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CHAPTER ONE

TALIA

R ed smoke swirled around me as I teleported, my body dissolving into particles before reforming in the traveling hall of the ancestral seat of Fitsum power. Griffin materialized beside me, his presence as constant as my own shadow.

“Home sweet home,” I muttered. What a useless phrase.

The sprawling palace with its vaulted ceilings and thick stench of incense had never been a sanctuary.

Just a battlefield where my brother had tormented me, where my father had ignored me, where I’d dreamed of teleporting far away, never to return.

Griffin’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight twitch of his tail—a tell I’d learned to read over years of service. He hated this place as much as I did.

“Indeed, Princess.” His tone betrayed nothing. Always the perfect bodyguard.

I straightened my spine as he strode for the doors to the grand hall. Time to don the mask of the perfect princess. Demure. Obedient. Utterly without ambition. The mask that had kept me alive while Javed murdered our siblings one by one.

Javed . Even thinking his name made my skin crawl.

It had been nearly two months since his death, and the court still performed its elaborate mourning rituals as though we’d lost a beloved prince rather than a monster.

My brother had been cruel since childhood, taking pleasure in tormenting those weaker than himself.

As he grew, so did his sadism, until even our siblings—the ones he hadn’t already killed—learned to flee at the sight of him.

I’d survived by making myself useful. By becoming invisible when necessary and indispensable when possible. By building a network of informants that rivaled the king’s own, gathering secrets like others gathered jewels.

And now Javed was dead, killed by the leader of the Kadhan clan—our knives, our rivals, our shadows.

I should feel something , shouldn’t I? Grief for a lost sibling, anger at his murderer, relief that his reign of terror was over.

Instead, there was only a cold, hard knot of calculation in my chest.

The world was objectively better without Javed in it. And his absence left a power vacuum I fully intended to fill.

My father’s chamberlain met us with a deep bow at the first crossroads of corridors. “Princess Talia, we’ve been expecting you.”

“I came as soon as I received my father’s summons.” I kept my voice soft, my expression placid. “How is the king’s health today?”

“Stable, Princess.” The chamberlain’s eyes darted away from mine—the first lie of the day. My father’s health was anything but stable. “He awaits you in the throne room.”

I frowned. “Not his chambers?”

“The king has requested the throne room for today’s audience,” he repeated, gesturing toward the ornate doors of the antechamber cracked open behind him. There would be no negotiation or further explanation.

Audience . Not mourning dinner. Not family discussion. Audience . As if I were just another petitioner seeking the king’s favor.

“I see.” I maintained my serene smile even as irritation prickled beneath my skin. “And my cousins? Have they arrived?”

The chamberlain’s hesitation told me everything I needed to know before he spoke. “You are the only one summoned today, Princess.”

Interesting . Either my father had already spoken to my remaining relations separately, or I was the only one he deemed worth consulting tonight. Given Adron Fitsum’s views on female capability, I suspected the former.

“Of course,” I said smoothly. “I’m at his majesty’s disposal.”

The throne room was elegant but cold, its imposing seat of power and white marble walls adorned with portraits of past Fitsum rulers. All male, of course. I paced the length of the empty room, my reflection distorted in the polished floor beneath my feet.

Griffin took up position by the door, his posture relaxed but alert. “This isn’t standard protocol.”

“No.” I kept my voice low. “Something’s changed.”

Father had summoned me. Alone. No cousins, no distant relations with tenuous claims to royal blood. But more worryingly, none of my informants had picked up anything on this meeting.

I’d spent exactly twelve nights in this palace over the past decade.

Twelve nights when I couldn’t avoid the formal functions that required my presence.

The rest of my time had been divided between ‘educational trips’ abroad and ‘cultural visits’ to distant relatives.

Convenient excuses to keep me away from Javed’s increasingly violent outbursts, really.

Not that my father had particularly cared about my safety. I was simply more useful alive than dead, another piece on his political chessboard. The perfect princess to be traded in marriage when the time was right.

But now I was the last legitimate child of an aged, sickly king. By rights and circumstance, the throne should pass to me.

