The corridors of Noctharyn Palace always felt different after dawn. Where moonlight once kissed the marble in ghostly silver, sunlight now crept in reluctant, pale streaks—an intruder in a place built for darkness. The air itself seemed to resist it, heavy with the residue of night.
I hadn't slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Carmila's face—her smile, trembling at the edges; her eyes glimmering with something more fragile than magic. The way her hand had fit against mine, cool and trembling, as if afraid to let go.
It should've been a dream.
But the faint scent of roses still lingered on my sleeve.
I stood by the balcony where we'd sat hours ago, watching the light crawl across the distant towers. Somewhere below, bells rang softly to mark morning court. The city was waking. I should have been preparing for the council session with Queen Lysandra—but my mind was still trapped in the quiet between night and day.
The quiet where she had said she loved me.
And I had said it back.
A knock—sharp, deliberate—broke the stillness.
"Enter," I called, voice rough from fatigue.
The door opened to reveal not Carmila—but a different figure altogether. Tall, poised, wrapped in crimson and silver silk. Queen Lysandra Noctharyn. Carmila's mother.
Her presence was like the night incarnate—serene, cold, commanding. Her eyes—those same ruby hues as her daughter's—studied me with unnerving calm.
"You rise early," she said, her voice soft but heavy with meaning.
"So does the sun, Your Majesty," I replied, bowing lightly.
Her lips curved faintly. "A poetic answer. Fitting for one my daughter seems to have taken… an interest in."
The words struck harder than any accusation. "Your Majesty—"
She raised a hand. "Spare me the denial, Lord Kaelthorn. Carmila hides many things, but she has never been subtle when her heart stirs."
I hesitated. "If I've done anything to—"
"To make her feel?" Lysandra's gaze sharpened. "You misunderstand. That is not a crime. But it is dangerous."
I met her eyes. "Because I'm human?"
Her expression softened, just slightly. "Because you are mortal. And because my daughter has forgotten what mortality costs."
She turned, crossing to the window, her reflection fractured in the glass. "You remind her of what we lost centuries ago—fragility, love, fear. Those are not things we embrace lightly."
"I didn't mean for—"
"I know." She looked back at me, eyes ancient and unreadable. "And yet, meaning has little to do with consequence."
Silence stretched between us. Outside, the sunlight had grown bolder, painting her silhouette in gold. For the first time, I realized how weary she looked—immortal, yes, but burdened with too many dawns.
"Tell me," she said quietly. "When you look at her, what do you see?"
I swallowed. "Someone who still believes there's light left in the dark."
Lysandra's expression flickered—something like sorrow. "Then perhaps there's hope for her yet."
She moved toward the door, her robes whispering like distant thunder. At the threshold, she paused. "But remember this, Adrian Kaelthorn—hope can be the cruelest weapon. Do not give her what you cannot keep."
And then she was gone.
I stood there long after the echo of her footsteps faded, the queen's warning hanging in the air like frost.
When I finally left the room, the corridors had filled with movement—servants whispering, nobles striding toward the throne hall, courtiers carrying scrolls and sigils. The politics of the night kingdom waited for no one.
But just as I turned toward the council chamber, a familiar voice stopped me.
"Adrian."
Carmila stood at the end of the hall, dressed now in formal black and silver, her hair tied back, her composure restored. To anyone else, she was the perfect image of a royal heir—grace, command, mystery.
But when our eyes met, her facade cracked, if only for a moment.
"I thought you might've left before dawn," she said softly.
"Couldn't," I replied. "Someone kept me up all night."
Her lips curved. "A terrible influence, I'm sure."
We both smiled, the air between us heavy with unspoken words. But before I could step closer, she glanced down the corridor—where a pair of attendants lingered, watching.
"Later," she whispered. "Meet me at the archives after court. There's something you need to see."
Then, without another word, she swept past me, her perfume trailing like starlight.
I watched her go, unease curling beneath the warmth she left behind. Whatever she meant to show me—it wasn't just about us. Not after her mother's warning.
Somewhere deep within the palace, the ancient wards pulsed faintly—a heartbeat beneath stone and shadow.
And for the first time, I wondered if loving Carmila Noctharyn might awaken something far older—and far deadlier—than either of us understood.