The bells were still ringing when I finally tore myself away from the window.
They echoed through the stone, those same notes that had once meant nothing more than time for lessons or meals or another dull court appearance. Now, every chime sounded like a warning. Like the kingdom clearing its throat before saying something I didn't want to hear.
I pressed my palm flat against the cool glass.
From here, high in my tower, the city looked almost peaceful. Smoke curled from chimneys, soft and pale in the twilight. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, little pockets of gold in the deepening blue. People moved along the streets like threads in a tapestry: too far away to see their faces, close enough that I could feel the pulse of them.
Somewhere down there, in the west market, Adam had just walked straight into the broken crown's shadow.
And somewhere above it, Liora had watched him.
I didn't need to see her to know it. I could feel it—the same prickling awareness I'd had when she stood too close to Axel, when I'd woken up in a bed she'd helped keep me alive long enough to reach, when her name kept sliding between our plans like a blade.
The kingdom was full of ghosts I hadn't known I'd invited in.
"Enough," I muttered to my reflection.
She looked back at me: crown slightly off-center from where I'd pushed it up in frustration, curls escaping their pins again, ink smudge on my wrist from notes I'd been scribbling all morning.
Not the portrait of a perfect queen.
Good.
I pushed away from the window and headed for the door.
The corridor outside was quieter than it had any right to be. A pair of guards straightened when they saw me, hands brushing the hilts of their swords out of reflex.
"Your Highness," one of them said. "Do you require an escort?"
"I require less hovering," I said, sweeping past them. "But I'll settle for being allowed to walk to the council chamber without you looking like I'm about to leap out a window."
They exchanged a look and fell into step a respectful distance behind me instead of arguing. Small victory.
The further I walked, the more the palace shifted from home to stage.
Servants bowed and scattered. Advisors peered over scrolls and fell conspicuously silent as I passed. Somewhere, someone was rehearsing a new anthem verse for the "Unified Realms," the words muffled but earnest.
I wondered if anyone had asked the people in the markets if they wanted to be unified.
Probably not.
By the time I reached the council antechamber, my shoulders were tight again.
Axel was already there.
Of course he was.
He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, head tipped back, eyes closed—as if he'd grabbed five seconds of quiet and was determined to squeeze every drop out of them. His shirt was dark today, the collar undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked less like a prince and more like the boy from my bath doorway and my balcony and every reckless moment in between.
The doors closed softly behind me.
His eyes opened.
He straightened almost imperceptibly when he saw me, some small, tired line smoothing out from his brow.
"Thought you'd escaped," he said.
"You wish," I replied.
He pushed off the wall.
"You saw Adam?" he asked.
"In the gardens," I said. "He told me about Liora. And the crate. And the note." I pulled the folded scrap from my pocket and held it up between two fingers. "She has a flair for the dramatic."
His mouth twisted. "She always did."
"Are you angry?" I asked.
He hesitated. "At her? At the rebels? At my mother? At the gods who seem to think we're their favorite toys?" He shook his head. "You'll have to narrow it down."
"At Adam," I said. "For almost getting himself crushed."
He snorted. "Adam is a grown man with too much bravado and not enough self-preservation. I'm reserving my anger for whoever's paying Liora and her friends to paint our walls." His gaze sharpened on the note. "And for whoever taught them that we won't notice a pattern until it's too late."
"We noticed," I said.
He looked at me then, really looked, as if weighing whether he believed that.
"We did," I repeated. "You. Me. Olivia. Adam. We saw the crack before it split. That has to count for something."
"For now," he said quietly. "Until they make a bigger crack."
Silence settled between us.
I slipped the note back into my pocket, suddenly aware of the distance between us and how easy it would be to close it.
"Do you trust her?" I asked.
He didn't pretend not to know who I meant.
"Liora?" he said. "I trusted her to get things done. To bring information no one else could. To use charm where a blade was inefficient. I never trusted her with my life. Or my crown."
"And now?"
His jaw worked.
"Now," he said, "I trust her ambition. I trust that she's always been loyal to whatever gives her the most power. If she thinks the broken crown can do that better than we can…" He shrugged one shoulder. "She'll switch."
