Kaelira awoke before sunrise. She'd barely slept. Her mind looped through every glance the High Lord had given her, every word he'd spoken. The rose. The note. The weight of unspoken history she wasn't supposed to carry.
She was here to kill him, not be seen by him. Dressing quickly in a simple silver gown meant to reflect her "noble status," Kaelira hid a small blade within the folds of her skirt. Thin. Poison-tipped. Enough to paralyze a vampire for ten seconds—long enough to kill.
But not yet. The plan required patience. She had days to observe, blend in, wait for the final bride's arrival—and the celebration that would distract the castle's guards long enough for her to make her move.
---
Breakfast was held in the East Solar—a long hall of windows where sunlight filtered in just enough not to scorch the vampires, but more than enough to make her sweat. A few of the other brides were already seated.
Bride One, Lady Cassira of the crimson-cloaked Virebloods, was elegance incarnate. Cold. Political. Dangerous.
Bride Two, Elia of House Myrren, was young and nervous, gripping her teacup like it might attack her.
Kaelira knew only three things for sure:
Bride Three had vanished en route.
Bride Four was missing a tongue.
Bride Five never left her room.
She sat beside Elia with a practiced smile. "First time in Veyrhold?" she asked lightly. Elia nodded. "It's… beautiful. Isn't it?"
Kaelira's gaze swept the marble floors, the scarlet banners, the faint stains on the stone that no amount of polish had erased.
"Yes," she lied. "It is."
---
Dorian arrived last. No ceremony. No announcement. Just presence. He wore no crown, no visible weapons. Yet every noble in the hall fell quiet as he passed. His gaze brushed over each bride, lingering—intentionally, Kaelira thought—on her.
She didn't look away this time. "Lady Kaelira," he said, stopping beside her seat. "You requested access to the royal gardens." She blinked. "I did?"
"You will." He offered his arm. "Come." Elia shot her a stunned look. Kaelira hesitated only for a moment before rising.
---
The royal gardens were unlike anything she expected. There were no blooming roses. No soft petals. No laughing fountains. Only stone. And grave markers.
Dozens of them, nestled between thorny hedges and gnarled black trees. "Your garden is a cemetery," Kaelira said flatly.
"Technically, they're monuments," Dorian replied. "The bones are deeper. Out of reach."
"How poetic."
"It seemed... fitting."
"For what?" she asked. "Past lovers?"
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Past brides." She froze.
"Only two were buried here," he said softly, hands clasped behind his back. "The others… left no bodies behind. Just names." Kaelira stared at the nearest stone. No flowers. No dates.
Only one word:
"Anira."
It stirred something sharp in her chest.
An ache. A flicker. A whisper.
She'd never heard the name before.
But somehow… she knew how it ended.
---
As they walked in silence, Dorian spoke again.
"You wear the rebellion's mark beneath your glove."
Her fingers twitched.
"What?"
"The crescent scar. Wrist. Left side. Old, but deliberate." He looked at her, unblinking. "They branded you, didn't they? To make sure you'd never forget who you were."
She stopped walking. "Why haven't you turned me in?"
"If I wanted you dead," he said calmly, "I would've left you by the gate."
She drew her knife in a blur of motion—but he was already gone. Appearing behind her, he whispered:
"Next time you raise that blade… mean it."
And then, like smoke, he vanished. Leaving only the wind… and the names on stone behind her.