The corridors of the Virelys estate were as cold as they were beautiful.

All was white marble and ash-grey stone, the floors streaked with dark veins like those of some slumbering beast. Thick carpets muffled every step, their deep blue woven with silver patterns that resembled sigils—reminders to all who entered whose dominion they trespassed.

The official tour was a stream of polite nonsense—dignitaries and courtiers parading their knowledge as if reciting a litany of glory. Every chamber had its story: tapestries brought from distant kingdoms as gifts of eternal friendship, marble busts of forgotten emperors whose names no one remembered, chandeliers forged with celestial fire in some artisan’s workshop three centuries ago.

Astreya offered the right nods as if she were listening, but her mind was already wandering the palace like it belonged to her. She was counting doors, marking where the light died in narrow halls, and most of all, mapping the blind spots in the guards’ rotation.

Every step was a rehearsal for a game the Virelys hadn’t realized she’d already started playing. This palace was a riddle, and Astreya always loved to solve them—savoring the way each thread loosened under her fingers until the whole structure was laid bare.

I’m sure this fortress hides secrets—I can almost hear them breathing behind the walls.

It’s clearly different from our dungeon, but doesn’t this palace cling to its secrets just the same? Doesn’t it guard hidden rooms like precious treasures, buried deep beneath the floors? Or concealed behind the curtains, stitched beneath the tapestries?

I should unleash my familiars at night, and let them flutter and slither along the glass. They always find something. And those people, with their endless pretense of dignity—they tend to forget something: the smoother the façade, the uglier the fractures crawling underneath.

Let them stand tall. The higher they climb, the greater the spectacle when they fall.

She slipped into a side alcove without being noticed, or at least, she thought she hadn’t been. It was a vaulted space, lined with statues: old warriors, weeping angels, faceless queens. Another marble sanctuary of history, or rather illusion, the kind of place built for secrets and made for ghosts.

Astreya stopped before one of them, tilting her head absentmindedly. It was the statue of a woman: tall and robed, her hands extended in a gesture of ambiguous grace. A crown rested upon her brow, thorns jutting from beneath the carved folds of stone hair, while her face had been worn smooth by time.

“What do you think she was crowned for?” Astreya muttered to herself. “Mercy, or murder?”

Then, she heard a voice behind her—one that might have been beautiful, if not for the way it carried the singular intent of extinguishing every trace of light it touched.

“She died young.”

Astreya did not flinch, though something thrummed through her chest, as if her very heartbeat had been caught off rhythm.

She turned on her heels without haste, every movement measured, a study in deliberate grace meant to betray nothing of the storm that stirred beneath her skin.

Katarina was standing at the threshold of the alcove as though she had been conjured from the shadows themselves. Her hands were folded with immaculate composure before her, and her face was the mask of someone who had long since learned that being unreadable was the most dangerous strategy of all.

“She was the third wife of his Imperial Highness Virelys Ardan, poisoned during childbirth.” Katarina went on, her voice flat, betraying nothing. “The statue was meant as his apology.”

Astreya didn’t believe in fate, but she believed in opportunity, and this was a moment she could seize. It was the kind that encouraged a little flair and a touch of cruelty, just to see what might happen.

There were a dozen things she could say: sharp words, seductive banter, little barbed hooks made to slip under skin and stay there—psychological destabilization had always been her specialty.

She tilted her head slightly, just enough to let the smile curl.

“Touching. I’m sure she forgave him while choking on her own blood.”

Katarina stood perfectly still, her poise so absolute that she might have been carved from marble. By contrast, Astreya was made for motion, her body ached to perform and to express—stillness had never suited her, it was a costume she could never wear believably.

And the longer Katarina held her unbroken stare, the more Astreya felt the itch to see what tremor might lie behind that flawless surface. So she began to move, her heels striking the floor with the measured weight of an actress taking the stage.

She circled her slowly, letting her movements sweep wider with every pass. But once again Katarina held steady, she did not so much as turn her head to follow. She stood in the center of Astreya’s orbit as if untouched by gravity, patient as an ancient god who could wait centuries for a mortal to exhaust herself.

“I almost wished you’d defend him.” Astreya said at last, letting her voice sink lower.

Katarina hadn’t come here to engage, she’d followed out of caution, a quiet intention to measure her moves. And yet the moment Astreya opened her mouth, Katarina felt the taste of challenge laced beneath the words.

She hadn’t meant to play at all, but if Astreya insisted on poking the beast, then perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to let her see a flicker of a fang: just enough to let her know that this wasn’t a stage, and that she was no passive audience.

“You’re not interested in statues,” Katarina answered calmly. “You’re mapping the halls.”

The words settled like snow at first—light, almost harmless—before the weight of them broke loose all at once, rushing with the unstoppable force of an avalanche.

Astreya’s smile sharpened, like a dagger polished mid-duel. She turned slightly, tilting her head in feline amusement, already grasping the double meaning.

“And you’re not interested in guiding the tour. You’re watching your enemies.”

Inwardly, Katarina nearly allowed herself a smile, amused by how her opponent already seemed to smolder with impatience.

“Not enemies,” Katarina replied, her calm cutting deeper than any scream. “Guests.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Astreya pressed, her voice rich with mocking amusement.

They stood there—two women carved from entirely different forms of control—staring each other down like queens on opposite ends of a battlefield. There was no raised voice, just intention, and a dangerous curiosity neither of them could quite name.

Astreya moved again, a tilt of the body designed to reclaim the space.

“You’re quieter than I expected.”

Katarina didn’t look even remotely unsettled, as if those words hadn’t been meant to wound at all, but were nothing more than background noise she’d long since learned not to hear.

“And you’re louder.” Katarina returned, the words reflecting back with the flawless precision of a mirror.

A silence stretched between them, gleaming and treacherous, like the surface of a frozen lake that might shatter at the slightest step.

For a heartbeat, Astreya felt the urge to laugh with the wild exhilaration of discovery. It struck her that perhaps, at last, she had found someone who could meet her blow for blow, and who would not crumble beneath the sting of words sharpened into weapons.

“You’ve been trained well,” Astreya continued, circling deliberately to Katarina’s left. “All that perfect silence. It’s like watching a ghost pretend to be royalty.”

This time Katarina turned her head just slightly, enough to meet her gaze directly.

“And you’ve mastered performance,” she answered confidently. “But it’s like watching a flame try not to burn its own wick.”

Astreya’s smile didn’t fade, but something in her eyes did narrow, as if she hadn’t expected that level of precision. She wasn’t sure whether she’d just been insulted or undressed.

But she was sure of one thing: no one ever spoke to her like that, no one dared to lace their voice with that kind of calm precision and aim it straight at her spine. She was used to being feared and envied, but Katarina wasn’t trying to match her fire—she was playing an entirely different game.

It felt like a challenge igniting her from within, as dangerous as it was intoxicating—and she hated how much it thrilled her.

“Tell me, bride-to-be…” Astreya drawled, her words too soft to be kind. “Are you planning to play the lamb until you’re devoured?”

But Katarina’s gaze never wavered, holding Astreya’s with a steadiness so absolute it turned into a duel of eyes.

“I’m not the one being married off like a peace offering.”

And then Katarina let a deadly smile curl across her lips, not the kind that welcomed, but the kind that warned.

“The crown prince is.”