Desmond Santee walked the palace corridors with long, controlled strides, but anyone who watched him closely would see the tension in his shoulders—coiled, restrained, dangerous.
He didn't normally allow intruders to stay in the royal wing.
He didn't normally drag strangers out of alleys.
He didn't normally touch women he had known for less than an hour.
But Zara Marcus was not normal.
And that unsettled him more than any threat lurking beneath Maltherion.
The hall leading toward the throne room was empty except for flickering violet lanterns that cast shifting shadows across the floor. His boots echoed lightly against the polished stone.
The tremor he felt earlier still crawled along the back of his spine.
Silverado.
It had to be.
And somehow… Zara reacted to it.
That alone made her far more dangerous than she realized.
THE KING WHO DID NOT SLEEP
Two armored guards stepped aside as Desmond approached the throne room. The double doors—towering slabs of dark iron etched with serpentine sigils—swung open.
Inside, the chamber glowed with cold, unnatural light.
His father, King Tharian Santee, sat on the Thorned Throne—a structure of black metal twisted like roots, rumored to be grown instead of forged. The king's crown was a circlet of dark steel, resting heavy on his pale temples.
He looked older than he had weeks ago.
Not tired.
Eroded.
As if something invisible fed on him.
Walter stood nearby, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp with the satisfaction of someone who enjoyed delivering bad news.
Desmond bowed.
"Father."
"Desmond." The king's voice was low, rasped, as if dragged from a deep cavern. "We felt another pulse from below."
Desmond stiffened. "The dungeons?"
"Lower," Walter said. "Much lower. The old tunnels. Where your ancestors sealed the—"
"Enough." The king raised a trembling hand.
The adviser bowed slightly.
Desmond's frown deepened. His father's fingers shook. His skin looked almost grey.
"You're weakening," Desmond said quietly.
Walter's gaze snapped toward him, warning sharp.
But Tharian gave a humorless smile.
"Observant, as always."
"What's causing this?" Desmond asked.
Silence. Heavy.
Until Walter answered:
"It's awakening."
The word clawed at Desmond's spine.
He gripped the hilts of his gloves. "So the rumors are true."
"They are no longer rumors," Walter said. "And that girl you brought into the palace arrived the same night we felt the strongest tremor in decades."
Desmond's breath stilled.
"You think she's connected."
Walter gave a cold smile.
"I think she is a threat."
Desmond stepped forward sharply.
"She saved my life tonight."
Walter arched a brow. "Or ensured she appeared valuable."
The prince clenched his jaw.
The thought had already crossed his mind, but he refused to entertain it.
Zara's eyes, when she looked at him—there was fire there, yes, and secrets, and danger.
But not deception.
Not the kind that plotted regicide.
The king spoke again, voice thin.
"Bring her to me. At dawn. I want to see her myself."
Desmond's stomach tightened.
Zara meeting the king this early…
It felt wrong. Too soon. Too risky.
"Father—"
"Do not argue," the king said. "My time is shorter than you believe. If she is part of this prophecy, I must know."
Walter stepped forward. "And if she is not… the king must determine whether she is safe to keep alive."
Desmond's blood iced.
"Walter," he said, voice sharp, "choose your words."
The adviser bowed deeply.
"My loyalty is to the crown. As yours should be."
Desmond said nothing.
But the flicker in his eyes was unmistakable:
His loyalty was already splitting in two directions.
And one of those directions had a name.
ZARA'S RESTLESS NIGHT
Zara paced her chamber long after Desmond left.
The cloak around her shoulders felt like a weight—protective, yes, but too personal. Too intimate for something given by a prince who barely knew her.
The fire crackled softly, and lightning flashed outside the window, illuminating the city's spires.
Her instincts would not settle.
The tremor beneath the palace earlier…
She had felt it like a heartbeat under her skin.
Silverado's presence brushing the edges of her magic.
Awakening.
Calling.
Remembering.
She pressed her palms against the cold stone wall, grounding herself. The chill bit into her skin, but her pulse remained too warm.
This kingdom is about to break.
And she was standing in the epicenter of its future.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
Not guards—she would've heard their heavy steps.
This knock was light. Precise.
Zara's hand slipped to the dagger hidden in her boot.
"Enter."
The door creaked open.
Victor.
