The palace had always been beautiful.
Tall arched windows, marble floors that caught the light like water, tapestries of old victories lining the halls. In my first life, I thought the beauty meant safety.
Now when I walked those same corridors, all I saw were hiding places.
For spies.
For secrets.
For knives.
By the time I stepped away from the window where the shadow-man had appeared, my pulse had calmed, but my nerves had not.
"They're already moving against you."
The words clung to my skin like frost.
Who was they exactly?
Arcelia. Kael. The council.
The priests who smiled too easily.
The servants who bowed too low.
Or something else entirely?
I didn't have long to think.
A sharp rap sounded at my door—impatient, official, nothing like Kael's practiced knock or Arcelia's soft tap.
"Lady Aura?" a brisk voice called. "His Majesty requests your presence in the council chamber."
Of course he did.
I smoothed my dress with hands that only trembled a little and opened the door.
One of Father's personal attendants stood there—Darin, mid-thirties, betraying his age only in the faint lines around his eyes. Loyal. Efficient. In the first life, he'd been one of the last people to bow to me as queen.
He bowed now, not quite as deeply as he would to Father, but with genuine respect.
"My lady," he said. "Your father asked that you come at once."
"Did he say why?"
His eyes flickered, just for a moment. "There were… concerns raised about your earlier ride."
Right.
The forest.
The whispers.
The thing in the shadows.
I followed Darin down the corridor, the familiar path toward the council chamber tugging at old scars.
In my first life, I'd walked this hallway a hundred times—
for strategy meetings,
for marriage negotiations,
for being told what I should say to keep the peace.
I'd walked it for the last time on the day I signed the decree that sealed my own downfall.
This time, my steps were slower.
Measured.
Like I was counting each tile I crossed and weighing it.
"I heard about the patrol's report," Darin said quietly as we walked. "About the lights in the western forest."
My heart thumped. "You did?"
"The guards gossip," he replied with a faint, wry smile. "They think the forest is cursed."
"They're not entirely wrong," I muttered.
He glanced at me, puzzled. "My lady?"
"Nothing."
We reached the tall double doors of the council chamber. Two royal guards stood on either side, spears crossed. At a nod from Darin, they stepped aside and pulled the doors open.
Sound spilled out first—
low voices,
the scrape of chairs,
the flutter of parchment.
Then I stepped inside.
The room was exactly as I remembered:
the round table of polished dark wood,
maps pinned to the walls,
curtains half-drawn to keep out the harshest light.
My father sat at the head of the table, crown resting on the surface beside him instead of on his head—a habit of his I had always loved. He used to say, "A crown is heavy enough without wearing it indoors."
Around him sat members of the council—
Lord Halven with his hawkish nose and sharper tongue,
Lady Mirela with her perpetual tight smile,
and Lord Ren, who never spoke unless there was something cruel to say.
Kael was there, too, seated to Father's right.
Arcelia stood near the window, light framing her like a halo.
Every head turned as I entered.
"Ah. Aura." Father's voice was warm, but there was tension under it. "Come."
I crossed the room, acutely aware of Lady Mirela's eyes tracking my every move, of Kael's gaze lingering on my face, of Arcelia's unreadable expression.
I stopped beside my father. "You sent for me."
"Yes." He folded his hands together, studying me carefully. "There are… matters we need to discuss. Sit."
I took the empty chair opposite Kael. The table felt too big between us, like an ocean.
"Aura," Lord Halven began, not bothering with pleasantries, "is it true you left the palace this morning without escort?"
Straight to the point, then.
"Yes," I answered calmly. "I needed air."
"The gardens were not enough?" he asked dryly.
"Not today."
Lady Mirela's fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table. "You rode into the western forest, Lady Aura. Alone."
I tilted my head. "Did the trees complain?"
Ren snorted. "Flippancy is not reassuring, child."
Father cleared his throat, giving him a warning glance. "We worry for your safety. The western woods have always held… strange stories."
"Stories or truths?" I asked.
The room went still.
Kael's gaze sharpened. Arcelia's hand stilled on the back of her chair.
"What did you see?" Father asked quietly.
I could have lied. I could have said nothing.
I could have played dumb.
Instead, I let a little truth slip, wrapped in a lie.
"Nothing clearly," I said. "Just… lights between the trees. And whispers. The same kind the patrol reported, I suppose."
Lord Ren leaned forward. "And you went closer?"
"Yes."
Arcelia made a soft, horrified sound. "Aura, why would you do that?"
"Because," I said calmly, meeting her gaze, "I refuse to be afraid of a forest when there are far more dangerous things standing on two legs in this palace."
Her face paled just a fraction.
Halven's mouth twisted. "You speak like a conspirator."
"I speak like someone who doesn't intend to die young," I returned.
Silence.
For a second, I thought I'd gone too far.
Then—
Father laughed.
It was a short, surprised laugh, but it broke the tension like a blade through glass.
"She has your stubbornness," Lady Mirela told him dryly.