"And if she thinks we can?" I asked.
His gaze found mine again.
"Then she's more dangerous on our side than off it," he said.
I couldn't argue with that.
A soft knock sounded from the other side of the council doors.
"Your Highnesses," a servant called. "The kings and queens are ready for you."
Of course they were.
Axel's hand hovered for a second, then settled lightly at the small of my back.
"Ready to be terrifying?" he murmured.
"No," I said. "But I'm going to do it anyway."
He smiled, faint and real.
"Good," he said. "That's my favorite version of you."
The doors swung open.
The council chamber looked the same as it had that morning—long table, too many chairs, too much polished wood and not enough oxygen. My parents sat on one side; Darius and Lucia on the other. Advisors clustered like anxious birds behind them.
Adam stood near the far end of the table, arms folded, expression unusually serious. Olivia hovered near my mother's chair, a stack of papers pressed tight against her chest.
Every conversation stopped the moment we stepped in.
I felt the shift like a weight settling on my shoulders.
Not a girl in a garden now.
Not a bride in a dress.
A queen-in-making walking into a room full of people who all thought they knew what that meant.
"Princess Rome. Prince Axel," Darius said. "We were just discussing the situation at the west gate."
"'Situation' is a polite word for 'they're taunting us,'" Adam muttered.
Lucia's eyes flicked to him, then back to us. "Your general cousin has generously shared his observations," she said. "It seems our…
friends with the broken crown have become bolder."
"Of course they have," I said, moving to my seat. "We gave them a wedding and a ball and a garden full of nobles to measure.
My father gave me a small, approving look.
Axel sat beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushed mine.
"Captain Joren's men confirmed the crate incident," my mother said. Her voice trembled only the slightest bit around the edges. "If Liora had wanted Adam dead—" she cut herself off, jaw tightening, "—we would be having a very different conversation."
"She doesn't want him dead," Olivia blurted from her corner. Her cheeks flushed when every eye in the room turned to her, but she didn't back down. "Not yet. If she did, he wouldn't have had time to read that note, let alone bring it back."
Lucia's gaze sharpened. "You assume much about my spy, daughter."
"I know her," Olivia said quietly. "Or I thought I did."
"You knew one version of her," Lucia said. "The one who agreed with me."
"And now?" I asked.
Lucia's expression didn't change.
"Now," she said, "it appears she has opinions of her own."
Something in her tone told me that, in Lucia's world, that was not a compliment.
I thought of Liora's imagined silhouette on that rooftop. Of the crate. Of the note burning a hole against my leg.
"She's testing us," I said. "Seeing how fast we move. Who we blame. Whether we panic."
"And?" Darius asked. "Do we?"
I looked around the table.
At my parents, tired and proud.
At Darius, worn and watchful.
At Lucia, all sharp edges and contained storm.
At Adam, who'd seen too many border skirmishes to romanticize rebellion.
At Axel, who was still figuring out how to be himself under all that weight.
"No," I said. "We don't panic. We prepare."
Lucia lifted a brow. "And what would you have us do, oh unshakable princess?"
I thought of the well. The market. The way the city smelled like hunger under the spice and bread.
"We protect the people who'll get caught in the middle," I said. "We increase the quiet watch around the west market—no show of force, no parade of armored knights. Just eyes. Ears. Healers on rotation." I glanced at Adam. "We listen more. Let fewer things slip between the cracks."
"And Liora?" Darius asked.
That was the question everyone had been circling.
I felt Axel tense beside me.
"We treat her like what she is," he said. "A threat we cannot ignore and cannot yet fully name.
We tighten her access quietly. We reroute her messages. We track her contacts."
"And when you find her?" Lucia asked.
He didn't flinch.
"We confront her," he said. "Not in a public execution. Not yet. In a room where she thinks she still has power. See what she's really fighting for."
"And if what she's fighting for isn't us?" Adam asked.
"Then we stop pretending she is," I said.
It was strange, hearing my own voice say it.
A few months ago, I would have asked someone else to decide. My father. My mother. A council.
