Hazel woke to pale morning light filtering through the heavy drapes of her chambers.
For a moment, everything felt normal—too normal. The sheets were cool against her skin, the air carried the faint scent of roses from the vase on the bedside table, and the distant murmur of the palace waking drifted through the walls like a lullaby she had grown accustomed to.
Then she felt it.
A subtle pressure behind her eyes, not quite a headache, more like a whisper lodged in the back of her mind. She sat up slowly, pressing two fingers to her temple. The room tilted once, then steadied.
Her gaze fell to the small crystal perfume bottle on the nightstand.
She didn't remember placing it there.
The crescent-moon necklace rested warm against her collarbone—warmer than usual, almost feverish. She lifted it, frowning. The crystal caught the light and pulsed once, soft and slow, like a heartbeat out of rhythm with her own.
A flicker of unease curled in her stomach.
She dressed quickly—simple morning gown of soft gray, hair braided loosely—and stepped into the antechamber. Lara was already waiting, scrolls spread across the low table, her silver hair gleaming in the early light.
"You're late," Lara said without looking up. "Petitions from the eastern villages. They claim the tribute collectors are taking more than agreed. Again."
Hazel nodded absently, taking her seat. She tried to focus on the words—numbers, names, pleas—but the pressure in her head pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Every few minutes, her fingers drifted to the perfume bottle she had carried with her without thinking. She stared at it, brow furrowed.
Why did she have it?
Why did it feel… important?
Lara noticed. "Something wrong, my lady?"
Hazel forced a smile. "Just tired. The feast last night ran longer than expected."
Lara's eyes narrowed, but she let it pass. They worked through the morning. Hazel granted two petitions outright—reduced quotas for families who had lost sons to the last blood levy—and deferred a third for review. Lara approved with a grudging nod.
By midday, the unease had sharpened into something closer to dread.
She excused herself for a walk in the rose gardens, needing air, needing quiet. The paths were empty at this hour; only the gardeners moved in the distance, heads bowed. Hazel sat on a stone bench beneath an arch of white roses and stared at the perfume bottle in her palm.
The necklace grew hotter.
She uncapped the bottle.
A faint violet scent drifted up—sweet, cloying, with an undercurrent of something metallic. Her stomach twisted.
Midnight, a voice whispered in her mind—not hers. Tomorrow night. Drink it. Alone.
She snapped the cap back on.
The necklace flared—bright, sudden, searing against her skin. Hazel gasped, dropping the bottle. It rolled across the gravel, unbroken. The crystal at her throat pulsed again, three times in quick succession, each one stronger than the last.
Memories—fragments—slid into place like broken glass.
A man in a black uniform.
A folded parchment.
A single drop of violet on her hand.
Her breath came faster. She pressed her palms to her temples, trying to hold the images, but they slipped away like smoke.
"Lazarus," she whispered aloud. "He said it was from Lazarus…"
But Lazarus never sent messages through strangers. He came himself. Always.
The necklace cooled slightly, as though satisfied she had noticed.
Hazel stood, legs unsteady. She picked up the bottle, tucked it into the hidden pocket of her gown, and walked back toward the palace with deliberate steps.
She found Lucian in the war room, maps spread across the table, Lazarus at his side. The moment she entered, both men stilled.
Lucian's crimson eyes sharpened. "What's wrong?"
Hazel hesitated, glancing at Lazarus. "I… need to speak with you. Alone."
Lazarus bowed and left without a word.
The door closed.
Hazel pulled the perfume bottle from her pocket and set it on the table between them.
"I don't know how this got into my chambers," she said quietly. "But last night… something happened. I can't remember clearly. There was a guard. He said he had a message from Lazarus. Then—" She touched the back of her hand, where the skin still tingled faintly. "This appeared."
Lucian's face darkened to storm. He picked up the bottle, uncapped it, and inhaled. His fangs lengthened instinctively.
"Mind-binder," he snarled. "Black witch work. Strong. Old."
He looked at her, eyes blazing. "Did you drink it?"
"No," she said. "But… I think I was supposed to. Tonight. At midnight."
The necklace pulsed again—warm, reassuring.
Lucian rounded the table in a blur, pulling her against him. "You're safe," he growled into her hair. "He won't touch you again."
But Hazel's mind was racing.
The guard had known exactly where she would be. Known when she would be alone. Known how to separate her maids with a single word.
Someone inside the palace had helped him.
And the potion was still in her hand.
She looked up at Lucian, voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest.
"We need to find him," she said. "Before midnight."
The noose had tightened.
But Hazel was no longer content to hang.
She intended to cut it—and whoever held the other end.