The carriage wheels creaked like tired bones as they rolled over the cobbled road leading to the Imperial Capital. Rain had long since soaked the earth, and the wheels spat up mud in lazy arcs that splattered the embroidered hem of Liora Everlin's only good dress.
She didn't flinch. She just looked down, smiled a little, and whispered,
"Figures."
She was not a girl who cursed fate. Not because she thought fate was kind—but because it had no ears. And screaming at deaf things never helped.
Instead, she folded her hands neatly in her lap and watched the horizon. The palace—no, the palace was too gentle a word—the Citadel of Crowned Blood loomed like a sleeping beast beneath the clouds. Stone spires, dark as bruises, pierced the sky. Guards patrolled its endless walls like ghosts. Thunder cracked in the distance.
It looked like it had swallowed every happy ending she'd ever imagined.
She exhaled softly. "So this is where kindness dies."
––
Liora Everlin was twenty. She wore threadbare gloves to hide the ink stains on her fingers and a bonnet two years out of fashion. Her hair was too curly for court. Her smile too real. She smelled faintly of lilacs and old paper.
Once, she had wanted to be a teacher in a country village, surrounded by children who still believed the world could be gentle. But dreams cost money, and her family had none. Her father had gambled away their estate. Her mother had wept into her pillow every night until the pillow turned moldy and silent.
Now, Liora was an offering.
A sacrificial lamb in lace.
"Are you nervous, my lady?" asked the footman riding beside her, a young man with kind eyes and a scar across his jaw.
She tilted her head thoughtfully.
"A bit," she said. "But mostly I'm cold. And very curious."
"About what?"
"About whether the prince will kill me before or after dinner."
He choked on a laugh, then sobered immediately. "You... might not be wrong."
––
Crown Prince Caelan Thorne was not known for mercy. He'd executed a tutor once for correcting his pronunciation. Threw a goblet at his mother during a feast. Rumor said he tortured his dreams until even they begged for rest.
They called him the Butcher Prince, the Young Wolf, the Emperor's Iron Fang.
And now, for reasons no one could explain, he needed a new tutor.
Not a soldier. Not a scholar. A tutor. One with "a calming nature" and "a delicate disposition."
The selection committee had nearly imploded. But the Empress herself had chosen Liora.
A quiet girl with no political ties. No strong allies. No teeth.
Perfectly disposable.
When she stepped out of the carriage, the wind caught her cloak and whipped it around her legs like stormwater. The palace gates yawned open with the groan of steel scraping steel.
A steward approached, tall and dry as a tree in winter.
"Miss Liora Everlin?" he asked, not looking at her.
She nodded. "Yes."
"You'll be escorted to the East Wing. You'll meet the Prince at sunset. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't look him in the eyes. Don't raise your voice. And if he becomes... volatile..."
He paused. "Kneel. And stay very, very still."
Liora blinked once. "What if he throws something at me?"
"Then I suggest you duck, Miss Everlin."
She was led through endless corridors, past silver mirrors and cold marble busts with empty eyes. The palace smelled of wax and rust. Like a tomb where music had once lived.
Her room in the East Wing was small but clean. A tray of food awaited her: plain bread, soft cheese, honeyed tea. She hadn't eaten since dawn, but she sat first by the tiny window and stared at the garden below.
It was overgrown. Forgotten. Wild roses had swallowed the hedges whole, curling around stone angels with broken wings.
Something about it made her smile.
"I think I'll like it here," she whispered, to no one at all.
When the time came, she wore a soft gray dress that made her look like a ghost who still wanted to be polite. Her hair was pinned, her hands were ink-free, and her heart beat so loudly she was sure the guards could hear it through the walls.
The door opened.
And there he was.
Crown Prince Caelan.
He looked nothing like the paintings. He was too real—tired, tall, wearing armor with one gauntlet still strapped on, as if he'd come straight from war and decided to be bored instead. His eyes were a cruel shade of gray. Not stormy.
More like ash after the fire.
He didn't stand when she entered. Just looked up from his desk and said,
"You're late."
Liora curtsied. "By sixty-two seconds, Your Highness. I apologize."
His gaze flicked to the clock. It was exactly 6:01.
He blinked. Then leaned back in his chair.
"Clever," he murmured. "We'll see how long that lasts."
––
She had entered the lion's den, not with a sword, but with a smile. And somehow, that made her more dangerous than anyone who'd come before her.
He just didn't know it yet.