[POV - Nerithea Seravalis]
Break their ankles.
The thought comes like hunger. Not the polite kind that proper ladies feel—a dainty craving for one more bite of macaron. No, this was raw, animal hunger. Teeth grinding. Mouth watering.
Just a whisper of power, and those noble-born brats would learn the true meaning of pain—shattered legs and a lifetime of crawling. Through my Grace, I see them: shadows darting through the temple corridors, their cruel giggles sharp against my second sight as they stalk my father. Aging and wearing the scars of a broken body and mind. My sweet doting father—Legend-Commander Markus Seravalis, savior of the empire, strategist of armies—now reduced to canon fodder sport for bored brats.
Beneath me, she reminds herself sharply. I am the Holy Heiress. I don't maim children.
But the darkness curling beneath my usual white flames whispers otherwise.
[***]
I sit still in the Sovereign Assembly, one of twelve arranged in a perfect circle beneath the Temple's soaring dome. Morning light filters through stained glass, casting jewel-toned shadows across council members' faces, transforming the austere chamber into a peacock's garden. My future father-in-law, the King, holds court at the center of this pageantry, while my engagement ring catches the light—a blinding, glistening mockery he insisted his son present to me.
Strange, as Crown Prince Arcturus favors simpler attire—his golden looks and silver tongue need no embellishment. The prince wields influence like a blade, as deadly as his father's armies. Perfect for the Empire. Perfect for House Seravalis. Perfect for maintaining the fragile balance between Temple and Crown.
And perfectly absent when I need him.
[***]
"My lady, you seem unwell." The priest's voice floats from somewhere distant. "Your face has gone quite pale."
"I'm fine."
But I'm not. The Grace burns under my skin as I try willing it to calm, only serving to sharpen the vision playing in my mind. Through my second sight, I see my father's confused scraping of his cane echoing through marble halls. Five times now, they've tried to trip him.
Their voices drift to me, sharp as needles:
"Did you see him stumble?" A girl's whisper gleams with cruel delight.
"Again," another voice urges.
"Make him fall this time."
"Careful," a third warns, "if he breaks something, they'll investigate."
"Who would believe the old fool? He probably wouldn't even remember who did it."
[***]
Crack.
The marble armrests beneath my fingers splinter into tiny spider-web fissures.
"Lady Seravalis," the high priest beside me murmurs, his concern genuine beneath the layers of gilt and ceremony. "Perhaps some air—"
"Stop talking."
My voice no longer sounds like mine. It echoes—dark, ancient... dangerous.
[***]
The familiar warmth of my holy white fire pulses to life, hugging my form. But what is less familiar are the black wisps that curl from my fingertips, spreading like ink in milk.
I rise.
The council chamber falls silent, its pretense of piety crumbling as black flames twist across my skin. It doesn't burn. It feels like home.
"Excuse me," I whisper, though I'm already gone.
[***]
I materialize in a thunderclap. The cold stone splinters beneath each step as darkness serpents around my familiar light. My father's clouded eyes haven't registered me mere lengths from him, and the haughty children are too wrapped up in their prey to notice my presence.
The Blackthorn heir lifts his foot, his polished boot gleaming with inherited privilege—ready to trip my father again.
"How fascinating," I say, letting ice coat each word. "Tell me, what game is this exactly?"
His swagger crumples. "Lady Seravalis! We were just—"
"I saw what you were doing... to the greatest war hero this empire will ever know."
Shadows pool at my feet. Dark power thrums through me—hungrier than before. It whispers of retribution, of justice served in broken bones and spilled blood.
"Perhaps I will join your little game? But this round, I shall chase."
I take one step forward.
The marble beneath their feet ripples with shadows, cold seeping through their expensive boots. I keep them from running.
They squeal. Akin to pigs.
Crocodile tears start to shed. Or perhaps genuine tears of fear?
"Shall I show you what it's like? To crawl on broken bones? To be hunted like the weak?"
Another step.
Should I show mercy to those who forgo a shred of kindness and find joy in torturing the weak?
Forget that he and my family are all that are left of our family tree so that they can enjoy their vulgar games. Did my mother and the countless innocents burn so these pampered pigs could mock their sacrifice?
Their cries—'Mother', 'Mamma', 'Father', 'Pappa'—rise into hysteria, like livestock before slaughter.
