The night air cut through Aria's cloak as she emerged from the chapel, but her skin was flushed with something far hotter than cold.
Power.
She had seen the flicker in Thorian's eyes—the first crack in a mask long thought unbreakable. Doubt. And doubt, she knew, was how empires fell.
She mounted her horse without waiting for assistance. Lydia had warned her the risk was too high. That meeting the Prince secretly, speaking of treason, was enough to cost her head again.
But Aria wasn't here to plead for permission.
She was here to burn the matchbook.
An hour later – East Wing, Palace GardensThe Queen's inner court was hosting a private supper. Lanterns flickered under rose-laden arches, nobles whispered beneath veils and masks, and laughter spilled like wine from painted lips.
Aria watched from the shadows, high above on the outer balcony. She wore black now—no longer mourning, but armored in it.
Beneath her fingers was a thin vial of oil. Harmless-looking. Colorless. It had taken her three weeks to find the old formula—one of the many things she had remembered.
It wouldn't kill.
Only humiliate.
Expose.
She unscrewed the stopper and poured the contents over the balustrade, straight into the silver-banded urn that would soon be brought in for incense. Below, no one noticed.
She walked away before the flames rose.
后来——"呐喊"It started as a scent.
Sweet. Sharp. Wrong.
Then came the smoke—thick, black, choking. Screams rang out across the east wing as courtiers stumbled from the garden, clutching at their mouths, their sleeves alight, tearing off masks that had melted against their skin.
And in the center of it all stood the Queen.
Or rather, what remained of her dignity.
Her gown—an embroidered marvel of sapphire velvet—now bore a long, ragged burn across the left side, revealing scorched petticoats and pale skin. Her powdered wig had caught a spark. She stood frozen, eyes wide, lips trembling as guards surrounded her.
Aria watched from across the terrace.
The Queen was not injured. That had been deliberate.
But the scene was perfect.
Too theatrical to be natural.
Too messy to be dismissed.
Whispers would spread like blood in water.
"Was it sabotage?""A warning?""To the Queen herself?"
And in the shadows behind it all—Aria Valtoria, risen from the grave, smiling like she'd never been burned.
几个小时后——托里安的书房
He burst in before she could even sip her wine.
"You did this."
She didn't look up from her seat by the fire. "Did what?"
"The Queen nearly burned alive in front of half the nobility."
Aria met his eyes slowly, deliberately. "Nearly. But didn't."
Thorian's jaw clenched, veins tight along his temple. "Do you know what this will do to the court? The whispers? The chaos?"
"Yes," she said, rising. "I'm counting on it."
He stepped forward so fast she barely registered it—his hand slamming against the mantel beside her face, pinning her between him and the fire.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he hissed. "This isn't vengeance. It's war."
Aria leaned in, their breath intermingling.
"No, Your Highness," she whispered, "this is leverage."
And then, softer: "You said you didn't believe in ghosts. Now the whole court is haunted. And they will come running to you for answers."
He stared at her, chest heaving.
"What do you want?"
Her smile was slow. Controlled. Deadly.
"I want a seat at your war table."
Thorian didn't respond. He couldn't—not immediately. For the first time, he didn't know whether to crush her throat or crown her.
And Aria?
She turned, brushing past him, the scent of roses and fire clinging to her as she disappeared into the corridor.
End of Chapter 4