CHAPTER 1:THE PERFORMANCE OF HATE
Forbidden Flame : The Thorns of the Crown
The throne room shimmered with lies.
Afternoon light cut through the high stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in fractured saints and martyrs. Princess Elara stood at the center of that colored light, emerald silk pooling around her feet, her posture flawless, her voice as precise as a surgeon's blade.
"The grain shortage in the southern provinces isn't a failure of harvest, Father," she said, her gaze never leaving the portly, sweating Lord Bailin. "It's a failure of distribution. The records show the storehouses in Locksley are at eighty percent capacity, while people in Harrow, barely twenty miles away, are starving. This isn't misfortune. It's mismanagement. Or theft."
Lord Bailin spluttered, his jowls trembling. "Preposterous! The roads—the bandits—"
"Were dealt with by the Royal Guard six months ago," Elara finished calmly. A cool smile touched her lips as she lifted a scroll. "I have the guard captain's report here. Would you like me to read the part about the clear, safe trade routes?"
A murmur rippled through the court—admiration tangled with fear. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else went very still.
Elara felt it like a tonic. Sharp. Bitter. Addictive.
This was power: the quiet turning of fact into a weapon. Watching a fat lord shrink in his own skin. She was carving her path to the throne not with a sword, but with ledgers and witness testimonies, each small victory another stone laid beneath her feet.
And she liked how it felt. Too much.
King Aldric watched from the throne, his face carved into an unreadable mask of aged granite. His eyes, however, held a glint of approval. It was all Elara needed. Approval was currency. Love was optional.
"A concise analysis, Princess," a voice cut through the murmuring court.
The sound scraped down her spine.
It was low, rough, and utterly devoid of warmth.
General Kaelan stepped from the shadow of a marble pillar. He was a monument of a man—broad-shouldered, rigid in his black uniform, silver pauldrons gleaming like frozen tears. A scar split his left brow, pulling one side of his face into a permanent scowl. His dark eyes were fixed on her, though it felt as if he were looking through her, already considering consequences she hadn't yet named.
"However," he continued.
One word. That was all it took. The room fell silent.
"Publicly shaming a lord for incompetence before a full investigation is completed is not strategy," Kaelan said. "It is recklessness. It breeds desperation. And desperate men make dangerous enemies. A ruler must think beyond the immediate point scored."
The heat of triumph in Elara's chest flash-froze. Rage followed—old, sharp, and embarrassing in how quickly it came.
He did this every time. Without fail. Just as she secured a victory, he stepped in to strip it of its shine, leaving her looking like a clever child playing at governance instead of a woman preparing to rule.
She turned to face him fully, her smile thinning to a blade's edge.
"And allowing incompetence to fester breeds rot, General," she said. "Should I have whispered my findings into Lord Bailin's ear and hoped his conscience stirred? The people of Harrow are hungry now. Justice delayed is justice denied."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Or does suffering only count when it happens on a battlefield?"
A taut thrill passed through the court. This was their favorite spectacle: the brilliant, fire-tongued Princess against the implacable, ice-veined General. The tension between them crackled, alive and hungry.
Kaelan didn't flinch.
"My tactics keep kingdoms standing, Princess," he said evenly. "Which requires knowing when to strike and when to hold. You revealed your sources and your evidence. Lord Bailin now knows which captain to silence and which ledgers to burn. You may have fed Harrow for a week—but you've lost the leverage to feed them for a year."
Elara's nails bit into her palms.
The worst part—the part she hated him for—was that he wasn't entirely wrong. The truth lodged beneath her fury, irritating and undeniable. He always did this. He made her doubt. Made her wonder what she hadn't seen.
She lifted her chin.
"Then perhaps," she said, her voice dropping into a venom-soft purr meant for him alone, "you should focus on hunting bandits and training soldiers, General, and leave the business of ruling to those who understand its nuances."
Their eyes locked.
In his, she found only obsidian. No anger. No pride. No admiration. Just distance. Like arguing with a fortress wall.
In hers, he saw fire. Bright. Defiant. Dangerous.
The sight of it struck him beneath the ribs, sharp enough that he had to steady his breathing. Loving her would have been easier than protecting her. And far more selfish.
King Aldric finally stirred.
"Enough." His voice was calm, immovable. "Lord Bailin, you will submit your distribution ledgers to the treasury for immediate audit. Princess Elara, your diligence is noted. General Kaelan, your caution is… appreciated."
The pause was deliberate.
"This matter is closed."
The court shifted as the session moved on, but the energy had changed. Elara's clean victory now felt complicated, its edges dulled. She had won the battle. Kaelan had ensured she would pay for it later.
As the court disbanded, Elara swept past him, emerald skirts brushing against his polished boots. She didn't look at him. She didn't need to.
She could feel his gaze like a weight between her shoulder blades.
"One day, General," she whispered, so softly only the space between them could hear, "that stone-faced caution of yours will be the anchor that drowns this kingdom."
She walked away, head high, jasmine and defiance trailing in her wake.
Kaelan didn't watch her go. He never did. If he started, he might not stop.
To the court, he remained a statue of disapproval. Stone was safer than truth. Only he knew that every word of criticism was another brick in the wall he was building around her. Every spark of hatred in her eyes meant the wall was holding.
Or so he told himself.
Let her hate me, he thought. Let her burn for a crown. It's a cleaner fire than the one that keeps me awake at night. And it will keep her alive.
Across the room, a lady-in-waiting with mousy brown hair and quiet, watchful eyes observed everything. Marlene's hands were folded neatly, her expression obediently blank. But her mind was sharp, cataloguing details: the tremor in Lord Bailin's hands, the calculating gleam in Lord Corvin's eyes, the way General Kaelan's knuckles had gone white around his sword hilt when the Princess turned her back on him.
Not with anger.
With something else.
Something Marlene recognized too well.
She lowered her gaze and slipped back into the tapestry shadows. Her secret was not intrigue, but memory. And memory told her that the most dangerous wars were never fought on battlefields, but in the narrow space between two hearts beating in furious, unwanted synchrony.
The game was more complex than either the Princess or the General understood.
And Marlene—keeper of the dead queen's secrets—would make certain the daughter did not share the mother's fate.
Even if it meant watching her walk willingly toward a different kind of execution.