Sleep refused to come.
Alex lay on his back in the cavernous bed, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the canopy where silver threads wove faint constellations that seemed to pulse faintly when the firelight guttered low. The sheets had cooled around him long ago. The room smelled of dying cedar logs and the ghost of Liora's jasmine perfume that still clung to the air from dinner.
His mind kept circling back to one name.
Elara Voss.
He had met her before—several times, in fact. State banquets where protocol forced them into the same room. Border negotiations where her father's spies and his own had circled each other like wary wolves. And once, at the Midwinter Ball two winters past, a single obligatory dance.
She had worn black velvet trimmed in silver fox. Her hair had been braided with tiny obsidian beads that clicked softly when she moved. During the waltz she had stepped deliberately on his instep with a sharp heel, drawing a thin line of blood inside his boot, then leaned in close enough for only him to hear:
"When the time comes, I won't miss."
He had smiled then—Vesper's cold, cutting smile—and murmured back something cruel about how he looked forward to teaching her manners.
Now, lying here in the dark, that memory tasted like ash.
Alex rolled onto his side. Punched the pillow once. Hard.
He wasn't that man anymore.
Or at least… he didn't want to be.
Eventually he gave up on sleep altogether. Threw back the covers. Dressed in silence—black trousers, loose linen shirt, the long coat left unbuttoned. No armor. No obvious steel. Just the weight of the signet ring on his finger and the strange, quiet hum of shadow that lived under his skin like a second heartbeat.
He slipped out of the chambers barefoot at first, then pulled on soft boots in the antechamber. The citadel at this hour felt alive in a different way—less fortress, more breathing beast. Corridors empty save for the occasional patrol whose footsteps echoed and faded like distant thunder. Torches burned low, throwing long, wavering shadows that followed him like curious ghosts.
He took the servants' stair to the eastern balcony—one of the few high perches that looked past the inner walls toward the black forest and the road beyond.
The door was heavy iron-bound oak. It opened with a low groan.
Wind hit him immediately—cold, sharp, smelling of pine resin and coming snow. He stepped out onto the wide stone balcony and closed the door behind him.
Leaned both forearms on the balustrade.
Looked out.
The two moons hung low: one fat and silver, the other a thin crimson sickle. Stars glittered like scattered diamonds on black velvet. Far below, the training yard lay dark and silent. Beyond the walls, the forest rolled away in endless waves of shadow.
He stayed like that for maybe half an hour. Breathing. Thinking. Letting the cold sink into his bones until his thoughts sharpened.
Then he felt it.
The soft scrape of a boot on stone behind him.
Not trying to hide. Not rushing either.
He didn't turn right away.
"You're early," he said to the night.
A low voice answered—female, edged with dry amusement.
"Or you're late. Depends how you count the hours."
Alex straightened slowly. Turned.
Elara Voss stood framed in the open doorway, half in moonlight, half swallowed by shadow.
No armor tonight.
Black riding leathers—worn, practical, hugging her like a second skin. A dark green cloak thrown loosely over one shoulder. Hair unbound, falling past her shoulders in loose waves the color of autumn fire. Twin daggers at her hips, hilts dark and unadorned. No crest. No royal jewelry. Just a woman who looked like she had ridden hard and slept little.
She stepped fully onto the balcony. Stopped a careful five paces away. Hands relaxed at her sides. No drawn steel. Just the quiet readiness of someone who never truly disarmed.
"Your Grace," she said. The title carried no warmth, but no mockery either.
"Princess." He gave the slightest nod. "You've come a long way from the hero's camp."
"I've come a long way from a lot of places." She glanced past him toward the dark forest, then back to his face. "Truce flag is still up. I rode in alone. Your sentries searched me thoroughly. They let me keep the blades."
Alex's mouth twitched. "They must have been feeling generous."
"They were feeling observant." She tilted her head slightly. "You're not wearing armor. No guards. No entourage. You're either very confident… or very stupid."
"Somewhere in between, I think."
She studied him in silence for several heartbeats.
"You're different," she said at last.
The words landed softly, but they carried weight.
"So people keep telling me."
"No theatrics tonight. No threats. No gloating about how the shadows will swallow the light." She took one step closer. "You haven't even tried to intimidate me yet. That's… unusual."
Alex exhaled through his nose. A small, almost tired sound.
"I'm tired of the script everyone expects me to follow," he said quietly. "Including my own."
Elara's brows lifted a fraction.
He stepped forward—slowly, deliberately—until the distance felt civil rather than confrontational.
"I remember the Midwinter Ball," he continued. "The dance. The heel. The blood. What I said to you. What you said to me." He met her eyes steadily. "I'm not proud of that night. Or a lot of nights before it."
She didn't flinch. Didn't soften either.
"You think a few words erase ten years of cruelty?"
"No. Words don't erase anything." He lifted one shoulder. "But they can be the start of something else. If you're willing to watch and see whether I mean them."
Wind tugged at her cloak. A strand of copper hair blew across her cheek. She didn't brush it away.
"Why should I believe you've changed?"
"You shouldn't. Not yet." He spread his hands slightly—open, empty. "Just… don't assume I haven't. That's all I'm asking."
Another long silence.
Then Elara moved past him to the balustrade. Leaned her forearms on the stone beside where he had stood moments before. Looked out at the night.
"Lorian wants your head," she said quietly. "The saintess wants your soul consigned to ash. The others just want the prophecy fulfilled so they can go home and pretend the world makes sense again."
"And you?"
She didn't answer immediately.
When she spoke, her voice was soft enough that the wind nearly carried it away.
"I want to know why my sister still answers to your name in whispers. Why the border villages haven't been put to the torch even though you could give the order tomorrow. Why you're standing here looking at me like I'm a person instead of a piece on your board."
Alex came to stand beside her—not too close. Just close enough that their elbows almost brushed the stone.
"Because you are," he said simply.
She turned her head. Green eyes searched his face in the moonlight.
"I didn't come here to talk philosophy, Duke Blackthorn." She reached inside her cloak. Drew out a slim scroll sealed with plain black wax—no crest, no flourish. "I came with terms."
She held it out.
Alex took it. Felt the weight of parchment and wax in his palm.
"From Lorian," she said. "Parley. Three days from now. Eldrath Crossroads. Neutral ground. No more than ten men each side. No sorcery. No treachery."
He turned the scroll over in his fingers. Didn't break the seal yet.
"And your message?" he asked.
Elara straightened. Met his gaze without blinking.
"If you accept, I'll be there. Watching every move. If this is another of your games—if you try to turn the parley into a slaughter—I will put steel through your heart myself. No warning. No speech. Just the end."
Alex nodded once. Slow. Respectful.
"Understood."
She studied him another moment.
Then she turned to leave.
"Elara."
She paused in the doorway.
He spoke without looking back at her.
"Be careful who you trust in that camp. Not everyone wants the prophecy to end the way the songs say it should."
She didn't reply.
But she lingered for a single heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then her footsteps faded down the corridor.
Alex stayed on the balcony until the first pale streak of dawn touched the eastern sky.
He looked down at the sealed scroll.
Unopened.
Uncertain.
Full of possibilities—and knives.
He tucked it inside his coat.
Then he smiled—small, private, edged with something reckless.
The wind rose, carrying the scent of snow and distant pine.
Things were moving.
And this time, he intended to choose the direction.