Read Chapter 1: The Glass of Midnight

The cut on her palm was still weeping when Anya opened her eyes.

She was on the floor of her chambers, pressed against the cold marble like a discarded doll, her nightgown twisted around her thighs. The chandelier above spun in lazy, indifferent circles. Pain thrummed through her skull, a sick pulse behind her eyes, and her hand—her hand was on fire.

She pushed herself up. The room swam. Her own reflection in the tall window glass was a stranger: hair wild, lips pale, a thin seam of blood tracing the lifeline of her left palm.

She had no memory of earning that wound.

She had no memory of the hour before, either. Or the hour before that. The last clear image in her mind was dinner—roast swan, her brother’s mocking toast, the sting of wine too sharp on her tongue. That felt like years ago. It felt like an hour ago. Time had become a dishonest thing.

Anya staggered to her feet, gripping the bedpost until the vertigo passed. The clock on the mantel read eleven minutes past midnight.

She noticed the note then. A folded slip of paper resting on her pillow, crisp and deliberate, as though placed with great care.

She did not remember writing it.

But the handwriting was unmistakably hers. The sharp slant of the *A*, the way her *t* crossed high and angry.

*Trust the guard who comes tomorrow.*

Beneath it, in smaller letters: *Do not fear him. He is the only one who will tell you the truth.*

Anya read it three times. Her pulse hammered in her throat. The words were in her own hand, but she had no memory of their meaning. The guard who comes tomorrow—what guard? And why would a guard need to tell her the truth? The court told her everything. That was the problem. They told her too much, too often, in too many echoing rooms, and she woke each morning with her skull scrubbed clean.

She touched the cut on her palm again, and a shiver walked up her spine. Someone had hurt her tonight. Someone must have. And whatever memory of that moment lived in her blood was already draining away, unstoppable as the tide.

A knock sounded at the door—three sharp raps, the cadence of business.

"Princess." The voice was female, clipped. Commander Voss. "Princess, are you awake?"

Anya’s mind raced. She crumpled the note in her fist, then thought better of it. She smoothed it flat, folded it small, and pressed it into the bodice of her nightgown. A hidden ledger. A secret confession.

"I'm awake," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The door cracked open. Commander Voss stood in the corridor, lamplight catching the silver braid at her shoulder. Her face was a mask of professional concern, but her eyes flicked to Anya’s hand.

"You're bleeding."

"It's nothing." Anya moved to block her view, pulling the sleeve of her nightgown down over the wound. "A scrape. I must have hit the bedframe in my sleep."

Voss’s mouth tightened. "Your brother requests your presence."

Now. At midnight. Anya almost laughed. Marius never requested anything at midnight unless a scandal required burying or an alliance required forging. She had served as his lighter of candles and swatter of flies for twenty-two years—the forgetful princess, the broken vessel, the lovely empty thing.

"What does he want?"

"He didn't say." Voss stepped aside, leaving room for Anya to pass. "But he's in the east solar, and he's not alone."

Not alone. That changed things. Marius entertained no one in the east solar unless it was a matter of state—or a matter of succession.

Anya dressed in silence: a gown of deep blue velvet, sleeves long enough to hide the cut on her palm, buttons up the back that she fumbled at with shaking fingers. Voss watched her from the door, hands clasped behind her back.

"Would you like me to call a physician?" Voss asked.

"No. I'd like you to tell me why my brother is hosting midnight guests in a room that's only used for formal audiences."

Voss didn't answer. She simply waited while Anya finished dressing, then led her down the corridor with the smooth stride of a soldier who had learned long ago not to ask questions.

The east solar was warm and overlit, candles blazing in every sconce like an insult to the darkness. Marius stood by the fire, a goblet of wine in his hand, his golden hair catching the light in exactly the way that made portraits of him so tiresome.

And beside him stood a stranger.

Anya’s step faltered.

The man was tall—taller than Marius by a head—and lean in the way of someone who carried swords more often than he carried conversation. His dark hair was cropped close at the sides, longer on top, and a scar cut through his left eyebrow, splitting it in two. He wore the black and silver of the Captain of the Royal Guard, and he should not have been standing so casually near her brother.

He should not have been looking at her the way he was looking at her.

As if he knew her.

As if he had been waiting for her.

"Anya." Marius set down his goblet and crossed to her, taking her hands before she could pull away. His touch was warm, solicitous. "You look pale. Voss said you'd had an accident."

"It's nothing."

"Good. Good." He squeezed her fingers, and his eyes—those cool, calculating eyes that had never once looked at her like a brother—scanned her face. "I have news. Wonderful news, really. The king of Valdris has sent his son to open negotiations, and he's asked specifically for your company at the spring court."

Anya felt the floor tilt. "The spring court is three months away."

"Yes. We have time to prepare." Marius smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "This is Kael. He has been appointed Captain of the Royal Guard, effective tonight. He will be your personal protector."

Something cold ran down Anya’s spine.

She looked at Kael. He was not smiling. He was simply watching her, steady and unmoving, like a blade resting on a table.

"Your Highness." He inclined his head, the barest possible bow. "I have served the crown for seven years. I will serve you faithfully."

"You don't look like a man who serves faithfully," Anya said. "You look like a man who watches."

A flicker at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile, almost a warning. "Watching is part of the duty."

Marius laughed, too brightly. "You'll forgive my sister. She speaks sharply at night. It's the—she's overtired."

The word he swallowed hung in the air between them. *Curse.* He never said it aloud. None of them did.

"Of course," Kael said. His eyes hadn't left Anya’s face.

The note pressed against her sternum seemed to pulse. *Trust the guard who comes tomorrow.* But it was not tomorrow. It was now, deep in the hours of midnight, the cursed hours when her mind was a sieve and her memories leaked away like water through fingers.

She looked down at her hand, still hidden in her sleeve. The cut throbbed. A wound she couldn't remember earning, a note she couldn't remember writing, a truth she couldn't remember learning.

She raised her eyes to Kael’s.

"Why," she asked, pitching her voice low so only he could hear, "are you forbidden from the west wing?"

The question was instinct. She didn't know why she'd asked it. The west wing had been sealed for years, ever since the fire that killed their mother—a tragedy Anya couldn't remember, a grief she had been told about so many times it had worn smooth as a river stone.

Kael’s expression didn't change. But something behind his eyes shifted, dark and complicated.

"I don't know," he said, slowly, each word careful. "But I think we're both about to find out."