The two women regarded one another with the politest of glares. Their smiles were small. The threats behind them loomed large. Hands folded in practiced poise, yet their fingernailsgleamed—sharp and ready to strike. The air between them was quiet, but their teeth were bared beneath civility, ready to bite.
A sudden burst of horns split the air. The sound was sharp, bright, ceremonial. The brassy call echoed through the stone halls, followed by the distant roll of drums. The fanfare of heroes.
“Your Majesties, Highnesses, Graces and Ladies—the soldiers have returned from the Troll War. The procession is entering the city gates. The parade is set to begin.”
A rustle moved through the gathered court, a flutter of interest and the gleam of opportunism. Outside, the courtyard erupted with noise: cheers, the clatter of hooves, the clash of steel and celebration.
Lady Charming turned, all composed grace and calculated delight. She touched her throat as if in reverence. “It would be ungracious not to greet our heroes. I must pay my respects.”
Lady Charming glided away, her gown whispering behind her like a well-kept secret. The horns sounded again—closer now, fuller. The other women followed the sound, moving toward the fanfare.
Raveena didn’t move. She waited. Once the chamber was empty, she turned and slipped away down the hall opposite the procession.
She didn’t need to see who had returned. She wasn’t ready to know.
If he stepped off one of those horses, still battle-worn and broad-shouldered…
If he didn't swagger into the castle gates, scarred and sun-darkened, wearing the memory of her like a wound…
No. She wouldn’t go out there. Wouldn’t stand among the queens, pretending not to care. Wouldn’t search the sea of soldiers for his face and pretend not to ache when she saw it.
Or worse—when she didn’t.
Instead, she turned swiftly, silken skirts whispering against marble, and disappeared down a side corridor, her shadow vanishing like a secret between the stones.
CHAPTER FOUR
Graham pressed his back to the cold stone wall, breath held tightly in his chest as two palace guards rounded the corner. Their boots clicked too sharply against the flagstones, voices echoing like they’d forgotten this place was once a fortress, not a parade ground.
He barely needed to hide. That irritated him more than it should’ve. Thornhall Castle's defenses were still garbage.
All the good men—the real soldiers—had volunteered for the Troll Wars. The ones who stayed behind were the peacocks, the polished and perfumed, the kind who worried more about the fit of their uniform than the weight of their blade. They had ceremonial swords and ceremonial spines to match. They guarded paintings and paraded through gardens. Ask them to defend the crown from a real threat and they'd fumble the draw.
The guards paused just a breath away from his hiding spot, idling beneath the shadow of a frost-rimed arch.
“You been out to the stables?” one asked, sniffing the air.
“Nah. Why?”
The first wrinkled his nose. “Something smells like horse.”
A curl of straw clung to the front of Graham's coat. He plucked it loose with rough fingers and flicked it away. Damn.He should've cleaned up before going to her. But he wasn’t planning for this to be a social visit.
The guards moved on, still talking, oblivious to the wolf in their midst.
Graham exhaled. Slow. Controlled. Then he moved.
He stuck to the walls, weaving through the inner corridors with muscle memory older than war. The servants’ passages hadn’t changed. Neither had the little cracks in the castle’s security. The noble lords might have layered new gold over the banisters, but they hadn’t patched the foundation. The castle might gleam on the outside, but it still creaked beneath its own weight.
Graham had been in enough strongholds to know that most castles were built the same. Same spine of stone beneath the keep. Same drafty great halls echoing with power plays. Same winding passages meant for servants and spies alike.
The turrets always offered too many blind spots. The ramparts too few guards. The cellars always held more than wine. Secrets clung to the mortar like moss, hidden in plain sight for those who knew where to look.
Once you knew how to slip into one, you could slip into them all. At least Fenvalen had been manned by wolves—men with sharp teeth and sharper instincts. Thornhall, by contrast, was guarded by deer. Pretty creatures with polished antlers and glossy coats, more concerned with ceremony than defense. They pranced instead of prowled, preened instead of protected.
He passed a column carved with old frost runes and ducked behind a tapestry, emerging into the side wing near the royal chambers. The air here smelled of snow lilies, the scent she always wore, no matter the season. It hit him in the chest.
If he hadn't known the way by memory, he would've known it by following her scent. He didn’t have to think. His bodyremembered every step, every turn, every breathless moment along the narrow hall to her door.
