Word Count: 1700 words

Daniel shouldn't be here.

Not in her chambers. Not surrounded by the scent of her.

The silk canopy. The perfume is still clinging to the air. The faint indent of where she had cried herself to sleep.

His jaw clenched.

Last night, she had been reckless. Laughing. Tempting. But she had also let her guard down. And now, he had to get out before she made him forget he was just her enforcer.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

Control. Right.

The problem? She was everywhere here.

Daniel moved away from the wardrobe, his uniform in his hand. He had come to take it.

But he needed to get out before,

The door swung open.

He turned. And froze.

Lysandra stood there.

Daniel never froze.

Not in fights. Not when his life was at stake. Not when death breathed down his neck.

But this?

This was a different kind of danger entirely.

She stood in the doorway, framed by golden light, the scent of jasmine and steam clinging to her skin.

The robe was a betrayal.

Thin as sin, the damp silk clung to every inch of her like a second skin, outlining the curve of her waist, the slope of her hips, the soft dip of her collarbone where water still dripped in slow, lazy rivulets. The fabric was sheer, too sheer, whispering over her body in delicate, treacherous translucence, leaving just enough to imagination but far too much to his.

The sash barely held it together, knotted loosely at her waist, a single careless tug away from ruin.

The candlelight did no favors, either—casting flickering gold across the damp silk, making it cling worse, turning the entire thing into an invitation he wasn't supposed to see.

Daniel's grip on his uniform tightened.

He needed to leave. Now.

Water slid down her collarbone, tracing over curves he had no business noticing.

He was silent. Good.

"I wasn't expecting company." Her voice was smooth, edged with amusement.

Daniel snapped his gaze away, muscles tensing. "I was looking for my uniform." His voice came out strained.

Lysandra hummed, stepping further inside. And the way it had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the glistening skin beneath? Not an accident.

"And?" She tilted her head. "Did you find it?" He didn't answer. Just moved to leave.

She sighed dramatically.

"A shame." Her fingers grazed the vanity. "I could use some help getting ready."

Daniel stiffened. Oh, he was not doing this. "Get the maids."

"His Highness has sent them away." She turned, smirking. "I've been stripped of royal privileges, remember? No maids. No attendants."

She stepped into his space, tilting her head up at him. "And I need to win His Majesty's heart."

Her voice dropped lower, words deliberate. "For that, I need a man's help."

A long, heavy silence.

Daniel closed his eyes. Breathed. "Get dressed, Princess."

"Help me first." Her hands moved to the sash of her robe. The only thing holding it together.

Daniel caught her wrist before she could untie it.

Bad idea. A very bad idea

The moment his fingers wrapped around her wrist, everything shifted.

Lysandra gasped softly—not in fear, but in genuine surprise. Not acting. Not pushing. Just... reacting.

Her pulse fluttered beneath his grip. Her Dirhem pulsed in response—not pulling away. Not resisting. But recognizing.

And his?

His Dirhem did something it had never done before.

It hesitated. Not in defiance. Not in anger.

But in reverence.

Lysandra's lips parted. "Daniel—"

He let go. Fast. Too fast. Like she had burned him.

Lysandra stood there, wrist tingling, breath uneven, staring at the empty doorway where Daniel had disappeared.

She had won. She had pushed him. Poked him. Shaken him.

So why did it feel like she was the one left unsteady?

She exhaled slowly, turning toward the vanity.

Enough. Time to get dressed. Time to play the part they expected of her.

She reached for her gown — midnight blue, woven with celestial gold embroidery. A queen's colors.

A queen's armor.

༺༻✧❅✧❖✧❅✧༺༻

Lysandra walked ahead of the procession, her gown trailing behind her like a river of midnight stars. She exhaled slowly, her hands perfectly still at her sides.

Not clenched. Not trembling. Just... waiting.

Everything was in place.

She had spent weeks preparing for this moment. Careful whispers. Careful gold. Careful lies. She had left just enough of a trail for the world to think this was an outside attack, an enemy trying to sabotage her wedding.

But no one knew the truth.

She hadn't just planned her escape.

She had planned her own attempted murder.

And now? All she had to do was kneel, smile, and wait for the knife to find her.

She looked every inch the queen she would never be for the funeral at up in the temple.

The scent of incense thickened as they reached the temple steps. For the blessing ceremony,  a bride was meant to receive a priest's blessing, a promise of prosperity and obedience.

Obedience.

Her fingers curled into fists.

The grand temple doors swung open.

The temple breathed magic.

