Lucien lay sprawled on the grand but unfamiliar bed, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the faint flicker of torchlight creeping through the thick curtains. The other rested at his side, his fingers occasionally curling into a fist, as if gripping the air could somehow strangle his frustration. His breaths came shallow and uneven, his chest rising and falling as his mind churned with bitterness.
The scene in the dining room replayed endlessly in his mind. Serena's parting words echoed like a bell tolling in his ears, each syllable cutting deeper than the last.
"I'm excited to see how far your hatred can take you," she had said, her tone a perfect blend of amusement and menace. It wasn't a threat—oh no, it was an invitation, a taunt, daring him to do something, to prove her wrong. The smirk on her lips as she'd left the room lingered in his mind like a brand, searing into his pride.
Lucien growled, pressing his arm harder over his face as if that might erase her image from his thoughts. "Damn her," he muttered under his breath, his voice muffled against the crook of his elbow. "Damn her to hell."
The muffled cheers and laughter of Celestafell's citizens seeped through the stone walls like an incessant hum, grating against his frayed nerves. Even at this late hour, the city was alive with revelry. The coronation feast and festivities had extended well into the night, with music, drinking, and dancing in every square. The once-downtrodden populace now celebrated their new queen, their voices carrying an air of joy and hope that felt like salt in Lucien's raw wounds.
"Traitors," he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low and venomous. "Every last one of them. They handed my city to her like it meant nothing."
He sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white as he stared down at the ornate carpet beneath his feet. His father's legacy, his family's name—everything had been stripped away, reduced to ashes in the wake of Serena's calculated conquest. And the people—his people—had embraced her without a second thought.
"Do they not remember what it meant to be loyal? To have honor?" His voice cracked slightly, a mixture of rage and despair. "How could they celebrate the woman who… who—" He choked on the words, unable to even articulate the depth of his fury. His hands tightened, nails digging into his palms.
The sound of a distant lute drifted through the open window, accompanied by raucous laughter. The musicians were playing something upbeat, a lively tune that was almost mocking in its cheerfulness. The thought of the people dancing in the streets while he sat here, confined and humiliated, sent a fresh wave of anger surging through him.
He shot to his feet, pacing the room like a caged animal. His chains had been removed for the night, a minor concession that did little to ease his sense of imprisonment. The shadows cast by the lone candelabra on the table seemed to mock him, twisting into shapes that resembled Serena's smirking face. He shoved the table angrily, sending the candle teetering and nearly extinguishing its flame.
"They're fools," he spat, glaring out the window at the faint glow of lanterns dotting the distant streets. "Blind, ungrateful fools. They'll see. They'll see what she really is when it's too late—when she's crushed them under the weight of her so-called mercy."
But even as the words left his lips, a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered inconvenient truths. The city was safer now. The markets were bustling, no longer weighed down by fear or corruption. The people—those same people who had lived under the shadow of his father's rule—were laughing, celebrating, and thriving in ways they never had before.
He hated the thought. He hated how it clawed at the foundation of his anger, undermining the purity of his hatred for her. But he couldn't deny the reality staring him in the face.
"It's all her manipulation," he muttered weakly, his voice shaking as though the words might collapse under their own weight. "It has to be. She's no savior… she's a tyrant, a monster."
Yet even as he said it, his conviction faltered. He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tighter against the flicker of doubts that refused to be silenced. The faint hum of distant revelry—a city alive with joy—only deepened the fracture.
He collapsed back onto the bed, his arm draping over his face as if to shield himself from the flickering candelabra's warm glow. Each laugh that carried through the stone walls, each cheer, each lilting note of music, twisted like a knife in his chest. It wasn't just the people's celebration that stung—it was the truth they represented, a truth he wanted desperately to ignore: Celestafell was beginning to flourish under her reign, not his father's.
The realization burned, searing through his defenses like acid. He had thought his hatred for her was absolute, born from righteous indignation. But now, in the quiet, that hatred felt fragile—built less on her sins and more on the unbearable fact that she had succeeded where his family had failed.
His fingers curled into the bedding, his voice breaking as he finally admitted the thought he'd buried deep. "It's not the city I've lost that I hate her for… it's that she was right."
The words hung in the still air, their weight suffocating. He lay there, listening to the distant sound of a city that had handed itself over to the Vengeful One—and was better for it.
