Elara’s POV

I stabbed at the chicken on my plate. The fork scraped porcelain. A harsh, small sound lost in the cafeteria’s roar.

Sylvia Vance will obviously be Empress.

Sophie’s recent words still rattled around inside my skull like a stone in an empty jar. I couldn’t shake them. Couldn’t reason them away. Every time I tried, they came back louder.

I wasn’t hungry. The chicken was dry. The vegetables beside it had gone limp and cold. I pushed a carrot from one side of the plate to the other. Back again.

"You’re doing that thing again," Jessica said from across the table.

I looked up. "What thing?"

"The thing where you murder your food with your eyes instead of eating it." She gestured with her own fork. "It’s disturbing."

"I’m eating."

"You’re rearranging."

I forced a piece of chicken into my mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. It sat in my stomach like a rock.

Jessica watched me for a beat too long. Her eyes narrowed slightly—that look she got when she was cataloguing something for later. Then she shrugged and went back to her own plate.

I should’ve felt relieved. I didn’t.

Because the cafeteria doors swung open. And every head turned.

Sylvia Vance walked in like she owned the building.

No—like she owned the entire compound. The training grounds. The barracks. All of it. Every inch of stone and every person sitting within these walls.

She wore a dress the color of champagne. Fitted at the waist, flowing at the hem. Not a wrinkle. Not a thread out of place. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves—dark, glossy, catching the overhead light like she’d brought her own personal sun. Her makeup was flawless. Lips a soft coral. Eyes lined just enough to look effortless while being anything but.

In her hands, she carried a massive basket. Overflowing. Wrapped candies. Bags of dried fruit. Small boxes tied with ribbon.

"Hello, everyone!" Her voice rang out—bright, musical, pitched perfectly to carry without shouting. "I hope I’m not interrupting dinner."

She was absolutely interrupting dinner. And she knew it.

Sophie shot to her feet so fast her chair screeched backward. "Lady Vance!"

"Sophie!" Sylvia beamed. Warmth radiating from every pore. "How are you, darling? How’s the shoulder? I heard you took a nasty hit during sparring."

Sophie’s face flushed with pleasure. "It’s fine! Almost healed. Thank you so much for asking—"

"Good. Good." Sylvia set the basket on the nearest table with a practiced flourish. "His Majesty and I wanted to bring something for all of you. You’ve been working so hard. You deserve a treat."

His Majesty and I.

The words landed in my chest like a fist.

Trainees were already moving. Clustering around the basket. Reaching for the wrapped packages. Voices rising—excited, grateful, adoring.

"Are those your chocolate chip cookies?" Maya appeared at Sylvia’s elbow, eyes wide and hopeful.

Sylvia laughed. Light. Practiced. "I baked them myself. There should be enough for everyone."

"You’re an angel," Maya declared.

"Oh, stop." Sylvia waved a hand. But she didn’t stop smiling. Didn’t stop glowing.

I sat frozen in my seat. Fork still in hand. Watching.

A trainee slid into the empty chair beside me. Riley, a girl I’d spoken to maybe twice, leaned in.

"She’s been doing this," Riley murmured. Low enough that only I could hear. Her gaze fixed on Sylvia’s performance at the center of the room. "Every week. For the past six months."

I said nothing.

"Every single week," Riley repeated. "Like clockwork. Brings food. Asks about injuries. Remembers names. Acts like she’s half of a unit with the Emperor." Riley picked at her thumbnail. "The newer trainees worship her."

I watched Sophie press a cookie to her chest like it was a holy relic. Watched Maya bounce on her heels. Watched a dozen other women cluster and laugh and reach toward Sylvia Vance like flowers turning toward sunlight.

And I sat at the edge. Invisible. An outsider in a room full of people who didn’t know—couldn’t know—what I was.

Who I was.

The realization settled over me like ice water. I didn’t belong here. Not like she did. She had spent six months weaving herself into the fabric of this place. Thread by thread. Cookie by cookie. Smile by smile. And I—

I was just the ghost who’d come back too late.

"Ela?"

My blood went cold.

Sylvia Vance stood three feet away. The moment she spotted me, her flawless smile faltered for a fraction of a second. The slip was quick as a blade catching light, quickly replaced by that same devastating warmth.

"It is Ela, isn’t it?" She tilted her head. That cascade of dark hair fell over one shoulder. "I’ve heard so much about you."

The cafeteria had gone quiet around us. Not completely—there was still noise, still movement—but enough people were watching. Enough eyes had found me.

"His Majesty mentioned you’d be helping with some training exercises." Her tone was casual. Light. As if she were discussing the weather. "How wonderful. We’re so lucky to have someone with your experience around."

We. There it was again. That word. Planted like a flag.

I set my fork down. Met her gaze. Held it. "That’s kind of you to say."

"Not kind at all. Just honest." Her smile widened. Then she glanced around at the watching faces and lowered her voice just slightly. Conspiratorial. Intimate. "Actually—would you mind if we had a quick chat? Just us? I’ve been meaning to catch you, and it feels silly to keep putting it off."

A quick chat. Just us.

Every instinct in my body screamed no. But the eyes were on me. Sophie’s. Maya’s. Riley’s. Jessica’s. All of them watching to see what I’d do. How I’d react.

If I refused, I’d look threatened. Jealous. Petty.

If I refused, she won.

"Of course," I said. My voice came out steady. Almost bored. "Lead the way."

Sylvia’s smile sharpened. Just a fraction. Just enough for me to catch.

"Wonderful."

She turned and walked toward the cafeteria exit. I stood. Left my untouched plate. Followed.

The hallway was cooler. Quieter. Our footsteps echoed against stone. Sylvia moved with purpose—heels clicking, posture perfect, that champagne dress swaying with every step.

She stopped beside a window alcove. Large enough for two people to stand. Private enough that no passing trainee would overhear without effort. Through the glass, the training grounds stretched below—empty now in the fading light.

Sylvia turned to face me.

And the warmth vanished.

Like a candle blown out. Like a mask lifted clean off a face. Her smile didn’t disappear—it transformed. The soft curve became something hard. Something cold. Her eyes, which had sparkled with such practiced sweetness moments ago, went flat and calculating.

"Good," she said. Her voice had dropped. No more music in it. No more charm. Just steel wrapped in silk. "Now that we don’t have an audience."

She leaned one shoulder against the window frame. Crossed her arms. Studied me the way a hawk studies movement in the grass below.

"I think," Sylvia Vance said quietly, "it’s time you and I had a serious talk."