They gathered like wolves.
Nobles in jewels and silks, sipping wine far older than their loyalties. The Imperial Court's Hall of Reflection lived up to its name—gleaming marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and walls lined with towering mirrors.
And in every reflection, they watched the doors.
Waiting.
Whispers rippled through the room like a breeze before a storm.
"Is it true?"
"She's really coming?"
"She was exiled—wasn't she?"
"They say she poisoned the king's envoy before her fall."
Then—
The doors opened.
And silence fell like a blade.
Aveline stood in the threshold, tall and terrifyingly composed.
She wore midnight blue—so dark it was almost black—embroidered with threads of silver starlight. Her golden hair, swept up with sapphires, shimmered under the chandeliers. Around her neck, a single sapphire teardrop gleamed like a secret she refused to speak.
Not a princess.
Not a widow.
A storm in silk.
She walked without hesitation, heels tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm on the floor. Every step said: I am not what you expected. I am not what you remember. And I am not afraid.
Caden was already there, standing along the edge of the chamber, his eyes locked on her—not with surprise, but something like awe. He smirked faintly and dipped his head as she passed, whispering just loud enough for her to hear:
"You do enjoy making an entrance."
"Only when I'm expected to bow," she murmured back.
And at the far end of the hall—
Seated on the obsidian throne beneath the imperial crest—
Lucien.
The prince wore black and gold, his crown gleaming like polished fire. But his expression…
Unreadable.
Unmoving.
Until his eyes found hers.
And in that heartbeat of silence, the world forgot to breathe.
Lucien didn't rise.
He didn't need to.
His voice—smooth, cold, and commanding—cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
"Lady Aveline d'Arceneaux," he said, every syllable precise. "You honor the court with your presence."
Gasps rippled like wind through reeds.
He addressed her formally.
Publicly.
By her full title.
As if nothing had ever happened.
As if her disgrace had been nothing more than a rumor.
Aveline stopped a few steps before the dais, her head held high.
"Your Highness," she replied, her voice clear and unwavering. "I came when summoned."
Their eyes met—fire and ice in a storm of mirrors.
Lucien tilted his head slightly, lips curving in the faintest ghost of a smile. "How dutiful of you. I feared your exile might have weakened your loyalty to the throne."
"Exile is a fine teacher," Aveline said coolly. "It reminded me of what is worth serving… and what is not."
A sharp inhale from the crowd. A few hands tightened on goblets. Others turned pale.
Lucien's smile didn't falter. "And have you come to serve again, my lady?"
A beat.
"No," she said, with regal calm. "I've come to be remembered."
The tension thickened. No one dared speak, but the whispers had already begun—silent movements beneath polished masks, fans twitching, glances traded.
And as the prince gave a slow, deliberate nod, the court understood: this was not a reconciliation.
It was war, wrapped in velvet.
The moment the formalities ended, the court began to bleed whispers.
Aveline hadn't even left the prince's line of sight before the muttering started behind folded fans and jeweled goblets.
"She looks… unbothered," murmured Lady Yselle of the Eastern Marches, her emerald eyes narrowed.
"She looks like vengeance in a dress," her companion replied, biting into a sugared fig.
A pair of barons whispered near a column, voices hushed but urgent.
"If the prince's favor shifts again—"
"Don't be a fool. He won't risk the council for a fallen consort."
"But he summoned her. Publicly."
"And she didn't kneel."
"She never did," a third voice whispered from the shadows. "That was the problem."
In one corner of the room, a younger noble—barely more than a girl—watched Aveline with wide eyes.
"That was her?" she breathed. "The Ice Swan?"
Her tutor nodded grimly. "And if she's returned, child, best learn quickly—she doesn't melt."
Meanwhile, Caden leaned against a pillar, watching it all unfold like a chessboard setting itself. His lips quirked with dark amusement as noble after noble began to shift positions—physically and politically.
They're afraid, he thought.
Good.
At the center of it all, Aveline stood still.
Graceful. Untouched.
But she felt every glance. Every rumor reborn.
They were weighing her. Judging her.
Some wanted to ally.
Some wanted her buried—again.
She smiled slightly.
Let them talk.
She hadn't come to dance.
She'd come to remind them what happened when they underestimated her.