The grand chambers of the castle were a testament to the melding of authority and intellect. Shelves carved from dark mahogany lined the walls, filled to bursting with ancient tomes, ledgers, and scrolls tied with faded ribbons. Maps of Celestafell and the surrounding regions hung framed upon the walls, detailing trade routes, strategic defenses, and areas in need of repair. A massive oak desk dominated the room's center, its surface strewn with parchment, quills, and ink bottles—some still dripping onto the wood. A few arcane devices hummed softly in one corner, their purposes inscrutable, while a globe etched with celestial patterns slowly rotated on a nearby pedestal. The faint smell of parchment, ink, and aged leather permeated the air, giving the space an ambiance of quiet power.
Serena sat behind the desk, her posture relaxed but purposeful as her gloved hand scribbled across a report. The golden glow of the morning light filtered through the room's tall, arched windows, catching the faint glint of the crown now perched comfortably atop her head. The document before her detailed the previous year's budget, and her crimson eyes occasionally narrowed as she analyzed the allocations.
"Ridiculous," she muttered to herself, brushing a strand of crimson hair from her face. "How does anyone justify spending this much on ornamental gates while the outer wards rot?" Her pen slashed decisively across the page, marking a line item for removal. "Gone. Wasted effort."
Across the room, Lucien Vaeral sat in sullen silence, slumped in a high-backed chair that faced her desk. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles clinked softly whenever he shifted, a dull reminder of his captivity. He avoided looking at her, instead staring at the intricate pattern of the rug beneath his feet. Despite his attempts to feign disinterest, he couldn't entirely ignore the tension in the air—the soft scratching of her quill, the quiet hum of power that seemed to follow her everywhere.
Just as he began to sink deeper into his brooding, the sharp flick of her middle finger broke through the silence.
"Oh. That," Serena said suddenly, her voice breaking the quiet as she gestured lazily toward him with her hand. Another flick of her middle finger followed, and a faint ripple of magic spread through the air.
Lucien jumped with a start as the cuffs around his wrists and ankles clicked open and fell to the floor with a dull clang. He blinked, staring down at his now-free hands in disbelief.
"I nearly forgot," Serena said nonchalantly, turning back to her work without a hint of ceremony. "I meant to do that yesterday."
His breath caught in his throat as he flexed his hands, his skin still marked where the cuffs had pressed too tightly. He looked up at her, confusion mingling with suspicion. "You—forgot?" he echoed, his voice edged with incredulity.
She smirked without looking up, the quill still dancing across the parchment. "Yes, Lucien. I do occasionally forget things. Even someone as… unforgettable as you."
He glared at her, standing abruptly, his fists clenching at his sides. "What game are you playing now? Why unchain me? What's your angle this time?"
At that, Serena set the quill down and leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers together as she finally looked at him. The smile she wore was calm, almost amused, as if his outburst had been a predictable piece of theater.
"Game? No game, Lucien. I simply realized something." She tilted her head slightly, the faintest hint of mockery dancing in her eyes. "You can't very well be a husband if you're chained up, now can you?"
His jaw tightened, his face darkening as he processed her words. "Husband," he repeated bitterly, his voice dripping with contempt. "As if this sham of a marriage is anything but a political ploy."
She shrugged elegantly, gesturing to the piles of papers scattered across the desk. "Everything in this world is a ploy, Lucien. But it doesn't mean we can't play our parts convincingly."
"Parts? You mean the part where I'm your obedient little puppet? The one you parade around to make your rule seem legitimate?" he spat, taking a step closer to the desk. "If you think removing these chains changes anything, you're more delusional than I thought."
Serena's smile widened, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk and her chin on her clasped hands. "Oh, Lucien, you wound me," she said with a teasing lilt. "But I have no interest in forcing you to play a role you're not ready for. You'll come around… eventually."
He stared at her, his anger simmering just below the surface, but he said nothing. The sound of laughter and faint music from the city below drifted through the open window, a reminder of the people who had already embraced her rule. It only deepened the weight of his frustration.
Serena leaned back again, her expression softening slightly as she waved dismissively toward the door. "You're free to move about the castle now. Stay in your quarters, wander the halls, brood in the gardens—whatever suits you. But make no mistake, Lucien. Chains or no chains, you're still mine."
Her words were a declaration, a challenge, and an inevitability all rolled into one. Without waiting for his response, she picked up the quill and returned to her work, her presence commanding even as she ignored him.
Lucien stood there for a long moment, his fists clenched, his breathing shallow. Finally, he turned and stormed out of the room, the echo of his retreating footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence of the grand chambers. Serena smiled to herself as she dipped her quill into the inkwell, the faintest flicker of satisfaction playing across her features.