The raven was gone by morning.
Ariana stood at the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the blood-colored sky. It felt like the kingdom was holding its breath.
Damian hadn't spoken to her since their argument. He hadn't touched her. Hadn't kissed her.
Not even when they shared the same bed that night.
It was punishment — a silent war of pride and guilt — and Ariana was slowly losing.
Why won't he tell me the truth?
She felt like she was drowning in questions.
Why did Selene smirk every time Damian flinched?
Why did the servants whisper about a war in the south?
Why did it feel like everyone knew a secret… except her?
A sharp knock shattered the silence.
Before she could respond, the doors flew open. A royal guard stepped in, armor gleaming like polished obsidian.
"The prince requests your presence. Now."
Her heart jolted.
The throne room was emptier than usual.
Damian stood near the royal banner, hands clasped behind his back, wearing full ceremonial black — a color only worn when blood had been spilled.
Ariana stepped forward, her voice steady.
"You sent for me?"
He didn't turn. "They've arrived."
"Who?"
"The delegation from the House of Veyl."
Her blood froze. The name whispered in her memory like a storm coming.
"The same house that tried to kill your father?" she asked.
"The same," he said. "And they asked for you."
Ariana's legs weakened.
"Me? Why?"
He turned now. And the look on his face was something she'd never seen before — not lust, not pride, not rage.
It was fear.
"Because of who you are," he said softly. "And what I've kept from you."
Ariana's breath hitched.
"What are you saying?"
"You're not just a girl from the outer provinces, Ariana." He stepped closer. "You're the heir to the Veyl throne."
The words slammed into her like a blade.
Her mother's silence. Her father's sudden death. The nightmares. The cold treatment from the nobles. It all made horrible, perfect sense.
"You knew?" she whispered.
Damian nodded once.
"Since the first night you stepped into the palace."