The palace of Maltherion did not rise from the ground so much as dominate it.
Its obsidian towers cut into the clouds like spears of night, lit only by restless violet lantern-flames that flickered as if stirred by unseen spirits. Even exhausted from travel, Zara felt the weight of it press on her skin — the old magic buried in these stones, humming faintly like a distant warning.
Desmond Santee walked a few strides ahead of her, his steps measured, deliberate. He didn't look back to check whether she followed. He expected her to.
And Zara found herself doing just that.
They passed under the serpent-carved archway of the outer palace gates. The guards saluted the prince but kept their eyes on her, hands tightening on their hilts.
Zara ignored them.
The halls beyond were tall and cold, the floors an almost glasslike stone that reflected torchlight in broken shards. Every shadow felt alive.
And every shadow watched.
Desmond finally spoke.
"You move quietly," he said without turning.
"So do you," Zara replied. "Though I suppose you've had practice."
This earned a ghost of a smile.
"Prince or not," he said, "I've learned that surviving Maltherion requires more than titles."
She already knew that.
His father, the king, was said to rule with iron. The court was a nest of serpents sharper than any blade. And Desmond… Desmond was their reluctant heir, forged by necessity rather than ambition.
He led her through twisting corridors that seemed deliberately designed to confuse. Zara counted turns, memorized patterns, marked the faint echoes of steps behind the walls. Someone was following. Multiple someones.
Desmond seemed aware too, though he didn't acknowledge it.
"Does every visitor receive such… escort?" she asked, glancing at the shadow that moved behind a silver curtain.
"No," Desmond said. "Just the dangerous ones."
Zara smirked.
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
He finally stopped in front of a door bound with dark iron and etched with symbols she recognized — wards of silence, secrecy, and a subtle charm to prevent eavesdropping.
He opened it and gestured her inside.
The room was small compared to the palace's grand halls, a private chamber with a heavy oak table, a fireplace, and two chairs placed too close together to be accidental. Flames flickered, casting warm light across the stone walls.
Zara stepped in.
Desmond closed the door behind them.
The latch clicked like a lock.
A TEST OF TRUTH
Desmond didn't sit.
Instead, he circled her — not predatory, but assessing.
His gaze caught every detail: her boots, her gloves, the faint scar along her jaw, the way she kept her weight balanced subtly on the balls of her feet.
"You're not a courtier," he said.
"You're not a merchant."
"And you're too skilled to be a lost traveler."
Zara held his gaze. "Then what do you think I am?"
"A liar."
The word hit the air like a thrown blade.
Zara breathed in deeply, letting her lips curl. "That's a bold accusation for someone who dragged me into a private room."
Desmond stepped close. Too close.
The fire cast gold against his sharp cheekbones.
"I dragged you in," he said softly, "because someone wants you dead. And because you caught a blade in midair as if it were nothing."
"You're welcome."
"I didn't thank you."
"No," she said. "You're not the type who thanks people."
That drew a reaction — a quiet exhale, almost a laugh, as if she had reached through his armor with a single truth.
But the softness vanished quickly.
"Tell me who you are," Desmond demanded, "or I will put you in chains until I find out."
Zara did not flinch.
She stepped closer.
Firelight painted heat between them.
"Try," she whispered.
His breath caught — half challenge, half something else entirely.
For a moment, the room felt smaller.
Hotter.
More dangerous.
Desmond's hand rose as if he might touch her cheek.
Then he pulled it back sharply, jaw clenching.
"You're infuriating," he muttered.
Zara tilted her head. "Most princes prefer obedient girls."
"I'm not like most princes."
"I know."
Their eyes locked.
And for a heartbeat, the air between them wasn't just tense — it was scorching.
THE INTERRUPTED CONFESSION
Before anything could break — or ignite — the door burst open.
Victor strode in.
His eyes immediately found Zara.
There was something fierce in them — concern layered beneath sharp disapproval.
"Zara," he said, his voice low but urgent. "You didn't come here alone."
She stiffened.
Desmond's gaze flicked between them.
Victor stepped past the prince with no hesitation, placing himself near Zara as if to shield her.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
Zara's voice was smooth, controlled. "I told you I needed to come."
"And I told you the capital wasn't safe."
Desmond crossed his arms. "Your companion seems to know far more than he should."
Victor didn't bother with pleasantries.
"And you seem far too curious for someone who doesn't know her."
The temperature in the room dropped.
Two men.
Two storms.
Both dangerous in their own ways.
Zara stepped between them before steel or ego could clash.
"Enough," she said.
Victor exhaled sharply, though he didn't retreat far.
Desmond, however, studied them with new intensity. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
"You have a protector," he observed.
Zara shook her head. "Victor is not my protector."
Victor's jaw tightened. "No," he said quietly. "But I would die before letting anyone harm you."
Desmond's expression hardened.
Something territorial flashed in his gaze — unexpected, sharp, and undeniable.
"Interesting," he said.
Zara glared at both of them. "I didn't come here to start wars of pride."
"Then start talking," Desmond said.
Victor added, "Before the wrong ears hear any of this."
Zara drew in a long breath.
It was time to begin.
Not the whole truth — not yet — but enough to keep her alive.
"I am here," she said, "because something in this kingdom is waking. Something ancient. Something connected to me."
Desmond's brows lowered. "Connected how?"
Zara's pulse hammered.
The word hovered on her tongue.
Silverado.
But saying it would set events in motion she could not control.
So she said instead:
"You will know soon."
Desmond stepped closer again.
"So you're choosing mystery."
"I'm choosing caution."
Victor's hand brushed Zara's arm — brief, protective, familiar.
Desmond's eyes tightened at the gesture.
"Whatever you're hiding," the prince said, voice low, "it's going to tear this kingdom apart."
Zara met his stare.
"It already has."
A MOMENT OF UNWANTED INTIMACY
Victor left a few minutes later, reluctantly, after Zara convinced him she could handle herself. Desmond watched every unspoken exchange.
When the door closed again, silence wrapped around them.
Desmond leaned against the table, arms crossed, studying her with a heat she could feel even from several steps away.
"You and Victor," he said. "What is he to you?"
Zara didn't answer.
Desmond huffed a quiet, humorless laugh.
"You really aren't afraid of me."
"Should I be?"
His voice softened in a way that was more dangerous than a threat.
"Yes."
Zara stepped closer.
Firelight shimmered across the edge of his jaw, the faint scar along his throat, the shadow of something lonely in his eyes.
"Then show me why," she whispered.
For the first time, Desmond did not mask his reaction — the brief widening of his eyes, the inhale that was almost a shiver.
He stepped toward her slowly, as if drawn by something he didn't want to acknowledge.
When he spoke, his voice was rough, barely controlled.
"You are going to ruin me."
Zara's breath caught.
Desmond reached up — slowly — his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
The touch was soft.
Far too soft for a prince known for violence.
Their bodies leaned in—
Their lips a breath apart—
The fire hissed, the room spun—
And then—
Desmond pulled away.
Violently.
As if the closeness burned.
"As long as you stay in my city," he said stiffly, "I will keep you under watch."
Zara steadied her breathing.
"And why is that?"
"Because you are trouble," he said.
"And because trouble is… distracting."
He opened the door.
"Come. I'll arrange your quarters in the palace."
Zara stepped past him, catching the faintest tremor in his breath as she did.
"Try not to distract yourself too much, Prince," she murmured.
Desmond said nothing.
But his silence burned hotter than words.