The gates of the Virelys estate opened with a groan that sounded too much like a warning.

Astreya shifted forward in her seat, the leather creaking faintly under her, and tilted her head toward the carriage’s narrow window. The view that greeted her didn’t send a chill through her spine from fear, but from recognition. This was no palace dressed for diplomacy, it was a fortress, unabashed and unsoftened.

The Virelys stronghold erupted from the cliff face as if the rock itself had been carved into obedience, and its pale stone caught the wan light like old bone, while its towers clawed at the sky in jagged succession. Shadows pooled beneath each overhanging parapet, deep and deliberate, like the hollowed eyes of something that had outlived centuries.

Balconies jutted outward like predatory fangs, ready to bite into the horizon, and draped between them, the banners—deep blue, edged in silver—unfurled in the wind, not with grace, but with defiance. Each ripple was a reminder of the sea at midnight: vast, merciless, and unbroken.

Nothing in the sight offered welcome, every line, every shadow, every breath of salt air from the cliffs spoke the same message in a voice older than memory: we do not fall.

The carriage eased its pace as it entered the main courtyard, wheels crunching softly over the stone. Along the path, the servants stood in two perfect rows—their faces were blank, their postures identical, as if every trace of individuality had been pressed out of them until only the uniform remained.

But Astreya wasn’t looking at them, she was looking at the figures standing at the top of the stairs—three silhouettes cloaked in noble blue, the infamous House Virelys.

The patriarch, the Emperor Alaric Virelys, stood in the center like a man carved from ice. His pale blue hair was perfectly slicked back, every strand obedient, as if even time dared not disturb him. But it was his eyes that undid most people, that pale shade of silver-blue, so devoid of warmth it seemed to leech the color out of everything around it.

Alaric didn’t look at people, he judged them, measured them, before silently condemning them. Nothing stirred behind that gaze, not even memory, there was no hint of affection, not even hatred. As if the man standing there wasn’t truly alive, but merely fulfilling a role: the final arbiter, the last voice the world would hear before it was turned to dust.

Beside him stood his son, Ivan Virelys, the crown-prince—stiff and watchful, a sword already at his hip. He was handsome, yes, but in the way marble statues are: flawless, expressionless, dead. His posture was impeccable, carved from discipline rather than confidence.

Ivan’s hair was the exact same color as his father, and his green eyes weren't like the soft green of spring. They were sharp, like the metallic hue of oxidized copper left to freeze in winter. They didn’t flicker or soften, they only studied, dissected, assessed—as if everything he saw was a potential flaw to exploit, a threat to neutralize, or a failure to report.

Ivan didn’t look like he wanted power, he looked like he was power in its quietest form: the kind that waits, watches, and strikes only once. He was a man raised not to feel, and his lips looked like they had never truly moved, not even to smile, nor to laugh.

And then—her. Astreya had braced herself for a dozen possibilities: a shy girl, a pale shadow, a porcelain puppet stitched together with lace and nerves. She had pictured dull eyes behind a veil, the hesitant steps of someone raised to curtsy and obey, but she had not prepared for this.

Katarina was standing at the top of the stone steps like something that had stepped out of another world—not merely a girl, not yet a woman, but something mythic shaped into flesh. She looked like the echo of a dream half-remembered, but the kind one wakes from trembling, not knowing whether it was desire or warning.

She was motionless, perfectly composed, and yet her presence hit like a storm behind glass. And looking at her face, Astreya could hardly breathe: every line, every angle was etched with a symmetry so ruthless it bordered on fiction, as if a sculptor had tried to craft the concept of eternity itself…and failed to soften a single edge.

Katarina’s cheekbones caught the light like the sweep of a blade, elegant and unforgiving, while her nose—small, exquisite, untouched by anything so crude as correction—carried the unassailable grace of old blood and older secrets. Her lips were full, soft, and painted in pink—the shade of a rose that had never fully bloomed—like they had never tasted sweetness, only the silence before awakening.

Her hair was a cascade of impossible gold, spilling in long, liquid waves down her back—too flawless to be mere nature, too effortlessly regal to be the work of any hand. The wind reached for it but seemed to hesitate, skimming over the strands without daring to disrupt her poise, as though even the elements knew their place before her.

But none of it compared to her eyes, those deep-blue eyes—not bright, not hopeful, but vast. They were framed by lashes so dark, so long, they cast crescent shadows across her cheeks. Looking into them was like looking into deep water, and realizing the bottom is too far to reach, and too dark to see.

Even Katarina’s dress was a work of ruthless elegance: blue, midnight-deep, fitted with aristocratic cruelty, the fabric clinging to her frame as if afraid to displease her. The dress didn’t flatter her, it only submitted to her.

