another test. Another memory I didn't have.
"Vaguely," I said.
"We got caught, of course. Father was furious. But you took the blame, said it was your idea even though it was mine. You were always doing that—protecting me, even when it cost you." She paused. "Or at least, you used to."
"People change," I said.
"They do." She leaned back, creating a small distance between us that somehow felt more dangerous than the closeness. "But usually not completely. Usually, there are threads of continuity. Little habits, preferences, ways of speaking. The core of who they are remains, even as the surface changes."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that you're different." She said it simply, matter-of-factly. "In ways that go beyond growing up or recovering from an accident. You're different in fundamental ways. The way you move, the way you speak to servants, the way you look at the world. It's as if..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. I'm probably imagining things."
But she wasn't. We both knew she wasn't.
"We should do this again," she said finally. "Meet here, late at night, like we used to. I think I'd like that very much. It would give us a chance to... reconnect. To remember who we were to each other."
"Cassia—"
"Unless you've forgotten how." Her smile was small, knowing. "Unless the accident changed more than just your handwriting and your scar. Unless it changed everything."
The words hung in the air like a blade, sharp and gleaming. She knew. Or she suspected. And she was telling me, in her own way, that she was watching. Waiting. Building her case piece by piece until she had enough to confront me—or expose me.
"I haven't forgotten," I said, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to. The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, adding to the weight of all the other lies I'd told.
"Good." She stood, smoothing her skirts. The green fabric whispered as it moved, and I caught another hint of her perfume. "I should let you rest. Tomorrow will be a long day. The ball, and all those tedious social obligations. All those eyes watching us, wondering about the prince and his sister."
She moved toward the door, her footsteps soft on the stone floor. Then she paused, looking back at me. The lamplight cast half her face in shadow, making her expression difficult to read.
"Daemon? Thank you. For today. For being... different than I expected. For being kind."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like a noose tightening around my neck.
Then she was gone, leaving me alone in the library with my racing heart and the growing certainty that I was running out of time.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway. The lamp on the table flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The smell of old books surrounded me, usually comforting but now oppressive. The silence that had felt like sanctuary now felt like a tomb.
She knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not with certainty, but she knew something was wrong. And she was testing me, pushing me, waiting to see how I'd react. Every conversation was a trap. Every question a snare. And I was running out of ways to avoid them.
I thought of Father's words. *Be careful with her. Please.*
But how could I be careful when she saw through every defense I had? When she noticed things no one else did? When she looked at me and saw not a prince, but a puzzle to be solved?
I stood, my legs unsteady, and made my way out of the library. The corridor was empty, the torches burning low. My chambers felt impossibly far away, and with every step, I felt the weight of the day pressing down on me. The lies, the performance, the constant vigilance required to maintain the illusion.
Tomorrow there would be the ball. More eyes, more questions, more opportunities to slip. And Cassia would be there, watching, testing, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
I reached my chambers and closed the door behind me, leaning against it as if I could physically hold back the world outside. But there was no escape. Not really. The trap was closing, and I had no idea how to get out.
All I knew was that Cassia was watching, always watching, and sooner or later, I would make a mistake she couldn't ignore.
And then everything would fall apart.