As the revelry reached its fever pitch, the God King pushed back from his chair, the sharp scrape of stone against stone slicing through the jubilant din. The room hushed instantly, every set of eyes snapping to him like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
His movements were unhurried, precise, yet somehow heavier than they should have been, as if the weight of his presence alone could bend the very air.
He turned slowly, and then his gaze locked on mine. Across the expanse of the great hall, his dark, impenetrable eyes bore into me, pinning me in place like a butterfly beneath glass.
The breath caught in my throat. Fear wasn't the right word for what surged through me—it was colder, deeper, a visceral thing that settled low in my belly and coiled tight, leaving every nerve on edge. My fingers trembled, curling into fists at my sides in a futile attempt to steady myself.
I should've known better than to hope this night would pass without his cruelty cutting deeper. Dressing me like a jewel to flaunt had clearly been just the beginning. The God King didn't play with his food; he relished it. Drew out every bite, savoring the way it broke.
"My honored guests," he began, his voice low and commanding, a velvet snare lined with iron. He raised his goblet, the gold catching the flicker of torchlight as he swept it in an arc across the hall. "Does the Lady of Vraycia not look appetizing tonight?"
The words hung in the air, their implications snaking through the silence and striking with venomous precision. A ripple of unease shivered through the gathered nobles, too faint to disrupt the decorum but unmistakable to me. Here and there, muted chuckles dared to break the tension, their sharp edges carving at what little composure I had left.
His lips twisted into a smile—if it could even be called that—a feral thing that bared no warmth, only the glint of teeth. "I think," he drawled, his tone dipping into something almost intimate, "I shall have her for my last meal."
The room spun. My stomach lurched, and for a heartbeat, I was sure I'd collapse. The silk gown they'd forced me into clung like a second skin, its delicate fabric a cage as suffocating as the eyes raking over me now.
No one moved. No one protested. My husband's supposed allies stood in their finery, faces painted with varying shades of discomfort, pity, or worse—satisfaction. The silence of their complicity struck me harder than any shouted jeer ever could.
I scanned the faces I knew too well, the men who had sworn fealty to my husband in life and betrayed him in death. Their cowardice tasted bitter, but not surprising. And then there were the others, the ones who had celebrated his fall in secret but wore their triumph like a badge now, their smug smiles cutting into me like glass.
I clenched my fists tighter, feeling the sting of my nails biting into my palms. The faint warmth of blood was grounding, a reminder that though fear clawed at me, something else burned brighter beneath it. Hatred.
He wanted to humiliate me, to crush me beneath his boot in front of his court. He wanted me to shatter, to extinguish any spark of resistance that might still linger.
But I wasn't here to make it easy for him. If he wanted a spectacle, I would give him one. If he sought to devour me, I would make damn sure he choked.
I straightened my spine, tilting my chin ever so slightly upward, the motion almost imperceptible but enough. Enough for him to see the defiance smoldering in my gaze.
"Come, little flame," his voice purred, soft enough that it was meant for me alone. "Show them how brightly you burn."