Chapter 1

The dagger sang through the air, slicing past my ear and burying itself in the oak just behind me with a satisfying thunk.

"Dead again," said Bren with a smug grin, arms crossed over his broad chest like he'd already won.

I didn't look at him. I yanked the blade free with a twist of my wrist and tossed it back at the practice dummy. This time it landed square between the eyes.

"Not dead," I said, brushing a lock of sweat-damp hair from my face. "Just distracted."

"You're never distracted."

I was, though. Just not by him.

Not by the clinking of blades in the training yard or the scent of pine smoke on the wind. Not even by the morning sun cresting over the mountains, painting the rebel camp in gold.

No, my mind was far too full of him.

The Fae King.

His face had haunted me for twelve years—his crown glinting in firelight, his smile carved from malice, his soldiers ripping through my home like wolves in a henhouse.

Now I would finally get close enough to slit his throat.

Assuming I survived long enough to try.

"You leave tomorrow, don't you?" Bren asked, softer this time.

I nodded. "At first light."

He said nothing for a moment, just kicked a stone with his boot. "And you're sure?"

"Would I have trained for half my life if I wasn't?"

He laughed without humor. "That's not what I meant. Syl, you're walking into the Court of Thorns like it's some stroll through the woods. You won't just be surrounded by enemies. You'll live with them. Serve them. Pretend to bow while they drink your blood dry."

"I'm not pretending." I looked him dead in the eyes. "I'll bow. I'll serve. I'll smile while they treat me like dirt. Because every moment I survive in that palace brings me one step closer to the King's throat."

A beat of silence.

"You sound like Riven," he muttered.

"Good."

Our commander's voice was hard steel and sharpened fury, and I'd grown up beneath the weight of his expectations. I had to sound like Riven. I had to be colder than the fear chewing at my gut.

Because fear wouldn't keep me alive in that palace.

But hatred might.

"I've got this, Bren."

He reached into his coat, pulled something from his pocket. "Then take this."

It was a hairpin—delicate, silver, shaped like a thorn. Beautiful in a deadly sort of way.

I raised a brow. "That for stabbing or for show?"

He smirked. "Both."

I took it and tucked it into my braid without another word.

Behind us, the rebel camp stirred—children laughing near the mess tent, steel clashing in the sparring ring, voices murmuring over maps and battle plans. It had always felt like home, this place. A forge where survivors were reforged into weapons.

And I was their sharpest blade.

Tomorrow, I'd be sheathed in velvet and poison instead of armor. Tomorrow, I'd smile at monsters.

Today, I let myself breathe.

Only for a second.

Because by this time tomorrow, I'd be kneeling before the very man who'd destroyed my life.

And I'd have to convince him I was nothing more than a servant.

Just another piece on his board.

But one day soon, I'd become the blade that split his chest wide open.

The sun dipped low behind the pines by the time I left the training yard. My muscles ached with the pleasant exhaustion of too many sparring rounds, and sweat clung to my back like a second skin. I welcomed the burn. Pain reminded me I was alive. Pain was something I could control.

What waited for me tomorrow? That was something else entirely.

The rebel camp felt smaller tonight. The tents tucked into the mountainside seemed quieter, as though even the wind was holding its breath. Every glance felt like a farewell. Every smile, a little too tight.

They knew.

I was walking into the lion's den, and chances were, I wouldn't walk back out.

I ducked into my tent—small, tidy, armed to the teeth. My blades were lined in rows under my cot, hidden beneath a worn wool blanket. I ran my fingers across the hilts like old friends, then selected one—the narrow, curved dagger I'd trained with since I was twelve. It still fit my palm perfectly, like it had been made for my grip and mine alone.

I strapped it to my thigh. The rest, I'd leave behind.

When I stepped into the Fae Court, I'd be no one.

The girl I used to be had died the night my village burned. The assassin I became would die tomorrow. And something new—something colder, quieter, sharper—would be born in her place.

A servant. A shadow. A weapon with a smile.

"Still packing murder in your boots, I see."

I didn't flinch at the voice. I didn't have to.

Riven leaned against the tent flap like he owned the world. His cloak was damp with night mist, and his eyes—the same color as storm-churned skies—were watching me with that unreadable gaze he wore like armor.

I straightened. "You taught me well."

He gave a low grunt, crossing the space between us. "You're ready."

It wasn't a question. But I answered anyway. "I've been ready for years."

"No. You've been training for years. That's not the same." He studied me for a moment longer, then pulled something from beneath his cloak.

A scroll. Sealed in black wax, stamped with a twisted crown.

My stomach clenched.

"That's the pass," he said. "Forged seal. Instructions inside. You'll pose as a servant assigned to the lower halls—cleaning, tending to guests, pouring wine. You get one name, one role, one shot. Don't blow it."

I took the scroll, weighing it in my hand like it might turn to ash.

"And if they see through it?" I asked.

He didn't blink. "Then you make it look convincing when they kill you."

That was Riven. Brutal honesty wrapped in smoke and steel. And I respected him for it.

But there was something else behind his voice tonight. Something like regret.

"I'll find him," I said quietly. "The King. I'll finish this."

"I know."

He turned to leave, then paused at the flap. His silhouette was just a darker shadow against the night.

"But Sylara?"

"Yes?"

"Don't underestimate the Prince."

I frowned. "You said he was nothing but a spoiled tyrant."

"I said he was dangerous." Riven's voice dropped to something low and sharp. "And worse—he's smart. He's survived the King's court longer than anyone expected. If you get close to him, watch your back."

"I'm not planning to get close," I said.

Riven gave me a look. One I couldn't quite read.

"Plans change."

Then he was gone.

I stood there a while longer, staring at the flap, fingers clenched around the scroll.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees, and somewhere in the camp, a lullaby drifted from one of the tents.

It hit me then—this was the last night I'd sleep under rebel stars. The last time I'd breathe free mountain air.

Tomorrow, I'd trade it all for marble halls and Fae lies.

But I wasn't afraid.

I was ready.

For the palace.

For the mission.

For the monster in a crown.

Because I wasn't going there to survive.

I was going to end a king.