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Like she wants to unravel me.

That is more dangerous than anything.

Because if she digs too deep, she will find the truth.

And the truth is, I am already losing this war between us despite winning some of our battles.

15

NAIRA

The Capital is a beast with gilded teeth and a rotten heart.

It rises before me, a labyrinth of dark spires and winding streets, silk and darkness woven together in a masterpiece of cruelty.

The streets are lined with decadence and despair, slaves draped in fine chains, nobles laughing as they sip blood-red wine, whispers curling through the alleys like vipers waiting to strike.

And now, I am walking into the belly of it.

With him.

With Zephiran.

And worse—I am wearing his damn colors.

The gown is midnight blue, cut too low, clinging to my body in ways that make me feel exposed, on display, a trophy instead of a woman. The collar at my throat gleams under the soft glow of lantern light, the silver chain attached to it resting in Zephiran grip.

He leads. I follow.

Or at least, that’s what he wants everyone to think.

The entrance to the noble hall looms ahead, golden doors thrown open, spilling laughter and music into the night.

A masquerade.

A gathering of liars and monsters wearing beautiful things.

Tonight, I will be one of them.

Everything glows in this place.

Golden chandeliers drip with candlelight, the aroma of incense and wine thick in the surroundings. The hall is filled with bodies and masks, lace and leather, whispers and secrets hidden behind sharp smiles.

Zephiran leads me through the crowd like he owns the place. His presence is larger than life, dwarfing almost everyone else.

He holds my chain lightly, as if the metal itself isn’t a fucking insult, as if this isn’t a reminder of my place beside him.

He likes this.

He likes showing me off.

Letting them look. To wonder.

I should hate how good he looks in the dark embroidery of his tunic, how the soft candlelight flickers against his sharp cheekbones, how his black hair is pulled back just enough to expose the pointed tips of his ears—the mark of his lineage.

I should hate that I feel his warmth beside me, his presence branding my skin like something inevitable.

Instead, I let him lead me onto the dance floor.