The first morning

"Fuck."

The word escaped before I could catch it vulgar, undignified, utterly inappropriate for a princess. I glared at my own reflection, the last shimmer of gold silk slipping from my shoulders.

The tiara, set aside with a careless flick of my hand, caught the candlelight and glowed like something accusatory. I felt every muscle in my neck tighten.

Of all the people in all the world, why did it have to be her? Why did it have to be Lyra fucking Skyblade?

I'd survived assassins and banquets and the endless suffocation of duty, but this—this was something cruel.

It wasn't enough for the world to expect me to become a queen; it had to bring back the one person who could slice through my composure just by existing.

She'd saved my life, upstaged me, and now she was to haunt my every step? No. I refused to allow it.

If she thought the old games would work, she was wrong. I would be even colder, even sharper, even more impossible than before. If I was a legend, let me be a nightmare.

I changed quickly, hands deft as I stripped away the gown and unpinned my hair, letting the pale cascade fall around my shoulders.

My sleeping clothes silk, midnight blue, modest but elegant felt like a second skin. I slipped into bed, drawing the covers to my chin and turning my face to the wall.

But sleep would not come easily. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lyra: taller, stronger, wreathed in flame and insolence.

I remembered the heat of her magic as she rescued me, the way her eyes met mine in the chaos, the impossible way she stood between me and the world.

I hated her.I hated how she made me feel—exposed, vulnerable, not nearly as untouchable as I needed to be.

It took hours for exhaustion to finally claim me, hours of wrestling with memories and what-ifs, of promising myself that tomorrow, I would be even more impossible to reach.

---

I woke before dawn, as I always did. The sky beyond my window was a deep violet, the kind of color that promised cold and quiet. I sat up, letting the covers fall, and allowed myself one long, slow breath.

Today would be perfect.Today, I would remind Lyra—remind everyone—that the Ice Queen didn't bend, didn't break, didn't feel.

My morning routine was as precise as a blade: a quick shower in water as cold as I could bear, the chill biting at my skin, waking every nerve.

I toweled off briskly, twisted my hair into a loose knot at the base of my neck, and set about dressing for the day.

I chose a gown of deep sapphire, its bodice embroidered with silver thread that shimmered like frost.

The sleeves fell elegantly from my shoulders, the skirt trailing just enough to command respect but not so much as to trip me.

I fastened a simple chain at my throat, a piece of jewelry cold and understated. No one could ever accuse me of softness. Not anymore.

Once dressed, I moved through my suite with practiced ease, every movement deliberate.

I ignored the echo of last night's chaos, ignored the way my mind kept replaying Lyra's entrance, her magic, her ridiculous smile.

When I opened my door, she was waiting.

Lyra was not in uniform, which was somehow worse. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, dressed in black pants and a plain white shirt rolled at the sleeves, tattoos peeking from under the fabric.

She looked like she owned the corridor. Her eyes were clear, not a trace of fatigue, and she offered a lazy salute as I passed.

"Morning, Princess."

I didn't bother to respond. If she wanted conversation, she could talk to the wall.

I swept past her, heading for the library. It was my sanctuary in the palace, the only place where silence was respected and I could lose myself in other worlds.

As I strode down the hall, I refused to check if she was following, though I could hear her boots fall into step behind me—never too close, never far enough.

The library was blessedly empty, the air scented with parchment and polished wood, the first rays of dawn catching on stained-glass windows.

I made straight for my favorite alcove: a window seat half-hidden behind a screen of climbing roses, set with velvet cushions and a small, low table.

As was my custom, I poured myself a cup of steaming tea—black, bitter, just the way I liked it—and retrieved a book from the new arrivals shelf.

The cover was embossed in gold, a curling script that gave nothing away. I slipped it open with practiced nonchalance, heart thudding a little faster when I saw the title: A Courtship in Crimson.

Of course, no one in the palace knew I read romance novels. I took care to tuck the dust jacket out of sight. I was the Ice Queen, not some lovesick debutante.

I curled into my corner, legs folded beneath me, tea in hand, and tried to lose myself in the story.

There was a comfort in these pages stories where obstacles were overcome, where yearning meant something, where people touched and were changed by it.

I savored every detail, the slow-burn glances, the tension, the hidden softness behind hard exteriors. How foolish, I thought, to want any of this. But still, I read.

A shadow fell across my page.

I looked up. Lyra leaned on the edge of the alcove, grinning that infuriating, lopsided grin. She glanced from my face to the book and back again, her eyes bright with mischief.

"Oh, you read books," she drawled, as if it was a surprise. "Wait—hold on, is that a romance novel?"

I felt heat flood my cheeks. Damn her.

"I read many things," I said coolly, snapping the book shut and tucking it beneath my arm. "Not that it's any of your business."

Lyra laughed, low and delighted. "Don't tell me the Ice Queen has a soft spot for love stories. I thought you only read court records and assassination plots."

I fixed her with my best glare. "Not that it concerns you, but I find literature to be a useful distraction. Some of us appreciate refinement."

She shrugged, utterly unfazed. "Refinement's great and all, but I bet the real reason is the heroine gets to stab someone in the heart by chapter three. Gotta have a role model, right?"

I rolled my eyes, taking a long, deliberate sip of tea. "Unlike some, I don't confuse fiction with reality. And some of us have more important things to do than snoop."

Lyra plopped down on the cushion opposite me, stretching out as if she owned the place.

"Sure, sure. Still—romance novels. You know, you're a mystery, Isolde. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a soul somewhere under all that frost."

I bristled. "That's rich, coming from you. If you're here to annoy me, congratulations. Mission accomplished."

She grinned wider, teeth flashing. "Not my fault you make it so easy. Honestly, I think the scariest part about guarding you is dying of boredom. Or maybe embarrassment, if anyone finds out you're hiding love stories under your pillow."

I set my tea down with a click that echoed like a threat. "One word of this to anyone and I'll have you reassigned to cleaning dragon stalls. Understood?"

She mimed a zipper over her mouth, then leaned closer, eyes glinting with amusement. "Your secret's safe with me. For now."

We glared at each other, silent. But there was something else in the space between us now—a crack in the ice, an old current of challenge and dare. 

I returned to my book, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. After a moment, she reached over, snatching the volume from my lap before I could stop her.

"'A Courtship in Crimson'?" she read, eyebrows rising. "Oof, I bet that's got at least three scenes where they almost kiss but don't. How do you stand the suspense?"

I lunged, snatching it back. Our hands brushed—warm, calloused, startlingly gentle. I jerked away, shoving the book behind my back. "Touch my things again and you'll regret it."

She laughed, stretching like a cat. "Chill, Princess. You're allowed to have hobbies, you know. Even if one of them is pretending to have a heart."

I glared, the familiar fury and humiliation burning under my skin. "Go away, Lyra."

She stood, smirking. "You know where to find me if you want to talk about fictional feelings."

With a final, mocking bow, she retreated down the aisle. I watched her go, teeth clenched, pulse thrumming in my ears.

Hate didn't feel like enough to explain it anymore. It was something messier—hotter, colder, impossible to name. But whatever it was, I'd never let her see it. Never.

I settled back, cracked my book open, and pretended the world was nothing but words on a page. That was the only place where love was safe, and no one ever had to know what you really wanted.

Not even yourself.