The moment Lysandra stepped inside, she felt it the weight of centuries of magic pressing against her skin, the invisible tendrils of power curling through the air like smoke. The marble floors, etched with glowing runes, hummed beneath her bare feet. The air with the scent of burning herbs, the smoke coiling toward the domed ceiling were like prayers that had never been answered.

Golden braziers lined the walls, flames flickering with an unnatural steadiness enchanted, eternal. The ceiling arched high above, a mosaic of gods and kings long forgotten, their stories woven into magic-infused glass that shimmered in the dim light.

Even the walls listened here.

And Lysandra? She was about to make sure they heard her.

She knelt before the head priest, keeping her face serene, her defiance hidden beneath a mask of grace.

The priest dipped his fingers into a golden bowl filled with sacred duskroot and crushed moonflower petals, the mixture glowing faintly under the temple lights.

A blend of blessing and control.

Duskroot, known to quiet the soul.

Moonflower, known to bind devotion.

Mixed together, they formed the foundation of a bride's obedience, a gift to the gods, a warning to the woman.

"May you be a wife of grace. A mother of kings. A queen of obedience."

Obedience. Again.

Lysandra smiled sweetly. "What if I prefer to be a queen of war? A queen of Strength?"

Gasps rippled through the temple.

Felipe's jaw twitched. Daniel stood silent. Watching.

The priest recovered quickly, dipping his hand into the offering bowl. "May your marriage be blessed with harmony, my lady."

She extended her hands for the sacred offering. And then,

Chaos.

A shadow moved. A knife whistled through the air.

A flicker in the corner of her vision.

A shift in the air.

It was time.

She didn't move.

Didn't flinch. Didn't turn. Didn't ruin the illusion..

Lysandra felt it before she saw it, a shift in the air, a ripple through the glowing runes along the walls. A disturbance. A warning.

Then, a whisper of steel.

Too fast.

The blade sliced through the air. A flash of silver, a violent promise. The moment stretched, too slow, too sharp,

Then, impact.

Pain exploded through her shoulder, white-hot, searing. Her body jerked, breath ripping from her lungs. Blood spilled, warm, thick, staining the sacred marble beneath her knees.

Gasps. Screams.

The priest stumbled back, robes splattered in crimson. The enchanted braziers flickered, pulsed, darkened.

And then,
Hands. Strong. Unyielding.

Daniel. Catching her. Holding her before she could collapse.

He didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Didn't second-guess.

One second, he was standing by Felipe's side. The next? He was breaking through the crowd, catching her before she could hit the ground.

She gasped, blood warm against his fingers as it soaked through the delicate silk of her gown.

But something was wrong.

She wasn't panicked. Wasn't struggling. Wasn't even looking around for the attacker.

She was just... breathing. Even. Controlled. As if she had already known this was coming.

Daniel's jaw clenched.

What the hell had she done?

If she had done.......

Her blood was everywhere. Warm against his fingers, pooling against the sacred marble beneath her knees.

Daniel's Dirhem roared.

Not with mockery. Not with violence.

But with possession, rage and worse the sole desire of bloodshed.

As if the magic in his veins had already made a choice—protect her, or burn the world down trying.

The priest staggered back, eyes wide with something close to fear.

"This..." His voice trembled. "This is an omen of war."

Felipe exhaled sharply, "I don't care."

Lysandra's shoulder burned. But she didn't care. Because this was just the beginning.

Murmurs rippled through the nobles gathered outside the temple. Whispers twisted into fear, into speculation. Had the gods rejected her? Had the marriage been cursed before it even began?

Lysandra's blood wasn't supposed to stain this floor. And yet, here it was.

Felipe's jaw twitched, his patience razor-thin. "Nonsense," he snapped. "The wedding will continue."

But even as he spoke, the flames of the enchanted braziers lining the temple dimmed. The nobles weren't looking at him anymore.

They were looking at her.

The fallen princess, bathed in blood, cradled in the arms of the enforcer who was supposed to keep her in line.

The bride who had nearly died in the temple.

Lysandra pressed her lips together, her pulse steady, her face serene despite the crimson pooling at her shoulder.

Because now? Now she wasn't just a queen-to-be.

She was a martyr.

She let her eyes flutter closed, head tilting slightly to the side as if she were lightheaded.

Daniel adjusted his grip, steadying her, his pulse pounding beneath her fingers.

She barely felt it.

Because at that moment, something else had just shifted into place.

The second the priest uttered the word "war", she knew.

She had won.

Not just the court's attention. Not just the public's sympathy.

But the excuse she needed to move the next piece in her game.

She wasn't just going to survive this wedding.

She was going to destroy it.