The living room in the west wing of Ashart Mansion had been emptied. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, blocking the morning sunlight, creating an artificial darkness illuminated only by two candles on the dressing table.

  In the center of the room, a full-length mirror stood erect. And in front of that mirror, Rhea Ashart stood frozen.

  She wasn't wearing a party dress. She wore only a thin white chemise—silk underwear that revealed the lines of muscles on her arms and back, along with the bandages still covering the burns from her 'three suns' training over the last training with Kars four days ago.

  "What do you see?" Madame Arlene's voice broke the silence. That woman did not appear in the mirror. She stood in the dark corner, her black fan closed, her eyes watching like a nocturnal predator.

  Mira stared at her own reflection. "I see... myself."

  "Wrong," Arlene hissed. Her footsteps drew closer, the sound of her heels dampened by the thick carpet. "What you’re seeing is a stray dog trying to wear a pearl necklace. Your posture is tense. Your shoulders have risen two centimeters, ready to strike. Your eyes..."

  Arlene stopped right behind Mira. She didn’t touch Mira with her hands. She used the tip of her cold fan to touch Mira’s neck, just above the jugular pulse.

  "...your eyes are screaming 'kill me before I kill you.' That’s an honest look, Rhea. And honesty is the most fatal thing in the palace."

  Mira swallowed. The tip of the fan felt like a knife. "Then what should I do? That prince… he’s dangerous. My instincts reacted."

  "Turn off your instincts," Arlene ordered flatly. "Or change their form. Prince Arlen is a Lightning user. He is dominant. He is arrogant. If you challenge him with wolf eyes, he will see you as a threat that must be destroyed. But if you look at him with deer eyes…"

  Arlene pulled her fan, then, with a quick movement, grabbed Mira's jaw, forcing her to look closer into the mirror.

  "Look at your eyes. Your pupils have shrunk. Your amber irises are too bright. That's a sign of aggression. A man like Arlen doesn't want a fighter. He wants mystery. He wants something fragile to possess."

  "I'm not a fragile thing," Mira snapped, brushing Arlene's hand away.

  The sound of Arlene's fan hitting the back of Mira's hand echoed in the quiet room. Not loud, but stinging.

  "You just died," Arlene said coldly. "That brushing motion? That's a defensive reflex. Arlen will notice it. And he will know you're hiding your strength."

  Arlene walked back into the darkness. "Repeat. Stare at that mirror. Don’t imagine you’re holding a knife. Imagine you’re holding a secret."

  Mira took a deep breath, holding back the boiling anger in her chest. She looked at her reflection again. That face... the same face that had once slaughtered Skull Scorpion and King Winter Worm. The same face Kars had trained to be fearless. Now she had to destroy that face.

  "How?" Mira asked desperately. "How do I fake gentleness?"

  "Don’t fake it," Arlene’s voice softened, yet became more dangerous. "Use your pain. You lost Kars last night, didn’t you?"

  Mira’s chest tightened immediately. The shadow of the empty crater on King’s Cliff flashed in her mind. "Don’t bring up Kars."

  "Use it," Arlene ignored her protest. "That fear. That sense of loss. Pull that feeling into your eyes. Let your pupils dilate with sorrow. Let your lips tremble slightly with uncertainty."

  Mira stared at the mirror. She let the mental walls she had built crumble a little. She thought about the empty chair at breakfast earlier. She thought about Kars, lost, swallowed by the light. Her eyes began to glisten. The amber color in her eyes no longer shone brightly but dimmed, deep, and wet. Her shoulders slumped. Her posture was no longer stiff, ready for battle, but slightly hunched, as if bearing a heavy weight.

  "Good," whispered Arlene, appearing beside her like a ghost. "See that? That’s not a weakness. That’s... inviting. The prince will see that sadness and think, 'I can save her.' And when he thinks that... her neck is already exposed."

  ***

  The clock showed two in the afternoon. The lesson shifted from the mirror to the tea table.

  Arlene sat in a luxurious chair, crossing her legs. She was no longer an instructor. Her posture had changed—broader, arrogant, dominating the space. She was playing the role of Prince Arlen.

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  "So, Lady Ashart," Arlene said in a perfectly mocking tone. "I heard you come from some insignificant fishing village. Tell me, are you more accustomed to holding a fishing net than holding this crystal glass?"

  This was an insult simulation. Mira sat across from her. Her hands held an empty teacup. Her blood boiled. She wanted to throw the cup at Arlene's face.

  "Answer," Arlene urged. "Don't sit there like a dumb fish."

  "I..." Mira began, her voice stiff. "I am indeed from the coast, Your Highness. But I learn quickly."

  "Boring," Arlene cut in. She tossed a biscuit toward Mira. "Defensive. You're justifying his accusation. You sound ashamed of your past."

  "Then what am I supposed to say?! He insulted me!" Mira slammed her cup on the table.

  "He didn't insult you. He tested you," Arlene stood up, walking around Mira. "He wants to see if you have backbone, or if you're just wall decoration. But you can't respond with anger. You have to respond with... humor."

  Arlene bent down, her face level with Mira's. "Try agreeing with him, but twist the facts. Make him feel foolish for asking."

