The prince did not return the next day. Or the day after that.
Servants came and went in silence. They placed her meals on a golden tray without speaking, then left as if afraid her presence might stain the air. The palace walls, lined in silver filigree and cold blue stone, were beautiful — and suffocating.
She walked the halls like a ghost. Watched. Measured. Caged.
The only warmth came from the candles she lit in secret, never touching them — only breathing near them until they obeyed. It frightened her how easily they did.
But it was not the fire she feared most.
It was the man with the crown
On the third night, she woke to the soft click of her chamber door unlocking.
The prince stood in the shadows, unannounced. His royal mask was gone, revealing a sharp, quiet face that looked carved from dusk itself. Under the moonlight, he was every bit a prince — and something else.
"You lit the candles," he said softly. "Without flint. Without wick."
She froze.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't lie to me."
His voice held no anger — only exhaustion. And something colder: recognition.
"Your eyes," he said, stepping closer. "They glowed. The first night. I saw it."
She didn't answer. Her throat locked tight. Her magic sparked beneath her skin — faint, defensive.
"You think I would turn you in?" he asked.
That surprised her.
"Wouldn't you?"
He looked away. For the first time, she noticed a faint mark just above his collarbone — like black ink, curling like fire beneath skin.
A brand.
"I don't fear magic," he said. "I fear the people who use it for prophecy."
He turned, starting to leave. But something in her finally snapped.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why did they choose me? What am I?"
He paused in the doorway.
"A warning," he said. "Or a weapon. Depending on who holds you."
And then he was gone again — vanishing like smoke.
Later that night, she returned to the note under her mattress — the one that haunted her since the wedding.
You are not the first girl. You are the last.
She turned it over. There, in the faintest ink, a name had been added.
Not her name.
But a place.
>The Library of Bones. East Wing. Midnight. Come alone.
She lit the candle with a breath.
And for the first time since arriving in the palace, she smiled.
Just a little.