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For three nights, I sat alone in the obsidian palace, cloaked in silence.
By day, the nobles paraded before me—bowing, smiling, murmuring honeyed lies.
By night, I stared into the flickering flames of the hearth, unraveling the tangled threads of my new reality.
I needed information.
If Elyra, the beloved "heroine" of The Snow Pearl, was not as innocent as the story claimed... if she was a serpent beneath the snow... then the entire narrative I worshipped had been nothing but a polished illusion.
But I could not act openly.
The Empress was feared, yes—but she was also hated. One wrong move, one crack in the mask, and the court would tear me apart like wolves scenting blood.
I needed allies.
Or at least, I needed pawns.
Which is why, tonight, I summoned him.
Lucien Thorne.
My shadow.
My blade.
He entered the private audience chamber without a sound, dressed in fitted black, his silver-threaded coat sweeping behind him like a living thing. His gloved hand rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at his hip.
He knelt before me with chilling grace.
"Your Majesty."
I watched him carefully.
In the novel, Lucien had been a footnote—a nameless "shadow knight" who guarded the villainess until her downfall, before vanishing into obscurity.
But now, looking into his cold, beautiful face, I understood something the book never told me:
Lucien was no servant.
He was a weapon.
And weapons could be turned.
"You are loyal to me, are you not?" I asked softly.
He lifted his head, his pale eyes gleaming under the torchlight.
"My loyalty is to the Crown," he said smoothly.
Clever answer.
Noncommittal.
But not a refusal.
"Then hear my command," I said, voice low and firm. "I want a report on Lady Elyra Vintrel. Everything. Her movements. Her allies. Her secrets."
For a moment, there was a flicker in Lucien's gaze—so fast I almost missed it.
"You wish... to investigate Lady Elyra, Your Majesty?"
There was a careful neutrality in his tone. As if weighing my sanity.
Good.
Let them think I was mad. Better than weak.
"Yes," I said, rising from the onyx throne. The heavy skirts of my gown whispered against the cold marble floor. "Discreetly. No mistakes."
Lucien bowed his head.
"As you command."
He turned to leave—
But I stopped him.
"One more thing," I said, voice cutting through the heavy air.
He paused, waiting.
"If you find evidence of disloyalty..."
I let the sentence trail off, unfinished.
Lucien didn't move.
For a heartbeat, the room was deathly silent.
Then he smiled—a small, sharp thing.
"As you wish, Your Majesty," he murmured.
And with that, he vanished into the shadows.
---
Days turned into a tense, breathless dance.
At the Winter Court, the nobles continued their sickening theatre—laughing too loudly, bowing too deeply, sending gifts and letters with flowery words and hidden knives.
And Elyra was at the center of it all.
She wept at charity banquets. She smiled shyly at the three crowned heirs vying for her attention.
Crown Prince Damon: the golden hero, beloved by the people.
Duke Alaric: the brooding warlord, feared by the army.
High Priest Caelan: the gentle saint, adored by the Church.
All three fawned over her like she was the last star in a dying sky.
And she played them beautifully.
I watched from behind my jeweled mask, unseen and silent.
> Was this the same fragile girl the book worshipped?
One afternoon, during a royal luncheon in the snow-covered gardens, I saw it again—the slip behind the mask.
Elyra, sweetly laughing at Crown Prince Damon's joke, subtly slipped something into the folds of his sleeve—a note, folded small and quick, like sleight of hand.
I caught it.
No one else did.
Not even Damon, whose lovesick eyes never left her face.
The realization hit me like a storm.
She's not naïve. She's dangerous.
My blood ran cold.
If the three greatest powers of the empire fell under her spell... if the Court adored her... if the Church blessed her...
Then the Empress—me—was living on borrowed time.
Unless I fought back.
Unless I exposed her first.
Unless—
"Your Majesty."
Lucien's voice cut into my spiraling thoughts.
He appeared at my side, silent as a wraith, bowing low.
"I have the information you requested."
I rose immediately, heart pounding.
"Follow me."
We moved through hidden corridors, deeper into the heart of the palace where no courtier dared tread.
In a small stone chamber, lit only by a single torch, Lucien unfurled a parchment across a battered table.
"This," he said coolly, "is what I found."
My eyes scanned the document.
Secret meetings between Elyra and foreign envoys.
Hidden debts owed to underground syndicates.
Whispers of dark light magic—illegal, forbidden.
My breath hitched.
"But... the book..." I whispered, fingers trembling.
Lucien's cold gaze pinned me.
"The book you cling to is a story, Your Majesty," he said, voice razor-sharp. "Written by victors. Painted in blood and lies."
I staggered back, dizzy.
All my life, I had worshipped a false light.
The true villain of The Snow Pearl...
Was never the Empress.
It was Elyra.
And if I didn't act soon—
She would destroy me.
---
That night, standing before the mirror, I removed my mask for the first time since awakening.
The woman who stared back at me was not the trembling, wide-eyed girl who loved fantasy novels.
Her golden eyes gleamed like molten fire.
Her lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile.
"If they want a villainess," I whispered to my reflection, "then a villainess they shall have."
The snowstorm howled outside the palace, blanketing the world in white.
But inside, at the heart of the Twilight Throne—
A new storm was rising.
And I would not fall quietly.
Not this time.
---
End of Chapter 2.
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