  "Repeat that."

  Arlene sat back down. "So, you're a former fisherman, huh?"

  Mira took a breath. She recalled Laich's teaching about Art. Art deceives. She smiled. Not Henesa's polite smile. But a small, mysterious smile, the smile of someone who knows a joke that others do not.

  "That's right, Your Highness," Mira replied, her voice calm, eyes meeting Arlene's with a 'sad but brave' look she had practiced earlier. "I am used to nets. Maybe that's why I am not easily caught... by empty compliments."

  Arlene was silent for a moment. Her eyebrows raised. "Better. There's a little sting there, but wrapped in velvet."

  "Now, body language," Arlene continued. "Prince Arlen is a physical type. He will try to enter your personal space. He will touch you. Hands, shoulders, waist."

  Arlene suddenly moved. Quickly. She grabbed Mira's wrist that was resting on the table.

  Mira's muscles tensed. Her free left hand had already moved halfway toward the silver dinner knife on the table, a reflexive motion to stab the hand trying to attack.

  "Stop!" yelled Arlene.

  Mira froze. His hand floated an inch from the knife.

  "You almost stabbed your future husband," Arlene said flatly. "If you do that tomorrow, his shadow bodyguards will behead you on the spot."

  "You ambushed me!"

  "He'll do more than that," Arlene let go of Mira's rough hand. "He'll pet you. He will embrace you. And you have to endure it. You have to let him think he's in control."

  Arlene pulled Mira's chair closer, so close that their knees touched. "Listen carefully, Rhea. Your body is a weapon. But not for hitting. Your touch should burn. When he touches you... Don't stay away. Don't be stiff."

  Arlene took Mira's hand again. This time, more slowly. "Lean your body a little toward him. Just a little. Like a flower seeking the sun. It validates his ego. But..."

  Arlene stared sharply into Mira's eyes.

  "...in your head, you’re dissecting his anatomy. You’re counting his heartbeat. You’re looking for where his armor is the thinnest."

  "Dissociation," Mira muttered. "Separating the mind from the body."

  "Exactly. Like your crazy painter taught you. The left brain counts, the right brain acts."

  ***

  The sun set, and the room was now pitch dark. Arlene did not allow any candles to be lit.

  "Final exercise," Arlene's voice came from the darkness. "Voice."

  Mira sat on the carpeted floor, her mental exhaustion at its peak. She felt like she had been skinned, taken apart, and sewn back together into a stranger.

  "Prince Arlen is a controller of sound and lightning. He is sensitive to vibrations," Arlene explained. "Your usual voice... is too heavy. Too alto. Too much command in it."

  "It's my voice," Mira protested hoarsely.

  "Change it. Raise the pitch a little. Add breath at the end of sentences. Make your voice sound like... a secret whispered on a pillow."

  "I'll sound ridiculous."

  "You'll sound alluring. Try saying: 'I trust your judgment, Your Highness.'"

  Mira cleared her throat. "I trust your judgment, Your Highness."

  "Wrong. That's a soldier reporting to a commander. Again. Imagine you are speaking to Kars."

  That name again. Mira closed her eyes in the darkness. She imagined Kars. Not the Kars who was dying in an explosion. But the Kars who walked with her in the snow, holding her hand in the pocket of his coat. There was tenderness there. A secure vulnerability.

  “I trust…” Mira began, her voice softer, trembling. “…in your judgment, Your Highness.”

  There was a long, silent pause.

  “Good,” Arlene's voice sounded pleased. “Keep that tone. It's the tone that makes a man want to protect you and destroy you at the same time. It's a dangerous tone.”

  The crystal lights in the room suddenly shone brightly, making Mira squint, dazzled. Arlene stood in front of the door, her fan folded neatly. Her face returned to an impenetrable mask of ice.

  “You've passed the basic stage,” Arlene said. “But remember one thing, Rhea.”

  That woman opened the door, letting the maid in who carried an evening gown for tomorrow's preparations.

  "You can fake a smile. You can fake your voice. But never fake your purpose. When you are in the room with him tomorrow... remember why you are doing this."

  Mira stood up slowly. She walked to the large mirror again. The woman staring back at her was no longer Mira, the girl from the south. The woman in the mirror had eyes as deep as the midnight sea, lips that hinted at sorrow, and a posture that was graceful yet fragile. It was the perfect mask.

  "I will," Mira whispered to her reflection. Her hand touched her cold Igniter bracelets.

  She is doing this not to become Queen. She is doing this to buy time. Time to destroy anyone who dares to touch her family. Time to erase anything that stands in the way of her goals. Time to find her sister. Time to find Kars.

  "Thank you, Madame," said Mira, turning to look at Arlene.

  Arlene looked at her for a moment, and for a second, Mira saw a flicker of sympathy in the woman's eyes. "Don't die, Little Mouse. Kars's debt is still unpaid. And one more thing, don't cause trouble, your family's name is at stake."

  Arlene left, leaving Mira alone with her new dress. A blood-red dress. The color of warning. The color of danger.

  Tomorrow, she would enter the palace not as a victim. She would enter as the sweetest poison the Prince had ever tasted.