Rain whispered against the palace roofs.
By now, every noble who mattered had heard of the Ashthorn girl's return not as a whisper of scandal, but a rising tide. Unstoppable. Unignorable.
And Prince Lucien could no longer stay still.
He summoned the one man the court feared but could never accuse. His shadow in the dark. His blade when politics failed.
Lord Silas Marrow.
"You've heard the rumors," Lucien said, pacing the war room. "They say she's turning the court against me."
Silas didn't blink. "Because she is."
Lucien stopped.
"You believe it?"
"I've seen it. She's not making noise. She's moving pieces. Quiet ones."
Lucien turned to the map sprawled across the table dots of red ink marking alliances, vulnerable houses, whispered threats.
"She wasn't like this before," he said softly.
"No," Silas agreed. "You made her this way."
Lucien's hand clenched.
"I need to know what she's planning. I need someone close to her."
Silas raised a brow. "You want me to spy on her?"
"I want to stop her."
Silas gave a low laugh, humorless.
"Then you're already losing."
Lucien didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because deep down, he knew:
He hadn't just lost her heart.
He might have created his greatest enemy.
In the city below the palace, Evelyne stood beside a broken fountain its stone angels crumbled by time. Rowan Dorne waited in the shadows, flipping a coin between his fingers.
"Silas Marrow is moving," he said.
"Let him," Evelyne replied.
"You sure? He's not the kind you can charm."
"I don't need to charm him," she said. "I need him to look at me and wonder if he's too late."
Rowan chuckled. "That's a dangerous game."
Evelyne looked up at the palace windows.
"I'm not playing a game," she said.
"I'm rewriting it."
And somewhere beyond the cold glass, Prince Lucien stared down at the city and whispered her name like a curse.
"Evelyne."
Not as a lover.
Not even as a memory.
But as a storm he could no longer outrun.