The palace thrummed with restless energy.
Preparations for the Queen's grand gala had overtaken every corner of the court. Velvet banners in emerald and gold hung from soaring archways, servants rushed through halls with trays of crystal goblets and gilded invitations, and rumors slithered between columns like vipers in silk.
But behind the glamor, war drums beat—quiet, steady, inevitable. Rose could feel it in her bones.
She sat before her mirror as her maid laced her gown—midnight blue, sleeveless, with silver-thread embroidery in the shape of climbing thorns. The design was her own request. A silent message.
Tonight, she would be the storm they didn't see coming.
Kyle appeared at her door without knocking, his expression unreadable.
"You're early," she said, smoothing her gloves.
"I found something," he replied. "You're going to want to see it."
He handed her a folded parchment—the same broken crown symbol from the warning note. But this time, it was pressed into a crest… on the hilt of a dagger.
"Where did you get this?" Rose asked, her voice a thread of ice.
"In a servant's quarters. Hidden behind the wall panel."
"And the servant?"
"Gone."
Rose turned the blade in her hand. It was old, but cared for. Too finely made to belong to a common spy. The broken crown sigil… it was a mark from the last rebellion. One that had nearly destroyed the royal family decades ago.
"The Queen's not the only one playing games," Kyle said quietly. "Someone wants to see the throne fall. Again."
Rose met his gaze. "And they think I'll be the matchstick."
Kyle studied her for a long moment. "Aren't you?"
She didn't answer.
---
The gala glittered like a thousand stars had fallen into the ballroom. Nobles swirled in gowns and masks, laughter tinkled like bells, and the Queen sat poised on her high seat, smiling like the spider at the center of her web.
Rose entered like a blade in silk.
Every eye turned. Whispers followed her like perfume. And yet, she smiled—slow, composed, untouchable.
Christopher approached with a strained smile and a goblet of wine. "You've stolen the room."
She tilted her head. "Was it yours to keep?"
He smirked, but there was tension beneath it. "My mother says you spoke boldly in her chamber."
"She asks dangerous questions," Rose replied, "I gave her honest answers."
Christopher's smile faded. "Honesty is a blade in court, Rose. Use it too often, and you'll bleed."
She leaned in. "Only if I'm not already holding the dagger."
Just then, a loud clang echoed across the ballroom.
The music stopped.
A servant had dropped his tray… or been shoved. People turned, murmured.
Kyle stepped beside Rose. His voice low. "That's the third disturbance tonight."
"I know," she said, eyes scanning the room. "Something's wrong."
Suddenly, a scream split the air.
All eyes turned to the balcony above. A noblewoman in white stood shaking, pointing at the figure slumped beside her.
Blood soaked the front of his tunic. A noble. Dead. A blade through the chest.
Guards rushed forward. Panic bloomed like fire.
But Rose's eyes were fixed not on the victim—but on the dagger.
Even from here, she could see it.
The same hilt.
The same crest.
The broken crown.
And beside the Queen—calm, composed—stood a man Rose had never seen before.
He raised a wine glass toward her and smiled.
Not at the chaos.
Not at the Queen.
At her.
As if they'd met before.
As if he remembered the life she'd left behind.