They had dared to summon him.
His boots struck the onyx floor with deliberate force as he descended into the throne hall. He didn't need to be announced, the magic in the Crown did it for him. Shadows recoiled. Vines that had coiled tight around the throne slithered flat in deference.
He hadn't even put the cursed thing on yet.
Riven's long hair spilled down his shoulders in gleaming waves, still damp from the scrying pool. He hadn't been meant to leave the East Wing tonight, and certainly not to entertain court theatrics or meddle in the Treaty rites. He had sent word that the choosing was beneath him. They'd gone and summoned him anyway.
So yes, he was already angry.
But then he saw her.
And everything inside him went silent.
At first he thought it was a trick. He thought that one of the nobles had finally grown stupid enough to wear glamour and mock his history. Some cruel little jibe at the court's favorite ghost story.
But she wasn't glamoured.
She wasn't even aware of the resemblance. She stood rigid in the center of the hall, eyes wary but proud, wrapped in mortal dust and fear and blood, and she looked exactly like Elya.
His jaw clenched.
The tilt of the girl's mouth, the shape of her shoulders, even the way she held her silence.
For a moment, for one, awful heartbeat, he swore it was her.
But no. Elya had died a hundred years ago.
Or worse.
She had betrayed him.
Riven's fingers curled into fists at his sides. The court hushed as he crossed the dais. The vines beneath his feet twitched, sensing his fury. The Crown pulsed lightly on his brow, its thorns pressing against skin that never quite healed.
He didn't stop walking until he stood before her.
Too close.
Her scent wasn't Elya's. Not roses and smoke, but pine and iron and something faintly bitter, like burnt sugar.
She didn't flinch beneath his stare.
That almost made it worse.
"What is she doing here?" he asked coldly, not breaking eye contact.
The scroll-bearer mumbled something about the Treaty, the lottery, the draw being random.
He didn't believe in coincidence.
Not when the stars bled. Not when the girl standing before him had the same face as the one who left him bleeding in the ash.
He turned away.
"She comes to the East Wing," he said sharply.
Gasps followed.
Of course they did.
But let them whisper. Let them wonder. He would watch her. He would know whether this was fate's curse or some sick game played by older powers. He would unravel her piece by piece if he had to.
He didn't turn back again. He didn't need to.
He didn't return straight to his chambers. Instead, Riven stalked down a hidden corridor behind the court, the thorns on his crown retracting slowly as the stone cooled beneath his fury. Light flickered against the polished walls, casting strange shadows behind him.
He stepped into the Tower of Silence, his private hall, and dragged off the crown, tossing it onto the altar.
A mistake.
The vines snapped out like hungry tongues, latching onto the obsidian walls with wet, sickening sounds.
He didn't flinch.
"Still as clingy as ever," came a voice from the balcony.
Riven closed his eyes.
"Don't you knock?" he asked tightly.
A chuckle. "On what? The wind?"
He turned.
His younger brother lounged across the velvet railing, legs swinging, one of the thorned masks dangling from his fingers. Where Riven was all shadow and precision, Cael was mischief and moonlight. His blond hair fell loose around his face, and his tunic shimmered like stars caught in wine.
Cael grinned. "So. You finally came out of hiding."
"I was summoned."
"Mmhmm. And you answered. Which is what makes this very interesting."
Riven poured himself a glass of blackwine and didn't offer Cael any. "You're interrupting."
"I'm always interrupting. Isn't that the only time you talk to anyone at all?"
"Get to your point."
Cael pushed off the railing and landed noiselessly beside him. He twirled the mask around one finger. "She looks like her, doesn't she?"
The room chilled several degrees.
Riven didn't respond.
Cael gave a low whistle. "Gods, brother. I haven't seen that expression since the night Elya ran with half your heart and all your secrets."
The glass in Riven's hand cracked, and blackwine bled down his fingers like ink.
"Careful brother," Cael said. "You're going to scare the poor girl."
"She's not Elya."
"No, clearly not. That one bled gold and had terrible taste in poetry. But this one…" Cael tilted his head. "This one's interesting. Doesn't bow. Doesn't cry."
Riven let the glass fall.
"I'll be watching her," he said flatly.
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Cael's grin was sharp. "Be careful, Riven. Obsession tastes a lot like love, especially when it's laced with hate."
Riven stepped close enough to silence him with a stare.
"I am not in love."
Cael raised both brows. "Didn't say you were. But the court is watching. The girl will draw questions. And if she is a weapon—"
"I'll disarm her myself."
Cael studied his face for a beat longer, then shrugged. "Just try not to break her too fast. We just got her."
He vanished before Riven could retort, a flicker of starlight dissolving into the rafters.
Riven stood alone again.
He turned back to the altar. The Crown pulsed faintly, as if amused.
"She's not her," he whispered, mostly to himself. "She's not."
But his hands still shook.
And the memory still burned.