It isn’t white. It’s violet cut from Yuna’s spare sash, knotted through a staff Seori snaps from the queen’s own garden. Petals cling to the fabric and refuse to fall.
At the gate, fae sentries cross spears until Jisoo speaks the old words and shows the old seal. Courtiers swarm. Whispers multiply. The rumor of the writ walks ahead of us like a fifth member of the delegation.
Inside the antechamber, a steward with a mouth like a knife requests our weapons. We hand over steel. We do not hand over what matters.
“Remember,” Minji murmurs as doors yawn toward the throne room, “we are here to make him want what we want.”
“What I want,” I say, because I need to hear it out loud, “is Yuna safe.”
“And what he wants,” Jisoo adds, “is to keep his crown from cracking on the floor.”
Rheon glances at me, the ghost of a smile on his mouth.
“Today, brother, you are a diplomat.”
I flex my fingers once and feel the ribbon bite.
“Today,” I correct, “I am a blade that learned a new word:later.”
The herald slams a staff. Names roll like thunder. The hall fills with faces. The King sits high, cut from winter, a tired god pretending he never bled. I swallow fire and step to the line Seori drew at my feet.
“Your Majesty,” Jisoo says, voice smooth, carrying, dangerous. “We come under truce to present a writ of your making and terms of your keeping.”
Courtiers lean in. The King’s eyes flicker. I stand very still and imagine the path from here to the old wing, how many breaths it takes to cross, how many men I’d have to break to reach a locked door that has my heart behind it.
Hold, little fae,I tell the bond, whether it hears me or not.Breathe. I am coming.
Unforgivable is a word I will save for those who earn it. The rest of me will be very, very careful until I get my hands on the only thing I refuse to lose.
Return of the Princess
Yuna
They dressed me for the throne I never asked for. Gold-threaded silk. Moonstone pins. A collar of living vine that tightened when I breathed too deeply. The attendants kept their eyes lowered as they fastened a narrow chain of ward-light around my wrist—the same silver that muffled the bond and turned my skin into someone else’s.
“Your Highness,” one whispered, not meeting my gaze, “His Majesty awaits.”
My father did not wait. Hepresided. The great doors parted and the throne room unfurled—an ocean of glass and light, banners like winter, courtiers in petals and knives. TheKing sat high, carved from starlight and stone, beautiful the way an avalanche is beautiful right before it breaks.
Kaelen stood at the foot of the dais, shoulders straight, eyes red, seal-scar still glowing faintly on his palm. He did not look at me.
“Daughter,” the King said, voice carrying, “come.”
I climbed the steps and stopped when the ward tugged, reminding me that even my pulse was under rule. My father’s gaze swept over me—crown I wasn’t wearing, mark I couldn’t hide—and hardened.
“Show it,” he said.
I didn’t move. The chamber hushed. He lifted a hand, and the chain at my wrist flashed—a command, not a request. The silver flared over my clavicle and the mark answered, golden and traitorous, pulsing once in the open like a heartbeat laid bare.
A murmur rippled the hall. Some pity, some disgust, some hunger. My father’s lip curled.
“You have chained yourself to a beast.”
“He is not—”
“Silence.”
The word struck like an open palm. I tasted metal. The mark dimmed, aching.
