Avelyncè Ryler was escorted to her new chambers by four guards, two advisors, and one extremely nervous maid.
"This is unnecessary," Avelyncè said for the third time, clutching the small satchel she'd brought from the archives. "I live ten minutes away."
The guards did not slow.
"The throne has issued a preference," one of them said stiffly.
"I don't recall being asked," she muttered.
---
The room was beautiful.
That was the problem.
Tall arched windows. Silk curtains in deep gold and ivory. A bed large enough to comfortably sleep four people—or one person who made very poor life choices.
"This is a noble suite," Avelyncè said slowly.
"Yes, Lady Ryler," the maid replied.
"Please don't call me that."
The door closed behind them.
It locked.
Avelyncè stared at it.
"…Did the door just lock itself?"
The maid swallowed. "It does that when the throne insists."
---
Night fell.
The palace quieted.
Avelyncè lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the unfamiliar silence of luxury.
This was a mistake.
She swung her legs off the bed and padded toward the door.
It did not open.
She tried the window.
Sealed.
"…I'm being held hostage by furniture," she whispered.
The candle beside her flickered.
Then steadied.
Reassuring.
---
A sudden knock echoed through the chamber.
Avelyncè jumped. "Yes?"
The door opened—this time without resistance.
Prince Caelan Ardyn stepped inside, cloak loose over his shoulders, crown absent. He looked… human.
"You tried to leave," he said mildly.
"I wanted fresh air."
"The throne dislikes that."
She sighed. "Of course it does."
---
Caelan leaned against the window frame, watching her carefully.
"For what it's worth," he said, "this is the safest place in the empire tonight."
"That's not comforting."
"It should be."
Before she could respond, the candle flared violently.
The room went cold.
Caelan's posture shifted instantly—alert, dangerous.
"Don't move," he said.
Avelyncè froze.
The air shimmered.
A thin, invisible pressure slid across the room—testing, searching.
Caelan stepped in front of her without thinking.
"Someone's here," he murmured.
---
The pressure vanished.
The warmth returned.
The candle steadied.
Silence.
Avelyncè exhaled shakily.
"…Was that an assassination attempt?"
Caelan didn't answer right away.
"That wasn't a blade," he said finally. "Or poison."
"Then what was it?"
He met her gaze.
"A question."
The walls pulsed faintly with golden light—protective.
The throne had noticed.
And it had answered.
---
Avelyncè swallowed.
"So," she said quietly, "this isn't going away, is it?"
Caelan gave a small, humorless smile.
"No."
Outside the palace, far below the moonlit towers, something ancient and patient withdrew—unharmed, but warned.
The game had begun.