The salve burns against my swollen temple, but I grit my teeth.

  I'm sitting in Mariana's kitchen. Pale stone walls, a welcome coolness after the unusual heat outside. Morning light filters through the narrow window.

  Her salt-and-pepper hair escapes her bun in loose strands. Her brown eyes examine my injury while her practiced hands apply the balm with precision. The greenish paste releases a powerful scent of sage and arnica that slowly fills the small room.

  My ochre tunic is streaked with dirt, my olive-green harem pants torn at the knee. My copper hair, in full rebellion, hangs in tangled strands around my face.

  "That's a nasty bruise, sweetheart. But my salve works miracles. In a few days, you won't even see it. I was so frightened when Leria suddenly bolted! Whatever got into her! You were lucky."

  Her voice carries that maternal warmth I miss so desperately at the palace, that simple tenderness that doesn't exist beneath the crushing columns where every gesture is measured, every word weighed. I've been coming here for nearly ten years. Ten years during which this woman has tended to every scrape, every bruise, all the small damage my stubborn determination to master horsemanship has inflicted on my body without mercy.

  Within these walls, protocol disappears. Here, I'm not the crown princess. I'm simply Elianor.

  "I don't think luck had much to do with my survival. Your son found me after my fall. Without his help, I would have had two options: wait hours to be found, or stumble back to the palace in a sorry state. Both equally glorious choices for a princess."

  A smile crosses Mariana's weathered face, but her posture remains rigid, guarded.

  "Leandris has always had a strong sense of duty. It's fortunate he happened to be there."

  My heart lurches in my chest.

  Leandris.

  The name settles into my mind like a note of music that refuses to fade.

  "I didn't know he was your son. I'd never seen him before."

  "No, your paths had never crossed," she confirms, now applying a clean bandage with precise, methodical movements. "He lives at the barracks in Kahz'Morr and doesn't come home often. He's been here three weeks now, recovering. A nasty wound to his side."

  My fingers tighten involuntarily on the armrest.

  Three weeks he'd been here, injured. Recovering from a wound that could have killed him. And yet he hadn't hesitated for a second to come to my rescue.

  "He left very quickly," I say, still trying to make sense of that abrupt departure that left me unsettled.

  Mariana finishes the bandage and steps back slightly to examine her work with a critical eye.

  "Leandris hates inaction. This forced leave is driving him mad. He'd rather be out in the field than here."

  She pauses, frowning as she catches my expression. The young man's closed-off face still drifts through my mind. His indifference, his deliberate coldness.

  "Don't worry about Leria. She's probably back at the stables by now."

  I stand, smoothing my dusty tunic.

  "Thank you," I say, keeping my tone carefully neutral. "I suppose falling off a horse is all part of the training for a future empress?"

  The irony in my voice doesn't escape Mariana, but she knows me too well to take offense.

  Leaving the stables, I already feel the weight of the palace settle onto my shoulders like a leaden cloak.

  Back in my chambers, I strip off the dusty tunic. Pull on clean clothes. A beige linen shirt and matching trousers, practical for the training session this afternoon. I braid my tangled hair quickly.

  The throne room doors slam shut behind me. The vastness swallows me immediately. Thirty-six fluted columns rise toward a ceiling twelve meters high, their capitals carved with bull's heads. Harsh light pours through the tall windows, casting golden pools across the white marble.

  My father stands near the strategy table, his back to me. His imposing frame, well over six feet, is draped in a long dark blue tunic with elaborate silver embroidery. A wide black leather belt at his waist. His dark hair, shot through with silver at the temples, falls to his shoulders, swept back with immaculate precision.

  His hands press into the map of A?thoria as though trying to wring secrets from it.

  "Father."

  My voice crosses the frozen expanse of the room. Measured. Neutral. Emptied of any emotion that could be used against me.

  He doesn't turn immediately, and I know it's deliberate. The wait grows heavy, like a wordless punishment for my tardiness and, most likely, for my very existence. When he finally pivots, his silhouette cuts against the light from the windows. Even at this distance, I can make out his rigid posture, his gaze locked onto me.

