The throne room was just as she remembered it—vast, cold, and merciless.
Marble columns stretched to a vaulted ceiling carved with the emblems of dead kings. Crimson banners hung like drying blood. And at the far end, seated atop the throne of carved obsidian and bonesteel, was King Therion Virelle—her father.
He hadn't aged gracefully. His once-golden hair was now streaked with silver, his jaw set harder than she recalled. But those eyes… they were still the same: calculating, cruel, unbending.
He stared down at her with no flicker of recognition.
No welcome.
No regret.
"Elara," he said, not rising. "You returned."
Not my daughter. Not welcome home. Just a name spoken like a summons.
"I received your command," Elara replied coolly, her voice steady. She walked forward with measured grace, the echo of her steps sounding too loud in the hollow chamber. "I trust I didn't keep Your Majesty waiting."
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, gone in an instant. To challenge the king in public—no matter how veiled—was still a sin in Virelle.
From the side, voices murmured. Courtiers lined the marble floor in careful arrangement—dukes and duchesses, advisors, high nobles cloaked in silks and shadows. And at the front, just below the steps of the throne, stood High Prince Aurelian—her half-brother.
Golden, perfect, beloved.
He smirked, his amber eyes flickering with venom. "We were told you'd lost your manners out there in the wilds. Seems they were right."
Elara tilted her head slightly. "And yet I find myself here, alive and breathing. An accomplishment, considering this court's reputation."
Gasps. A few chuckles, quickly smothered.
Aurelian's jaw tightened. King Therion raised a hand—barely a twitch, but the room silenced instantly.
"You were summoned because your exile has ended," he said. "For reasons of state."
"And not because you missed me?" Elara's smile was blade-thin. "Touching."
The king ignored her barb. "Your position will be reinstated. You will resume your title and serve the court as needed. Keep your tongue in check, and you may live out your days in relative comfort."
Elara gave a slow, theatrical bow. "A generous offer. I am moved."
Behind her, a door creaked open. She sensed him before she saw him.
Prince Caelum Drayce.
He didn't walk—he glided like a shadow, his cloak whispering across the stone. Illegitimate. Unclaimed. Dangerous. His reputation preceded him: the king's bastard, head of the secret intelligence network, known only as the Whispered Blade.
His gaze met hers. Steel grey. Unreadable.
For the briefest moment, Elara saw something in his eyes.
Recognition.
And then it was gone.
She turned back to the king. "If I'm to serve this court, I'll need access. Files. Names. Records of my mother's death."
The room stiffened.
King Therion's voice turned to ice. "That chapter is closed."
Elara's smile never wavered. "So was mine. Yet here I stand."
The tension cracked like lightning. The game had begun.
Let them underestimate her. Let them believe she was just a bitter relic, returned to beg for scraps.
She would show them.
She hadn't come back to play the game.
She'd come back to win it.