"And her mother's tongue," Father mused, a glint in his eyes I hadn't seen in years. "Aura, listen to me. Whatever you think you heard in that forest, it is not your burden to carry alone. Do you understand?"
No.
I didn't.
Because every instinct in my bones screamed that this burden was exactly mine.
Still, I nodded slowly. "I understand, Father."
Kael finally spoke.
"With respect, Your Majesty," he said, "the timing is… concerning. The patrol sees strange lights. The princess dreams of red moons. She hears whispers and walks unescorted into the very forest we were discussing this morning."
His words were measured, reasonable, a perfect prince's concern.
But I heard the layer beneath it:
She's unstable.
She's risky.
She needs to be watched.
"The moon has always touched Aura more strongly than most," my father said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "You know that, Kael. You've seen her since childhood."
"Yes," Kael said. His eyes met mine. "I have."
For a heartbeat, the room faded. His gaze felt like a hand around my throat—gentle, familiar, suffocating.
In my old life, that look would have made my heart stutter with something dangerously close to love.
Now it made something colder slither down my spine.
Arcelia's voice cut through the silence. "Father, at least forbid her from going alone. If something happened to her before the engagement…"
Before the engagement.
Not before I got hurt.
Before I stopped being politically useful.
"I'll be more careful," I said evenly. "Next time, I'll take an escort."
Not if I can help it, I added silently.
Father sighed, rubbing his temples. "My head aches with old men's fears and young people's stubbornness. For now, Aura, stay away from the western forest."
"I'll try," I lied.
Halven muttered something under his breath. Ren glared. Lady Mirela pretended to be fascinated by a crack in the table.
"And the dreams?" Kael asked quietly. "Will you at least tell us more about them?"
No.
"They're just dreams," I said.
Arcelia's eyes lingered on my face, searching for something. She would find nothing I didn't want her to.
"Very well." Father pushed his chair back. "We'll speak of this no more for now. Council dismissed."
Chairs scraped back. Robes rustled. Voices rose in small clusters as the council members drifted toward the doors.
I stood as well, but before I could move away, a hand brushed my sleeve.
"Stay a moment," Father murmured.
Kael glanced between us, hesitated, and then bowed slightly. "I'll wait outside, Your Majesty."
Arcelia's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, following the others out.
The doors closed with a thud, leaving just me and Father in the vast chamber.
For the first time since waking in this wrong life, I was alone with him.
Fear slipped, briefly, and grief rushed in like a tide.
He studied me quietly for a long moment.
"You have always been honest with me, Aura," he said at last. "At least… you were, when you were small."
"You have always been busy with a kingdom," I replied softly. "I learned to keep some things to myself."
He winced faintly at that, guilt flashing across his features.
"I'm trying," he said. "To be better before it's too late."
My throat tightened.
Before it's too late—
he didn't know how soon that could be.
"I didn't call you here just to scold you for riding alone," he continued. "I wanted to ask you something I cannot ask anyone else."
That startled me. "Me?"
He nodded. "Do you feel… wrongness, Aura?"
I blinked. "Wrongness?"
"In the kingdom," he clarified. "In the air. The priests speak of omens. The patrols talk of voices. The blood moon rises more often in their readings than it should. You dream of it. You walk toward it while others run away." He paused. "You have always been… sensitive to things unseen."
He was asking if I could feel the same storm he could.
Slowly, I said, "Yes."
His shoulders sagged slightly, as if that simple confession was both a burden and a relief.
"I thought so," he murmured.
"Father," I said quietly, "if you know something is coming… why are you trusting the same people who will be the first to abandon you?"
He looked at me sharply. "What do you mean?"
The words almost slipped out:
Because I saw them do it. Because I watched you die surrounded by men who swore they would protect you and then shrugged at your corpse.
Instead, I said, "Some of your council serve themselves before they serve you."
His expression darkened. "You sound very certain."
"I am."
"Aura," he said, voice low, "if you know something—"
I hesitated.
The magic inside me stirred again, hot and restless. The faintest glimmer of silver flashed across my fingertips before fading.
"Just… be careful," I whispered. "Don't drink what they hand you too easily."
He stared at me for a long time.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"Your mother used to talk like that," he said. "Like she'd already walked into the future and returned just to warn me."
My heart twisted.
"I see more of her in you every day," he added. "Sometimes it frightens me."
It should.
She didn't get a second life.
I did.
"I won't let anything happen to you," he said suddenly, the old kingly steel flashing through his gentle tone. "Not while I still draw breath."
My eyes burned. "Then breathe carefully."
He laughed—a short, startled sound. "You really are different today."
Good.
I leaned in and kissed his cheek before the emotion could swallow me.
"Don't stay in this room too late tonight," I murmured. "The walls listen more than people do."
His brows shot up. "Since when do walls listen?"
"Since before we were born."
I left before he could ask what that meant.
As the doors closed behind me, I could feel it—
the shadows along the high rafters,
the curve of the ceiling,
the cracks between the stones.
Listening.
The walls remembered every betrayal that had happened here.
They would remember the next ones too.
This time, though,
I planned to carve my own story into them.
One they wouldn't forget.