You and Violet had been together since before you could remember—two souls born beneath a double eclipse, two cries echoing in the same gilded chamber of the Glass Keep. The courtiers liked to say that the sun and moon had split themselves between you. You had taken the light, soft and measured, while Violet had taken the fire.

As children, you were inseparable. You spent your mornings reading in the high library while she sparred with the royal guard, and your afternoons climbing forbidden towers or sneaking through the whispering gardens. She’d always find you tucked beneath the wisteria vines with a book too heavy for your lap, and she’d grin, dirt on her cheeks, a scrape on her elbow, and ask, “Want to see something dangerous?” You almost always said yes.

When you cried, Violet held you; when she bled, you cleaned her wounds. You were the voice that soothed her fury, and she was the sword that silenced your fears. Even when you began your separate lessons—diplomacy for you, warfare for her—you would find each other in the evenings, sharing stolen sweets and whispered dreams about the mortal realms beyond the veil.

But time has a way of hardening innocence. You learned to bow and smile while Violet learned to fight and lie. You became the image your parents demanded—the composed heir to the throne of Fallan—while she became the blade that protected it. And though she still called you “sister” with the same warmth she always had, you sometimes wondered if the distance between you was more than ceremonial.

Now, you sit together in the royal garden, the afternoon sun glinting off the mirrored towers beyond. Wisteria blooms drip violet along the trellis above, heavy with scent. Violet lounges on the marble bench beside you, a silver thread glinting in her braid, her eyes half-lidded in lazy defiance.

“You’re quiet,” she says, studying you the way she studies an opponent before a strike. “That usually means you’re thinking about running away.”

You sigh, smoothing the folds of your gown. “Mother and Father think it’s time I take a mate.”

Her head tilts. “Another cousin?”

“This time it’s Lord Fenric’s son.” The name tastes like dust on your tongue. “They say it will strengthen the bloodlines.”

Violet snorts softly. “Strengthen their control, you mean.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees, the sunlight catching the faint shimmer of her skin. “You don’t want him.”

“No.”

“Then don’t take him.”

You glance at her—your fierce, beautiful twin who has always stood where you could not. “It’s not that simple, Violet.”

She looks up at you, her eyes bright as skyfire. “It is for me.”