Prince Aren moved through the corridors in shadow.
Every night he attempted to reach the Eastern Tower.
Every night—
Princess Ireti was there first.
Leaning against a pillar.
Waiting.
"You're predictable," she said softly.
"I'm persistent."
She smiled faintly.
"Hope is a cruel gift, Aren."
He stopped walking.
"She is alone," he said.
"She is alive."
"For now."
The words were gentle.
Which made them worse.
"You gave her hope," Ireti continued. "Do you know what hope does to someone who has never been chosen?"
His silence was answer enough.
"It makes them reckless," she whispered. "And reckless people die in palaces."
Aren stepped closer.
"Why are you doing this?"
She tilted her head.
"Because I was humiliated."
"That's not worth a life."
"It is in our world."
Her eyes softened — just slightly.
"You could end this. Marry me. Smile for the court. She survives quietly somewhere far from you."
"And if I refuse?"
Her voice dropped to ice.
"Then perhaps she falls ill. Or slips from a tower window."
His fists clenched.
"You wouldn't."
She leaned close enough for him to feel her breath.
"Try me."