The next morning, the palace felt smug.
I hated that.
Not because the stone halls had somehow developed opinions overnight, but because everything looked exactly the same after something in my world had shifted.
The servants still moved in neat lines. The chandeliers still glittered like they had never seen anyone kiss in defiance of half a kingdom. The council doors still stood there, tall and polished and deeply convinced of their own importance.
Meanwhile, I was trying to drink tea without thinking about Axel's mouth.
It was not going well.
"Rome."
I blinked.
My mother was watching me from across the breakfast table with that particular expression mothers reserve for moments when they know exactly what you're thinking and are politely waiting for you to embarrass yourself.
"Yes?" I said, a little too quickly.
She lifted one brow. "I asked if you were listening."
"Of course I was listening," I lied.
Adam snorted into his cup.
Across from me, Axel was doing an infuriatingly good job of appearing composed. Dark coat. Straight back. Calm expression. Future king of Darkstorm and absolutely not the man who had kissed me senseless against the window table a few hours earlier.
Traitor.
"No, you weren't," Olivia said cheerfully. "You've been staring at the jam for a full minute like it insulted your bloodline."
I shot her a look. "Maybe it did."
"It's strawberry," she said.
"Exactly."
Axel lowered his cup, hiding what was very obviously the beginning of a smile.
I wanted to throw fruit at him.
"Since my daughter is elsewhere in spirit," my mother said dryly, "I will repeat myself. The merchants' audience has been approved."
That snapped my attention back immediately.
"It has?" I said.
Darius nodded once from the head of the table. "Tomorrow afternoon. Small enough to feel controlled, large enough to matter."
"Mother is pretending it was partly her idea," Olivia added.
Lucia did not even blink. "If I must suffer fishmongers in my palace," she said coolly, "I prefer to suffer them strategically."
Adam nearly choked on his tea.
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to keep from laughing.
"And the guest list?" I asked.
Axel slid a folded sheet toward me across the table. Our fingers brushed for only a second, but the contact sent a completely unreasonable amount of heat straight up my arm.
I unfolded the list and scanned it quickly.
Marla.
Farron.
Two grain merchants from the west quarter.
A cooper.
A woman who managed river shipments.
Three market stall owners I didn't recognize.
And, tucked among the names of people who actually knew what empty shelves looked like, a handful of polished nobles who would definitely hate every moment of it.
Perfect.
"This is good," I said quietly.
"It's dangerous," Lucia corrected.
I looked up.
She was watching me over the rim of her cup, her dark eyes as sharp as ever.
"Because they'll speak honestly?" I asked.
"Because honesty in a palace spreads faster than plague," she said. "If they leave that room believing you care more for them than the lords do, every noble house in Darkstorm will hear of it before sunset."
I folded the paper carefully.
"Then perhaps the noble houses should start behaving less like a disease," I said.
Adam made a strangled sound that was either a cough or a laugh. My father looked abruptly fascinated by his breakfast. Darius pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose as if fending off a headache.
Lucia, somehow, looked almost pleased.
"See?" she said to no one in particular. "A problem."
"Thank you," I said.
"It was not praise."
"It still sounded warm."
Axel coughed into his hand. Olivia looked delighted.
The rest of breakfast passed in a blur of logistics—timing, seating, guards, where the audience would be held, which attendants could be trusted not to run every word straight into the nearest noble ear.
I tried to focus.
I really did.
But every time Axel spoke, some traitorous part of me replayed the night before in embarrassing, vivid detail.
Not because the kiss itself had been dramatic.
Because it had been simple.
Chosen.
And now he was over there discussing merchant access routes as if he hadn't just rearranged the inside of my chest.
Rude.
When the meeting finally broke apart, I stood quickly, too quickly.
My chair scraped against the floor. Every head turned.
Smooth.
"I'm going to the gardens," I announced, because it sounded marginally more regal than I need air before I combust.
"Of course you are," Adam muttered.
I ignored him and left before anyone could say anything worse.
The gardens were cooler than I expected.
A light wind moved through the rose arches, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of late blooms. Somewhere near the fountain, birds were fighting over crumbs with the sort of commitment I respected.
I walked until the noise of the palace dimmed behind me, then sat on the same stone bench where Axel and I had once talked about crowns and fear and pretending to be in love.
That felt like another lifetime now.
The irony was irritating.
At first, I thought I was alone.
Then a familiar voice said, "You look like someone who's either fallen in love or is planning a murder. With you, honestly, it could go either way."
I groaned without opening my eyes.
"Go away, Adam."
"No."
He dropped onto the bench beside me with all the elegance of a collapsing tree.
I cracked one eye open.
He was grinning.
I hated that grin.
