The palace was colder than she remembered writing it.
Elara—no, Lyria—stood at the edge of the royal balcony, her fingers curled around the marble railing, the wind tugging at the silk sleeves of her engagement gown. Below, the city of Elarion glittered like a spilled jewelry box, its spires and domes bathed in moonlight. Bells had rung for hours after the announcement. The people were celebrating.
But she wasn't.
Behind her, the heavy doors creaked open.
She didn't turn.
"I thought you might be here," said a voice like frost.
Kael.
Elara inhaled slowly, steadying herself. "It's a beautiful view."
"It's a dangerous one," he replied. "Easy to fall."
She turned then, meeting his gaze. "Is that a threat, Your Highness?"
His lips twitched—almost a smile, almost a warning. "Just an observation."
He stepped closer, his presence like a shadow stretching across her skin. He was taller than she remembered writing. Sharper. More real. The scent of cedar and steel clung to him.
"You surprised me yesterday," he said.
"I tend to do that."
"You were supposed to say no."
"I changed my mind."
Kael studied her. "Why?"
Elara held his gaze. "Because I saw what the other option looked like."
He tilted his head. "And what did you see?"
She smiled, slow and deliberate. "A future I didn't want."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "You're not the Lyria I remember."
"I'm not the girl you think I am."
He stepped even closer, until only inches separated them. "Then who are you?"
Elara's heart pounded. She could feel the pull of the story trying to reassert itself, trying to drag her back into the role of the sweet, sacrificial best friend. But she wasn't playing that part anymore.
"I'm your fiancée," she said softly. "And I suggest you get used to it."
Kael stared at her for a long moment.
Then he turned and walked away.
---
Seraphina didn't speak to her for three days.
Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a whisper.
Elara saw her in the halls, in the gardens, at court functions. Always perfectly composed, always surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and fluttering fans. But her eyes—those soft, sea-glass eyes—were cold.
Elara couldn't blame her.
She had stolen her future.
But she had also saved her life.
And Seraphina didn't know that.
---
"Higher," the seamstress barked, yanking the corset strings tighter.
Elara winced. "I need to breathe."
"You need to look like a queen."
The fitting room was a flurry of silk and lace. Gowns in every shade of royal approval—crimson, sapphire, ivory—hung from golden racks. Elara stood on a pedestal, arms outstretched, while three women poked and pinned and measured.
She stared at her reflection.
Lyria's face looked back. Pale. Delicate. Framed by chestnut curls and wide, uncertain eyes.
But Elara was learning to wear it like armor.
"Do you like the dress, my lady?" one of the seamstresses asked.
Elara looked down at the gown—deep emerald, embroidered with silver thorns.
"It's perfect," she said.
Because it looked like something a survivor would wear.
---
That evening, Kael summoned her to the royal library.
She found him at the far end, seated in a high-backed chair, a book open in his lap. The firelight cast shadows across his face.
"You read?" she asked, surprised.
He didn't look up. "I command armies. I negotiate treaties. I execute traitors. Of course I read."
Elara stepped closer. "What is it?"
"A history of the Vexley Rebellion."
Her stomach tightened. Dorian's family.
"Light reading," she said.
Kael closed the book. "You intrigue me."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is."
He stood, walking toward her. "You're not afraid of me. You don't flatter me. You don't even try to please me."
"Should I?"
He stopped inches away. "Most do."
"I'm not most."
Kael's gaze dropped to her lips. "No. You're not."
Elara's breath caught.
Then he stepped back.
"Goodnight, Lady Lyria."
And he left her standing there, heart pounding, wondering if she had just won a battle—or started a war.
---
That night, a letter was slipped under her door.
The handwriting was elegant. Familiar.
Lyria,
Meet me at the Moon Garden. Midnight.
Come alone.
—S
Elara stared at the note.
Seraphina.
---
The Garden Confrontation
The Moon Garden was silent, bathed in silver light. White roses bloomed along the hedges, their petals glowing like ghosts.
Seraphina stood by the fountain, her gown trailing like mist.
"You came," she said.
"I always do," Elara replied.
Seraphina turned. Her face was calm, but her eyes were storms.
"Why?"
Elara didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Because I wanted to live."
"You could have told me."
"You wouldn't have let me."
Seraphina's voice cracked. "He loved me."
"I know."
"I loved him."
"I know."
Silence.
Then Seraphina stepped closer. "Do you love him?"
Elara hesitated,She had not thought about that since she got here.
"I don't know him," she said. "Not yet."
"But you will."
Elara nodded. "If I have to."
Seraphina's eyes shimmered. "Then I hope he breaks your heart."
And she walked away,Elara knew she hurt her and she could not blame her for saying those words, she was cheated out of her love story so it was only fair she hated her.
---
That night, Elara dreamed of the truck.
Of the screech of tires. The blinding light. The moment her body broke.
She woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, the silk sheets tangled around her legs.
She wasn't Elara Quinn anymore.
She was Lyria Vale.
And the story was still writing itself.
---