  "Come here."

  Two words. Cold as Mount Silverrun in the dead of winter.

  I cross the distance between us. Thirty-five meters of cold marble. My footsteps echo in the silence. It's only when I stop before him that I can make out the details: the deep scar cutting across his left cheek, his narrowed eyes, his jaw clenched beneath the thick black beard.

  His fingers seize my chin without gentleness, jerking my head roughly to examine my injury the way one inspects a defective object.

  I hold his glacial gaze, and for a single instant, the memory of another pair of eyes strikes me. The stranger with the linen scarf.

  He hadn't touched me with that brutal ownership. He had watched me from above his mask with a kind of quiet defiance. The lower half of his face had stayed hidden behind the weave of fabric, leaving me only his eyes as an anchor. An intense green, almost wild. To him, I was simply an injured person to be helped, not a crown to be polished. That intensity had felt more honest than all the marble surrounding me now.

  On the emperor's right ring finger, the ancient ring inherited from my mother, gold set with a blue stone, catches the light briefly.

  "You injured yourself."

  Not a question. An accusation dressed as an observation.

  "Leria bolted during training. A minor incident."

  "Minor?"

  His voice rises dangerously as he releases my face with a brusqueness that makes me sway.

  "You could have broken your neck. In four weeks, you are to parade before the entire Empire. Four weeks, Elianor. And you risk your life to satisfy some obsessive need for equestrian perfection?"

  I swallow the sharp retort burning on my tongue. The eshina is not a simple lap around the ring. It's a figure of ruthless precision, requiring the horse to raise its forelegs high and set them down with perfect grace. One of many maneuvers I've spent years mastering.

  I try a more neutral approach.

  "It wasn't a whim. Mastering the eshina—"

  "You've already mastered it sufficiently!"

  His fist slams down on the table with a crack that sends the carefully arranged strategy pieces scattering.

  Hitting the table. The ultimate argument of powerful men when words fail them.

  "This parade is not a spectacle. It is a symbol. Twenty years since the Crushing. Twenty years of peace we tore from the Mystical Veil through rivers of blood. And you, heir to the Thalear throne, would stand before the representatives of every nation with a bruised and swollen temple?"

  My jaw aches with the effort of keeping my expression neutral.

  "The bandage will be gone within a few days."

  "It had better be."

  He turns away, returns to his map. The strategy table, eight meters of solid wood, disappears beneath scrolls and figurines. His fingers trace invisible lines.

  "The war council convenes tomorrow. I have no time to waste on your childishness."

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  A cold shiver runs down my spine.

  War council.

  The words echo through the vastness of the room.

  "The tensions with the Veil are worsening?"

  "That is not your concern yet."

  His voice snaps like a whip, sharp and final, putting me back in my place with a brutality all too familiar.

  "What concerns you is completing the survival trial without further incident, then being beyond reproach at the parade. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Perfectly clear, Father."

  Be exemplary. Ask no questions. Smile. My entire life, summed up in a five-minute conversation.

  He doesn't react to the tone of my voice. Doesn't even look at me. As far as he's concerned, this conversation is already over, filed away, forgotten.

  "Good. You may go."

  I pivot on my heel with mechanical grace and cross the vast room in measured, controlled steps. Every muscle in my body screams to contain the trembling rage threatening to break through, to shatter the carefully maintained mask.

  The doors finally close behind me with a dull thud that echoes like a release.

  In the empty corridor, I stop at last, letting myself breathe for the first time since I entered that suffocating room. My hands are shaking despite every effort to control them.

  My anger is as devastating as the flames of a Devros, those winged demons the legends claim have vanished from the world.

  My hand finds the bandage at my temple, grips the fabric with sudden violence.

  A tiny purple bruise that dares to tarnish the flawless face of his precious heir.

  I pull. Hard.

  The bandage tears and falls to the floor.

  A memory surfaces, sharp as a blade.

  Four years ago. The throne room. I am fifteen.