"You know," he said, "for someone who usually hides her feelings behind swords and sarcasm, you are being shockingly obvious today."
"I do not know what you're talking about."
"You say that," he replied, "but you've spent all breakfast blushing at your own jam while Axel looked like a man trying very hard not to remember he has hands."
I stared at him.
"That is the most horrifying sentence you have ever said to me," I informed him.
"Yet not inaccurate."
"I'm going to push you into the fountain."
"See?" he said brightly. "Murder. Still on the table."
I covered my face with my hands.
He let me suffer for approximately three seconds.
"So," he said at last, less teasing now, "is this real?"
I lowered my hands.
The garden stretched bright and quiet around us. A bee drifted lazily near the roses. Somewhere behind the hedges, a servant laughed.
Real.
What a terrifying word.
"I think so," I said softly.
Adam studied me for a long moment.
"And how do you feel about that?" he asked.
I huffed out a breath. "Like I'm standing too close to the edge of something very high."
"That sounds unpleasant."
"It's not," I said. "That's the problem."
Something in his expression shifted then, the older-brother teasing softening into something warmer.
"Well," he said, bumping his shoulder lightly against mine, "for what it's worth, he looks at you like a man who's forgotten how to lie to himself."
I blinked.
"That was… unexpectedly wise."
"Disgusting, isn't it?" he said. "Don't tell anyone. I have an image to maintain."
I smiled despite myself.
We sat in silence for a moment.
Then his voice changed again, the humor draining out of it.
"I also came to tell you something less romantic."
The knot in my stomach tightened immediately.
"What happened?"
Adam leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"One of Joren's men tracked movement near the old well again this morning. Not Liora this time. Two men, one woman, all dressed like ordinary workers. They didn't touch the well. Didn't leave anything. Just circled it twice and vanished into the lower lanes."
I went cold.
"Watching," I murmured.
"Or waiting," he said.
I looked toward the palace without really seeing it.
"The merchants' audience is tomorrow," I said. "If the broken crown wanted to hit something symbolic—"
"—a room full of traders and royals would do nicely," Adam finished.
I swore under my breath.
He nodded. "That's why Joren wants to increase screening at every palace entrance. Quietly. He also wants to move the audience room."
"Move it where?"
"To the east hall instead of the smaller receiving chamber. More exits. Fewer blind corners."
I thought about it.
He was right. The receiving chamber was intimate, but intimacy became a trap when things exploded.
"Tell him yes," I said. "And tell Olivia to double-check the servant rotations. If someone gets in, I want to know whether they came through the gates or through the walls."
Adam nodded.
Then he gave me a long, sideways look.
"And tell Axel yourself," he said.
I frowned. "Why?"
"Because he's in the training yard taking his temper out on wooden posts," Adam said. "And I think you are currently the only person in this palace who could get him to stop before he splits one in half."
I stood before I could think too hard about it.
"That bad?" I asked.
Adam snorted. "Rome, the stable boys are taking bets."
Of course they were.
I headed for the yard at once.
The sound reached me before the sight did.
Wood striking wood.
Hard.
Rhythmic.
Not the steady cadence of training, but the harsher tempo of someone trying to beat his thoughts into silence.
When I stepped through the archway into the practice yard, I found Axel exactly where Adam said he would be.
Shirt damp at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight. He was driving a wooden sword into the dummy with such force that splinters littered the ground around it.
No one else was close.
Sensibly.
I crossed the yard slowly.
"Should I come back with armor?" I called.
The sword stopped mid-swing.
He turned.
For a heartbeat, something wild still lived in his face.
Then he saw me, and it receded— not gone, just leashed.
"Rome," he said, breath rough. "I didn't hear you."
"I noticed."
I stepped closer, eyeing the poor ruined dummy.
"What did it do?"
His mouth twitched without much humor. "Existed while I was in a mood."
"Tragic."
He dropped the practice sword, letting it thud into the dirt.
Sweat glinted along his throat. His chest rose and fell a little too fast.
"You should not be out here alone if Joren's right," he said immediately. "If they're watching the palace—"
"I know," I cut in. "That's why I came to tell you before you broke the entire training yard."
His eyes sharpened.
"Tell me what?"
I relayed it quickly—the movement near the well, the changed room, the increased screening.
He listened without interrupting, but I could see the storm gathering behind his face.
"Damn it," he muttered when I finished. "We just gave them a new stage and now they're already measuring it."
I crossed my arms. "That was always going to happen."
"I know." He dragged a hand over his face. "I know, I just…" He exhaled sharply. "I hate being one move behind."
"You're not," I said.
He looked at me, unconvinced.
