Her grip on reality faltered, heat surging at her collarbone as darkness pressed at the edges of her vision.
He reached forward, but she was already slipping under. And with a single breath, the world shattered around her.
3
KEY OF DRAVARYN
She awoke to silence. Not the gentle quiet of safety but the heavy kind that lingered in places where blood had been spilled, the strange hush that followed after a battlefield emptied. Her breath came shallow, each pull threaded with the phantom taste of smoke and iron.
Fuck. Don’t panic.
Pain had rooted itself deep in her body, pounding behind her eyes and winding through her limbs like thorns beneath the skin. When she tried to shift, regret seared through her ribs until it stole her breath. Her arm refused to obey, her body trembling as something hot and wet spread slowly beneath rough bandages.
Bandages. Gods. She forced herself to stop and think. She wasn’t dead. Not yet.
Her name whispered faintly on the fringe of her mind, not the one she was born with but the one she needed to cling to.
Just Ella.
Ellandria of Orchid was a ghost she could not afford to awaken, not now, perhaps not ever, especially not if she kept bleeding like this.
She dragged her focus outward. The air carried the scent of ashwood and amber, undercut by the mineral bite of winter stone and something harsher still. For a heartbeat, she thought she smelled someone smoking wraith-leaf, that bitter, cloying scent she’d learned to avoid in the border towns of Dravaryn, and her stomach lurched. But no, this was different. Less illicit, more medicinal. That should have been reassuring, but it only unsettled her more.
Where in the hell am I?
Nearby, a fire crackled, its warmth crawling across her frozen skin. Her vision cleared enough to shape the outlines of the space around her: stone walls, a timber ceiling heavy with shadow, weapons mounted in grim display. Blades. Axes. A shield that could have doubled as a door. Not a healer’s quarters, then.
A soldier’s. And that was worse.
The thought barely had time to settle before a shadow moved across the firelight. A voice followed, low and velvet-dark, carrying an authority that was impossible to mistake, a command sharpened into every syllable.
“You’re awake.”
She snapped her head toward the sound, and pain lanced through her skull, forcing her to wince.
He stood several paces away, colossal in size, filling the room more completely than the weapons on the walls ever could. His dark brown hair fell unbound past his jaw, framing a face carved in shadowed lines, all sharp planes and unforgiving strength. His arms were folded across his chest, a faint scar tracing the line of his temple, and his eyes, dark and watchful, carried no cruelty yet offered no comfort either. They held restraint, the controlled patience of a predator that had learned to keep its teeth hidden, though everything about him suggested that composure would not last.
He did not ask her name, and he did not offer his. But she knew who he was.
The Prince.
No one else could have commanded soldiers to stand down with nothing more than two words.
Ella had heard many rumors about the Prince of Dravaryn, each more impossible than the last. They spoke of the mystery of his power, of how he could shatter minds with nothing but a glance, that meeting his eyes meant losing yourself entirely. Others claimed he had once silenced a battlefield with a single breath, bodies twisting to his will and leveling an army before they ever reached him.
She did not believe every tale, but she believed enough.
And of one thing she was certain: he was her enemy. One ofthem. Dravaryn-born and heir to the kingdom she had just delivered herself into. His reputation was woven into whispers that spread across the continent, ruthless and unforgiving, the future king of a land where mercy was weakness and silence was tradition. And silence, Ella knew, was how secrets survived.
Her heart stuttered hard against her ribs, and her hand flew instinctively to the mark at her collarbone. It was still gone, thank the gods, because if he were to see it, there would be no hesitation. She found his gaze again.
“You’re in my home,” he said at last, his expression unreadable, his voice cutting through the air.
For one reckless moment, she glanced toward the door, the iron handle and solid oak frame no more than ten or twelve steps away, though even that small distance felt impossible. She forced her focus back to him, the idea of escape unraveling quickly.
“Do not try to run. You won’t make it far.”
Her pulse betrayed her, a frantic stammer against her ribs. The steadiness of his stance told her she wouldn’t make it past three steps.
