Amiya's Perspective
The silence that followed the rogue's disappearance through the window felt heavier than any she'd known. Amiya stood motionless, dagger still gripped tightly, heart pounding erratically in her chest. The rush of adrenaline slowly receded, leaving behind only the stark realization of what had just occurred.
She moved cautiously to the open window, peering into the darkness below. Nothing stirred. Whoever he was, he'd vanished as swiftly as he'd appeared. She cursed softly under her breath, frustration and curiosity warring within her.
Her eyes shifted back to the empty spot where the pendant had lain forgotten. She'd merely stumbled upon it weeks ago, tucked away and collecting dust in a neglected side chamber. A diplomatic gift, once offered from a far-off kingdom to curry favor—a trinket her father had never spoken of with any care. But now, it was gone. And for reasons she couldn't fully articulate, that mattered more than it should.
Amiya tucked the dagger away, smoothing the indigo folds of her gown as if that could still her nerves. She turned in a slow circle, scanning the room like she might catch some trace of him still lingering—a scent, a shadow. But there was nothing. Only the disturbed curtains and the echo of his voice in her memory: "And don't scream—unless you want the guards to come running."
She'd never felt so seen and so invisible at once.
Shaking off the thought, she turned and strode from her chambers. She had little time to dwell. The council meeting she had tried to avoid now loomed ahead.
Her footsteps echoed softly down the hallway, lined with portraits of monarchs whose watchful eyes seemed more judgmental than usual. She didn't need their silent disapproval. Her own thoughts were punishment enough.
The corridor stretched endlessly. She passed servants who averted their eyes, unaware that just moments ago, she'd nearly drawn a blade on an intruder. She wondered if anyone would ever know. If her father would ever care.
The council chamber doors rose ahead like a final test. She straightened her shoulders and pushed through, stepping into the cold weight of power.
Every eye turned to her.
"You're late," King Edric said, voice sharp.
"I was delayed," she answered evenly, gliding to her seat. She kept her expression neutral, her posture perfect. Inside, she was still unraveling.
Lord Hadrian sniffed. "The kingdom's matters should not be kept waiting, Your Highness."
She ignored him.
They droned on about border tensions and merchant disputes. Useless prattle. None of it mattered. Not when a stranger had walked freely into the palace and looked at her like she wasn't invisible. Not when he'd seen her dagger—seen her.
She was supposed to be safe here. Supposed to be unseen. But he'd noticed. And he hadn't run from her. He'd watched, calculated.
Who the hell was he?
Amiya's grip tightened beneath the table. She couldn't let this shake her. Couldn't show weakness. Not now.
But her thoughts wouldn't stop spinning.
Would he come back?
Would he tell anyone what he saw?
Had she hesitated too long?
"Enough," her father said, slicing through the room's buzz. "There's another matter."
She looked up.
"Amiya, you will marry Prince Leandros of Ferathia."
Her world tilted.
"What?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"The arrangement is made. The alliance is critical to our interests. The match is final."
Her blood froze. No warning. No discussion. No choice.
"I didn't agree to this."
"It isn't up for discussion. The contract is signed."
Amiya stared at him, every word burning through her like wildfire. Around the table, the council remained silent, their indifference damning.
Lord Hadrian spoke, smirking. "This union will benefit the kingdom. You should be honored."
Honored.
She wanted to scream. To draw her dagger and slam it into the table. Instead, she sat still, her fury pressed deep into her bones.
"This meeting is adjourned," Edric said.
The advisors rose and filed out. Amiya stayed seated, breath shallow. First the thief. Now this.
The cage had never felt smaller.
Sylas's Perspective
Selune never truly slept. The city whispered and churned in the shadows, always watching.
Sylas wound through its underbelly, the pendant tucked safely in his pouch. It had some diplomatic shine to it, sure—but not enough to explain why his thoughts kept circling back to the girl who'd nearly drawn on him.
She wasn't what he'd expected. No shrieks, no fainting. She'd seen him and read him—like a trained fighter might. Her posture, her expression… he'd recognized the shift when she reached for that dagger. It wasn't instinct. It was discipline.
And that meant trouble.
He ducked into a side alley, then up a narrow stairwell, slipping into a dim, cluttered room above an old bookbinder's shop. Maps lined the walls. Loose parchment and gear covered the tables. Here, at least, he could think.
He pulled the pendant from his pouch and turned it over in his hand. Silver filigree, delicately carved. Not gaudy, but marked by detail. Worth something—but likely more valuable to the right buyer.
He set it down with a soft clink and leaned on the edge of the table. His thoughts circled like vultures.
She hadn't screamed. Hadn't summoned the guards. She'd stood her ground, challenged him with her eyes alone.
And now he couldn't forget her.
He lit a lamp and unrolled a map across the table, fingers tracing the exact path he'd taken into the palace. His route had been deliberate—clean, quiet. The room he'd entered should've been empty. No guards. No nobility.
No her.
She'd thrown his entire plan sideways the moment she stepped into the room.
He dropped into a nearby chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He'd expected complications, but not that kind. Her presence had been… unexpected. Not just physically—though he wasn't blind, and she was undeniably striking—but something in her demeanor had unsettled him.
Those violet eyes had locked onto his without fear. That was rare. Even rarer was the way she moved—graceful, yes, but there was calculation in her stillness. She wasn't sheltered. Not completely. Maybe not at all.
Who was she?
He moved back to the table and retrieved a short list of names—royals, nobles, high-borns known to reside within the palace. No descriptions. Just names and titles. He stared at it, frustrated.
She hadn't acted like a noble. But she hadn't not, either.
The pendant glinted in the lamplight.
He knew better than to follow curiosity for its own sake. He was a rogue, not a romantic. But she was a loose end now—a potentially dangerous one. If she remembered his face, his voice… she could complicate everything.
He pushed away from the table, moving toward the narrow window. Outside, the city shimmered with torchlight and unrest. There were whispers of unrest in the lower rings. Guards making new rounds. A thief like him didn't need complications.
And yet, here he was, standing still in the dark, wondering why she hadn't called for help.
Why she had looked at him like she knew exactly who he was.
Why he couldn't stop thinking about her.