The palace of the Four Wings was a masterpiece of silence. Stone archways whispered of old power, and bridges curved delicately over ponds where koi swam like secrets beneath the surface. Each Wing ruled by a noble, each bridge crossed with care—especially now.

Claire crossed one such bridge alone, her white robes brushing the wind. She preferred silence. Preferred being unnoticed. That wasn’t easy when half the palace seemed to orbit her presence.

"Claire," came a velvet-smooth voice behind her.

She sighed softly. "Lord Avion."

He caught up, his long blonde hair tousled by the breeze. His red eyes gleamed like garnets—sharp, warm, dangerous.

“You shouldn’t walk alone,” he said.

“I manage.”

He walked beside her anyway. "Still, I prefer to know where you are."

She stopped. “Am I a servant… or a possession?”

He smiled. “Can’t you be both?”

Her stare was unflinching.

Avion leaned in, voice low. “You always speak so coldly. It makes me wonder how warm you could be—if someone tried.”

Before she could respond, a familiar fox-like voice cut through the air.

"Lady Claire."

Ayden.

His fluffy red hair was slightly wind-tossed, blue eyes gleaming beneath his fox ears. He wore black silk, his tone lined with amusement—and something darker.

“I was hoping to speak with you. Alone.”

Avion stepped in front of her before she could answer.

“Unfortunately,” Avion said calmly, “Lady Claire’s schedule belongs to me. And the North Wing was restricted after your last… conversation.”

“I didn’t realize flirting was a crime now,” Ayden said, smile thin.

Claire stepped away. “I’ll be in the archives.”

She left both lords behind without another word.

From above, in the high balcony of the West Wing, Lord Juvin watched.

Cloaked in a green cape, his black hair ruffled by the wind, Juvin stood like a statue carved from cold marble—still, sharp, and impossible to read. His green eyes, piercing and glassy, held a calm that unnerved even the boldest lords. He spoke rarely, and when he did, his words cut like frost.

Nature bent to his will—vines coiled where he walked, flowers bloomed then withered in his shadow. Most avoided him. Others feared him.

He preferred it that way.

But her…

Claire didn’t fawn. Didn’t flirt. Her silence had matched his. Her cold tone, clear and without decoration, lingered in his mind like winter air. Unexpected. Familiar.

He watched her vanish into the southern hall.

And found he did not look away.

In the East Wing, under a cherry blossom tree too pink to be natural, Kumina held her rose quartz pendant tight.

“She’ll understand,” she whispered.

A night ago, she had made a deal with Lord Malin. Claire in exchange for… a meeting. A promise. A prince.

Kumina closed her eyes.

“She’ll forgive me.”

She hoped.

In a quiet chamber deep in the South Wing, Avion stared at a map lined with names and symbols—political plays, brewing war. But all he could think of was the girl with amber eyes, who walked too far without permission.

And the fact that Ayden had looked at her again.

He leaned back in his chair, lips curling into something dangerously soft.

“She’s mine.”