Now, the words felt like stepping onto a stone that might or might not be stable—and trusting my own balance anyway.
Silence fell.
Then my father nodded slowly.
"We cannot let the broken crown turn our people into kindling," he said. "Nor can we burn the city ourselves in the name of safety. We'll follow the princess's plan. Quiet watch. Listening. Careful pressure." He looked at Lucia. "And when your spy is found—because she will be—we decide together what happens next."
Lucia held his gaze for a long, measuring moment.
"Very well," she said at last. "For now, your daughter's…approach has merit."
I almost fell off my chair.
Lucia's idea of praise was usually not killing people.
Axel's hand brushed my knee under the table. Just once. Just enough to say,
You heard that too, right?
I bit back a smile.
"Then we have our course," Darius said. "Adam, coordinate with Captain Joren. Axel, review the guard roster and remove anyone whose loyalty is in question. Rome…" He paused, and for the first time since I sat down, he smiled at me. "Keep being terrifying."
My mother laughed softly.
"I taught her well," she said.
When we were finally dismissed, the room exhaled collectively.
Advisors flocked to my parents. Generals surrounded Adam. Lucia glided out with a trail of dark‑clad attendants.
Axel and I slipped free into the corridor like two children escaping a lecture.
The door closed behind us.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"You were…" Axel began.
"If you say 'good,' I will stab you," I warned.
He huffed a laugh. "I was going to say 'terrifying.'"
"That's acceptable," I said.
We walked in silence for a few steps.
"So," I said at last. "Your spy might be trying to break our crowns. Our people might be ready to help her if we're not careful. Your mother accidentally complimented me. And now we have to pretend everything is under control while we build an illegal listening web under her nose."
"When you say it like that, it sounds exhausting," he said.
"It is," I said. "Exhausting. Terrifying. Completely unfair."
"And?" he asked.
"And," I admitted, "I'm…glad I'm not doing it alone."
He stopped walking.
So did I.
The corridor was empty but for us and a line of faded portraits watching from the walls.
He turned to face me.
"Rome?" he said quietly.
"Yes?"
"You know this is only going to get harder," he said. No softness. No pretty words. Just the plain, heavy truth.
"I know," I said.
"There will be days when the crown feels like it's choking you," he went on. "When my people hate you. When yours hate me. When your cousin threatens to cut off my head again."
"He'll probably follow through at least once," I said.
His mouth twitched.
"And there will be days," he continued, "when I get it wrong. When I choose politics over what you think is right. When I hesitate. When I become more my mother's son than I like."
"Probably," I said.
He studied my face, searching for something.
"And you're still glad?" he asked. "About not doing it alone?"
I thought of the garden. The Temple. The bed. The balcony.
Of knives and vows and the way his hand had felt around mine when the silk tightened.
"Yes," I said simply.
Something in his shoulders eased that had been tight for as long as I'd known him.
"Good," he said softly.
I glanced up at the nearest portrait—some long‑dead queen staring down her painted nose at us.
"She'd be scandalized," I said.
"Who?"
"Her," I pointed. "This whole hallway. Ghosts of rulers who did everything 'properly.' Who never snuck into observatories or plotted with cousins or fell in love with enemy princes."
He stilled.
The word hung there.
Love.
I felt my face heat.
"I mean," I corrected quickly, "fell into an alliance with enemy princes. Obviously."
"Obviously," he echoed.
He didn't call me out on it.
He also didn't pretend he hadn't heard it.
"Come on, terrifying princess," he said instead, offering his arm. "We have a market to protect, a spy to outwit, and a mother to annoy. Again."
I slipped my hand through his.
As we walked down the corridor together, past all the painted queens who had never had to deal with broken crowns and crates and boys who made their hearts race for all the wrong reasons, I realized something simple and sharp.
The world was going to crack.
Maybe it already had.
But if I had to stand at that seam—between Iris and Darkstorm, between rebellion and throne, between who I'd been and who I would become—I was glad he was standing there too.
Enemy prince.
Husband.
Storm I hadn't chosen.
Storm I was starting to claim.
The bells rang again in the distance.
This time, they didn't sound like a warning.
They sounded like a beginning.