The palace no longer felt like stone and silk.
It pulsed alive, watching.
Even the air buzzed with suspicion after the breach. Elara had escaped the chaos of the library, but she hadn't outrun the questions. Or the whispers.
Why her? What now? Who was M.?
Sleep never came. Just the echo of M.'s words:
"You're not just a pawn. You're a spark. And sparks start fires."
By dawn, the sky hung low with mist, and the gardens glistened like they wept during the night. Nobles roamed the halls clutching half-truths and teacups. But Elara didn't join them.
She moved like a shadow, cutting through the palace until the marble led her into the Imperial Gardens—the one place not yet soured by suspicion.
Or so she thought.
The flowers leaned too close. The breeze carried more than petals it carried warnings.
When the dandelion seeds drifted against the wind, her instincts screamed.
She left the main path.
The garden maze, once a place of childhood dares and secret laughter, now loomed with thorny silence. The hedges towered above her, tall enough to hide secrets or bury them.
She turned a corner.
And froze.
A boy stood in the center of a rose-ringed clearing, too still to be innocent. His face was serene, but in his hand gleamed a knife curved, ceremonial, and wickedly familiar.
He saw her.
And smiled.
"You're earlier than expected," he said softly.
Elara stepped back. "Do I know you?"
"No," he replied. "But I know you, Lady Flame."
He lunged.
She ducked, rolling into the dew-wet grass. The knife sliced air where her throat had been.
Training kicked in not the courtly posture or sword lessons meant for display, but the secret drills taught in the moonlit quiet of her father's guard hall.
She snatched a thorned branch, swung it hard. He hissed, retreating as blood bloomed across his cheek.
"You're better than the reports," he said, circling.
"You talk too much for an assassin."
He lunged again, faster. She twisted, the branch snapping in her hand. His blade grazed her shoulder hot pain, then numbness.
"Why me?" she demanded, breath ragged.
"Because the stone chose wrong."
Elara's pulse pounded. Wrong? What did they think she was?
The boy raised the knife again but this time, a sharp whistle split the air.
He froze.
From the hedge, another figure stepped out. Tall. Hooded. Familiar.
M.
"Enough," he said.
The boy lowered the blade, eyes burning with resentment. "She was unguarded."
"And you were sloppy."
"She she fought back."
M. looked at Elara. "She always will."
The boy vanished into the hedge, silent as smoke.
Elara pressed a hand to her bleeding shoulder. "You sent him?"
"No. But I knew someone would."
"So I'm bait now?"
M. approached, unbothered by the thorns brushing his cloak. "You're the key to something old and dangerous. Of course they want you gone."
"Who's they?"
"You'll know them by the silence they leave behind. Come."
He held out a hand. For a second, she hesitated.
Then she took it.
The garden whispered behind them as they walked deeper into the maze.
Where secrets waited.
And somewhere beneath the stone, the truth stirred, restless.