"A blade at his throat, a crown on her head, one would make him bleed, the other would drown her."

Lysandra sat in silence, wrists bound in iron, heart pounding in her ribs.

Daniel hadn't even stayed to watch her sulk. He had just slept on the couch.

That? That was a mistake.

She exhaled slowly.

Magic was about will. And her will had never been stronger.

Those shackles were designed for someone weaker. Someone who had already given up.

Lysandra was neither.

She focused.

She felt every link, every inch of metal biting into her skin.

She imagined it unraveling. Coming undone.
Not by force. By her.

Her breath slowed. A familiar warmth ran through her blood, quiet, slow, patient.

The iron resisted.

Lysandra smiled. Wrong move.

The Dirhal in the shackles hissed.

Not just metal. Not just steel. Magic.

The moment she pushed back, the chains reacted-tightening, trying to coil further, fighting her will. They weren't meant to be undone. They were meant to be worn forever.

She clenched her jaw, forcing the magic to yield.

It pushed back.

Fine. Let it fight.

She dug in harder, pushing her own magic through the links, unraveling the enchantment itself. And then-

A sharp crack. A burning pulse against her wrists. The magic shattered first. The chains fell next.

A crack. A sharp spark against her wrist.

The chains snapped.

She flexed her fingers. The weight was now gone. The metal clattered to the ground like dead things.

Lysandra exhaled, her lips curling.

Daniel had underestimated her.
Felipe had underestimated her.
They all had.

She moved in complete silence.

Daniel's breath was steady. Too steady.

The dagger was heavy in her hand. Not just its weight. Not just its steel.

Its meaning.

She had held blades before. Had trained with them, played with them, threatened with them.

But this? This was the first time she had ever truly planned to kill.

Her fingers curled around the hilt, knuckles white. Just one deep cut. One moment of pressure. One moment of surrender to something darker.

She moved, climbed onto him, straddling his waist, pressing the knife against his throat.

One deep cut. That's all it would take.

His breath hitched. His lashes flickered.

For the first time in years, Daniel Valentino Smith felt steel this close to his throat.

And for the first time in his life,

He wasn't sure if someone would use it.

It wasn't her hand on his throat anymore.

It was theirs.

Rough fingers. Steel against his skin. A blade that didn't just threaten – but promised.

"Stay still."

He had stayed still then.

Because screaming hadn't been an option. Because fighting them was not possible by a mere 10 year old. Because the moment he flinched, the knife had pressed deeper.

Cutting. Testing. Measuring how much fear he could take before he broke.

He hadn't broken that night.

But he had never forgotten it.

It had been a different bed, a different night, a different life.

And yet, this moment felt the same.

And now? Now he wasn't sure if this girl was about to repeat history.

Daniel didn't move. Didn't even breathe.

Would she do it?

He'd seen killers before. Felt their hands around his throat.

But this was different.

Because she wasn't a killer.

And yet,

Her grip didn't shake.

Her eyes didn't flinch.

She was actually going to try.

And for a moment, He wasn't sure if he could stop her in time.

He moved. Fast. Violent.

She gasped as her back slammed into the mattress, her knife wrenched from her grip.

Daniel's weight pinned her down.

One of his hands wrapped around both of her wrists, the other pressing the blade against her collarbone.

His chest was rising and falling too quickly.

Then, he smirked.

"Almost had me there, princess."

She thrashed.

"Get off me."

"I would, if I thought you'd behave."

Her teeth flashed. "I'd rather die."

His fingers flexed. "You say that now."

Then, just to drive her insane,

He let her go.

And the fact that he knew she wouldn't try again? That infuriated her more than anything.

The door burst open. Connor. "Lysandra are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"Good Morning to you too," Daniel got up fixing his shirt.

Lysandra barely had time to sit up before Connor was storming toward her, his voice low, dangerous.

"Do you have any idea what my father will do to you?"

She lifted her chin. "Oh? Are you worried about me?"

Connor hesitated. A bit too long.

Lysandra's smirk was razor-sharp. "Why do you care? I belong to your father now. Or did you forget?"

A muscle in Connor's jaw ticked. His fists curled.

Daniel watched. And everything clicked.

Oh. Father and son in love with the same girl. Fantastic. Am I starting to like this trope?

The Dirhem seethed. "The girl wants none of them."

༺༻✧❅✧❖✧❅✧༺༻

The throne room was silent.

Lysandra stood before Felipe.

Her parents were there. Of course they were.

Her father's voice was sharp. "You disgrace us." Her mother remained quiet.

She had known, of course. Had always known what kind of woman her mother was.

But she had still hoped – stupidly, foolishly hoped – that there might be something more beneath the jewels and silk and cold, perfect smiles.

A mother who had once brushed her hair in the candlelight. A mother who had once whispered lullabies, pressed soft kisses to her temple.

But when Lysandra's gaze flicked up – when she searched her mother's face, just for a flicker of regret, of hesitation, of love – she found nothing.

Just silence. Just the clean, effortless betrayal of a woman who had never once considered saving her daughter.

Her mother didn't even look at her.

The slap came fast. Hard.

Her head snapped to the side, her cheek burning.

She did not cry.

The nobles whispered. "She is unfit for a queen's crown."

Felipe stood from his throne.

His voice was cold. Measured. "It's always amusing," he murmured, sipping his wine, "when little girls believe they are warriors."

He stepped closer. "A crown is heavier than a blade, my dear."

His fingers gripped her chin. "And now, you shall have neither."

She thought they would hurt her.
She was wrong.
They took something worse.

The royal decree was final. "Princess Lysandra Cassiopeia Mileeva d'Asalcesia is stripped of all royal privileges. She will not attend court. She will not be addressed as princess."

Her father signed it himself.

The guards ripped her jewelry away.
They cut the embroidered sleeves from her gown.

A symbolic gesture of shame.
A fallen princess.

Felipe's smirk burned into her skin.
Felipe leaned in, his voice nothing but silk over steel. "Did you know, Lysandra, that every little queen before you thought the same thing?"

She swallowed hard. Didn't answer.

His fingers skimmed the line of her jaw, not gentle, not cruel – just measured. Just testing. "And every single one of them," he murmured, "learned in the end that a crown isn't something you wear, my dear."

His lips ghosted the shell of her ear. "It's something you kneel for. Maybe this will teach you where you belong."

And then, She was dismissed.

Lysandra sat on the floor of the room, fingers trembling. Her reflection stared back at her.

She was still her. Still Lysandra.

But the world no longer saw her as anything but a pawn.

Maybe she had lost the battle today.
But the war?
The war was far from over.

She exhaled, her voice sharp as steel.

Fine.

If Felipe wanted a wife?

She would give him one.

The worst one he had ever had.