Chapter 2 The Prince's Threat

The scent of burned incense clung to Nyra's skin.

Even after the chanting had stopped. Even after the altar cracked. Even after they called her Empress.

She wasn't sure how she was still standing.

Her legs trembled as she was escorted-no, dragged-into the palace halls by guards in black armor. Her bindings had been removed, but their fingers stayed wrapped tight around her arms, like they expected her to explode again.

She couldn't blame them.

She didn't understand what had happened either.

One moment she'd been kneeling under a cursed blade, expecting to die like all the others. The next, the world was alight with golden fire, and magic poured from her skin like it had always been waiting.

It hadn't felt like power.

It had felt like pain. Like being torn open and remade from the inside.

She didn't remember how she left the altar. She didn't remember the crowd bowing. But she remembered him.

Thorne.

The prince had stared at her like she was something unnatural. Something dangerous. And when he'd whispered in her ear, it hadn't been a threat.

It had been a promise.

Now, the halls of the palace swallowed her. Black columns soared to the ceilings, carved with scenes from Noctarein's ancient wars. The floor beneath her feet was marble, veined with red like frozen blood.

The guards led her not to a dungeon, as she expected, but to a suite in the Moon Wing.

A place once reserved for imperial brides.

"Inside," one of them grunted, opening a tall obsidian door.

Nyra stepped in, hesitating. She'd cleaned this wing once. Years ago. Before the last crown princess went mad and flung herself from the balcony.

The chamber was too large. The walls were draped in silver silks. A canopy bed sat in the center, larger than any room she'd ever slept in. There were mirrors, polished floor tiles, and a basin of steaming water.

A maid stood near the hearth. She bowed low but didn't meet Nyra's eyes.

Then the guards left. The door shut with a deep finality.

Nyra stood in the center of the room, too stunned to sit, too terrified to speak.

The maid approached quietly. "I was told to help you prepare for the Council's summons."

"Council?" Nyra croaked.

Her throat burned. She hadn't realized she hadn't spoken since the ceremony.

"Yes." The maid still didn't look up. "You're to be presented as... Empress. At sunrise."

Nyra stared at her. "That's not possible."

The girl finally glanced up. Her expression wasn't unkind. But it wasn't warm, either.

"Nothing in Noctarein is impossible," she said softly. "Only forbidden."

She helped Nyra out of her ruined dress and into a bath. The water was scented with herbs Nyra didn't recognize. Her hands shook as she washed the blood from her arms, from her legs, from her hair.

The glowing runes on her collarbone remained.

Etched into her skin. As if they had always been there.

When she looked in the mirror, she didn't recognize herself.

Her eyes glowed faintly gold. Her skin was too pale. Her hair seemed darker than before, heavier, as if it held the weight of what she'd become.

She didn't feel like an empress.

She felt like a mistake.

By the time sunrise painted the sky pale lavender, she was dressed in white silk, her shoulders bare, her hair braided with gold thread. She looked like something holy.

She felt like something hunted.

Two guards arrived to escort her.

But this time, it was not to the temple.

It was to the Throne Hall.

As they walked, Nyra noticed the servants lining the walls. No one whispered. No one dared. But their eyes said enough.

Fear.

Curiosity.

Hatred.

They all looked at her the way you looked at a storm. Beautiful. Terrifying. Uncontrollable.

When the black doors of the Throne Hall opened, she expected chaos.

Instead, silence greeted her.

The Empress Dowager sat stiffly on her ivory throne, her face carved from stone. Beside her stood the Council: generals, highborns, magic scholars, the High Priest, and-

Him.

Prince Thorne.

He stood tall in black leather and armor, hair freshly tied, sword strapped across his back.

He didn't look at her.

Nyra walked down the long aisle toward the dais. She hated how loud her footsteps sounded. Like the whole court was holding its breath, waiting for her to fall.

She stopped when the guards told her to.

No cushion. No comfort. Just cold marble beneath her knees.

"You are not of noble blood," the Empress Dowager said without preamble. "You were raised among the scullery and ash pits."

Nyra didn't speak.

"You were meant to be a sacrifice. Nothing more. A vessel."

Still, she remained silent.

"But the gods..." The Dowager's mouth twisted slightly. "They gave us a different answer."

"An answer," one of the councilors murmured, "or a test?"

Nyra raised her eyes then. "You think I wanted this?"

Murmurs broke out.

The Empress Dowager raised a hand. Silence fell again.

"The seal has marked you," she said tightly. "That cannot be undone. The people saw. The priests saw. The Prince saw."

Thorne's gaze snapped to her now, sharp and cold.

Nyra met his stare.

It was like looking into a frozen river. Beautiful, deadly, with no sign of what lay beneath.

"She bears the Empress's sigil," High Priest Oryan declared. "By law, she must be wed to the Crown Prince before the next full moon."

The words landed like thunder.

Nyra's breath caught.

So did Thorne's.

"You presume too much," Thorne said quietly. Dangerously. "The crown does not marry curses."

"Unless you plan to defy the gods," the High Priest replied, "you have no choice."

Silence. Heavy. Searing.

The Empress Dowager looked at her grandson, then at Nyra.

"So be it," she said at last. "The wedding will take place in three days. Until then, she is to remain in the Moon Wing. Guarded. Watched."

"And if she runs?" one of the generals asked.

"She won't," Thorne said, stepping forward.

He crossed the floor toward Nyra until he stood inches from her.

She didn't move.

He leaned down, his voice low enough only she could hear.

"You can dress like an empress. Bathe like one. Speak like one. But I see you, girl."

Her fingers curled.

"You're still the same servant who used to steal extra bread from the kitchens at night. Still the same orphan who slept in the laundry room to avoid the rats."

Her heart raced. How did he know that?

"I will marry you because I must," he murmured. "But don't mistake that for acceptance. I don't trust you. I don't like you. And if you ever touch magic again without permission..."

He leaned closer, until his lips brushed her ear.

"I'll put you down myself."

And just like that, he turned and walked away.

She didn't cry.

Not when they escorted her back to the Moon Wing.

Not when the maid dressed her again.

Not even when they locked the doors from the outside.

But that night, as the firelight flickered and the moon rose again, Nyra stood by the open window and pressed her palm to the glowing runes on her skin.

Something inside her was waking.

Something ancient. Something furious.

And she could feel it whispering beneath her heartbeat:

You are not their pawn.

You are their reckoning.