Chapter 4 The Coronation Trap

The private chapel of the Estarian Royal Palace was carved in silence and shadow.

Unlike the grandeur of the ballroom, this sacred hall was centuries old gilded with murals of past kings and veiled in heavy incense. Every stone whispered power. And secrets.

Alessia stepped inside through the east corridor reserved for high guests. Her custom-tailored gown clung to her like liquid midnight. Around her neck, a discreet chain concealed a micro-recorder beneath the sapphire pendant. Just in case.

Only twelve guests had been invited.

And every one of them was either royalty, political, or dangerous.

Nikolai stood at the altar, dressed in traditional coronation regalia, deep navy robes, trimmed in lion-gold. A royal sword was strapped at his hip. His eyes found hers the moment she entered.

He smiled.

She did not.

Her attention scanned the room, careful and calm.

The King's Guard was posted at every entrance. A priest recited the ancient oath in Estarian, and the ceremonial crown sat polished on a crimson velvet pillow. It was time.

As the guests took their seats, Alessia caught the smallest flicker in her peripheral vision.

A man in all black, seated two rows behind her.

She recognized the ring on his finger. Falcon. Her informant.

He never made contact directly. Only showed up when things were spiraling.

Alessia's pulse quickened.

Then he tilted a small mirror in her direction.

She glanced discreetly, and her blood froze.

The image reflected behind her wasn't hers.

It was the back of another guest, an older woman wearing a floral brooch.

The same brooch Alessia's mother had worn the night she died.

No one could have that pin... unless they'd been there.

Unless they'd taken it from her corpse.

Alessia barely registered the rest of the coronation.

Not the priest's booming final words, nor the moment Nikolai bowed to receive the crown. All she saw was that brooch. That woman. That memory she had buried under ten years of steel.

When it was done, and applause rang through the chapel, Alessia stood with the rest.

Nikolai's voice cut through the reverence. "A private gathering in the eastern wing. Come join me."

The guests filtered toward the long corridor, but Alessia lingered.

She turned. The woman was gone.

Falcon too.

Gone like smoke.

Her mind raced.

What game was this?

Who planted the brooch?

Was it a warning?

Or a message?

As she entered the east wing salon, Nikolai approached her. "You look pale."

"I don't do well with holy places," she murmured.

He chuckled. "Then you'll hate my ancestral chamber. Come."

He led her down a hallway lined with portraits of generations of Vasari rulers watching them in oil and gold. But just as he opened the last door, a guard ran up, breathless.

"Your Highness, we have a situation."

Nikolai stiffened. "What kind of situation?"

The guard hesitated. "Security breach. One of the guests was found dead in the garden."

Alessia's breath caught.

"Who?" Nikolai demanded.

"Contessa Fiorenza De Luca."

Every thought in Alessia's head stopped.

That was the name on her forged invitation.

Her alias.

Someone had killed a decoy wearing her name.

And left the body in the open.

Message received.

Someone wasn't just onto her.

They were clearing the board.

Nikolai turned to her, eyes clouded with concern. "Alessia..."

She composed herself with a trembling breath. "Yes?"

"Are you sure you're safe? That name"

She cut in smoothly. "I assure you, it's a common title in Verona."

But her voice didn't sound steady anymore.

Because the mask was slipping.

And someone, somewhere inside this palace, wanted her to know:

They were close. Very close.