Rain clung to his cloak and hair, droplets sliding down his cheek. His expression was a mix of relief and anger, both aimed at her.
"Zara," he breathed. "You should not be alone."
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm in the royal wing."
"Exactly," he snapped. "Which is the last place you should be."
He entered and shut the door behind him quietly.
His eyes scanned the room—bed, windows, shadows—and then lingered on the cloak around her shoulders.
His jaw tightened.
"He gave you that?"
"Yes."
"Did you accept it willingly?"
Zara's lips curved.
"Why? Worried I've given my loyalty to the prince already?"
Victor stepped closer, rain dripping from his cloak onto the floor.
"I'm worried," he said softly, "that you don't see how dangerous he is."
Zara crossed her arms.
"I know exactly what he is."
Victor's voice dropped, raw.
"Do you? Because when he looks at you—"
He stopped.
Zara felt the shift in the air.
"When he looks at you," Victor repeated quietly, "he looks like he's already decided you belong to him."
Her breath stilled.
Victor moved closer, close enough for her to smell the storm clinging to him.
"I've seen that look before," he said. "I've seen what it does to men."
For a moment, Zara felt something unfamiliar—something she hated in herself—
Vulnerability.
She turned away, but Victor caught her wrist gently.
"Zara," he murmured. "You don't have to face this alone. You're stronger than anyone I know, but this place… these people… they will eat you alive."
She breathed in slowly.
"I came here for a reason, Victor."
"And I'll die before I let that reason kill you."
His eyes glistened with truth.
Old truth.
Painful truth.
The kind Desmond had not yet earned.
She pulled her hand free gently.
"Go rest. You look exhausted."
Victor hesitated—long enough for silence to stretch into something heavy—then he nodded reluctantly.
"If you need me," he said, "I'll be a shadow away."
He left.
Zara stood unmoving for a long moment.
Two men at war already.
And she was the reason.
Not because of desire—though that simmered in dangerous places— but because of destiny.
And destiny was always cruel.
THE PRINCE RETURNS
She sensed him before she heard him.
Soft footsteps.
Controlled breathing.
A presence she now recognized instinctively.
The door opened again.
Desmond leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark with something he wasn't saying.
"You had a visitor," he said.
Zara didn't startle.
"You knew he was here?"
"I know everything that happens in this wing."
He stepped inside.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Zara's pulse tightened despite herself.
"You're unhappy," she observed.
"Not unhappy," he murmured. "Concerned."
"That Victor visited?"
"That he speaks to you like he knows you better than I do."
Zara's breath caught.
The intimacy in his voice unsettled her more than the threat tonight.
"You don't know me at all," she said softly.
Desmond stepped closer.
"Not yet."
The words hit her like heat.
He stopped a single breath away, not touching her, but close enough that she felt the warmth of his body radiating into hers.
"This room," she said, forcing control into her voice, "was prepared before I arrived."
"Yes."
"For whom?"
Desmond's jaw flexed.
"For someone I needed to keep close."
"Needed," she repeated. "Not wanted?"
Something flickered in his eyes.
He leaned in—not touching, just close enough that her breath hitched.
"Maybe both," he whispered.
Her heart pounded so loud she was certain he heard it.
He lifted a hand, hesitating—just for a heartbeat—before brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Soft.
Dangerous.
Too intimate.
Zara's breath trembled.
Desmond's voice dropped, low enough to melt bone.
"At dawn," he said, "the king wants to see you."
Her entire body stiffened.
"That's too soon."
"I know."
"Why?"
Desmond's eyes darkened with something like fear—something he would never admit.
"Because he feels something awakening beneath the capital. And because he thinks you're connected."
The room felt suddenly colder.
Zara stepped back.
"When do we leave?"
"At first light," Desmond said. "I'll escort you myself."
She nodded, steadying her breathing.
Desmond lingered.
Watching her.
Measuring her.
Wanting her in a way he tried—and failed—to hide.
"Goodnight, Zara," he murmured.
Her pulse stilled.
Desmond turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
The moment he left, Zara exhaled shakily.
The fire crackled.
The storm groaned outside.
The cloak around her shoulders pulsed with faint magic.
At dawn, her fate would begin.
And Desmond Santee—prince of Maltherion, man of iron restraint—would walk beside her into the darkness she had spent her life running from.