  I stand near my father's takht throne, that seat our ancestors called "the throne of heaven," hands folded over my green silk dress, chin tilted slightly downward. The dwarven ambassador recites diplomatic pleasantries I've already heard three times this week. My feet burn in these ceremonial shoes. A strand of hair escapes my coiffure and tickles the back of my neck. I don't move.

  "Your daughter is the very embodiment of imperial grace," the ambassador declares with an unctuous smile.

  My father nods, satisfied. "Elianor understands her responsibilities."

  I smile. Gentle. Polished. Perfect.

  Inside, I am screaming. I spent the morning studying trade treaties to understand what was actually at stake in this meeting, but no one will ask my opinion. I am a decorative figurine in a dress that's too tight.

  That evening, alone in my room, I stare at the ceiling.

  "Do your duty. Stay where you belong." My mother's voice circles in my head like a morbid prayer. Her mantra. My cage.

  Tomorrow I will do it again. Smile. Nod. Stay silent. Until I no longer remember who I was before I became this statue of polished marble.

  The memory dissolves. I blink.

  The bruise pulses, raw. I run my fingers over the tender skin. The pain flares, sharp.

  Good.

  Let my father see it. Let my mother see it. It's just a bruise, not some national tragedy threatening the balance of the world.

  That girl no longer exists. The one who smiled politely while being silenced.

  She shattered three years ago in a dark alley. That was when I understood a brutal truth: playing a role would never protect me. Docility offered nothing but a gilded cage where I could be broken without consequence.

  So I learned the crossbow. Then strategy. Then how to bite back when pushed.

  I leave the crumpled bandage on the cold stone floor and walk toward the gardens, chin raised.

  Golden light floods the hanging gardens, terraced in geometric layers. The scent of acacia saturates the air, chasing away the smell of anger still clinging to my skin.

  Beneath the spreading branches of the locust tree, Adrien Vaelisar closes his book as I approach. A familiar smile pulls at his lips. We grew up together in these gardens, him the son of Counselor Phineas, me the daughter of the emperor.

  "Elia, what a pleasant surprise."

  His voice is too assured for someone claiming to be surprised.

  I put on my polite mask.

  "Hello, Adri. I hope I'm not interrupting your strategic reading."

  "You never interrupt."

  He rises with studied grace, pale blue and pearl grey noble tunic without a single crease despite the heat. His dark blond hair is swept back with that infuriating perfection he cultivates. His deep blue eyes sweep across my face and stop dead.

  "What happened to you? Are you hurt?"

  He steps toward me, reaching for my injury.

  I instinctively step back, putting a safe distance between us. A forced smile rises to my lips, automatic and entirely artificial.

  "Oh, that? It's nothing. Just a clumsy fall during training at the stables. You know me, always pushing my limits."

  Firm arms keeping me steady in the saddle. Intense green eyes, promising unknown adventures. That sudden, inexplicable coldness.

  The memory intrudes and refuses to leave.

  Adrien frowns.

  "You could handle any wild ashvin. It's surprising that a simple horse threw you."

  I shrug and he doesn't press further. We walk along the garden paths. White gravel crunches beneath our feet as we follow the precisely trimmed boxwood hedges, their sharp lines evoking military formations. Bamboo rustles against the stone walls, accompanying our uncomfortable silence. The air carries the fragrance of jasmine and old roses.

  Beyond the gardens, the view stretches out over forests to the west and north, then the ochre desert spreading south and east, a striking contrast against the lush greenery of the terraces.

  "I hope this won't stop you from taking part in the trial. Four days in the forest, no supplies, in pairs. Professor Thorne has apparently set some vicious traps for us."

  "Riddles too, from what I hear. As much a test of resourcefulness as endurance."

  A ripple of anticipation moves through me. The survival trial only takes place every three years, and this is our one and only chance to participate. An ordeal designed to test our ability to make decisions under pressure.

  "Your crossbow skills will protect you. You're still the best shot in our year."

  "Thank you. But I'm sure you have your own strengths."

  An amused expression crosses his features, carrying secrets he refuses to share.

  "Perhaps."

  We reach the central fountain. The octagonal basin stretches before us, six meters wide. The water shimmers quietly, revealing the blue mosaics lining the bottom. We sit on the edge.