"You aren't," I repeated. "One move behind would mean not knowing they were watching at all. This—" I gestured between us, the yard, the palace, the whole impossible mess "—this is just what it feels like when the game finally admits it's being played."
He stared at me for a second, then laughed once under his breath.
"You really do make everything sound like a threat and a poem at the same time."
"I have many gifts."
A small smile surfaced properly this time.
It faded just as quickly.
"Rome," he said quietly, "if tomorrow goes wrong—"
"No."
His brows knit. "No?"
"We are not doing that today," I said firmly. "We are not standing in the middle of a sunny training yard talking about all the ways things might fall apart."
"Seems irresponsible."
"Good. I'm tired of being responsible."
That got a real laugh out of him.
I stepped closer.
Close enough to see the fine sheen of sweat at his temple. Close enough to lower my voice and still know he'd hear me.
"You're allowed to be afraid," I said. "You're allowed to be angry. But you don't get to punish yourself for not being able to control every knife in this kingdom."
His eyes searched my face.
"That sounds suspiciously like experience," he said.
I smiled, small and tired. "Unfortunately."
He was quiet for a beat.
Then: "Did you mean it?"
I blinked. "Mean what?"
"Last night." His voice dropped lower. Rougher. "When you said I was yours."
Oh.
My pulse lurched so hard I was honestly a little offended by it.
He held perfectly still, like any movement would ruin whatever answer I gave.
I could have teased.
Deflected.
Said something light and cutting and safe.
Instead, I said the truth.
"Yes."
The word left my mouth quietly.
It landed like thunder.
His throat worked.
"Good," he said, barely above a whisper. "Because I haven't stopped thinking about it."
I should have had a clever reply.
I did not.
Possibly because he had started moving before I could find one.
Slowly this time. No battle heat. No carriage jolt. No moonlit hesitation.
Just intention.
His hand came to rest lightly at my waist.
My breath caught.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured.
I shook my head.
"That seems unlikely," I whispered.
His mouth curved.
Then he kissed me.
In daylight.
In the middle of the practice yard.
With the sun on my shoulders and sawdust in the air and the stable boys probably losing their minds behind the walls.
It should have felt reckless.
It did.
It also felt absurdly right.
His hand tightened slightly at my waist as I rose into the kiss, my fingers catching at the front of his shirt. He tasted like clean water and warmth and the faint edge of whatever storm he'd been trying to beat out of the training dummy.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing harder.
"That," I said faintly, "was a terrible idea."
"Absolutely," he agreed.
Neither of us moved.
I could still feel the shape of his mouth against mine.
The yard, the palace, the broken crown, tomorrow's merchants' audience—all of it rushed back in at once.
"We still have a problem," I said.
"We have several," he corrected.
"Right. The rebellion. The audience. Your mother. My tendency to make speeches in dangerous places."
"And my tendency," he added, "to kiss you when I should be discussing security."
I tilted my head. "That sounds like a much less serious problem."
"It is not helping my concentration."
"That sounds personal."
He gave me a look that made my knees feel briefly theoretical.
I cleared my throat.
"Anyway," I said, because apparently I still possessed a survival instinct, "we should go tell Joren about the east hall. And then maybe try very hard not to scandalize the staff for at least an hour."
"An hour feels ambitious."
"It was generous of me."
He smiled, softer now.
Then he bent, picked up the abandoned wooden sword, and tossed it aside for good.
"Come on, then, my terrifying queen."
I froze.
He froze too.
The words had clearly slipped out before he could catch them.
My terrifying queen.
Not princess.
Not Rome.
Not political ally. Not future anything.
Present tense.
Real.
Heat rushed through me in a wave so swift it almost made me dizzy.
"Well," I said carefully, because if I didn't joke I might actually combust, "that seems difficult to take back."
Color rose high in his cheeks.
"Rome, I—"
"No," I said quickly, stepping closer again before he could retreat into apology. "Don't."
He stopped.
I held his gaze.
"Don't take it back," I said softly.
Something in his face changed then—something tender and almost shattered by relief.
"All right," he said.
All right.
Like this was simple.
Like he hadn't just handed me something I would probably carry around in my ribs for the rest of the day.
We walked back toward the palace together after that, shoulders brushing every few steps.
The broken crown still waited.
Tomorrow still threatened.
Nothing had become easier.
But as we crossed the threshold into the cool shadow of the corridor, I realized something that should have terrified me more than it did:
For the first time, the future didn't just feel like something I had to survive.
It felt like something I might actually want to reach.
Even with all the danger in it.
Maybe because of who was in it.
And somewhere behind us, in the training yard, the stable boys were almost certainly collecting on a bet neither of us would ever hear about.
Honestly, they'd earned it.