In my peripheral vision, my father leans on the nearby pillar, catching his breath, struggling to make sense of the scene. Watching his struggle with the mere act of taking small steps directs my resolve.
The wall sconces dim one by one, as if the very light retreats from what's coming.
"These corridors can be dangerous," I continue. "Accidents happen. Children trip. Bones shatter. And sometimes... sometimes they never quite heal right. Your parents who taught you such games will nurse you soon enough."
[***]
A whisper of movement catches my attention.
The air plummets, breath frosting before I even see him.
"My lady."
The voice is dark honey over gravel. Unfamiliar. Commanding.
"I believe the Temple frowns upon terrorizing its youngest devotees. No matter how deserving they might be."
I whirl, cutting words ready on my tongue.
They die there.
[***]
He emerges from the darkness as if born from it, his presence filling the space between columns like a physical force. The fine black wool of his coat absorbs what little light reaches this corner, cutting sharp lines across broad shoulders. Silver clasps at his throat and wrists catch the light—the only concession to ornamentation.Midnight hair falls past his jaw in windswept layers, framing features that should not be hiding in shadows. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips curved in what might be amusement or warning. Gray eyes meet mine, aqua light trapped beneath ice. His height forces me to tilt my head back—I'm not short, but he manages to make me feel small. I had never felt small with anyone. Not Arturus. Not any King, Queen or otherwise. He moves closer. Each step measured. Deliberate."Though I understand the temptation," he adds matter-of-factly. His eyes hold a different kind of hunger than the one for violence."Who are you to interfere in matters of the Temple?" The words come out steadier than I feel.Winter roses and iron assault my senses as he moves closer still. The temperature drops, sending a chill through the thin silk of my formal robes. He stops too close, the edge of his coat brushing the intricate embroidery at my hem. Behind him, the massive stained-glass window bathes us both in fractured light—blood red and midnight blue falling across his sharp features as he studies me.His mouth curves, not quite a smile."Someone intimate with barely contained violence."His gaze drops—to where black and white fire still dances across my wrists, pulsing in response. I rein them in hastily, as they seem to want to reach out to him not in hostility. Careless.I pull my sleeves down, but it's too late—he saw.[***]
The children seize their chance, scampering away with muttered apologies that taste more of fear than remorse.
My father watches them go, confusion clouding his face.
"Thea?" he asks, voice small and lost. "Are we late for something?"
The stranger's gaze flickers to my father. Something unreadable passes across his features before he moves with fluid precision to the old man's side. My protective instincts kick in, but before I can act, his gloved hands adjust my father's grip on the cane with surprising gentleness.
"The Western Corridor provides a quieter route to the Great Hall, Commander," he says. "Less traveled by... vermin."
My father's clouded eyes briefly clear.
"Ah, yes. The Western... I remember. Used it during the Siege of..."
"Greenwater," the stranger finishes, not rushing the failing memory. "Your strategies there are still studied."
[***]
His coat flows like liquid shadow as he turns to leave, pausing just long enough to glance back. The stained-glass light fractures across him differently now. Blood-red and midnight-blue paint a sinister halo around hair so black it drinks in the light. Each perfect angle of his face seems carved by a master artist with a cruel streak—from the sharp planes of his cheekbones to the straight blade of his nose. Those blue-speckled gray eyes capture mine through femininely long lashes, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. His well-shaped lips carry the knowing mockery of a predator at play, a reminder that beauty can be its own kind of weapon.
He had been beautiful at first glance. And now—dangerously so. A different kind of beauty from my prince's pristine golden perfection. This was beauty like drowning in dark water—the kind that makes you reach for anything, even if it's the thing pulling you under. The kind that made you forget about carefully laid plans.
The kind that my position as Holy Heiress should make me immune to.I close my eyes and thank the heavens. "Oh, and Lady Seravalis?"One eyebrow arches, his tone taking on the prim superiority of a deportment teacher correcting a student's poor posture."Next time you consider maiming noble children, remember—dead bodies tell fewer tales than the screams of crippled ones."[***]The casual brutality of his advice should have horrified me, his high and mighty tone should have irritated me.
Instead, my savage impulses feel less shameful. Perhaps I'm not the only monster hiding behind a polite mask.
The air seems colder. Yet, I'm warmer.
"Who was that?"