Chapter 3

The carriage wheels clattered against ancient cobblestones, the sound echoing through the twilight mist like a heartbeat. My heartbeat.

I kept my head low, my fingers gripping the hem of the borrowed maid's dress until my knuckles turned white. The fabric was scratchy and plain. Nothing about it marked me as dangerous. Nothing about me was supposed to stand out.

That was the point.

I was just another human servant. One among many.

The rebels had arranged everything. The forged documents, the false name, the illusion spells to dim the steel in my eyes and soften the sharpness of my features. I had memorized my new identity: Lira, orphan from the northern hills, brought to serve as a palace maid like so many others plucked from poverty and dropped into the jaws of the Court.

I wasn't Sylara Vale anymore.

Not here.

Still, no illusion could slow the racing in my chest as the trees parted—and the palace came into view.

My breath caught.

It wasn't a building. It was a monument. A kingdom carved into stone and silver and starfire.

The Palace of Thorns rose like a jagged bloom from the earth, its towers twisted with black vines and silver leaves that shimmered even under the thick cloud cover. It sprawled across the cliffs, its walls impossibly high, its spires reaching for the storm-drenched sky like claws. The outer courtyard alone could fit my entire village three times over. Every stone shimmered. Every archway curved like a petal unfurling.

It was beautiful.

And it made me want to burn it down.

The carriage stopped at the lower gate. I forced myself to breathe. To calm the fire in my blood. There were other humans in the cart with me, a few young women and two older men. All of them looked the same—tired, wide-eyed, clutching their meager belongings as if they'd vanish if they let go.

One of the girls beside me whispered, "They say the walls are enchanted. That they hear everything."

I didn't respond.

Because I already knew.

This place was full of magic. Ancient, blood-stained magic. And every step I took inside it would be a risk.

The guards didn't speak as they opened the doors. They were High Fae, tall and flawless, their armor silver and sharp-edged, their gazes cold. One of them looked over our papers, barely sparing me a glance before nodding us through.

So far, so good.

We were herded into a side entrance—not the main hall with its sweeping staircase and crystal chandeliers, but a servants' wing carved into the outer edge of the palace. Still, even this "lesser" hallway gleamed with polished stone and floating sconces of violet flame. The floor was tiled with obsidian and pearl, forming the shape of a thorned rose that curled beneath our feet.

A female elf in crisp green robes stood waiting. Her hair was wound into a coil so tight I wondered how her scalp hadn't peeled off. She glanced at our group with something between disdain and exhaustion.

"You'll be assigned rooms and shifts," she said sharply. "No dawdling. No questions. You are here to serve. The Prince expects punctuality and silence. The King expects perfection."

The King.

A shiver sliced down my spine at the name.

I didn't let it show.

We were split into smaller groups and led through a maze of halls. The palace was bigger than I'd imagined, even with all my research and stolen maps. There were libraries with ceilings painted like the night sky, greenhouses blooming with glowing blossoms, endless corridors that shimmered with enchantment. Magic pulsed in the walls—quiet, watchful, alive.

The room they gave me was small but clean. Stone floors, a narrow bed with thin blankets, and a wash basin. Better than I'd expected. My trunk was already there, the hidden weapons removed before I ever boarded the carriage. No one here knew who I really was. Not even the other maids. That was the plan.

I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself breathe for the first time since we crossed the palace gates.

I was in.

Not as a prisoner. Not in chains. As a ghost in plain sight.

This was where the real mission began.

I stood from the bed, my fingers brushing the cold stone of the walls. Everything here was sharp, polished, and ancient. The palace's grandeur, even in its quiet corners, was overwhelming. It was a place of power. Of history. And it would be my prison, my stage for the next phase of the mission.

The rebels had prepared me for this, but no amount of training could have prepared me for the weight of the silence that pressed in on me now. The quiet felt like it had a voice of its own, like it was listening—waiting.

I took a deep breath and crossed to the small window. The view beyond was stunning, but also unsettling. I could see the high cliffs stretching beneath me, the dark forest below where the rebellion once camped in the shadows, and the distant storm clouds gathering over the horizon.

It felt like an omen.

