The moon hung like a silver crescent blade above the spires of Aethelgard, casting long shadows across the marble terraces of the royal gardens. Varek crouched behind the ancient oak at the garden's eastern edge, his dark cloak blending seamlessly with the night. The heavy fabric was woven with threads of shadow-silk—a rare material from the northern reaches of Valdris that drank the light rather than reflected it. His face was obscured from the nose downward by a black silk veil, leaving only his eyes exposed to the cool night air—so, so blue.

From where he lingered amongst the hush of leaves and moonlit ivy, he could see the pale pathways winding through the royal grounds like ribbons of frost. The fountains sang their ceaseless songs. White roses climbed the trellises. Lanterns burned low upon distant walls. It was a scene of peace, and yet Varek knew better than most that kingdoms were seldom as tranquil as they appeared beneath starlight.

For months he had walked these gardens, though beneath a false name.

Aren.

The name had been chosen because it was ordinary. Forgettable. The sort of name that vanished into a crowd. Yet somehow it had become more familiar within these walls than his true name had become within his own.

Crown Prince of Valdris. Heir to the throne forged through conquest and sharpened by generations of war.

Enemy.

Spy.

Liar.

The titles sat heavily—more so than usual—upon his shoulders tonight.

Beneath his cloak, tucked safely inside an inner pocket, rested several folded letter encoded in a cipher known only to the royal intelligence of Valdris—reports, observations, maps, supply routes, council rumors, information gathered through patience, skill, and the trust of a princess who believed she was speaking with a wandering man hidden from the world by old scars and even older secrets.

His jaw tightened.

The Princess of Aethelgard.

Betrothed—against her wishes—to Prince Cedric of Sicangol—a man she had never once laid eyes upon. Varek knew the details of the arrangement. He knew which nobles favored it, which opposed it, which stood to profit from the union. Such knowledge was useful.

What proved far less useful was remembering the way her eyes brightened whenever she spotted him waiting amongst the roses. Or the sound of her laughter. Or the quiet sadness that sometimes slipped through her composure whenever talk turned toward duty.

He had never intended for any of those things to matter.

Now, they did.

Gods help him, they did.

A faint breeze stirred the branches overhead. Varek's gaze lifted toward the palace.

A single figure emerged from the distant archway.

His pulse betrayed him instantly.

Because there she was, bathed in silver moonlight, approaching along the familiar path—beautiful.

For a moment, he remained perfectly still, watching. Not as a prince, nor a spy. Simply as a man. A man enchanted by a woman despite knowing better. A foolish one who should have ended these meetings weeks ago. Who should have remembered his purpose. He knew that well.

He failed to do so every time.

Vladris and Aethelgard had been thirsty for one another's blood for longer than either kingdom's oldest songs could recall. If his identity were to be discovered, his head would have decorate the palace gates by sunrise. If his father ever learned how greatly the princess occupied his thoughts, disappointment would have been the gentlest punishment waiting for him.

Yet, he still came. Every time, he still came. As though drawn by some spell no court mage could name nor break.

Stepping from the shadows of the oak, moonlight caught the blue of his eyes as he emerged onto the path.

The mask of Aren settled neatly back into place, his gaze lingering upon her for a heartbeat too long.

Then another.

And another after that.

The corner of his mouth threatened to betray itself beneath the veil.

"My lady," he said, inclining his head. His voice was smooth, carrying low through the garden air.

"Did the guards keep you?" He raised an eyebrow. "Or was it Lady Kalia—again?"