The palace woke to rumors the next morning. A shattered ward in the royal wing, crystal shards swept away before dawn, guards doubling patrols—no official explanation from the king. Elara sat through breakfast in the sunlit dining hall, picking at honeyed fruit while nobles speculated in hushed tones. Her father's gaze lingered on her longer than usual, searching, but he said nothing.
By midday, King Alaric's proclamation echoed through the halls: a grand melodic trial would be held in one month's time to affirm the heir's worthiness before coronation. Every noble house would send their finest singer-mages to compete, and the princess herself must perform a ward of unparalleled complexity.
Failure was unspoken but understood: abdication.
Elara's stomach knotted as she retreated to her chambers. The trial was impossible for her—she could no more weave a complex melody than fly. But with the drum's power humming in her veins, perhaps she could fake it. Hide rhythm beneath melody. Survive.
That night, she returned to the vault earlier than agreed. Thorne was waiting, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, his expression tight.
"You heard about the trial," he said as she descended the stairs. Not a question.
She nodded, pulling off her cloak. "Everyone has."
Thorne pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them. "Then we train harder. You need control—enough to mask the rhythm if you have to perform publicly."
His tone was practical, but his eyes betrayed worry. He stopped close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. "You don't have to do this alone."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning beyond the trial. Elara's pulse quickened. "I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice," he said softly. His hand lifted as if to touch her face, then dropped. "But whatever you choose, I'm with you."
The air crackled with unspoken tension. Elara swallowed. "Then teach me."
They began with defensive rhythms—patterns to shield, to deflect. Thorne stood behind her, guiding her arms with gentle pressure, his chest brushing her back as he corrected her stance. Each touch lingered, deliberate yet restrained, sending warmth pooling in her stomach.
"You're holding back," he murmured near her ear after a failed attempt. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her neck. "Let go. Trust the beat."
She did. The drum thundered under her palms, and a shimmering barrier of crimson energy snapped into place around them—solid, vibrating with power.
Thorne's low whistle of approval vibrated through her. "That's it."
But practice revealed limits. The power drained her quickly, leaving her trembling. Thorne steadied her when she swayed, his arm around her waist longer than necessary.
"You need allies," he said as they rested. "People who understand rhythm. There are others—scattered, hidden. My clan contacts in the city."
Elara hesitated. Trusting more people meant more risk. But the trial loomed, and Vesper's spies were everywhere—she'd seen his sly glances at court.
"Arrange it," she said finally.
Thorne nodded, but his expression darkened. "It won't be easy. The purges drove most underground. They'll need proof you're worth the danger."
Proof. Like openly defying centuries of tradition.
As they packed up, Thorne caught her hand before she climbed the stairs. "Elara." His thumb traced her knuckles. "Be careful up there. Vesper's moving pieces."
She squeezed his hand once, reluctant to let go. "You too."
That night, in the city's shadowed alleys, Thorne met with old contacts. Whispers spread through hidden networks: the silent princess seeks the old ways.
And in the palace, Lord Vesper received a report from a guard he'd bought months ago. His thin smile widened.
The rebellion was stirring. Perfect.