Princess zetulah Viridian POV:
"Trust no one."
The words glared up from the parchment, ink bleeding into the fibers like poison. My hands shook—not with delicate fear, but full-body tremors, like I'd grabbed a live wire.
Three days.
Three days since the assassination attempt. Three days of knives in every shadow. And now this.
Someone had been here. In my room. While I slept.
No creak of hinges. No rustle of fabric. Not even a flicker of shadow. Just this slip of paper—crisp and smug—planted where I'd see it first. The room felt wrong now. Too still. Too hollow. The kind of quiet that shouldn't exist.
I scanned the space, heart slamming. The wardrobe doors—shut. The curtains—undisturbed. The silver tray on the table—wait. My goblet. Half an inch off-center.
My stomach clenched. Whoever did this was close enough to touch my things. Close enough to end me.
Oryn Moriba? A warning? A test? Or worse—some ghost in the walls, watching, waiting to gut me the second I slipped?
I lunged for the door. Locked. The window? Sealed tighter than a tomb. Whoever did this moved like smoke.
My pulse roared in my ears, breaths jagged and too loud. Get it together.
I pried my fingers open, one by one. Panic here? Suicide.
But gods, the how of it ate at me.
Morning light stabbed through the garden's silver trees like shards of glass. Courtiers' laughter cut the air, sharp and mocking. Spiced wine clung to everything, cloying. I kept my smile smooth, my steps measured, but my mind raced.
Trust no one.
The note's words burned behind my eyes.
Then—
A shoulder bumped mine.
"Apologies, my lady," a servant mumbled, eyes glued to the floor. Something cold and folded pressed into my palm.
I didn't blink. Didn't slow. Only when I hit the empty marble hall did I unfold the message, fingers fumbling.
Meet me at the Moonwell at midnight. Come alone.
Midnight. The Moonwell—that dripping pit under the palace, where moonlight pooled like quicksilver.
Perfect for secrets. Perfect for burying bodies.
But what choice did I have?
The stairs spiraled into blackness, each step colder than the last. Drip. Drip. Drip. Water, or something else? The air reeked of moss and something ancient—burnt hair, maybe, or rust.
The water glowed ahead, a sickly silver mirror.
And there, bathed in that ghostlight—
A hooded figure.
I gripped my dagger, the hilt biting my palm. "Who are you?"
Silence. Just water dripping, like a countdown. Then, slow as poison, the figure lifted their hood.
Golden eyes. Sharp cheekbones. A face from rumors.
Claireth Moriba.
My blade didn't drop. "You?"
Zareth's sister—the court's mad ghost. The one they hid after her mother's death. Yet here she stood, steady as a statue.
"Listen," she hissed, eyes darting to the shadows. "We're out of time."
"Why trust a Moriba?" I spat, but my voice cracked. Pathetic.
Her laugh was acid. "Because I know… who sold out Fenrik."
The world tilted.
Liar. She's lying.
But my throat closed—Fenrik's body flashed behind my eyes, arrows jutting from his back like spines. Ambushed, they'd said. A tragic leak.
Claireth shoved a letter at me.
The seal froze my blood—Viridian's crest. Stamped in wax the color of old blood.
"No." The word ripped out of me, raw.
"He was betrayed by your kind. Zareth's rats—"
"And who told him to ride that border path?" Her voice turned razor-sharp. "Who knew the Emberclaw were waiting?"
The parchment crumpled in my fist.
That seal—not just any noble's. The pattern was rare. Specific. I'd traced it on my father's ring as a child, staring at the twisted vines.
No. No, no, no.
Claireth leaned in. "You think Zareth spared you out of pity? You're a loose end. The second he suspects—"
A scrape echoed above.
She vanished into the dark.
"They're here."
Betrayal.
Not from enemies. From family.
The truth hit like a kick to the ribs. Fenrik, loyal to his last breath, slaughtered by someone he'd have died for. And me? Spared as bait? A puppet?
Shadows shifted. I spun, blade raised, but the cavern was empty. Just the Moonwell's glow, rippling like something had slipped below.
The letter burned in my grip. I didn't need to read it again.
I knew that seal.
The wax had split right down the middle—a cracked heart.
Just like ours.
And the name on the letter.
—---------------------
The parchment burns in my palm, but it's the words that sear. A name I know. A betrayal I shouldn't.
House Viridian played a part.
My ribs tighten. No. I want to tear the paper apart, to pretend ink can lie. But it stares back at me, unflinching. My house. My blood. And yet—they led my brother to his death.
I pace. Five steps. Turn. Five steps again. My boots wear grooves into the rug. Claireth's voice won't stop repeating it—House Viridian played a part.
Lies.
Had to be.
But what if—?
A dull ache spreads beneath my sternum, a gnawing, festering thing. Truth or not, I'll tear it open. Even if it leaves me hollow.
Moriba's palace snores. Moonlight cuts through spires, throwing skeletal shadows across the courtyard. My cloak clings to sweat-damp skin as I glide through secret passages. The guards? Snoring into their collars. Idiots. They don't notice the draft as I crack the postern gate.
My mare huffs, breath fogging the air. We fly—hooves muffled by dew-soaked earth, wind whipping my hood back. Dawn's a raw scrape on the horizon when Viridian's banners pierce the sky.
The camp stinks of burnt porridge and steel. I shove into the command tent, dust swirling in slanted light.
General Solric doesn't flinch. Bent over a map, his knuckles whiten as I approach. "Princess." Gruff. Like gravel in his throat. "You're playing with fire."
"Good." I lean over the table, close enough to smell last night's ale on him. "The logs. Fenrik's last stand."
His eye twitches. A heartbeat. Two. Then he slams the ledger down hard enough to rattle inkwells.
I swipe it.
Pages stick together—old wine stains, maybe blood. My thumb leaves smudges as I flip. Northern ridge. Secure position. No hostiles reported.
But wait—
A blotch in the margin. Faded, like someone tried to scrub it out.
Revised orders: redeploy east.
The eastern pass. Where Emberclaw's wolves were seen that morning.
My vision blurs. No accident. No mistake. They herded him there.
Why? The question slices. Who?
Gavrik Viridian.
My uncle. My father's blood. My childhood protector.
The name lashes across my mind, slicing deeper than steel. My fingers go numb. The ledger slips from my grasp, slamming onto the ground—unread, unwelcome, unforgivable.
He wasn't just there. He led him there.
The tent walls press closer. Air turns thick, sour. My dagger's hilt digs into my hip.
Traitor.
I will carve the truth from him. Bone by bone. Lie by lie.
Until nothing of his treachery remains.