There was no innocence in that woman, only the echo of a girl who had once known it, and cast it away like a broken charm. She didn’t have to speak to be noticed, and she didn’t smile when House Avenhart approached.

Caelis was delighted when he saw her, certain he was about to lay claim to a rare object: something precious, untouchable, and soon to be his. Even Darius, arched a perfect brow, as if mildly surprised that the rival empire had produced a princess who could stand on equal footing with his own daughter. Malric for his part, muttered something under his breath that sounded like: “She doesn’t look real.”.

And Astreya, felt something tighten low in her chest, just beneath the armor of control she wore like second skin. It wasn’t jealousy, it was something rarer, something she didn’t allow herself often—esteem, the unspoken admission that someone else might truly be worth something.

There was power in that body, not just bred into the posture or stitched into the silk, it was something alive, waiting. There was a mind behind those enigmatic eyes, not curious, not hopeful, but already calculating.

And Astreya saw it—the truth none of the others had even begun to grasp—not Caelis, drunk on ambition, not Darius, pleased with his own sadistic maneuverings, not even the court or the priesthood, blinded by obedience and myth: this woman wouldn't break, not under a crown, not under a man, not under expectation, not under violence.

And in that moment, a strange premonition coiled through Astreya’s mind, something that felt older than logic: if Katarina was ever to break, it would be by her hand alone. And if she failed—then she would be the one to fall, dragged down into the abyss beside her, bound by the very fire she had tried to master.

The idea struck her like a lash, and Astreya flung it aside with violence. She had been born to bend the game to her will, never to vanish inside it. She was the illusion, and the hand that pulled the strings behind it.

Katarina hadn’t moved as they approached, not even a twitch, not a breath out of place. She stood there like she belonged to this moment, like she expected to be seen, and wouldn’t lower herself to earn it.

It should’ve amused Astreya, but instead, it irritated her deeply. That calm, that poise, that unshakable elegance: no one commanded attention like that, no one stole breath without asking…not unless they were dangerous.

So this is the enemy—no, not the enemy—this is the rival. The one I’ll have to outplay, outmatch, and outshine until she forgets she ever thought she could stand above me.

She thinks she’s untouchable—she thinks indifference will protect her. How tragically naive, indifference only makes the game slower, not safer.

If Caelis means to conquer her, I will disturb her first, I will make her question herself before she ever steps into the game. I’ll slip doubt into her veins like poison disguised as wine, until every move she makes tastes of me.

And after that, she’ll learn quickly enough that it’s far better not to have me as an enemy.

The thoughts slithered across her mind, slow, sweet and venomous. She didn’t want to talk to Katarina, not really, not yet. She wanted to shake her, to make her flinch, to be the first crack in her mask. And then—without thinking twice, Astreya’s fingers twitched.

It was little more than a murmur of will, and her magic answered—swift, obedient, almost intimate. It unfurled from within her, delicate yet precise, until a single thread of white lightning coiled into form. From that thread, one of her familiars emerged: a serpent.

Its scales shimmered faintly, catching the cold light of the day like frost turned to silver. Its body undulated with liquid elegance, wrapping itself around her forearm as though it had always belonged there. The yellow of its eyes dulled under a translucent sheen, and its tongue flicked once, then retreated.

Malric gasped softly, his eyes flicked from the serpent to his sister, almost in awe. Caelis tilted his head almost curiously, wondering what she meant by it. And Darius made that low, rumbling sound of approval, like he just watched a predator bare its fangs just enough to thrill the crowd.

The priests and courtiers, for their part, watched with a stiffness that bordered on fear, as if the very air around her might turn on them without warning. The Virelys' expression didn’t change, but their jaws hardened. All of them saw the gesture, but none of them understood it, except the statuesque woman radiating serenity near them.

Katarina finally looked back at Astreya, and for a second, there was nothing in her expression, but Astreya wasn’t looking for the obvious. She saw a shift in the way her fingers pressed together, ever so slightly tighter, like they had to hold something inside.

And for Astreya, that was more than enough. She smiled, slowly, wickedly, like someone who had just solved the first riddle of a very long game. Then she stepped forward, just a little, letting the serpent coil down her arm toward her palm, its body moving with predatory grace.

“Such a solemn welcome…” she said aloud, her voice wrapped in charm. “I do hope House Virelys knows how to smile.”

Katarina didn’t speak, not with her mouth, but her eyes were still fixed on the serpent, not in fear, but in calculation. And in that precise moment, Astreya knew that this wouldn’t be a war of empires, not truly. It would be a war of masks, of silences, of measured steps in mirrored halls.

A war of women taught never to flinch, only to hold their pain behind a smile, and their fury behind poised hands. And Astreya wanted to win it, not for the empire, not for her safety, and not even for vengeance.

She wanted to win it for the flame she saw beneath that still surface, the one nobody had dared to name.