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But his face—his beautiful, beloved face—had already crumbled. His eyes, those molten pools of gold, shimmered with unshed tears.

And then, so softly it shattered her, he said, ‘No. Do not explain.’

She reached for him, hesitant, terrified. Her hand cupped his cheek, and for the briefest moment, he leaned into the touch, letting her warmth cradle him. His tears spilt over, silent, aching.

‘I didn’t know you before,’ she tried, her voice breaking. ‘But then everything changed. The curse—’

The moment she spoke the word, he recoiled.

He wrenched himself from her grasp, stepping back as if her touch burnt him.

The space between them grew vast and unbearable, thick with betrayal.

His expression was no longer open, no longer warm—it was the face he had worn when they first met, cold and unreadable, a mask of indifference that cut deeper than any blade.

‘Ash, please ,’ she sobbed, reaching for him again.

He turned away.

‘Go,’ he said, his voice rough, brittle. ‘Go and get the da-dagger. Do what you c-came here to do, Mal Blackburn.’

And then he was gone.

The doors slammed behind him, the force of it shaking the walls, fracturing the last remnants of the fragile world they had built together.

Mal collapsed to the floor, her forehead pressing against the cold stone as a scream tore from her throat—a sound of grief so raw it could have cracked the heavens.

…

Alina had spent the morning cloistered away in her chambers, feigning interest in a book that failed to capture her restless mind.

She had read the same passage over and over again, the words blurring into meaninglessness, until frustration overtook her.

With a huff, she tossed the book onto the settee and reclined against the cushions, exhaling sharply.

Soon, the afternoon would steal away her solitude, and she would be paraded before the court, drowning in well-wishes and congratulations for a marriage that was never hers to choose.

Lunch was brought to her in silence, the maids flitting about with the soft rustle of skirts, their eyes carefully averted.

She could not bear to play hostess when the evening would demand her full performance.

After her meal, a flurry of movement overtook the room as the seamstresses and handmaids descended upon her, preparing her for the grand spectacle that awaited.

The dress had been weeks in the making, a seamless blend of drakonian and phoenixian styles, woven together in a masterful display of diplomacy.

White silk formed the base of the gown, but it was gilded with gold embroidery, thick threads intertwining in intricate designs, with deep crimson gemstones nestled between them.

The skirt was unapologetically drakonian—voluminous, regal, and impossible to ignore.

The veil, long and weightless, cascaded over her horns, a delicate contrast to the sharp strength they represented.

Her golden hair had been straightened in the phoenixian manner, woven through with tiny rubies that caught the light like embers.

Dark kohl framed her eyes, transforming her into something otherworldly—a vision of fire and light.

At least she was covered. Phoenixian women, with their scandalously bare gowns and bold displays of skin, did not share the drakonian appreciation for mystery.

Alina turned towards the window, her gaze drawn to the endless stretch of the sea, where the floating island of the valkyrians loomed in the distance.

Perhaps there lay her escape—perhaps, if fate was kind, she would find a way to slip away and carve out a different destiny.

A life of steel and wind, of battle and freedom.

But for now, she would play her part, smile when necessary, and bide her time.

The final touch was the weight of her golden rings, slipped onto each finger with reverence. She curled her hand into a fist, silently swearing that no prince—no king—would ever claim them from her. If they wished to take them, they would have to take her fingers with them.

A soft knock at the door.

‘The queen requests your presence, your highness,’ a servant announced.

Alina stifled a groan, rolling her shoulders as if she could shake off the burden of expectation.

What could her mother possibly want now?

It was still a strange, foreign thought—her mother, a Seer.

They had not spoken since the revelation, since her vision of the curse and her insistence that Mal must die to break it.

Alina’s entourage trailed behind her like restless shadows as she strode through the opulent halls, the silk of her gown pooling around her like a river of gold and moonlight.

Servants scurried at her heels, lifting the heavy skirts so she would not stumble—an absurdity she despised.

What was the point of a gown that required four attendants simply to allow her to walk?

