Aelira woke before dawn.
Not because of fear.
Because something inside her would not let her sleep.
She lay still beneath the heavy covers, breath slow, listening. The palace was quiet at this hour—no footsteps in the corridor, no murmurs of servants preparing the morning bells.
Yet the warmth in her chest pulsed steadily, like a second heartbeat.
Too loud, she thought.
She slipped from the bed and crossed the room barefoot, stopping before the narrow window that overlooked the inner gardens. Moonlight spilled across the floor, pale and cold.
The shadows there stirred.
Not violently. Not yet.
They shifted as if aware of her gaze.
Aelira swallowed and lifted her hand.
The warmth responded instantly.
Power slid beneath her skin—smooth, eager, frighteningly easy. The shadows stretched toward her fingers, curling around them like ink drawn to parchment.
She gasped and pulled back.
The shadows snapped into place, retreating—but not before a sharp pain lanced through her chest.
Aelira staggered, gripping the windowsill.
Her heart raced.
So there is a price, she realized.
Power without control was not a gift. It was a debt.
She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, remembering old discipline exercises from her first life—slow inhale, steady exhale, mind empty, will firm.
Gradually, the warmth quieted.
The pain eased.
Aelira straightened, pulse steady once more.
Control, then.
Not strength.
The next summons came with sunlight.
This time, no guards. Just a folded note delivered by Mara, hands trembling as she passed it over.
The seal bore the queen's crest.
Private breakfast. Attendance required.
Aelira read it once, then burned the paper in the candle flame.
"So soon," she murmured.
Mara watched nervously. "Your Highness… should I—"
"No," Aelira said gently. "I'll go alone."
The girl nodded and withdrew.
Alone was safer.
The queen was not in the dining hall.
She was waiting in the small garden pavilion instead, seated beside a table laid with tea and honeyed fruit. Sunlight filtered through hanging vines, painting the scene deceptively peaceful.
"Aelira," Queen Seraphine said warmly. "Come. Sit."
Aelira obeyed.
They ate in silence for several minutes.
Then the queen spoke.
"You were never meant to survive long in this court," Seraphine said conversationally. "Did you know that?"
Aelira kept her expression neutral. "I don't understand."
The queen smiled. "You weren't meant to. That's the point."
A chill crept down Aelira's spine.
"You are inconvenient," Seraphine continued. "Not powerful enough to be useful. Not foolish enough to be harmless."
She set down her teacup. "Which makes you… dangerous."
Aelira met her gaze. "Then why am I still alive?"
The queen's eyes flicked briefly—toward the palace corridor beyond the garden.
Toward the shadows.
"Because," Seraphine said softly, "you are being protected."
Aelira's pulse skipped.
By whom?
The answer came unspoken.
Later that evening, Aelira returned to her chambers with her thoughts in careful order.
She closed the door and leaned back against it, eyes narrowing.
Protected.
Observed.
Owned by forces she did not yet understand.
Her gaze drifted to the window.
A dark figure stood across the courtyard, barely visible against the stone wall.
Black armor.
Stillness.
Watching.
Aelira did not turn away.
Neither did he.
For a long moment, they regarded one another across the distance—predator to predator, blade to blade.
Then the figure melted back into shadow.
Aelira exhaled slowly.
"Fine," she whispered. "Watch."
Because if power demanded a cost—
She would decide who paid it.