Chapter 5 A Blade in the Dark

The palace slept.

But Nyra did not.

She lay in the vast bed of the Moon Wing chamber, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as shadows danced across the stone. The silence was oppressive-thick, watchful, unnatural.

Her conversation with Thorne still echoed in her mind. The first real exchange they'd shared.

He hadn't offered trust. But he had offered something just as dangerous: the possibility of an alliance.

A possibility that both excited and terrified her.

It was foolish to feel anything but caution. He was a prince. A blade wrapped in protocol and pride. But under the moonlight, for a moment, he hadn't looked like an enemy.

He'd looked like a man alone in the dark.

Just like her.

Nyra turned onto her side, trying to will sleep to take her.

It didn't.

Instead, her magic stirred.

A whisper.

A chill.

Something was wrong.

She sat up quickly.

The candles had burned low, nearly to their ends. The fire in the hearth had dimmed. And yet, the shadows on the far wall moved... unnaturally.

Too slow. Too deliberate.

Nyra rose from the bed in silence, padding barefoot to the edge of the room. The air had shifted.

Then-

A whisper of steel.

She dropped just as a dagger sliced through the air where her throat had been.

Instinct-not training-moved her.

She rolled, grabbed the edge of the table, and threw it toward the shadows.

A grunt. Then a figure emerged, cloaked in black from head to toe, his face hidden behind a silver half-mask etched with runes.

No sound.

No warning.

Another dagger flashed.

Nyra dove behind the dresser as the blade embedded in the stone wall.

Her magic roared to the surface, wild and untamed.

Too much.

She clenched her teeth, trying to contain it. Elira's voice echoed in her head.

Breathe. Focus. Bend it.

The assassin moved fast, leaping over furniture, silent as a ghost.

Nyra grabbed the nearest object-a silver candelabra-and swung.

The impact hit his ribs, and he staggered.

But only for a moment.

He lunged again.

This time, she didn't run.

She released.

Flames burst from her palms, spiraling toward him like hungry serpents. The assassin twisted midair, avoiding the worst of it, but his cloak caught fire.

He hissed, slamming against the wall, rolling to extinguish the blaze.

Nyra's chest heaved.

The runes on her skin glowed bright gold.

She could feel the power building again-wilder, stronger than before.

She raised her hand-

And the door burst open.

Thorne.

Sword drawn. Eyes burning.

He took one look at the assassin, then at Nyra, and moved like a predator unleashed.

The intruder didn't hesitate.

He hurled a knife-not at Thorne, but at Nyra.

Thorne's blade met it midair with a sharp clang, deflecting it into the stone pillar.

The assassin turned to flee-but Thorne was faster.

He caught the man by the shoulder and drove his sword through his side.

The masked figure gasped, staggering back. Blood bloomed across his tunic. He reached for something at his belt-an orb carved from black glass-and slammed it to the ground.

Smoke exploded.

By the time it cleared, he was gone.

Thorne cursed, sheathing his blade.

"Nyra," he barked, spinning toward her.

She stood frozen near the wall, hair wild, nightgown torn, hands trembling with the residue of fire magic.

He reached her in three strides, gripping her shoulders.

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, wide-eyed. "No. Just-shaken."

"You fought back."

"I-I had to."

Thorne's grip tightened slightly. "You controlled it?"

She nodded.

His gaze searched hers. Something unspoken flickered in his eyes-admiration? relief?-before he masked it.

"Come," he said roughly. "You can't stay here."

They moved through the palace under escort.

Thorne didn't leave her side.

Even the guards seemed tense, their hands on weapons, eyes scanning corners as if expecting another shadow to leap out of the darkness.

In the war wing of the palace, deep within the Tower of Shields, they reached a room secured with runes, wards, and reinforced steel doors.

Thorne led her inside.

It was not luxurious.

It was not warm.

But it was safe.

"Stay here," he said. "Until I root out whoever sent him."

Nyra turned to him, brow furrowed. "You already know who it was."

He didn't answer.

She stepped closer.

"Tell me."

He looked at her, jaw clenched. "The Council is divided. Half want to use you. Half want to bury you. Someone decided to make the choice themselves."

"And you?" she asked.

His silence was answer enough.

But then, after a beat, he added, "I didn't save you tonight because of politics."

Her breath hitched.

He stepped closer.

"I saved you because I was afraid."

"Afraid... for me?"

"No." His eyes darkened. "Afraid of what you might become if you died before you knew what you were."

Nyra stared at him.

The distance between them felt like a battlefield.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded once. "You were brilliant, by the way."

She blinked. "What?"

"In the fight." A flicker of something rare crossed his face-humor. "The candelabra? Inspired."

She laughed. A small, shaken sound.

He turned to leave, pausing at the door.

"If another attempt is made," he said, "don't hold back."

She tilted her head. "You mean the magic?"

"I mean everything."

And then he was gone.

That night, Nyra stood at the window of the tower chamber, watching the moonlight dance on the distant mountains.

The attack had changed something in her.

Not just the danger. But the way her power had responded.

It had protected her.

Not wildly. Not explosively.

Precisely.

She was no longer afraid of it.

She was beginning to believe she had been chosen not as a pawn...

But as a player.

And maybe-just maybe-as a queen.

But even as that thought took root, another stirred in the darkness.

In the ruins of the assassin's cloak, retrieved by Thorne's spies, a hidden scroll was found.

Not paper.

Skin.

Human skin, inked with blood.

With one name written in ancient, forbidden runes.

Nyra's.

And below it, a single word:

"Deliver."