  "Tildiana is very excited too. She hasn't stopped talking about you lately."

  A fleeting shadow crosses his face.

  "Your sister has a certain... boundless energy."

  I nudge him with my elbow.

  "She'd love to be paired with you for the trial."

  His gaze lingers on me. A beat too long.

  "We'll see how the pairs are assigned. I'll admit I'm mostly hoping to watch you in action."

  Watch me in action. Why does that phrase make me want to go take a bath?

  An unpleasant warmth rises to my cheeks. I stand abruptly.

  "I should go train. See you later."

  As I walk away, an uncomfortable prickling creeps up the back of my neck. I can feel his gaze, heavy and insistent.

  And it makes me deeply uneasy.

  An hour later, the vast grounds of the palace of Ephesia rustle in the warm breeze. Ancient holm oaks cast their dense shadows between which I move, my familiar crossbow in hand. Stone pines punctuate the landscape at regular intervals. The smell of resin and damp earth fills my nostrils.

  I reach a small clearing. A circle roughly fifteen meters across opens before me. The late afternoon light finally breaks through the canopy, casting golden patches that dance across the thick moss.

  With a fluid motion, I pull the training sphere from my bag. The crystal is cool against my damp palm. I activate it with a simple press, then launch it upward. It rises, and rises still, before exploding into a dozen luminous orbs. The targets scatter between the trees, tracing erratic and unpredictable trajectories.

  The stock of my crossbow settles against my shoulder. My fingers find the trigger instinctively. The string hums under tension, ready to release its violence.

  Perfect. Let training begin.

  The first bolt cuts through the air with a sharp whistle. It strikes its target dead center. The orb explodes in a shower of blue sparks.

  One down.

  The shots come in quick succession. Each impact resonates through my bones, the familiar vibration confirming a clean hit. The orbs explode one after another.

  Two. Three. Four. Five.

  My muscles tense and release in a perfectly oiled rhythm. Sweat beads on my forehead. My breathing stays steady despite the effort.

  Firm hands. A solid chest. That unsettling warmth. And those eyes. Only those eyes.

  I shake my head. Refocus.

  Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

  Only one left. My body pivots, searching for the last luminous target among the foliage. There. To the right, threading between two oaks.

  My weapon rises, eyes narrowing against the fading light...

  A dull crack sounds behind me.

  My body jolts violently. My finger presses the trigger on pure reflex. The bolt whistles as I spin around, crossbow aimed at the undergrowth.

  "Who's there?"

  Only the rustling of wind in the leaves answers me. My palms are slick against the polished wood of my weapon.

  The shadows between the trees reveal no suspicious movement. Nothing.

  A nervous laugh escapes me. It was probably just an animal.

  Wonderful. The best shot in our year, terrified by a squirrel.

  I turn back toward where my last target should be. Certain I missed it with that panicked shot. The orb is gone.

  My brows draw together. I move toward the oak where it should still have been flying. That's when I see it. My bolt. Lodged in the trunk. Still trembling with the energy of the impact.

  Impossible. I know I'm good with a crossbow, but this defies all reason.

  My suddenly leaden legs carry me to the trunk. The projectile has pierced the exact center of the orb, where it was after my flinch, not before. As if...

  As if my shot had anticipated the movement. As if some part of me had reacted before my mind could.

  My fingers tremble slightly as I brush the bolt. A strange tremor dances across my skin. Not unpleasant. Just... different.

  The bolt pulls free from the trunk with a sharp tug. Crossbow slung, I leave the clearing. But before stepping back between the trees, my gaze drifts back one last time. The faint tremor still lingers beneath my skin.

  The sun is dropping fast, painting the trunks copper and amber. It must be past five in the afternoon. The raking light transforms the canopy into a vault of gold and fire. The park forest seems to hold its breath, as though keeping a secret it refuses to give up.

  My hand absently rubs my forearm, where the sensation still pulses.

  Mage Venturi at the academy will know what to tell me.

  Or he'll look at me like I've lost my mind. Both are entirely possible.