The Capital.

  If the court were asked to name the figure most marked by loss after King Rowan’s death, many would point to Queen Marielle without hesitation.

  And they would not be wrong—though not for the reason most assumed.

  It was not because her husband was gone, carrying love and romance with him into the grave.

  Her life had never been a tale of devotion.

  Nothing in it had ever come easily.

  And this time, what had been taken from her was not only a husband—but her son’s crown.

  King Rowan had been healthy, barely past forty, until the sudden collapse. Events unfolded too swiftly, leaving her no time to prepare, no space to maneuver.

  Was this truly the end?

  Would she be forced to stand aside and watch that woman’s son ascend the throne, while she and her own child were quietly pushed to the margins of the stage?

  Yet unlike most women who drowned their sorrow in tears, Queen Marielle received a visitor.

  One who might hold the key to everything that followed.

  The Duke of Blackmoor.

  Age had thinned his frame but not his presence. His steps were slower than they once had been, yet steady, supported not by servants but by long habit and discipline. Deep lines marked his face, carved by years of rule rather than weakness, and the silver threaded through his hair was no longer subtle—it claimed its place openly.

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  He wore dark, austere clothing, cut for function rather than display. There was no attempt to hide his years, no need to. Authority clung to him as naturally as breath, earned through decades of survival rather than youthful ambition.

  It was said he had not left his own lands for the past ten years. For him to appear in the capital now meant only one thing—something significant had happened.

  Yet Queen Marielle showed no surprise at all.

  She greeted him as one might an old friend, lifting a hand and gesturing calmly for him to sit.

  “How have you been?” she asked, smiling.

  The Duke of Blackmoor sighed as he took his seat.

  “How did you know the new king would go to Blackmoor beforehand?”

  “I have my own ways,” Marielle replied lightly. “That is not what you need to concern yourself with.” Her gaze sharpened. “What you should be worrying about is your nephew.”

  “Marielle,” the duke said, his voice low. “I thought we were on the same side. I should know these things.”

  Her smile did not fade.

  “Then I suppose I should be honest—through my connections.” She paused. “They also told me Alaric left quite happily this morning. Which, I assume, is not exactly how we planned it.”

  The duke frowned.

  “I left Blackmoor three days ago, and I don’t know what Paser has told you. But it is not easy to—” He stopped himself, drawing a finger briefly across his throat. “—do that on my own land without inviting too much attention. This game has gone on long enough. The Morcant family does not wish to dirty its hands anymore.”

  “Ah.” Marielle’s tone softened, though her words did not. “And yet you just said we were on the same side.” She leaned back slightly. “Let me be clear, Pendric. If you no longer wish to play, then perhaps Blackmoor will no longer belong to Morcant in the future.”

  The duke’s eyes hardened.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “If my calculations are correct,” Marielle said calmly, “Alaric is five days’ journey from the capital. We shall soon see which threat troubles you more.”

  Silence fell between them.

  After a moment, the duke spoke again.

  “I heard Duke Edric is in the capital. Why is he here?”

  “To finish the story they started,” Marielle replied. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “But I truly believe he may prove the better ally.”

  The duke shook his head.

  “When you keep the fire too close, one day it will burn you alive—without warning.”

  “Do not worry,” Marielle said softly and confidently. “I am like the phoenix. I rise from ashes.”

  “Then do not drag Morcant into it.”

  Marielle laughed—a clear, ringing sound that echoed in the chamber.

  “There is no you or me anymore. Our fates were already bound together ten years ago.”

  The duke rose to his feet.

  “Very well,” he said coolly. “Whatever you say, my Queen—if I can still call you that in the future.”

  Marielle did not answer. She only watched him, her expression unreadable, her smile faint and fixed.

  The duke inclined his head—not quite a bow, but close enough to acknowledge what once had been. Then he turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps slow, echoing in the quiet chamber.