📍 Chapter 56 – The Blade and the Letter
Zara turned the dagger over in her palm, the dim candlelight catching on the polished silver blade. It was light—shockingly so. Elegant. No jewels, no markings. It didn't need them. Its silence was its message.
"This belonged to my sister," Zaire said quietly.
Zara's head lifted. "I didn't know you had a sister."
"Most don't. She was older. She died before I was old enough to remember her face properly." His voice was distant, but steady. "She never made it to the palace. She was ambushed on the road before her wedding. Bandits, they said."
Zara frowned. "You don't believe that?"
Zaire shook his head. "My mother never talks about her. Neither does the council. Her name was erased like she never existed. But I found this—hidden behind a loose stone in my father's library wall. She must've kept it for protection. Maybe she knew something was coming."
Zara ran her finger along the edge, careful not to press. "And now you're giving it to me."
He nodded once. "Because what killed her wasn't a blade. It was trusting the wrong people."
Zara looked at him. "Do you trust me?"
He met her gaze evenly. "I do."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she didn't say anything at all. She simply slid the dagger into the hidden pocket stitched into the lining of her outer robe and let the weight of it rest there—silent, but present.
---
The next morning, a sealed letter arrived in Zaire's chamber.
No crest. No ribbon. Just dark wax and thick paper folded with exact precision.
Zaire stared at it for a long time before breaking the seal.
Zara waited in silence from her place on the other side of the table, watching his expression shift.
He read it twice. Then handed it to her.
She unfolded it.
**To the Prince who sits on a throne never meant for him—**
_Your invitation is accepted._
_I will come to the palace in three nights._
_I will not bring swords if you do not._
_But I am not coming alone._
– *K.*
Zara's stomach twisted.
Zaire tapped the table lightly with his fingers, deep in thought. "He's bold."
"He knows it's a trap."
"It isn't. Not yet," Zaire replied. "But it will be if he gives me a reason."
Zara lowered the paper. "He's bringing someone."
Zaire nodded. "The question is who. And why."
---
By that evening, preparations were already in motion.
Guards were doubled at every entrance. The royal chef was briefed. Two of the council chambers were sealed and checked for eavesdropping. Only Zaire's inner circle knew what was happening. Even the Queen was not informed.
Zara helped where she could, though her presence drew eyes everywhere she went. She knew the rumors were still circling her like vultures, but she didn't flinch anymore.
They could whisper.
Let them.
She had a weapon now. And a reason to use it.
---
The night before Kalren's arrival, Zara stood before the mirror in her chambers, watching the reflection of herself as a maid adjusted the shoulders of her gown.
It was darker than usual—midnight blue, nearly black, with a high collar and long sleeves that brushed her wrists. Her hair was pulled up into a tight knot, no strands allowed to fall. There was no jewelry. No softness.
She looked like a shadow of the woman she used to be.
And that was the point.
She dismissed the maid and turned back toward the drawer where the dagger now lived. She picked it up again, slid it into the sheath Zaire had given her, and fastened it beneath her robe.
As she straightened, there was a knock at the door.
This one wasn't Zaire's usual knock.
It was gentler.
When she opened the door, it was Lord Rulin.
The oldest man on the council.
She blinked in surprise. "My lord?"
He gave her a polite nod. "May I speak with you, Lady Zara?"
She hesitated—then stepped aside. "Of course."
Rulin entered slowly, favoring his left leg as he walked, and stood by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back.
"You know why I've come," he said softly.
Zara nodded. "Kalren."
"I served his father before he was even born," Rulin said. "I watched Kalren grow up. He was sharp. Dangerous even then. He used to argue with his tutors about war strategies, tear apart books on law just to prove a point."
Zara moved closer. "Do you believe he's here to take the throne?"
Rulin didn't answer right away.
"He believes it should've been his. Zaire may hold the crown by blood, but Kalren was raised like the heir. Trained like one. Trusted like one. When the rebellion started, many of the old families looked to Kalren as the future. Then he vanished."
"Until now."
Rulin nodded grimly. "Be careful, Lady Zara. Kalren is not like the men you know. He is colder. Smarter. He will not attack with a sword. He will use your fear, your doubts. He will make you question everything until your loyalty breaks."
Zara met his eyes. "Then I won't let it break."
He smiled faintly, a flicker of something like approval.
"Good," he said. "Because Zaire will need you when this begins."
---
The third night arrived with thunder.
Clouds rolled over the horizon as dusk fell, heavy with tension. The palace was lit with hundreds of lanterns, their warm glow doing little to soften the growing cold in the halls.
Zara stood beside Zaire in the great hall, surrounded by armed guards pretending not to be armed. Every noble present had been carefully vetted, every servant double-checked. A physician stood on standby behind a curtain. Just in case.
And then, the doors opened.
He stepped inside like he owned the ground beneath him.
Kalren.
Taller than Zaire. Broader. His hair was dark and slicked back, his eyes like polished obsidian. He wore no crown, no weapon. Only a long black coat with silver trim, and beside him walked a young woman Zara didn't recognize.
Slim, pale, silent. She didn't lift her head once.
Zaire's hands flexed at his sides.
"Welcome," he said coolly.
Kalren smiled. "You've redecorated. Looks warmer."
Zaire didn't smile. "You've brought company."
Kalren gestured at the girl. "This is Leva. She has nothing to do with this. She's simply here to observe."
Zara felt her spine stiffen. Something about the girl felt… off. Like she wasn't really present. Her eyes remained on the floor. No emotion. No fear.
Zaire motioned to the seats arranged at the center of the room. "Shall we speak?"
Kalren nodded. "Let's."
And the trap—whatever it was—began to take shape.