I slipped through the mansion's back gate, the heavy iron creaking just enough to make me wince. Journal tucked tight inside my jacket, Raelin's rough stitches pressing against my ribs like a secret heartbeat. Better than any silk-bound nonsense from the court scribes.
The dagger she'd taken sat heavy on my mind—heavier than the weight it'd add to her belt. Smart move for her. West was rough; she'd use it if cornered. But not on me. We'd never get that far. Treaty or no treaty, Raelin was mine.
The halls stretched dark and empty, torches burned low in their sconces, casting long shadows that danced like they knew I was out past curfew. Servants had cleared out hours ago—knew better than to poke around when Ruslan was in one of his moods.
His study door hung cracked at the corridor's end, warm light spilling onto the marble like spilled blood. Voices leaked out, low and edged.
Ruslan never talked business this late unless it was the bad kind—border skirmishes or noble whining. I slowed my steps, boots silent on the stone, keeping to the wall's shadow. Curiosity won over caution every time.
Tsvetan's voice hit first—smooth, calm, the kind that slid under your skin like ice water.
He was here? Tsvetan never showed up unannounced, never stepped foot in Ruslan's wing without a full court escort. That alone set my teeth on edge. Alarming didn't cover it.
I crept closer, breath shallow, pressing my back flat against the cold stone. Eavesdropping wasn't exactly noble behavior, but sneaking across borders to meet a fae orphan ranked higher on the disgrace scale. Fair trade.
Inside, Ruslan paced hard, boots thudding against the thick rug. I could picture him—hair disheveled, jaw clenched like he wanted to bite through iron. "Take this seriously, brother. One of our nobles—Lord Varyn, that idiot—killed an aristocrat's daughter in the West. Crossed the border on some bloodlust bender. They're calling it murder, not a hunt gone wrong. Western council's already mobilizing troops. This is war, Tsvetan. Full declaration by dawn."
My breath caught sharp in my throat.
West.
Raelin.
War.
The words slammed together like a fist to the gut. I stumbled back half a step, shoulder knocking a side table. A silver candlestick wobbled—caught it before it clattered. No. No way.
The treaty had held for centuries, patched with blood oaths and elite pairings. One dead girl couldn't unravel that. Could it? Raelin's face flashed—onyx hair, dry smirk over pastries. Orphanage right on the West edge. If patrols locked down...
Tsvetan hadn't moved from the window, arms clasped behind his back, staring out at the black night like it owed him answers.
That smile crept across his face then—cold, serene, the kind that gave nothing away. Never reached his eyes. "Learn to rule the world, Ruslan. There's only one rule: manipulate everything until every choice bends in your favor. Wars aren't started by blades. They're started by whispers."
Ruslan stopped dead, whirling to face him. I heard the glare without seeing it. "You orchestrated this? A worldwide war over one noble's mistake?"
Tsvetan's laugh was soft, almost kind. "I orchestrated nothing. The pieces simply fell into place." He turned his head just enough, moonlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. "Lord Varyn was... encouraged. A word here, a rumor there. The West was primed to snap. Now they have their excuse."
Ruslan dragged both hands through his hair, exhaling like a bellows. Pacing resumed, faster. "What do you possibly gain from this? North can't hold four fronts. East stays neutral, fine, but South's barriers are cracking—those portals hum louder every season. You want Vahariin and Zaokh spilling over?"
Tsvetan glanced over his shoulder, eyes flat as polished obsidian. "Something you won't understand. Not yet."
Ruslan cursed—sharp, filthy, the kind of word that got servants flogged. He yanked the study door open to storm out, face thunderous—and froze dead. Me, right there, pressed flat against the wall, blood drained from my face. Journal outline still visible under my jacket if he looked close.
"Maeve." Ruslan stepped forward, voice dropping softer, like talking to a spooked horse. Hand half-outstretched.
"Don't. Come. Near. Me." I spat each word, backing up until marble chilled my spine. Heart hammered loud enough I swore they heard it. "You're both monsters. What happened to the treaty? The peace? Elites keeping disputes in check? This is—"
"The treaty died the moment Tsvetan decided to orchestrate a murder for his games," Ruslan cut in, voice rising again.
"Ruslan." Tsvetan's tone sharpened to steel, calm but unyielding. Filled the hall without volume. "Return to your chambers. We will talk later."
"You can't just order me—"
"I can, and I did. Chambers. Now."
Ruslan's jaw worked. He shot me one look—guilt flickering under the anger, mixed with something like warning. Or pity. Then he stalked off, boots echoing down the corridor until a distant door slammed.
Silence dropped heavy. Tsvetan tilted his head my way from the study threshold, smile gone but eyes pinning me like a moth. "Sit, my dear cousin. We have much to discuss about your little... visits."
My stomach plummeted. He knew.
The borders.
Raelin.
Everything.
Pale didn't cover it—I felt the color leach straight out.
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