Elara’s perfume—nightbloom and steel—hit Liam before she did. Three years had sculpted the gangly girl into a weapon draped in silk, a contradiction of beauty and danger that sent a thrill of warning down his spine.

  “You reek of desperation,” she murmured, her gloved fingers grazing the Spire scars across his wrist. “The nobles will smell it too.”

  Liam jerked back. “I’m here to train, not play suitor.”

  “Same thing.” She tossed him a ceremonial dagger, its hilt adorned with the sigil of House Vallis. “The tournament’s first trial is a ball. Can you waltz while knives fly?”

  They spun through the moonlit garden, Elara’s steps a lethal ballet. Her movements were smooth, controlled, each turn a whisper of precision honed by years of political maneuvering. Liam stumbled over politics disguised as flirtation:

  “Countess Duvall’s daughter adores poetry. Recite this verse while ‘accidentally’ revealing your anti-Inquisition alliances.”

  “Duke Harrow’s heir prefers men. Flirt shamelessly—his father funds the Church’s assassins.”

  Liam tried to keep pace, but Elara was merciless. When he misstepped, her heel found his toes with practiced cruelty. “The Inquisition won’t care about your swordplay if you insult the wrong drunk lord.”

  Breathless, they halted by the koi pond, moonlight dancing over the rippling water. For a fleeting moment, the mask Elara wore slipped, and something raw flickered behind her eyes.

  “They know about Amara.”

  Liam’s mana spiked, sending a pulse through the ground. The koi scattered in alarm. “How?”

  “The same way I know you cry yourself to sleep.” Her grip tightened on his chin. “Every house here has spies. Your tears are currency.”

  A rustle of footsteps approached. In an instant, Elara melted into his arms, tilting her face up with feigned adoration. Her whisper was urgent, a dagger wrapped in silk. “Win the tournament, and we secure Amara’s sanctuary. Lose...”

  A slow clap echoed through the garden. Archduke Lionel emerged from the shadows, applause dripping with mockery. “How touching. Shall I call the betrothal official?”

  Elara’s laugh tinkled like broken glass. “Darling Liam was just demonstrating his... passion.”

  Lionel’s smirk lingered, but he said nothing more before disappearing into the corridors beyond.

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  Liam exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath. The taste of blood filled his mouth from where he’d bitten his cheek. Elara’s nails dug into his palm, anchoring them both to the reality of their dangerous game.

  “The game starts now,” she whispered.

  The Dance of Daggers

  The ballroom shimmered with the glow of a thousand chandeliers, their golden light casting elongated shadows across marble floors. Gilded nobles twirled in intricate patterns, the whispers of their silken garments barely concealing the sharper edge of their words. This was no mere dance—it was war dressed in velvet.

  Liam stood at the edge, his usual armor replaced by a midnight-blue tunic embroidered with silver. It felt foreign against his skin.

  Elara, resplendent in a deep crimson gown, appeared at his side, taking his arm as if they had rehearsed the moment a hundred times. “You look like a cornered wolf,” she murmured, lips barely moving.

  “Because I am one,” Liam replied.

  “Good. Nobles respect a beast more than a lamb.”

  The music swelled, and they moved into the throng. Elara led with the confidence of a queen, guiding him through a minefield of perfumed assassins and poison-laced conversations.

  As they twirled, the first challenge presented itself.

  “Ah, Lord Vallis,” drawled Lady Duvall, a vision of silver and sapphires. “I hear you have a taste for poetry?”

  Elara’s grip tightened slightly in warning.

  Liam inclined his head. “Only when the words are worth bleeding for.”

  Lady Duvall arched a brow, intrigued. “And what of this?” She presented a folded parchment, its edges dusted with gold.

  A test. He unfurled it, finding verses penned by the great poet Lucien Verris, known for his coded messages against the Inquisition. With measured poise, Liam recited the passage aloud:

  “Through gilded chains and whispered lies,

  The phoenix wakes, with burning eyes.”

  A beat of silence. Then, Lady Duvall smiled. Approval. Elara exhaled softly.

  One battle won.

  A Dangerous Game

  Liam had survived three dances and two rounds of veiled threats before Duke Harrow’s heir found him.

  “A rare thing, to see a Vallis in polite company,” the young man mused, swirling a dark wine in his goblet.

  Liam smiled, shifting closer, feeling the weight of every noble’s gaze. “I find politics and war require the same skill set.”

  The heir smirked. “And which are you better at?”

  Liam leaned in, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “That depends on whether the war is fought with steel or seduction.”

  Elara watched from the edge of the dance floor, her expression unreadable. Liam knew she was calculating—measuring every breath, every glance. The heir’s father funded the Church’s assassins. Winning his son’s favor could mean vital intelligence.

  The young man chuckled. “Well played.” He drained his glass. “Walk with me.”

  They moved towards the balcony, the cool night air biting against Liam’s skin.

  “You’re not like the others,” the heir said, studying him.

  “Neither are you,” Liam countered.

  The heir smirked. “Perhaps we should make sure we survive the night. I suspect the Inquisition will have its own guests here.”

  The First Cut

  Before Liam could respond, a scream shattered the air. The music halted, replaced by gasps and the metallic whisper of unsheathed blades.

  In the center of the ballroom, a noble crumpled to the floor, a dagger buried in his chest.

  Elara was at Liam’s side instantly. “This was meant to send a message.”

  Archduke Lionel stepped forward, expression grim. “The assassin is still among us.”

  Elara met Liam’s gaze.

  The game had just taken a bloodier turn.