Chapter 1

Mira

The lie has a new scent. It is not the smell of pine and oil that Ariselle once told me about, a clumsy mask for old blood. This lie is more sophisticated. It smells of melting beeswax, mulled ashwine, and the cloying, self-congratulatory perfume of a peace that has been bought but never truly earned. I stand in the shadows of the great hall, watching the final preparations for the Third Vigil Feast, and the scent of it all makes my teeth ache.

Years have passed. The caverns glitter with the symbols of reform. The Great Chains of Night, heavy with the links of three years of unity, shimmer in the light of a thousand candles. Children—human and Vrakken alike—laugh as they chase each other through the forest of noble legs, their innocence a fragile, beautiful testament to the world Drazien and Solenne have built. It is a perfect picture. And every perfect picture is a lie.

I am nineteen years old. I am no longer the trembling, hollow-eyed child who was saved from a sacrificial altar. I am a woman, sharp-witted, bold, and so restless it feels like a fire in my blood. I am the ward of the Warlord and his Queen, a beloved daughter, a cherished symbol of their victory. I am also a prisoner in a cage forged from their love, and I am rattling the bars.

A pompous, old traditionalist, Lord Valerius, stops before me, his face full of condescending affection. He is one of the ones who never truly believed, who still whispers Serexa’s name in the shadows but is too cowardly to do more. He reaches out a pale, long-fingered hand and pats my head as if I am a well-behaved hound.

“Little Mira,” he coos, his voice a silken, infuriating drawl. “How you have grown. Still the jewel of our court. A perfect, silent symbol of the Warlord’s mercy.”

The fire in my blood ignites. I do not pull away. I simply look up at him, my expression one of wide-eyed, innocent curiosity.

“And you, Lord Valerius,” I say, voice as sweet as poison. “Still the jewel of your own echo chamber. A perfect, silent symbol of a time when opinions mattered more than courage.”

His hand freezes on my head. A shocked, sputtering sound escapes his lips, and his face pales, then flushes a dark, angry purple. From across the hall, I see Ariselle, leaning against a pillar with Aric, throw her head back in a silent, delighted laugh. I offer Lord Valerius a dazzling, utterly insincere smile and step away, leaving him to choke on his own sputtering irrelevance. The small victory is a hollow one. It does not matter how sharp my tongue is. To them, I will always be "little Mira."

My gaze lifts to the great chains being hoisted into their final positions. They are magnificent, a testament to the peace that has held. But I see the cracks they all pretend to ignore. 

I was at the forging ceremony. I saw the empty spaces at the anvils, the quiet refusal of a dozen minor houses to add their link. I see the tension in the way the guards hold their hands on their swords, the fear that still lingers in the eyes of the human servants. This unity is a performance, and the actors are growing tired of their lines.

I trace the small, carved snowflake charm Isolde gave me years ago, a token that hangs from a leather cord around my neck. I feel like a fraud. I have a place at the Warlord’s table, a name whispered with reverence by the children, but I have not earned it. I did not fight in the Solstice War. I did not bleed for this peace. I am a story they tell themselves, a relic of a battle I only survived. I look at the glittering, heavy chains, and I wonder, with a deep, aching loneliness, where my own link truly belongs.

The feast begins. The hall is a sea of crimson and silver, a symphony of polite laughter and the clinking of goblets. Drazien and Solenne take their places on the dais, a king and queen of impossible grace, their love a palpable, grounding force in the tense hall. I stand near them, a princess in a story I did not write. The great iron doors are thrown open, a gust of cold air sweeping through the hall, a theatrical announcement of the Warlord's final entrance.

But it is not Drazien who stands there.

A woman. Her beauty is a painful physical blow, a terrifying, perfect thing that silences the entire hall in a single, collective gasp. She is a vision of obsidian-black hair and eyes the color of emeralds, her skin a flawless, ghostly white. She wears a gown of pure, midnight black, and she radiates a dark, Purna-tainted magic so powerful it feels like a pressure against my skin. It is Lady Serexa.

And she is not alone.

At her side stands Lord Veynar, his face no longer gaunt but hardened into a mask of cruel, triumphant resolve. On her other side is Lady Nysera, her beauty now a feral, venomous thing. Her hand rests possessively on the arm of a hulking, monstrous orc, Ghorbash, whose tusks gleam in the torchlight, his presence a raw, brutal insult to the assembled court. The whispers of the past year, the cruel jokes, are a sudden, terrifying reality.

The fragile peace of the Third Vigil Feast does not just crack, but it shatters. Screams erupt. Guards draw their swords, their movements a frantic, useless gesture in the face of the sheer, audacious power that has just invaded their hall.

Serexa takes a slow, deliberate step into the room, her emerald gaze sweeping over the chaos she has created. Her eyes pass over a stunned Dorian, over a furious Drazien who is already on his feet, his hand on his sword. Her gaze does not stop. It continues, a cold, predatory line, until it finds me.

And there, it stops. A slow, terrible smile spreads across her perfect face. She has not returned to the throne. She has not returned for a crown.

She has returned for me.