In a palace full of light, the sharpest thing is the shadow.
Ceremony bells rang like a death knell over Aerlyn's highest spires.
From the towers of flame-cured obsidian to the golden-tiled dome of the Sky Chapel, the capital glittered in offering silks, crescent mirrors, and whisper-smoke incense. Magic flowed thick in the air—threads of ritual woven into song and spell, sanctifying the city for the Moon Offering.
Every year, the royals opened the palace gates to the public. Every year, blessings were given, petitions heard, vows renewed beneath the crescent throne.
But this year?
This year, a ghost would attend.
And she came to kill a prince.
Cerys Vale moved like breath through the ritual crowds—hood drawn, blade hidden against her thigh, eyes fixed on the dais above.
White-robed acolytes chanted around her, painting luminous symbols with powdered silver. Children scattered bone-dust petals. Noblemen lined the upper tiers, layered in velvet and bloodline sigils.
And above them all stood Darian Rathborne.
Crowned. Poised. Radiant.
She hated how her chest caught at the sight of him.
"He knows you now," Thorne had whispered earlier. "So make it clean. Make it final."
But watching Darian now, dressed in ceremonial white, arms raised in blessing to his people… Cerys felt the sharp edge of wrongness gnawing at her certainty.
"He's not the tyrant," she muttered. "He's the sacrifice."
A voice at her side nearly startled her.
"Then why does he look like he's already seen his death?"
Kael had appeared beside her, garbed in the robes of a foreign envoy.
Cerys didn't answer.
Kael looked at her the way a general does a weapon he suspects might jam.
"Do it now," he whispered. "Before the high chant ends."
But still she hesitated.
Because Darian had spotted her.
And instead of fear, he smiled.
The moment froze—like a blade suspended mid-fall.
"Your Highness," the High Priestess intoned, raising a chalice carved with moonstone and serpent-bone, "Do you come freely to this Offering?"
"I come," Darian said, voice echoing. "Freely. Fully."
"Do you give your vow before gods and blood?"
"I give it."
Cerys moved.
She stepped forward just as the ritual circle flared with spell-light, crossing the final veil that separated citizen from sovereign.
Gasps rose. Guards tensed.
But Darian raised a hand—halting them.
"Let her pass."
His voice—public, calm—cut through the silence.
"She has something to offer."
Cerys froze. Entirely exposed. Her blade hidden only by the folds of her robe. Magic tingled against her skin as the spell-array read her presence.
The runes should've rejected her.
Should've incinerated her.
But the circle… accepted her.
Like she belonged.
The High Priestess looked scandalized. "Your Majesty, the wards—"
"She's no threat," Darian said softly. "Are you?"
Cerys looked up into his face.
Saw the flame-scar that traced just beneath his collar—nearly hidden by gold.
And in that moment, she remembered.
A village on fire. A boy with blood on his hands, dragging her from a ruined altar. Her name whispered like a promise: "Cerys. Get up. Run."
He'd known her before.
Before the Ghost Order. Before the rebellion. Before she forgot what mercy sounded like.
He'd saved her once.
Now she was here to end him.
"I remember you," Darian said quietly, for her alone.
She barely breathed. "Then you know why I'm here."
He nodded. "So strike."
Cerys stepped forward, hand on her hidden blade.
Around them, the court held its breath.
Kael's eyes drilled into her from the shadows.
Thorne was likely already moving.
Strike. End it. Be free.
But her hand… didn't move.
Because for the first time in her life, she didn't want to be free at that cost.
Instead, she leaned in close—so close that only Darian heard her next words:
"Run. Tonight. East Gate. You have one chance."
And with that, Cerys turned and vanished.
Not a strike. Not a kill.
But a choice.
She didn't see Kael's expression behind her.
Didn't hear the priestess crying for order.
Didn't feel the spell-runes begin to crack under the strain of what had just been undone.
She just ran.
Like she had as a girl.
Like something inside her had finally woken up.
But the court?
The court saw treason.
And Thorne?
Thorne saw a problem only fire could fix.