The doors again swung open and interrupted my thoughts. But instead of the chamberlain sweeping me away to somewhere less formal, a tall ifrit male strode inside.

My breath caught in my throat.

Kaz Kadhan.

Leader of the mercenary branch of the royal line. Killer of my brother. The most dangerous ifrit in our world.

And fuck , he was gorgeous.

Heat bloomed beneath my skin as our eyes met, a sudden, unexpected flush that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

He moved with that particularly dangerous masculine grace, all straight spine and broad shoulders, eyes scanning everything and everyone.

The rich red wine color of his skin was darker than mine, but striking against the black of his clothes.

Kaz’s gold eyes narrowed slightly. A flicker of something—surprise? Guilt?—crossed his features before his expression settled into careful neutrality. He offered me a stiff nod as he crossed the room to stand near the window.

I’d seen him before, of course, in intelligence reports, surveillance images, the occasional formal function where our paths crossed but never connected.

Thirty-five years old. Trained in combat from childhood.

Unmarried, despite numerous political overtures.

His sister Rava had been betrothed to Javed in a political alliance meant to reunite our feuding families.

An alliance that had shattered when Kaz’s ax separated my brother’s head from his shoulders.

So, what was he doing here? Now? Tonight?

“I assume you’re here at the king’s summons as well,” I said, breaking the tense silence.

Kaz nodded once, his gaze moving past me to assess Griffin’s position by the door. “Seems we’re both being made to wait.”

“A favorite tactic of my father’s,” I said, my voice cool and controlled despite the strange heat coursing through my veins. I’d never reacted this way to anyone before, male or female. It was as disconcerting as it was unwelcome. “He believes it puts one at a psychological disadvantage.”

“Does it work?”

I allowed myself a small smirk. “Not on those who expect it.”

A corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been the beginning of a smile, but before he could respond, the doors behind the throne swung wide.

This time, it was my father who appeared—or rather, a diminished version of the imposing figure who had ruled the ifrit with an iron fist for decades. King Adron Fitsum leaned heavily on an ornate cane, his braided white hair swaying with the sharp shake of his head.

“I’ve heard enough,” he said, addressing someone still inside the corridor. “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

Emil Malum stepped into view, his pale red skin a stark contrast to the dark formal attire he favored. His face tightened with barely concealed fury as he bowed to my father.

The sight of the clan leader’s obvious displeasure threaded the twins of satisfaction and concern through me. Emil was a snake, always had been. Whatever he’d been discussing with my father, I’d need to discover it sooner rather than later.

But then my father hobbled to his throne, and all other thoughts fled. Age and illness had taken their toll on the king’s body, but his gold eyes remained sharp as they fixed on me, then Kaz.

“So,” he said finally. “The last of my children and the man who killed my heir. How fitting that you should stand before me together.”

I held my breath, waiting for the ax to fall—figuratively, this time. Would my father demand Kaz’s execution? Declare war on the Kadhan clan? Either would devastate our already fragile political landscape.

And why in all the hells was I to stand witness?

Kaz stiffened beside me, but his voice remained steady when he spoke. “Your Majesty, I?—”

“Spare me your justifications, Kadhan.” His mouth twisted in what might have been disgust or simply discomfort as he leaned back in his throne. “Fortunately for you, my son had become... problematic. His removal, while regrettable, has perhaps saved us all considerable difficulty.”

I kept my expression locked down, though my mind raced. My father had never acknowledged Javed’s cruelty before. Had never suggested he was anything but the perfect heir. What game was he playing now?

“However,” my father continued, “his death has left us with a significant challenge. The Fitsum line requires an heir. The ifrit court requires stability. And the alliance between our branches, which was to be secured through your sister’s marriage to my son, remains unfulfilled.”

No. I saw where this was heading a moment before my father spoke the words that would change everything.

“The solution is simple,” he declared. “Princess Talia will wed Prince Kaz tonight. The royal and mercenary lines will be united, and a new heir will be secured.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet. “What?” The word escaped before I could stop it, a breach of protocol I’d never have allowed myself under normal circumstances.

Beside me, Kaz’s expression froze in what might have been shock or horror or both.

“Father,” I began, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Surely there are other?—”