Chapter 5: Chapter Four – The Court of Lions

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The Hall of Verdant Flame was built to awe — towering stained-glass windows, endless crimson carpets, and chandeliers that bled gold light over marble polished so bright it mirrored every lie told within.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

It was the court of Veradell.

Amara stood at the threshold, her gloved hand resting gently on the stone column as courtiers moved in slow, elegant orbits beyond. Gowns shimmered like heat mirages. Laughter curled in the air like perfume — sweet, empty, dangerous.

And she was expected to walk into it. Alone.

No— not alone. Mira Langford had entered war rooms filled with billionaires and liars. Mira had survived a boardroom ambush with nothing but a pen and the truth.

Lady Amara Lysenia would do the same. With better fashion.

She stepped forward.

The buzz began immediately. Fans fluttered. Heads turned. She heard her name like a ripple across the hall.

“Lysenia…”

“Didn’t she vanish after the solstice ball?”

“Older. Colder.”

“She looks—different.”

Good, Amara thought. Let them wonder. Let them invent their own stories. It was easier to hide in a narrative she didn't have to write herself.

She wore silver today — pale silk laced with shadow-thread, delicate embroidery curling along her sleeves like thorned vines. Her hair was half-pinned, half-loose — formal, but not traditional. A quiet defiance in every strand.

“Lady Amara Lysenia,” a herald finally announced.

And just like that, she was in the center of the lions’ den.

The court was arranged like a spiral — nobility orbiting closer to the raised dais the higher their rank. At its heart stood three thrones, though only one was currently occupied: that of Queen Seralyne, the Iron Rose of Veradell. Regal, ageless, unreadable.

But Amara’s gaze passed over her quickly. She wasn’t here for the Queen.

She was here for him.

There — standing just behind the throne’s right flank, encased in black and muted silver — was the Duke of the North.

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Kael Ravaryn.

He looked even more imposing in person. Tall, statuesque, motionless — like someone had carved winter into human form and given it eyes that saw too much.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t bow.

Didn’t smile.

Good.

Amara met his gaze. She let him watch her — let him study the measured calm in her step, the deliberate tilt of her head, the way she didn’t shrink under scrutiny.

She didn’t try to charm him. That would’ve been a waste.

Instead, she let him see the truth.

She was not afraid of him. She had walked through colder courts.

And he seemed to notice.

Their locked gaze was interrupted only when a voice slithered into her ear.

“Well, well. The ghost returns.”

Amara turned — and every muscle in her spine locked into place.

He was just as beautiful as she remembered.

Lucien Daevarion.

The Crown Prince. The man who had once smiled at her like the sun — before putting a bullet through her heart.

Here, he wore royal blue trimmed in black velvet, a lion's fang pendant resting against his collarbone. His golden hair curled neatly. His eyes glinted with performative warmth.

He tilted his head. “You’ve changed, Lady Lysenia. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Her lips curved slowly — not a smile, not quite.

“Strange. I recognized you right away.”

Lucien’s smile flickered for half a second. Then he laughed, soft and dazzling, as if she’d complimented his wit.

“Come, then. Let me introduce you to the court’s newest games.”

She met his arm with a practiced glance — one that might’ve been flirtation once, but now was calculation.

“No need,” she murmured. “I’ve already found the only player who matters.”

She turned from him, gliding toward Kael with calculated grace, leaving Lucien standing in the swirl of curious onlookers and fake smiles.

Kael said nothing as she approached. He didn’t offer a bow or a hand. He didn’t need to.

“Your Grace,” Amara said smoothly.

“Lady Lysenia,” Kael replied. His voice was a study in ice and quiet thunder.

They stood alone, yet watched by dozens — like statues in a museum of secrets.

“You’ve read the battlefield already,” Kael said.

Amara’s brow arched slightly. “It’s not hard when the weapons are compliments.”

“And the poison is charm.”

A pause. She smiled. “Do you always speak in riddles, Duke?”

“Only to those who understand them.”

And just like that — a quiet alliance began.

They moved to the periphery, where the crowd thinned, and Kael nodded toward a small private chamber carved into the side of the hall.

“Let’s speak where eyes don’t weigh,” he said.

Inside, the light was dimmer, the air cooler. Books lined the walls. A table sat untouched, a bottle of untouched wine resting on crystal.

No more masks. No more performance.

“What do you want, Lady Amara?” Kael asked plainly.

Her answer came without hesitation.

“Justice.”

His eyes darkened. “Against the prince?”

“Against a man who thinks the law is his to rewrite. Against a liar dressed in silk and crowned with stolen gold.”

Kael stepped closer, gaze unreadable.

“And what makes you different?”

She didn’t flinch.

“I don’t take power,” she said. “I dismantle it — piece by piece — until it collapses under its own lies.”

Silence. Long, heavy.

Then Kael nodded once.

“Ink or blood?”

Amara’s lips quirked.

“Ink for now,” she said. “Blood later, if needed.”

He extended his gloved hand.

She took it.

And the alliance was sealed.

Not with swords. Not with kisses.

But with a contract whispered between fire and frost.

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