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The court of Veradell was a theater of masks. Beneath the laughter, the silk, and the powdered lies, Amara could feel it â the tension in every glance, every nod, every false courtesy passed between goblets of honeyed wine.
She moved through the crowd like mist â present, but untouchable.
It was her first official appearance since recovering from her âmysterious illness,â and the nobles were eager to reacquaint themselves with the Lysenia heir. She played the part well â soft smiles, courteous bows, a sparkle in her eyes that veiled the razor beneath.
But all the performance ended the moment her gaze fell on him.
Prince Lucien Daevarion.
Crown Prince. Darling of the realm. First son of the golden throne.
And the man who once pressed a silenced pistol to her heart.
Her world slowed. The air around her thickened, warped by the force of memory and recognition. Her fingers curled lightly at her sides, hidden in the folds of her gown. Her body froze, but her mind burned.
His face was the same. Older by a few years, perhaps â sharper cheekbones, longer hair tied with a silver clasp â but she would never mistake those eyes. Clever, calculating, endlessly confident. In her past life, those eyes watched her bleed out on concrete beneath the rain.
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Now, they swept the room as if he owned it.
And in this world⦠he nearly did.
Amara watched him laugh with a foreign diplomat, watched how effortlessly he shifted between languages, how women leaned closer when he spoke, how men straightened when he passed. Lucien had always been magnetic. In any world, in any life, he was a man people followed.
Even when it led them to ruin.
She didnât flinch. Didnât blink. But she memorized everything.
His smile. His posture. The way his right hand never strayed far from the dagger at his hip. The way his lips tightened â just slightly â when someone mentioned the North.
She was already gathering his weaknesses.
A shadow fell over her, accompanied by the cloying scent of rosewater.
'Do you know him?' came a voice at her side.
Lady Corenna Vey, daughter of the Duke of Eastmere. All ribbons and rouge, and very good at pretending she didnât already know the answer.
âIâve heard the name,â Amara replied mildly, sipping from her crystal glass.
âNot just a name,â Corenna said, leaning in. âHeâs the crown jewel. Every family with a daughter and a dowry is circling like vultures.â
Amara let out a soft laugh. âThen I wish them luck. Vultures rarely survive royalty.â
Corenna blinked, unsure whether it was a joke or a threat. Amara didnât clarify.
Across the room, Lucienâs gaze brushed hers.
It was brief â a flicker, no more â but it struck her like a wire pulled taut between them.
She held his gaze for half a second longer than polite.
And then she looked away, unbothered.
But inside, something coiled tight and precise.
He hadnât recognized her. Not yet.
But something in him had hesitated.
She wondered what ghosts whispered to him when he slept. If his soul â reborn or not â remembered the woman whose life he stole.
If not, she would remind him.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she was simply Lady Amara Lysenia.
A noblewoman.
A curiosity.
A shadow waiting to sharpen into justice.
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