The chamber was dim, lit only by the embers in the hearth. Shadows danced lazily across the stone walls, soft and golden. Yvonne entered with slow, deliberate steps, her silken gown whispering across the marble floor. It clung to her curves like a second skin—thin, translucent, embroidered in gold thread, the kind of garment meant to be slipped off as easily as it was worn. She had chosen it carefully. For tonight.

Lysander sat silently in the armchair before the fire, a glass of wine untouched in his hand, his gaze fixed not on the flame, but somewhere far beyond it.

She approached from behind, placing her hands gently on his broad shoulders. Her fingers traced the line of muscle beneath his tunic, her touch feather-light, suggestive. "You should not be alone tonight," she said, her voice low, sweet like honey left in the sun.

No reply. His shoulders did not flinch nor lean into her. Still, she pressed closer, letting her body rest against his back. Her breasts, barely concealed beneath the gossamer fabric, brushed against him.

“Lysander… we are to be married,” she whispered. “We should be… close.”

He exhaled—sharply. Not a sigh, not longing. A warning.

"You don't need to pretend," he said coldly, still not facing her. “This act… this mimicry. Stop trying so hard to be her.”

She stiffened. Her hands halted. “What are you talking about?”

At last, he stood. Towering over her, his expression carved from stone.

“Thalia,” he said flatly. “You copy her walk. Her voice. Even the perfume you wear—it’s hers.”

Yvonne’s lips parted, but he didn’t stop.

“You’ve studied her like a portrait. But you will never be her.”

“She left you!” she snapped, voice rising, eyes wild with a mix of hurt and fury. “She betrayed your kingdom!”

“You do not know that.” His voice cut through her like a blade. “You don’t know anything.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt, desperate now, clinging. “I can give you everything, Lysander. I’ll love you more than she ever could. I’ll make you forget her.”

He didn’t pull away—but neither did he hold her.

“If this is what you want…” he muttered bitterly. He reached for her waist, his hands strong and commanding, sliding down her back. She gasped, heart racing. His palm landed on her hip—no, lower.

“Is this what you crave?” he said, voice dripping venom as his hand gripped her backside, not with lust, but scorn. “Is this what makes you feel loved, Yvonne?”

She moaned softly, the touch electrifying her. Her body betrayed her heart; she leaned into it, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.

Lysander’s hand tightened, not in desire, but in contempt. He pulled her flush against him, their bodies inches apart, his face lowering toward hers.

“You love this?” he said harshly. “Being touched by a man who sees right through you? Who pities you?”

Yvonne whimpered, lips trembling, body pressed eagerly against his chest. “You want me,” she whispered, “I can see it in your eyes.”

He scoffed. “You act like a common slave girl in heat. Don’t think offering your body will make you queen in my heart.”

Then, with a sudden motion, he shoved her backward.

She stumbled onto the bed behind her with a soft cry. Her hair sprawled across the silk pillows, her nightgown riding up her thighs. She looked up at him—confused, trembling, hopeful.

He loomed above her for a second, face mere inches from hers. She could feel his breath. Her heart thundered. This was the moment. She thought he would finally yield. Claim her. Make her his.

But he didn’t.

He leaned away, standing tall once more.

“You’ll be my queen by name only,” he said coldly. “Chosen not by me, but by my mother’s politics and your father’s lies. But in every way that matters…”

He turned to the fire. Its glow reflected in his eyes, dark and raging. “You are nothing compared to Thalia.”

“I’ll bear you kings!” Yvonne shouted from the bed, desperation bursting from her lungs. “We will wed! I will give you children! I’ll be your queen in truth, Lysander—don’t speak to me like I’m nothing!”

Lysander didn’t turn. His jaw tensed, fists clenched.

“You may bear me heirs,” he said, voice like frost, “but you’ll never replace her.”

Then he walked away, leaving Yvonne trembling in the firelight—desire burning in her veins, but with no warmth to soothe it.

Then he left her alone in the flickering firelight.

---------

This brought back to a memory not so long ago.

When Thalia fled Caelithar and broke her engagement, chaos erupted. Whispers of betrayal, rumors of treason, and letters of accusation flooded the court. Yvonne, ever the opportunist, seized her chance.

She brought a letter to the Queen, one written in Thalia's hand but heavily forged and edited. The Queen, naive and desperate for control, believed Yvonne's narrative.

"Your sister shamed our name," the Queen Adrielle said. "But you... you will restore it. Lysander must marry. A prince cannot rule alone."

Lord Zephyrion, ever at the Queen's side, nodded. "And no other noble house has a daughter of high enough station."

Lysander said nothing. The weight of expectation bore down on him. He had no choice. Not if he wanted to prove himself worthy in the eyes of the people. Not when his mother insisted the king was no more. And so, he agreed.

------

The moon hung low tonight, casting silver veins along the marble pillars of the eastern gardens. The lilies bloomed quietly under its glow, their white petals catching the soft breeze like sighs from another lifetime.

