Chapter 2

The morning air was bitter, clinging to my skin like smoke. I stood at the edge of the rebel camp, high on the cliffside, watching the golden light stretch over the distant forests below. Somewhere far beyond the trees, past the low-hanging mists and the border wards, the Court of Thorns waited. And within it, the monster who had destroyed my life.

My hand curled around the hilt of my blade, fingers tightening instinctively. It wasn't the one I'd use for the assassination—not the pretty, poisoned dagger hidden in my pack—but this one had history. Weight. It had been my father's once, passed down through bloodlines that had long since bled dry. He'd used it to defend our village the night the soldiers came.

He hadn't survived.

I sheathed the blade and turned from the cliff. The camp was already stirring—rebels moving between tents like ghosts, armor clinking softly, voices murmuring plans. I could hear the blacksmith cursing over a half-mended sword, the clatter of pans from the cookfire, the low hum of a healer whispering prayers to the wind. Normal sounds. Familiar. Comforting in a way I hadn't expected this morning to feel.

Maybe that was what made it harder.

I ducked into my tent and stripped off my worn leathers, laying them across the cot like a second skin I wasn't ready to shed. My disguise waited for me—soft linen, muted silks, delicate embroidery threaded with moonstone beads. The clothing of a merchant's servant, handpicked by our spymaster to pass beneath the Fae's gaze without raising suspicion. Nothing about the girl I was becoming looked like Sylara Vale, rebel assassin.

Good.

I slipped into the servant's dress. It was simple, modest. No weapons, no armor. Just a small satchel slung across my back with hidden compartments sewn into the lining. One for the poisoned dagger. One for the map burned into parchment. One for the vial of sleeping draught I'd swiped from the medics three nights ago.

My fingers hovered over the satchel's flap before I sealed it shut. Once it closed, there would be no turning back.

A voice behind me broke the silence. "You look awful."

I turned, unsurprised to find Cale leaning in the tent's entrance, arms crossed, dark eyes sharp. His shoulder was still bandaged from our last mission, but that hadn't stopped him from tracking me down.

"You always know just what to say," I muttered.

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm serious. You look like you're about to walk into your own funeral."

"Not mine," I said. "His."

Cale stepped inside, dropping the smirk. He glanced at the disguise, the satchel, the little vial of sleeping draught I hadn't managed to hide in time. "You're scared."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. "Then take this."

I frowned. "What is it?"

"A distraction. In case things go wrong."

I unwrapped the cloth slowly. Nestled inside was a tiny glass sphere, no larger than a marble, filled with swirling violet smoke. I recognized it immediately—faelight powder, alchemically altered. Illegal in every known realm, and deadly in confined spaces.

"Cale—"

"I know," he said. "You're supposed to rely on your wits. But if it's his life or yours…" He held my gaze. "Pick yours. Every time."

My throat tightened. I nodded and slipped the sphere into the hidden pouch above my ribs, where I kept my mother's ring.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

Finally, he stepped back. "The scouts said the border patrols are thinning. You'll have an hour's window before the next sweep. Elenor will get you past the first checkpoint, but after that…" He trailed off.

"I know."

He hesitated. "And when you're inside… stay quiet. Don't play the hero. Don't draw attention. And for the love of God, Syl—don't fall for any of them."

I raised an eyebrow. "Fall for who?"

"You know who. Those damned Fae nobles. Their faces are carved from moonlight and lies. They don't bleed the way we do."

"Good," I said. "Because I don't plan on bleeding."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but his eyes were full of something I couldn't name. Regret, maybe. Or guilt.

Cale had trained beside me since we were children. He'd seen the scar on my ribs, the tremor in my hands after the fire. He knew what this mission meant to me—why it had to be me.

He also knew I might not come back.

"I'll see you again," I said.

He didn't say anything.

Instead, he pulled me into a rough, breathless hug. I let him, just this once. Just for now. His arms were warm, grounding. Like the sun on a winter morning.

When he stepped away, I was cold again.

Good. I needed the cold.

Outside, Elenor was waiting with the travel papers and a stone-faced expression. She handed them over without a word. Her cloak was drawn tight against the wind, but her posture was rigid with tension. Another rebel commander watching another soldier walk into the wolf's den.

"You're sure you're ready for this?" she asked.

I looked down at my hands. Steady. Clean. Not yet soaked in blood.

"Yes," I said.

She nodded, once and I climbed onto the waiting wagon without another word. The horse snorted, mist curling from its nostrils. The wheels groaned beneath the weight as Elenor snapped the reins, and just like that—we were off.

The wind cut across my face as the camp disappeared behind the treeline. My heart beat steady in my chest. I didn't look back.

Ahead, the Court of Thorns waited. A place of glass towers and poisoned smiles, where magic was currency and fear was power. Where the King who had stolen everything from me ruled with silver fire in his veins.

I would serve him. Smile at him. Learn his secrets. And when the time was right—I'd slit his throat.

The cart rumbled on through the trees. And I prepared to become a ghost.