Lucien sat in the war room, though there were no generals present. Only him, a decanter of untouched wine, and the soft crackle of the fire.
He held the empty velvet box in his gloved hand, turning it over slowly. The ribbon still bore the faint scent of lilac—the perfume Aveline wore when she first entered the palace.
The ring had been returned.
Not to him.
But to her.
To remind her.
To warn her.
To see if she would flinch.
He hadn't expected her to.
But she had.
"She hesitated," his informant had whispered just hours ago. "She locked the box away. Then asked for privacy."
Lucien closed his eyes.
That hesitation—small, sharp—was enough.
She still feels something.
He should've left her dead.
Or at least silenced.
But some foolish part of him still watched her like a man watches a flame—entranced, even knowing he'll burn.
She was playing a game now. A dangerous one. But so was he.
And he had no intention of losing.
Lucien rose from his seat, every motion precise, rehearsed—like a blade being drawn.
He didn't summon servants. He didn't write a letter.
Instead, he strode to his personal scribe's chamber.
"Announce a royal summons," he said.
The scribe paused mid-scroll. "To whom, Your Highness?"
He turned, slowly, deliberately.
"To Lady Aveline d'Arceneaux."
A breath caught in the scribe's throat. "Publicly, Your Highness?"
Lucien's gaze narrowed. "Loud enough for every noble worm in this palace to hear."
"But the court—"
"Will talk," he interrupted coolly. "And when they do, I want them to remember exactly who she was… and wonder who she might become again."
The scribe bowed and fled to deliver the command.
By sunset, every noble tongue would be wagging.
The disgraced former crown princess.
Summoned by the prince himself.
To the imperial court.
In front of everyone.
He knew she would come.
She had no choice now.
But what she didn't know was this: he wasn't just testing her.
He was forcing her hand.
And if she reached for him again
He wouldn't pull away this time.
The summons arrived just before dusk.
A liveried page, sweating under the pressure of his task, delivered the scroll to her with a trembling bow.
Aveline broke the seal without ceremony.
As her eyes scanned the words, her pulse skipped—just once.
A royal summons.
Public. Unavoidable.
Signed by Lucien Veyron Soltaire himself.
Her name—her full name—was printed in gold leaf at the top, framed in crimson wax. Regal. Elegant. The kind of announcement made when honoring a diplomat or sentencing a traitor.
He was making her both.
Elise stood nearby, wringing her hands. "My lady… will you go?"
Aveline looked up slowly.
"Of course," she said, folding the parchment with icy grace. "If the prince wants to parade me like a relic from a war he started, then I'll attend dressed like victory."
Elise blinked. "You mean to intimidate him?"
"No," Aveline said, standing. "I mean to remind him what it felt like when I walked beside him, and the entire court bowed at my feet."
She stepped toward the window, where the sky had turned gold and blood-red.
"He wants a game? I'll give him a performance."
And in that moment, for the first time since her return, the palace would remember:
Aveline d'Arceneaux was not here to beg for redemption.
She had come to rewrite the ending.