Lysander wandered between the tall arches where ivy clung and shadows whispered. This garden used to be a sanctuary. Their sanctuary. He could still see her there—Thalia—in that absurdly simple dress she favored, seated on the edge of the fountain, dipping her fingers into the water as she mocked him with that clever tongue of hers. Always graceful, even when teasing.

That memory haunted him. Every night. Without fail.

Where are you, Thalia?

He could not sleep. He hadn’t slept well since she left him.

No—since they tore her from him.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. That letter, accusing her of plotting treason, of poisoning him of all people. No—there was no logic in it. There was no motive. Thalia had always been too proud to play games, too honest to wield daggers in the dark.

If anything, he had wronged her—by allowing his court to drag her name through filth, by not stopping it sooner.

If I become king, he thought, pausing beneath a blooming arch of night jasmine, I can clear her name. I can strip away the suspicion, silence the whispers. She could return. I could make her my consort.

He clenched his jaw.

If she wishes to return…

She had loved him. Hadn’t she? The way she looked at him—fierce but devoted. Unlike Yvonne, who clung to him with desperation, Thalia had loved him with eyes that saw every flaw and still stayed. That made her worthy. The only one worthy.

He’d never met a woman like her. And he feared he never would again.

But…

There was one thought he could not shake. One that festered in the cracks of his mind.

Zagan.

His cursed half-brother. A phantom lurking in the borders of his life. Could it be him?

No, he told himself. There was no time. No reason. Thalia had no connection to him… right?

Yet that letter. That letter…

Were they together? Plotting something greater? Did she… could she have… loved him?

The thought made his chest ache—not with sorrow, but with something uglier. Jealousy. Possession.

It was impossible. They would never fall for each other. They couldn’t have.

But if they did—

“I thought I’d find you here,” came a soft voice behind him.

He didn’t flinch. He knew that voice. He would know it anywhere.

Circe, dressed in her midnight-blue robe, stepped barefoot between the stones, her golden hair almost glowing in the moonlight. She stopped beside him, staring at the blooms.

“The flowers bloom so radiant beneath the moon’s eye,” she murmured.

He said nothing for a moment.

“I can’t sleep,” he finally admitted.

Circe gave a small, knowing smile. “You never could, when you were worried.”

“I think of her every night.” His voice cracked. “Every damn night. I want to believe she’s safe. That she’s alive.”

“She is,” Circe replied softly. “Your heart would know if she weren’t.”

Lysander looked at her, eyes sunken with doubt. “What if she’s… with him?”

Circe blinked. “Zagan?”

“I can’t explain it. But it gnaws at me. I want to believe she’s innocent. That she never betrayed me. But why else would she disappear?”

A silence stretched between them. Then Circe’s expression changed—careful, deliberate.

“Then make her yours.”

He looked at her.

“If she’s alive, and if she’s with Zagan… then claim her, Lysander. As your consort. If it’s legal standing she needs, give it to her. You’re the future king.”

Lysander’s eyes narrowed. “Even if she… loved him?”

“Love is a fickle thing,” Circe replied with a shrug. “Besides… you could have her. And Zagan could have someone else. Someone fitting.”

Her gaze lingered at the mention.

“You?” Lysander asked.

She looked away, smiling faintly.

“It isn’t forbidden. We are family in name, not blood. Royals have done worse.” She raised a hand to pluck a small glowing flower. “Zagan is strong, dangerous even—but I hold a rare magic. We would be… balanced.”

Lysander raised a brow. “So that’s what you want.”

Circe looked at him, eyes gleaming with quiet hunger.

“I’ve wanted him since we were children.”

She remembered it vividly.

Before he was feared, before the curse surfaced—Zagan had been a silent boy with eyes like winter and a voice that only she seemed to understand.

She followed him everywhere. Into the woods. Through the kitchens. Across the palace halls.

But everything changed when the ghosts came.

“Don’t touch him,” they whispered.

“Danger,” they hissed.

And she listened. She had to. Because she saw the shadows in his hands. The crumbling stone. The death.

And then came Thalia.

Innocent. Perfect. His little shadow.

Zagan let her in where he shut Circe out. She saw it happen. Felt it happen.

And when Thalia’s mother took Zagan away—Circe wept. Not for Zagan.

But for the years she had stolen from her.

Years that should’ve belonged to her.

But Circe’s magic was rare. She saw the veil. The otherworld. And in her grief, she found a whispering spirit—one who had once been Thalia’s own mother.

A deal.

A favor.

Erase Thalia’s memories of Zagan. Let her forget. She must forget she had the power to repel. This will keep her from the fangs of Celestians. Please, this is to keep her safe. Keep her away from Zagan and of the wars beyond the walls of Alazne.

The ghost - Elena's ghost - request is in favor of Circe's desires. Of course, your grace. Allow me to help you. 

The magic passed through Circe’s veins. She watched from a distance as the child Thalia woke with eyes that did not know Zagan anymore.

It should have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Now, Zagan might still be near her. Still be hers.

Circe’s hand clenched around the stem of the flower.

No more forgetting. No more stealing.

If she had to, she would make Thalia disappear again—forever.

Because Zagan was hers. Had always been hers.

And Thalia had no right to touch him again.