The irritation simmered beneath her skin, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself into quiet composure as the grand doors to her mother’s chambers were pushed open.

Darkness greeted her like an unwelcome hand, thick and unyielding, swallowing the light from the corridor. Alina hesitated for only a breath before motioning for the servants to leave.

‘Mother?’

A low moan slithered from the bed, and Alina’s chest tightened.

Queen Cyra lay curled in the silken abyss of her sheets, her body twisting as though in the throes of some unseen torment. Her forehead glistened with sweat, a damp cloth pressed against her brow, her breath uneven.

‘What is wrong?’

‘My visions…’ the queen rasped, sitting up with an effort that looked agonising. ‘They are growing worse. I will not be able to attend the celebrations. Let me look at you.’

A chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature slithered down Alina’s spine. She approached warily, stopping at the foot of the bed where the carved wooden dragons loomed from the canopy, their fire-lit eyes seeming to glow in the gloom. Could her mother truly see her in such darkness?

‘They have outdone themselves,’ the queen said, her gaze drifting towards her daughter’s silhouette.

Alina smoothed the gown over her hips, its heavy fabric whispering against her skin. ‘It is beautiful,’ she conceded, though she would not waste her breath debating its impracticality with the queen. ‘But I ought to leave. I do not wish to be late to my own celebration.’

A lie. There were still hours before she would be summoned to descend in a regal procession, but she was desperate to escape the suffocating air of the room.

Queen Cyra ignored her, patting the space beside her in invitation. Alina did not dare sit without help—not in this monstrosity of a dress—but she stepped closer, resting a tentative hand on the bed, uncertain if she was seeking to reassure her mother or herself.

‘They are coming,’ the queen whispered, her voice raw and brittle.

Alina stiffened. ‘Who?’

‘The witches.’

Her heart skidded, but she forced herself to maintain her composure.

A part of her wanted to scoff, to dismiss the words as the mad ramblings of a woman unhinged by her own visions.

And yet—what if she was right? Her mother claimed to be a Seer.

Though Alina had never seen her fall into a trance, never once witnessed the divine shadow of prophecy in her gaze, she could not deny the weight in the queen’s voice.

‘It is starting,’ the queen pressed, her brown eyes burning with a fervor that made Alina’s stomach twist.

‘What is starting, Mother?’ she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘The war.’

Alina exhaled sharply. ‘Mother, the war ended a hundred years ago.’

Queen Cyra shook her head, her frame sagging against the ornate headboard, exhaustion carving lines into her regal features. ‘I have seen it, Alina. I have seen the end of it all. And it begins today.’

A cold dread coiled around Alina’s ribs, squeezing the breath from her lungs. ‘Today?’ she echoed, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Mother, today is my engagement celebration. I doubt war will break out because of it.’ She forced a laugh, but it felt hollow in her throat.

Still, unease gnawed at her.

She wanted to run.

She wanted to find Ash, to slip her hand into his and tether herself to something solid, something real. It had always been them against the world, their bond unshaken by the tides of duty and expectation. But now—now, Alina felt truly, utterly alone.

‘You will make a beautiful phoenixian bride someday,’ the queen said, her eyes softening into something distant and sorrowful. ‘The visions have changed. You will rule the phoenixians, but not yet. Endure, Alina. It is your destiny. You will be put through hell and back. Endure it .’

The queen’s gaze drifted over her, settling upon the gown with a look of almost reverence. ‘It is a beautiful red dress, I must admit.’

Alina’s breath hitched.

‘Mother,’ she whispered. ‘The dress is white .’

The queen’s expression did not shift. Her lips pressed together, her gaze distant, unfocused.

A shiver crawled down Alina’s spine.

She turned, the weight of the room crushing against her lungs, and rushed towards the doors, yanking them open with a force that startled the maids waiting outside.

‘Help me,’ she gasped. ‘Get me out of here.’

She did not care who saw.

She did not care what they thought.

All she wanted was to escape the laughter that spilt from her mother’s lips—laughter that echoed through the halls like a harbinger of something far, far worse.