The Melody of Shadows

The aftermath of Valencia's duel with Queen Vela left the air thick with tension. Though the viper queen had retreated, her taunts lingered like poison. Valencia's arm, bandaged where the vines had leeched her blood, ached with a dull throb. Xyrus watched her from across the war room, his stoic mask slipping whenever her gaze met his—concern flickering where there had once been only ice.

"The rebels are restless," the crow-feathered leader announced, barging into the chamber. "They want a coronation, Valencia. Not promises."

"They'll have one when Pherr is safe," Valencia snapped, slamming her palm on the map of the blighted borderlands. "Not while Lysandra's shadows crawl through our fields."

Xyrus stepped forward, his voice steady but edged with urgency. "We need to secure the Silvercross Pass. If Vela takes it, she'll choke both kingdoms."

"We?" A Feron lord sneered. "The Pherri witch has addled your mind, Prince."

Before Xyrus could retort, Valencia laughed—sharp, mocking. "Careful, my lord. Your jealousy is showing."

That night, Valencia wandered the palace gardens, the moon painting the frost-kissed hedges in silver. A faint melody drifted through the cold air—haunting, unfamiliar. She followed it to a secluded courtyard, where Xyrus sat alone, a rare lira cradled in his hands. The instrument, carved from Feron's pale ashwood, seemed to weep under his fingers.

"You play like a man who's known loss," she said, leaning against the archway.

He didn't stop, the music softening. "My mother taught me. She said notes could say what words couldn't."

Valencia stepped closer. "What is this one saying?"

His eyes met hers. "That I was a fool to think duty and desire couldn't coexist."

The admission hung between them, fragile as the melody.

The assassination attempt came at dawn.

Valencia was reviewing troop dispatches when an arrow shattered the window, grazing her shoulder. Xyrus burst into her chambers, sword drawn, just as a second arrow embedded itself in the wall—tipped with Lysandra's venom.

"They're inside the palace," he growled, pulling her behind a pillar.

Chaos erupted. Guards clashed with shadowy figures in the halls, their blades ringing. Valencia fought beside Xyrus, their backs pressed together, her dagger finding throats as his sword carved arcs of silver.

"Left!" he barked, and she pivoted, gutting an attacker mid-lunge.

When the last assailant fell, they stood panting amidst the carnage. Xyrus reached for her, fingers brushing the blood on her cheek. "You're hurt."

"I've had worse," she said, but her hand trembled as she sheathed her blade.

In the crypts, they interrogated the sole surviving assassin. The man spat curses until Valencia pressed her dagger to his wrist, her voice glacial. "Who sent you?"

"A friend of Feron," he sneered. "One who'll dance on your grave."

Xyrus stiffened. "Eryll's faction."

Valencia's eyes narrowed. "Your late traitor had friends in high places."

The assassin laughed. "You think Eryll was the only one? The rot runs deeper, Princess. Even your pretty vines can't cleanse it."

Xyrus slit his throat before he could say more.

That evening, Valencia found Xyrus in the music courtyard, the lira abandoned. "You killed him too quickly," she said.

"He would've lied," Xyrus replied, staring at his bloodstained hands.

"Or told the truth." She sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his. "You're afraid of what we'll find."

He turned to her, his mask gone. "I'm afraid of losing what little ground we've gained."

The confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Valencia reached for the lira, plucking a single dissonant note. "Then we dig deeper. Together."