Blood dripped onto the marble floor—thicker than she expected, slower. It should have been faster. It should have—no, focus. The streaks spread unevenly, some pooling, others branching out in thin, spidery veins through the pristine white. The scent hit her a second later—sharp, metallic, wrong—coiling at the back of her throat, making her stomach lurch.
The torches burned high above, their light hazy through the smoke that curled in the rafters. Shadows flickered, distorting, stretching into grotesque shapes that wavered across the stone pillars. For a breath, the whole palace felt alive, recoiling from the violence staining its halls.
Seraphina Vale stood motionless at the dais, though her heart slammed erratically against her ribs. The golden crown pressed into her brow, its weight now meaningless. It had been heavy before, but not like this. Not like a shackle.
Her breath stuttered in her throat. The chamber had once hummed with the murmurs of nobles, their reverent, insincere voices whispering of duty, of legacy. Now, it shook beneath the chaos of steel on steel, of screams abruptly cut short, of boots scuffing against polished stone as bodies collapsed like marionettes with their strings slashed.
She never saw it coming.
One moment, her father's voice filled the chamber, solemn and unyielding. The next—
The doors exploded open.
A boom like thunder, then the rush of air as the hall gasped in the presence of the invaders. She barely had time to process the movement, the blur of shadows and armor and blood before soldiers poured into the room—dark figures, relentless, cold-faced beneath polished helms.
But at the forefront, standing like the inevitable ruin of a prophecy she never believed in, was him.
Caius Draven.
His sword gleamed wet with blood, his obsidian armor streaked red, the crevices of the ancient floor drinking in the lives he had already taken. The bodies behind him—guards she had known by name—lay twisted, mouths frozen mid-scream, eyes dull beneath the golden chandeliers.
Her stomach clenched violently.
Caius. Her most trusted general. Her closest ally. The man who knew how to read the way she pressed her lips together when she lied, who had fought beside her for years, who had once said, If the whole world turns on you, I will not.
The absurdity of that memory struck her like a slap.
"Caius," she breathed. It wasn't a name anymore. It was a question, a plea, a wound.
He didn't kneel. Didn't bow.
"Seraphina." His voice was steady. Too steady. No rage, no sorrow. Just inevitability. "Surrender."
The world shrank to the space between them.
This was wrong. He wouldn't—he couldn't—not after everything, not after all the nights spent in war camps, whispering plans by firelight, not after the way he once looked at her.
"You swore your loyalty to me," she said, and Gods, it was barely a whisper.
A flicker—something—flashed through his dark eyes. Regret? Pain? It was there, she saw it, but then it was gone, swallowed whole by something colder.
"My loyalty," he said, slow, careful, as if testing the weight of the words, "was never yours to keep."
The words didn't cut. They cored.
A sharp inhale. Not hers.
Her father's.
King Alden Vale rose from his throne, slow but thunderous, his broad frame casting long shadows beneath the torches. His hand curled into the gilded armrest, fingers whitening against the polished wood.
"You dare?" The words cracked through the air, harder than steel. His face—once so imposing—was lined with something tighter, something more fragile than fury. "You raise a hand against the crown?"
Caius did not flinch.
His blade gleamed beneath the torchlight. He took one step forward. "Your time is over, Your Majesty."
Seraphina barely heard herself.
"No—"
It happened too fast.
A dagger. A sharp whistle of air, a glint of silver, and her father—her father—staggered.
The blade buried deep, hilt flush against his chest.
For a breath, everything was silent.
No.
The word tried to form, but her throat clenched too tight. The king gasped, his fingers twitching at the dagger as if he might pull it free, as if that would fix this. He sagged against the throne, his mouth parting. No sound. Only a breath. A soft, rasping exhale.
And then—
He crumpled.
The moment shattered.
Seraphina lunged. Hands slammed against her arms, locking around her like iron bands. She fought, twisting, clawing, kicking, but the grip tightened, bruising.
Her own guards.
They weren't protecting her.
They were restraining her.
Her father's crown slipped from his head, rolling down the dais, its metallic clang-clang-clang against the marble far too loud in the suffocating hush. It spiraled, spun, slowed—
And stopped.
At Caius's feet.
He did not move to pick it up.
He did not look at her.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. Final.
"Take her to the Black Tower."
The hands on her tightened.
The floor blurred. The air turned thick, unbreathable. Something inside her broke.
She should have screamed.
But the fury—the sheer, hollow, ice-pick fury—was deeper than sound.
She was dragged through the doors, stumbling, thrashing, her voice buried beneath the roaring in her skull. Her last glimpse of Caius was of a man who did not look like a conqueror.
Just a ruin of his own making.
A thousand thoughts warred in her mind.
But only one remained.
Caius Draven has betrayed me.
And I will carve my vengeance into his bones.