The following days were a carefully choreographed dance of feasts, hunts, and diplomatic meetings. Elara moved through them all with the grace of a swan, her every word and gesture a masterpiece of royal impersonation. She discussed trade routes with Lord Valerius, surprising him with her grasp of Southern agricultural output. She walked with Lady Beatrice in the frost-kissed gardens, listening with a semblance of fond nostalgia to stories of her childhood, carefully steering the conversation away from any details she couldn't know.
Kaelen was her constant, imposing shadow. His presence silenced many potential questions before they could be asked. The sight of the feared Dragon King so clearly devoted to his bride was a powerful argument in itself, quelling doubts more effectively than any words.
But the pressure was relentless. It was in the private audiences, away from the spectacle of the court, that the true danger lay.
It happened during a small, informal gathering in the royal solar. Lord Valerius, Lady Beatrice, and Sir Gideon were present, along with Kaelen, Elara, and a silently watchful Lysander. The conversation, fueled by mulled wine, turned to art. Specifically, to a controversial new painter in the Southern capital whose work Princess Seraphine had famously championed.
"His use of light is still revolutionary, is it not, Your Highness?" Lord Valerius remarked, taking a sip of his wine. "You were quite adamant in your defense of his 'Storm over the Sapphire Sea' against the traditionalists."
Elara's blood ran cold. This was another trap. She knew of the painter, of course—she had transcribed the court's outrage at his style. But Seraphine's specific opinion? That was a nuance lost to the public record. She could feel Lysander's gaze on her, a silent pressure. Had his dossier failed her?
She took a slow breath, adopting a thoughtful expression. "I defended his right to paint, my lord," she said, choosing her words with the precision of a scribe laying down ink. "The fury of the sea, the violence of the sky… it captured a truth that more placid scenes lack. Though I will admit," she added, allowing a hint of a conspiratorial smile, "the Duke of Pearlwater's apoplectic fit when he first saw it was almost as entertaining as the painting itself."
It was a perfect Seraphine response. It acknowledged her support while layering it with the petty, gossipy enjoyment the princess was known for. Lord Valerius chuckled, disarmed. "Indeed, Your Highness. I believe he is still recovering."
The moment passed. But Elara felt a bead of sweat trace a path down her spine. She was running out of clever deflections. The sheer, grinding strain of maintaining the facade was wearing her down.
Later that evening, as she prepared for bed, a soft knock came at her door. It was Lyra, the doe-eyed handmaiden. She curtsied and held out a single, perfect white rose, its stem carefully wrapped in silk. "For you, Your Highness. It was left at the servant's entrance. There was no note."
Elara took the rose. It was beautiful, its petals velvety and flawless. But as she turned it in her hand, a sharp prick stung her thumb. A single, long thorn, usually trimmed from flowers presented to royalty, had been left purposefully exposed. A drop of blood welled on her skin.
And tucked deep within the folds of the petals, almost invisible, was a tiny sliver of parchment. On it, in that same spidery script, was one word:
"Beware the Wolf's Howl."
Lysander. Warning her. Theron was planning something.
The rose was a message in itself. A thing of beauty, offered as aid, but with a hidden thorn. A reminder of the price of his help. She was indebted to him, and the debt was growing.
She crushed the slip of paper in her hand, her heart pounding with a fresh, specific fear. Theron had been too quiet. His absence from the day-to-day activities of the delegation was conspicuous. He was not one to sulk. He was a predator, and predators stalked their prey in silence.
She looked at the drop of blood on her thumb. The masquerade was not just a test of wits against the Southerners. It was a battle on two fronts, and the enemy within the walls was now poised to strike. The gilded cage had never felt more fragile, or more deadly