The mirror did not lie, but Saren had learned long ago how to smile into it without revealing anything at all.
She sat in her chamber, her hair unbound, a letter half-burned in the hearth behind her. Smoke curled upward like a secret, and the air smelled faintly of wax and ash.
A knock.
"Enter," she called, her voice calm.
Darian stepped inside like a shadow that belonged to no one. He bowed just slightly, then leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. He didn't speak.
He never did unless it mattered.
"You've taken to haunting the west wing," she said, brushing her hair slowly. "Should I be flattered, or wary?"
"I've always preferred the scent of danger," Darian replied, eyes locked on hers. "And that wing reeks of it."
She met his gaze through the mirror. "Or perhaps you're just afraid of ghosts."
Darian smiled, but there was no warmth. "The only ghost here is the version of you I used to know."
Saren turned slowly on the stool, facing him now. "And what do you think I've become?"
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "Someone with too much to lose."
That struck deeper than she let on.
"You came to remind me of my place," she said. "But you forget, Darian, this is my husband's court. I am no longer a pawn."
"No," he said softly. "You're a queen in everything but name. And that's what makes you dangerous."
He placed something on the table — a thin gold chain, torn at the clasp. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Saren stiffened. It belonged to her lady-in-waiting — the one who carried her letters.
Darian watched her reaction carefully.
"You've become too clever, Princess," he murmured. "Let's see if you're clever enough to know when you're being hunted."
He left with the silence of a man who never needed doors to slam.
Saren stood frozen, heart racing. The trap was closing faster than she'd planned.
She had to move.
Not for the throne.
Not for revenge.
But for Alric.
Because for the first time since she began this game, the thought of losing him was no longer just strategy.
It was heartbreak.
.......to be continued....
Author's Note:
The chain has snapped.
The game Saren thought she was playing with precision is unraveling thread by golden thread.
Darian doesn't shout, doesn't accuse—he simply places a piece, and watches the board react.
But tonight, something changed.
For the first time, Saren didn't calculate her next move as a queen would.
She felt it—deep, sharp, and real.
She's no longer just playing to win.
She's afraid to lose him.
And in a world built on masks and moves, that might be the most dangerous truth of all.
—The author, heart echoing the sound of a torn clasp and a racing pulse.