There were no soft winds here, no warmth to be found. Just the oppressive weight of power that seemed to drape over everything like a velvet curtain. Magic, I knew, had been woven into every stone, every beam. The palace had been built to endure. And to watch.

I forced myself to turn away from the window, ignoring the unease that churned in my gut. Focus. That was the key.

A knock sounded at the door, sharp and insistent, pulling me from my thoughts. I straightened and cleared my throat, moving swiftly to answer.

The elf from earlier stood in the doorway, her lips curled into a tight line. "Your first assignment," she said, holding up a tray with a covered dish. "The Prince's quarters await. Don't keep him waiting."

I nodded, taking the tray from her, my fingers brushing against the cool metal. "Of course."

She didn't wait for me to close the door before turning on her heel and disappearing down the hallway. I exhaled slowly, setting the tray down on the small wooden table.

It was time.

The Prince's quarters.

I had known that this assignment would come, but the reality of it still settled in my chest like a stone. I wasn't just a maid here. I was a shadow. A spy. A tool in the rebellion's long game. Every movement I made, every glance I cast, would be scrutinized.

The Prince was a threat to everything I cared about.

Taking another deep breath, I pulled my hair back into a tight knot and straightened my dress. The plainness of it did little to ease the knot in my stomach, but it was a disguise. I wasn't Sylara anymore. I was just Lira. Nothing more.

I clutched the tray tighter and stepped into the hall, my heart pounding with every step. The palace felt even colder in the darkened corridors, the flickering sconces throwing long shadows against the walls. The air here was thick with magic, a pulse that I could feel under my skin.

The hallway stretched out ahead, longer than I expected, winding its way toward the heart of the palace. I passed servants hurrying to their duties, each of them too absorbed in their work to take much notice of me. Good. That was how it was supposed to be.

I finally arrived at the door to the Prince's quarters, the wood intricately carved with thorns and roses. There was a heavy silence behind it—no sound, no movement. The air felt charged, as though something was waiting just beyond the threshold.

I hesitated.

My hand hovered over the door handle. The first real test.

Taking a steadying breath, I pushed the door open.

The Prince's quarters were nothing like I imagined. There were no lavish tapestries, no dazzling chandeliers. The room was dark, the walls lined with deep green velvet and draped with shadows. The only light came from the fireplace, where flames flickered with unnatural light, casting long, twisting shadows on the stone floor.

At the far end of the room, he stood, his back to me, gazing into the fire. The Prince.

Kaelen Thorne.

He was tall, his figure wrapped in black and silver, the color of storm clouds. His hair, dark as midnight, fell in soft waves, and the sharp cut of his jaw was illuminated by the firelight. He had the air of someone who never needed to speak, someone whose presence was enough to command attention. And yet, he stood there, still, like a statue of power.

For a moment, I simply stared at him, my mind struggling to focus. He was more than just a man. He was a Prince. A member of the royal family. And more dangerously, he was a soldier.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward, careful not to make a sound.

The Prince didn't turn when I entered, but I could feel his eyes on me, even from behind. There was an unsettling stillness to him. A weight.

I set the tray down carefully on the low table beside the fire, taking a step back.

"I've brought your meal, my—" I started, but my voice faltered. It was too much. Too strange.

"Leave it," he said, his voice low, deep.

I froze. It was almost imperceptible, but his words had an edge—an imperious command that had me stiffening. My heart beat faster, but I dared not show it.

His gaze shifted over his shoulder, and I couldn't help but meet his eyes, those burning eyes of a predator. The Prince's lips curled into a slight smirk, as if he could see straight through me.

I swallowed hard, keeping my posture rigid. "Is there anything else you require, Your Highness?"

He studied me for a long moment before turning fully, his gaze never leaving mine.

"Not yet," he murmured, and then, as if dismissing me with a thought, he turned back to the fire.

I stood there for another beat, feeling the weight of his presence like a stone pressing against my chest. And then, with a quick nod, I turned and exited the room, the door closing behind me with a soft click.

As I walked back down the dark hallway, my hands trembling slightly, I couldn't help but wonder if this was the beginning of something far worse than I had anticipated.